Thursday, July 31, 2008
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Here you go: a little taste of my new novel, Brushes:
Finger slipped carefully into the handle, heat passing through the delicate ceramic from the recently boiled drink, losing degrees of temperature to become comforting warmth, she brought the cup up gently, carefully. One inch. Another. Another. The ritual of a sip, the elegance of patience: finger in handle, cup up to mouth, a pause of fragrance, then lips touched gently to rim. Taste. Savor. Taste again to compare.
The British used it as the cornerstone of a lion-emblazoned empire. The Japanese had made it a religion. Sitting in the lounge of the Pont Royal Hotel--immaculate linen tablecloth, Lennox kettle and cup, silver service, velvet drapes parting the view of the Saint Germain district of Paris, a waiter at the door prepared to do whatever was needed to ensure the pleasure of her stay--Constance could believe that tea was, indeed, something to fight wars over, to pray to.
Steady and refined, careful and graceful, charming and poised, it was ballet with a cup and saucer, opera with a kettle, chamber music with sugar and cream. Tea, especially tea in the lounge of the Pont Royal Hotel, was perfect, or as near to it as anyone could come.
Then the waiter wasn't waiting by the door. Passing between her table and the window with its rich maroon drapes, he gestured to a corner table. Behind him, moving slower through the linen islands--having less of his skill in navigating the room--came the man, followed by the woman.
He was young, his body lithe and fluid, yet with the hesitation and stumbling that comes from some uncertainty in life. His hair was brown, but not common. His was a mixture of many shades, making it changeable with every turn of his head, every shift of his muscled body. His face was expressive but not comedic, handsome without being cut from cold marble. Like his shifting hair, his eyes also became many kinds of brown as he looked around the room.
She was young, her figure tight, supple, and limber, but with the hesitancy and awkwardness that came with trying to understand her own body. Her hair was blond, but not from a bottle. Hers was true shine that glowed with every movement of her lissome form. Her face was animated but not loud, pretty without being from a mold. Like her bright hair, her eyes glimmered and shone as she surveyed her surroundings.
Watching them come in and sit down, Constance swallowed hot tea--through a cold and tense frown.
* * * *
Finger slipped carefully into warm, golden metal on a hot summer day. That sensation had lingered more than many other details. More than the perfume of roses. More than what her friends--or his, for that matter--had said to her before or after the priest heard the vows. More than the butterflies that had fluttered in her stomach. More than the champagne in a flute, with its jeweled bubbles streaming up from the bottom.
Other things were long forgotten, but the ring sliding onto her finger had remained--a faithful memory of her wedding day.
Hot tea to her lips again, she scowled at the tan liquid in her cup. The beverage was excellent--as only something served in the lounge of the Pont Royal Hotel could be--but the remembrance wasn't. Faithful, yes, because it remained close at hand, even when not wanted, but its flavor was bitter.
On her left hand, on that meaningful finger, she still had her ring. On days like today, she wanted to pull it off, leave it behind as a generous tip for superb service, but she never did. Turn it, yes, around and around, but that was all. Tarnished and cold, it still meant something. Even if it was a tarnished and cold meaning.
It was different for her husband. Clearly, for Escobar, his matching gold meant nothing.
If you're interested in reviewing Brushes please email M.Christian at the addresses below:
Friday, July 25, 2008
Warm, entice, suggest, caress.
The undercurrent of strength in those hands is their secret.
Skin roughened by work sliding across porcelain flesh. Soft abrasion.
Knuckles drawn tentatively along my cheekbone, eyes ask permission.
Warm breath in the shell of my ear fans across flushed cheek.
The stubble of your beard brushes my face.
Yes. My eyes answer yes.
Grasp the crest of my shoulders loosening tensions unknown.
Velvet moonlight filters through the sheer of the curtains.
Diaphanous fabric floats on the warmth of the breeze whispering through the window.
Your body is silvery satin, a symphony of the pleasant tensions of denial, anticipation.
Every muscle defined in the shadows of the night, the illustrated man.
The span of your shoulders welcomes me, arms brought around me, I in the safe harbor of your embrace.
My breasts rub the swirl of hair traversing strong pectorals, my ear resting on the shelf of your collarbone.
Firm fingers slide down the column of muscle that rises at each side of my backbone. The shiver through me is not from cold.
Sigh and filter your fingers through my hair.
Upon my cheek you linger, never breaking the lock of your eyes on mine.
Fine cut lips warm at my throat.
