Friday, 28 November 2014

#FFF Flash Fiction Friday - her first cup of tea

The Flash Friday Fiction gang are the best damn group of perverts you'll ever read.
Every Friday we write flashes of precisley100 words inspired by a given picture.


The morning sun bathed her pale skin in its welcoming glow. Its touch was soft, gentle, golden as her hair. She sipped the tea. It caressed her throat and spread its warmth through her. Blonde locks tumbled down over her shoulder as she turned to face her dawn.
Silently she pondered the day ahead, all the days ahead.
It had worked just as she had promised.
They had cast the spell and she had slept deeply for her last night as a man and awoken, fresh and new, to her first day as a woman. Now they could be lovers..

Please check out the other Friday Fiction Flashers

Friday, 21 November 2014

#FFF Flash Fiction Friday - fallen.

The Flash Friday Fiction gang are the best damn group of perverts you'll ever read.
Every Friday we write flashes of precisley100 words inspired by a given picture.

He'd fallen.
The waves lapped at his feet as the turning tide swept away the past. The salt from his tears slipped into an ocean that barely noticed his presence let alone the pointless flow of his loss.
So far, so very far.
From Grace, from Hope, from a heaven he'd not known was so fragile, so temporary, so dependent on his truth, on his honesty.
Grace had loved him. He had loved Hope.
And then they had met and his lies had been laid bare.
He had loved too much, too often, with too many.
His wings faded to black...

Now fly off and check out the other FFFlashers...

Tuesday, 18 November 2014

Raven McAllan and remembering secrets

My very good friend, Raven McAllan has, at the last count, had about 60 books published and yet she's surprised when three show up at once. So I've asked her to explain herself and to tell us about book 3 of Diomhair series.
So, buses? What's that about Raven?

We all laugh and joke about book releases being like London buses (or buses anywhere for that matter, I guess) and having none for ages. Then two—or more—show up.

But seriously I sometimes wonder if there's a book release fairy who coordinates these things. Ha she wants to do things nice and steady? Not a chance, why should it be easy? She wants to write, let's stretch her. Make her really want it. let her have no books out for six weeks and then three in ten days, and one a week after.

That'll show us if she's serious or not.

I can see it now, the hei-heid-yin (Good old Glaswegian for head honcho) sitting on a high pile of books and directing her minions who to bring out when. The publishers might think they're acting independently, but she (got to be a she because we organize things much more forcefully) knows better. You want to write? Show me how much you want it.

Well I am—serious—and so here's my blog about Secrets Remembered, book 3 of Diomhair.

This series grew from a memory, a word and a chat in the forest with a friend as we walked her dogs.
We do a lot of plotting on those walks. People who have annoyed us become villains, others are heroes or heroines, it's all good—well I won't say clean—snigger fun, but boy, it is satisfying. Better to make them a baddie in a book than fall out in real life.
So, there we were one morning, chatting about what I was going to write next, when for some reason I mentioned an old ruined castle not that far from where I live. And thought how perfect it would be if someone restored it and turned it into a BDSM club.

And from that Diomhair began.

This book, Secrets Remembered, is book three in the series, but they’re all standalones, so you don’t have to have read books one and two as well, although obviously I'd love you to. Each story is set around Diomhair—Gaelic for secret—and is about the people who live and play there, There's one tiny mystery that runs through all the books, but by reading the books out of turn, you won't spoil it, I promise.

I was part way in and, as ever, loving my research when I became stumped over a small bit of police procedure. As I live in a village our local police station isn't permanently manned I had visions of having to sit on the doorstep until the local man turned up and beg for his help. And it was cold. I didn't relish the idea, but I knew I needed help.

Then I had to take the car into be serviced, and they gave me a lift home. And in one of those strange quirks of fate, the driver was an ex-policeman. Who knew exactly what I needed to know and gave me all the help necessary. So, the police procedures are, or were as of a few months ago, correct, here in Scotland.

Have I caught your interest?
Here's the blurb…

What comes first your happiness or your job?


