Seducing the Myth
Are you ready to be mythologically seduced? Join our mermaid in the deliciously blue waters of this new anthology, edited by Lucy Felthouse and featuring many of my favourite authors.
As you may have guessed, the unifying theme of the book is mythology – each story takes a different myth, some well-known, some less so, and plays with its latent eroticism. My tale is a take on a legend that would make a terrific erotica novel in its own right – the twisted tormented love story of Tristan and Iseult. I’ll have more to say about it later, as will many of my co-authors, who have volunteered to participate in some promotional guest spots later in the year.
For now, I’ll leave you with the stellar line-up and a taster of my story.
Seducing the Myth includes contributions by Lexie Bay, Fulani, Indigo Skye, Elizabeth Thorne, Lisa Fox, Hawthorn, Lucy Felthouse, K D Grace, Rachel Randall, Saskia Walker, Jillian Murphy, Burton Lawrence, Caz Jones, Louisa Bacio, Rebecca Bond, Shan Ellis, Lydia Nyx, Maxine Marsh, Bronwyn Green, J C Martin, Kay Dee Royal and Toni Sands.
From Iseult on her Wedding Day, by me:
On the way to the river, I think of our journey to Cornwall, Tris and I, in the back of one of Mark’s limousines. We hadn’t been able to touch each other for fear of what the chauffeur might repeat. Five hours, sitting beside each other, with the heat of our desire burning the air between us, hands fidgeting, eyes twitching, thighs and the inbetween spaces growing pointlessly moist.
We chatted stiltedly, all the time hearing the words behind the words.
“The cake has five tiers but you should see the icing; it’s hard as a rock.”
Like you, under those trousers. God, I want you.
“Wedding cake icing always is. I suppose it’s nice inside.”
Inside, inside your thighs, where it’s always warm and melting-soft.
“I made them leave out the candied peel and put cherries instead.”
Cherries, ripe and red, like my clit, red and ripe under your tongue.
“I like those sticky cherries. I like anything fruity.”
I want your fruit, I want to taste you now.
How we made it to Cornwall without fucking like sex was about to be banned on the expensive leather defeats my understanding. It was torture. All the way, I thought we would get out at Castle Dor and sneak in a side entrance, find an empty room where I could lie back and open my legs, have him, bring him inside me, knock the edge off that endless lust, if only temporarily. But Mark was waiting for us and he met us on the gravel drive and I had a long, long wait over cocktails and cheery chatter before I could be alone with my vibrator.
I’d applied it to my aching cunt thinking of Tristan’s crinkling eyes and lascivious smile, his questing hands and his thrusting pelvis, the way he turned his rage and despair at our hopeless situation, alchemically, to lust.
He is under a weeping willow. I wonder if the willow weeps for us.
“Mark will wonder where you are,” I greet him, but his only answer is to lunge for my wrist and bring me close, so that he bends over me in imitation of the willow branches, arms holding me where I belong.
“This has to end,” I say, but I know even as I say it that I don’t mean it, and my lips speak the truth, pressing to his, showing him what I can’t disguise.
Our tongues say it loud. This can never end. They intertwine, push and force the confession while our lips blister.
“What has to end?” whispers Tristan. “Kissing?”
“I have to marry him.”
“I know. But this can’t end. It isn’t a thing we can pull out of ourselves and discard. It’s part of us, Izz. You know that. It’s in our blood.”