Butterfly kisses cascade across neck and shoulder.
My head weighted back in sensory enchantment.
Hands hot with desire slide down the curves of my sides, past waist over hips, kneading the round of my glutei.
You lift me; carry me to the coolness of the sheets.
Time stops. It is infinite, awash in forever.
You lower your body next to mine.
Radiant heat fills the space between us.
Cradle my face… hands of magic, of love.
Strength held in abeyance all the more remarkable for its restraint.
You worship my body with your touch.
Thumbs across the orbs of my closed lids, fingers massage tender temples.
The whisper of soft Gaelic in my ear, flares of feelings blooming in my chest.
Can a woman forget to breath?
You against me, your body hardened with exercise, skin ablaze with longing.
Your caress loosens tension and concern from my soul. I am yours.
Malleable in your hands, succumbing to the temptation of you.
Starlight in the blue of your eyes, deep and as unfathomable as the sea; your essence emanates through perpetuity.
Have I known you forever?
Suspended in now, I revel in the quintessence of you.
Male, earthy pungency, swain, stag, virile essence of deep forest, rain swept heath, rich deep loam.
Protector, provider, partner and lover, alpha and omega; you make the heart of woman complete.
Take me to you.
Love me with your soul. Keep me forever by your side.
My heart sings in your presence, is strengthened in your absence, longs for you always.
Author of Romance With a Twist
Visit my website at www.christinelondon .com for the latest!
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Monday, July 21, 2008
Here's what people are saying about this fantastic new work from M.Christian:Once again, acclaimed author M. Christian writes of the art of seduction. One of the pleasures of a dystopic future is the erotists, professionals who paint their clients' bared skin with neurochemicals that induce sensuality. Erotists offer landscapes of ecstasy, pain, joy, and delight. Few citizens can afford the skills of the talented Domino. Fewer still know her identity is but a mask.
Beneath the facade, Claire hides from a vicious crime lord who would not only kill her but her childhood lover. But the mask of Domino is beginning to crack...
Painted Doll is futuristic noir tale, a wildly imaginative erotic adventure, exploring who we are and the sexual awakenings that occur when we become someone else.
M. Christian speaks with a totally unique and truly fascinating voice. There are a lot of writers out there who'd better protect their markets -- M. Christian has arrived!Order a copy today!
- Mike Resnick, Hugo and Nebula Award winning science fiction author
M. Christian's stories squat at the intersection of Primal Urges Avenue and Hi-Tech Parkway like a feral-eyed, half-naked Karen Black leering and stabbing her fractal machete into the tarmac. Portraying a world where erotic life has spilled from the bedroom into the street, and been shattered into a million sharp shards, these tales undercut and mutate the old verities concerning memory, desire and loyalty. Truly an author for our post-everything 21st century.
- Paul Di Filippo, author of The Steampunk Trilogy
When I pick up a book by M.Christian, I know that I'll be surprised and delighted. Whether he's targeting horror, thriller, scifi or erotica genres, or some creative mixture, he never fails to deliver an original perspective.
- Lisabet Sarai, author of Incognito and Fire
And now for something completely different...do you read erotica? Painted Doll, by M. Christian, will give you that jolt you're searching for. Painted Doll is about a dominatrix, but hold on! This is no ordinary "Yes Mistress, may I have another" story. Painted Doll is set in a world unlike any you've seen. A bizarre look into a future world of sexuality and identity as we follow a dominatrix on the run. Leave it to Mr. Christian to give us a well crafted, erotic love story that you'll be slow to forget.
- Jolie du Pre, author of erotica and erotic romance
Painted Doll hides a kaleidoscope world behind her mask. As she removes it a splintered existence unfolds, darkly erotic, cruel and tarnished, the pearl at its centre an intense love story. Erotic, familiar yet alien, harshly compelling and eerily haunting - few writers can convey the myriad spectrum of the sensory world like M. Christian.
- Saskia Walker has had erotic fiction published in more than fifty anthologies and is the author of several novellas and novels
M. Christian is one hell of a writer. He paints his universes and characters in full, living color, thrills the reader with non-stop action. A no-holds-barred storyteller, he embraces his reader at the start and doesn't let go until long after the end.
- Mari Adkins, Apex Publications contributing editor
M. Christian is the chameleon of modern erotica. One day punk, another romantic; one day straight, another totally perverse and polyamorous. But always sexy and and gripping.