And a wee tease…

How many times had she wished she was back on the beat, policing a football match or shepherding drunken undergrads back to their lodgings? Well not many, she owned, but sometimes she wondered if she was right in the head. This job wasn’t all glamorous parties and secret microphones. Most of it was standing in the freezing cold and waiting for something and you had no idea what for.
She wiped her shoes on the inside of her coat, held them in one hand, slipped her mucky socks into her pocket and walked quietly away in the opposite direction from where the voices had gone. Ailsa mentally smiled at her thoughts. Independently acting voices and no bodies to go with them?
God she hoped not, she wasn’t a sci-fi or horror fan.
Stupidly she turned left not right and found herself in the gym.
And heard the whistling again.
It seemed someone was about, and she was going to be in big trouble. There wasn’t even a desk to hide under like in all good movies, or a floor length curtain. The windows had fitted blinds. A treadmill, cross trainer and rowing machine didn’t make good hiding places. Nor did the water cooler.
With a sigh deep enough to clear leaves from a footpath, Ailsa slipped her shoes back on, straightened her shoulders and faced the door.
The man who stopped dead in the doorway, mid whistle, was hot enough for her chin to drop, her eyes to widen and her body to tighten. Whoever said there was no such thing as instant lust was oh so very wrong. She might not subscribe to lacy thongs that got stuck up your arse like a cheese grater, but if she did, Ailsa reckoned they’d be wet and wrung out. As it was, her sensible, cotton, chain store knickers were damp under her thermals. Dark, soft, leather trousers and a black T-shirt were the clothes her wet dreams were made of.
He dropped the bag he was carrying, straightened and looked her up and down. “Well now, what have we here?”
Ailsa swallowed. How to reply to that and not be in trouble?
“Pet, answer me.”
The tone sent shivers down her spine, and the hairs on her arms stood on end in sympathy. Ailsa gulped. Who on earth did he think she was? Pet? Should she woof or growl? If there was one thing she hated it was being called silly names like pet, or chick. She was a woman, not an animal.
“Pet, are you wanting a punishment? The mood I’m in I’ll be happy to oblige. Surely you know the basic protocol?” There was no give in the harsh voice.
Well, no she didn’t, not unless you counted what she’d read in books and that was all fantasy and fiction—wasn’t it? She hadn’t even ventured around the club part of the castle. Her time inside the place was too limited to explore unnecessarily.
“Hello, I’m Ailsa McLagan.” Dumb, Ailsa, now he can trace you.
Eh? “Pardon?” Oh fuck. Not a scooby. No way. “No, I’m a miss. And you are?” Apart from a prick? I thought Doms were… Oh actually, nope, oh double shit. “Um, oh, sorry, er, Sir, well you see I just forgot where I was. I’m scared.” Would he believe her?
“Really. Do you remember now?” It seemed sarcasm was his forte.
God that voice. I could drown in it, sarcasm or not. Double dipped chocolate velvet and ohh shit, steel. Hard, hard steel. What do I do now? Come on, what would that dippy heroine from the last book you deleted from your eReader do? No not her, think of the other one. The one whose Sir made you wet. See, a Sir, oh, you ninny, Ailsa.

And the buy link…

As for me…
Well what can I say?
I'm growing old disgracefully and loving it.
DH and I live on the edge of a Scottish forest, and rattle around in a house much too big for us.
Our kids have grown up and flown the nest, but roll back up when they want to take a deep breath and smell the daisies so to speak.
I write in my study, which overlooks the garden and the lane. I'm often seen procrastinating, by checking out the wild life, looking—only looking—at the ironing basket and assuring tourists that indeed, I'm not the bed and breakfast. That would mean cooking fried eggs without breaking the yolks, and disturbing the dust bunnies as they procreate under the beds. Not to be thought of.
Being able to do what I love, and knowing people get pleasure from my writing is fantastic. Long may it last.
http:/ / (my page) (author page)
Raven on
Raven on

Friday, 14 November 2014

#FFF - Flasher Fiction Friday:Curtains for him...

The Flash Friday Fiction gang are the best damn group of perverts you'll ever read.
Every Friday we write flashes of precisley100 words inspired by a given picture.

The silk caressed her skin in the few places it touched her. Its diaphanous flow contrasted with the weight of the curtains. Just like the taut muscles of his body, his masculinity, had contrasted with her femininity, her apparent submission.  He'd believed that he'd dominated and controlled her but that was part of her plan. She'd seduced him and let him drown in the pleasure of her body. But her submission had dictated what had happened, just it would now dictate what he would do for her. She watched as he drove out of the gates. He was hers now.

Please check out the other Friday Flashers