- Maxim Jakubowksi is the editor of the Mammoth Book of Erotica series, and was recently voted by Time Out London the 21st best British erotic author of all time (but if you exclude dead writers like Shakespeare, Chaucer, Keats and others, he would actually have been 5th!)
With his amazing versatility and silky smooth prose, M. Christian helped forge the erotica revolution of the 1990s and he’s still going strong!
- Donna George Storey, author of An Amorous Woman
A non-stop ride of precise prose and unexpected imagery. Painted Doll is another M. Christian gem; a seamless blend of the erotic with the darkly fantastic. Unpredictable, engaging, and an often startling read.
- Marilyn Jaye Lewis, author of Freak Parade
No matter how long I've been at the erotica game, M. Christian continues to surprise me. With Painted Doll, he again proves that his imagination knows no bounds. The first pages sucked me into the story, and I couldn't stop reading. Who was this woman? Who was she...really? Provocative and unique, Painted Doll is M. Christian at his finest.
- Gwen Masters, author of One Breath at a Time
Perfect Paperback: 196 pages
Publisher: Lethe Press (July 21, 2008)
If you're interested in reviewing Painted Doll please email M.Christian at the addresses below.
I'm very pleased to be able to post another great story from Jude Mason. Remember, if you want to post a story, article, essay or artwork here on Frequently Felt just write me at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Show Me, Silk
Dan stood looking through the bedroom window and waited, making sure she'd gone before he went and dug out the silk stockings he'd seen her tuck into the top dresser drawer. Six months married, he hadn't told Sandy about his little fetish, hadn't found the courage. Pressing the gossamer-softness against his face and inhaling, had an added taste of the forbidden if it was secret. His erection was immediate. Shorts thrust impatiently around his knees; he gripped his cock and squeezed. Eyes closing, he became lost in his fantasy.
"Like those do you?"
His heart lurched, then raced wildly. He open his eyes, felt trapped, terrified. He spun around, fumbling with her stockings and his cock, trying to hide his excitement.
"Stop!" Sandy stood watching his frantic attempt to conceal what she'd obviously seen.
His face burned with embarrassment. His cock, still firmly in hand, was as limp as a dishrag.
"Sandy, I…. Please, I won't —I…"
"No, shut up and listen."
"Turn around. Face me properly."
Sheepishly, eyes downcast, he turned and faced her. One hand shielded his prick, the other, behind him, held the stocking.
"You should've told me."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Quiet!" she snapped. "Show me."
Shocked, he glanced up. She smiled, nodding.
Heart racing, his cock thickened in his hand at the merest flick and tug. Eyes fastened on her; he brought the stocking out and wrapped it around his growing erection. The sensual caress of the silk brought him to the edge almost immediately. When he saw her hand move between her thighs, it proved too much and his cock throbbed. Gasping, fighting to stop the impending explosion, he shuddered and came.
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Friday, July 18, 2008
Weird Makeups (Via the Makeup Gallery):
Yes folks we’re not in Kanas anymore.
Someones a role requires an actress to look dramatically different as with: Lin Shaye’s apparently shriveled breasts seen through binoculars in There’s Something About Mary; Nadeshda Brennicke playing a stripper with surgically enhanced breasts in a German cop programme or Lycia Naff’s mutated breasts in Total Recall
So here you have the lopsided, inflated, deflated boobs created through the wonders and discomfort of prosthetic makeup. What all these breasts have in common is that they are not real (not even in the sense that might apply to a surgically enhanced Baywatch Babe) – if there is a nipple showing then it’s because I believe it to be silicone, gelatin or foam latex not flesh.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Their first stop out on a Friday night would usually be the local Clancy’s for a few drinks --beers for him, Shirley Temples for her-- a hard-drinking bar where boilermakers were the norm and where a woman alone was most likely an alcoholic hooker and a woman with a man was probably getting paid for it and was no better either.
But they were known at Clancy’s and for the hooker they presumed her to be or not, there was always room for them at the crowded two-deep bar --three-deep or more if an important game was on-- and the Friday night regulars always gravitated nearby to order their drinks and get their Friday night peeks at her cleavage and a possible fleeting brush of their shoulders against her blouse or leg against hers, though it was questionable how many of the besotted Friday regulars would be able to do more given a chance with pussy like that than fall flat atop her, with flattened belches, flattened grunting, flattened shriveled alkie dicks.
Clancy’s was even more crowded than usual this Friday night; the Stanley Cup playoffs were on and each of the two home-area teams had their raucous followers and it was already a forgone conclusion as to who would boast the best hockey team in the world; Go New York! meant little in differentiating the teams -- Islanders and Rangers -- and team loyalty had become nothing but brazen civic boosting, each night’s news report leading off with the most important news story of the day: where the competing team players partied the night before…
She had hoped for a few drinks, a few showoff ass pats and squeezings --That’s my doll!-- but he had gotten as enthused in following the game with the other bar patrons that she knew they’d be here past midnight and it’d be too late for a movie by then, even if all she could expect at the movies was to take an aisle seat as he pulled up her blouse and groped and mauled and mangled her breasts for the entire length of the hour and a half or two hour film, sometimes leaving her with her tits out for ten, fifteen minutes while he went to pee, to get soda, get popcorn but she steeled herself over the years to concentrate on the film and ignore whoever was gaping or jerking-off at her from nearby seats, and he always seemed to return just in time to keep someone from getting too close to her seat, or her tits…but at least the Friday night films broke the moronic pattern of weeklong nothing or barstool roosting.
She took a sip of her Shirley Temple and frowned, certain the smirking bartender had spiked the alcohol-free concoction with vodka or gin, but certainly not enough to overpower the innocent grenadine, ginger all, and cherries brew, --still, with the smell and noise and atmosphere of alcohol all around it was easy for her husband to shout, It’s your imagination! as he’d taste her drink, slobber a kiss in her neck, grope at her crotch, and return to the cheering of the home-team.
And the crowd went wild…
As was expected, one of the home teams won, the cherished trophy stayed ‘home’ and the chaotic excitement of the hockey arena on the TV was almost exact image of the frenzy of cheering, screaming, jumping that erupted in the bar. They overturned stools, dropped drinks, grudgingly dished out cash in lost bets, spun in the delirium of a victory that represented more than just a sports rivalry that probably a mere handful actively followed throughout the entire season, but the repressed pride of their soulless, mis-lived lives, freeing them to erupt in a cacophony of whoops and roars and bellows that in some primeval primitive past would have exorcised demons or summoned a goddess…
And in a corner of the barroom, a goddess arose…
She was drunk and fat and as she climbed the barstool her miniskirt rose up her ass to where at least six or seven pairs of hands were clutching at the meaty panty-streaked ass and thighs to steady the goddess until she succeeded in standing once, wobbling her tits, screeching a YEAH! at the crowd, tottering off the stool into the waiting eager hands and fingers of the men below.
Yet almost immediately, from another corner of the room, another goddess arose…
This one was younger and pony-tailed, thinner and prettier and wearing the winning team jersey and hat and waving a team banner at the crowd as she screamed and roosted on the shoulders of her boyfriend wearing an identical team jersey and screaming as much as his girlfriend’s blue-jeaned thighs clasping his cheeks allowed…
But by then she had lost her Shirley Temple (but had sipped and squirmed from someone else’s real drink), had been pushed away from the bar, lost sight of her husband, been hugged and grabbed and crotched and petted by countless hands, and glared at the cheerleading tramps who wove down above the crowd. The fat pig was the barroom blowjob queen and the other some kid probably underage to be in a bar anyway. What were they showing off? What did they have that she didn’t? What’s a fat drooping stretch-marked ass compared to a smooth high round one? And who cared about some baby-tits in a too large jersey when she could show’em great ballooned raised ones? They wanted a goddess! Enough of these fat whores and schoolgirl teasers, she’d not only show them what a goddess looked like, she’d show them where the goddess lived, right between her legs, right in heaven!
And even in her tight red pants it was an easy two steps to a table top --one on a fake leather-cushioned chair and one to the table top-- and she stood above the crowd, even higher than the jerseyed girl and she raised her arms, shook her bosom and screamed NEW YORK! NEW YORK!
For a moment the crowd hushed and turned to look and she didn’t disappoint: she beamed, tugged up her blouse to her neck, dipped her thumbs into the lace-frilled bra cups and shook out her moist round breasts.
The room of men spun and surged; the goddess had made herself available, and her followers had come to worship and adore…
But for an instant she tensed in fear, than spotted her husband. He stood above the fat mini-skirted whore on the floor, her short skirt hiked up and spun like a belt around her waist, his dick in her hand as she sucked another off, and the two men stood leaning on the bar as if their blowjobs and hand-jobs were incidental to the drinks they each clutched. She met her husband’s eyes and he sheepishly grinned and looked down at her breasts and scowled; she recognized the tensing of his neck and jaw and face muscles contorting before the force of his ejaculation. She shook her tits and spun atop the table…
Things went black, then bright, the bartenders flicking the lights and beating the bar for order. And in the blackness of her shaking and spinning and jiggling and screaming she broke a heel and lost her balance and toppled into the reaching, pawning, groping crowd of men...
The only thing that surprised her was how easily the tight red pants were ripped off and how easily she was fucked, over and over….just like a goddess…
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Friday, July 11, 2008
Sexy or cringeworthy? Erotic furniture is hardly to everyone's taste. SPIEGEL ONLINE presents some recent attempts at making furniture to fan the flames of passion.
Designers have long sought to create erotic furniture, with mixed success. Here are some recent examples of the genre including a "Boobycase" drinks cabinet, a four-poster bed surrounded by giant carved penises, a "bend-over chair" and a "Tittyfrutty" fruit bowl.
Dutch designer Mario Philippona has emerged as a doyen of the craft of creating arousing tables, provocative chairs and titillating cabinets.
He says on his Web site that he is inspired by "female forms, the most attractive in nature."
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Saturday, July 5, 2008
To the world he's a genius, a master of color, form, and shape, a brilliant talent who stormed the art world and shook its pillars with his talent.
But who is he really? Who is Escobar?Here's what people are saying about this fantastic new work from M.Christian:
Brushes is an erotically charged portrait of a master artist, a stroke-by-stroke look at who Escobar may or may not be through the lives of his wife, his manager, model, the forger, his brother and others in intricately interconnected chapters.
May or may not be … for with each tale the people around Escobar instead reveal more about themselves than the artist through their prejudices, their envies and resentments, their fears, and their erotically charged fantasies.
Escobar, after all, like his art, is open to interpretation...and misinterpretation
M. Christian is an author of formidable talent and impressive flexibility. He writes equally convincingly from straight, gay or lesbian perspectives, and is a master at seamlessly melding multiple genres.
- Lisabet Sarai, author of Raw Silk and Rough Caress
As convoluted and erotic as a skein of pure silk
- Ann Regentin, author of Second Sight and A Foolish World
Brushes is my favorite kind of novel—a multi-layered treat for the mind and the senses. M. Christian transports us to glittering Paris where we follow the adventures of eight denizens of the art world, from an acclaimed artist and his muses to desperate wannabes. As their lives brush up against each other, serendipitously, inevitably, all experience a compelling sexual encounter that changes their lives forever. A deliciously sexy tale of mystery for anyone who’s intrigued by the power of the creative--and the erotic-spirit
- Donna George Storey, author of Amorous Woman
Evocative and carnal, M. Christian's Brushes portrays multiple perspectives on the life of an artist in Paris, from the gloriously hot sex that he indirectly inspires in his models, his gallery representative and the forger of his work to the embittered fantasies of his estranged wife and brother. Christian has captured the feel of a European art world that draws the reader in, leaving them wanting to learn more about this man, his virtues and faults. Brushes is that rarest of combinations: a marvelous erotic novel and a good read, full of intriguing characters.
- Catherine Lundoff, author of Crave: Tales of Lust, Love and Longing, and Night's Kiss
Those who follow the prolific M. Christian will not want to miss this latest addition to his published work. Brushes is a straight, erotic, mainstream novel arranged in a collection of novellas. It's the story of an artist and the various people in his life. As is typical of M. Christian the quality of Brushes does not disappoint
- Jolie du Pre, author of erotica and erotic romance.
We can never know how lives will intertwine; the mystery of it is one of the hidden joys of life. M. Christian has captured perfectly the symmetry and surprise of lives that mesh together -- whether the people living them like it or not. In following the life of a painter and everyone he touches, Brushes proves everything is not always as it seems. Just as Escobar creates masterpieces with canvas and paint, M. Christian creates a gorgeous tapestry of words.
- Gwen Masters, author of One Breath at a Time
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Betty Jenkins was once an adventurous young woman with a flat chest. Her mother gave her an inflatable bra to attract men. But what happens when you wear a partially-inflated bra in a plane flying over the Andes Mountains?
It turned out the cabin was not pressurized, and the bra was expanding.
“As the thing got bigger, I tried to stand up,” Jenkins said, “and I couldn’t see my feet.”
The instructions said that the bra’s pads could be inflated up to a size 48.
“I thought, ‘What would happen if it goes beyond 48?’” Jenkins recalled.