Welcome to the website of Janine Ashbless. I'm a writer of fantasy and paranormal erotica and - more rarely - scorching romantic adventure. I like to write about magic and myth and mystery, dangerous power dynamics, borderline terror, and the not-quite-human. And hot filthy sex, obviously...
Romance Novel: third in the Book of the Watchers trilogy
Rights to Named and Shamed
and Fierce Enchantments
have reverted with the closing of Sweetmeats Press - both have now been re-published with lovely new covers by Sinful Press.
I have begun self-publishing reverted works with my Ashbless "brand" covers. Erotica is released with red covers, Erotic Romance with blue, as above.
To my absolute delight I am immortalised on the "Islands of Erotica" in the Map of Literature
by artist Martin Vargic
. You should so buy this awesome best-seller of a book!
Short story: Sweet Hel Below
Blue Monday: S J Smith guests
Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!
Today's guest is Sinful Press stablemateS J Smith, with an excerpt from his new erotic-comedy novel Return to the House of Fox:
The new management has embarked on a program of modernisation, intending to reopen the doors of the greatest brothel in the known universe for business. But while the plans are not welcomed by all, forces of both good and evil have recognised an opportunity to finally worm their way inside the infamous House of Fox.
For Doctor Katrina Moore, a chance meeting with a mysterious patient will set her on a journey of self-discovery. Meanwhile, Kitty de Catt just wants her old job back, and is prepared to go to any lengths to make sure she gets her way.
Once again, every fantasy will come true, in this gripping sequel to The House of Fox that literally no one has been waiting for: Return to the House of Fox: The ***** of the Golden ***** (subtitle redacted for legal reasons).
“So now you go quiet on me.” Katrina, chin propped on knuckles, sat on a kitchen stool in front of Willy, who remained in a comatose flop in his wheelchair. She’d brought him back to her home for lack of any better ideas, but now, with the sun well on the rise and the traffic steadily building toward rush hour outside, she realised that particular decision had been a stupid one. A rush of blood and adrenaline had carried her through the night, but in the cold light of day she had to face up to the fact she had kidnapped a patient from the hospital, and sooner or later, someone was going to start looking for him.
She had to take Willy and get out of here, that much was obvious. But where? Now she had him, what the hell was she supposed to do with him? “Come on, Mister, a little help would be appreciated,” she implored for the umpteenth time. But the Jesus Penis wasn’t playing ball, and remained small and shrivelled, hiding in the nook of Willy’s pyjama flies like some tiny, skittish mammal, too scared to poke its nose out its nest.
“Okay,” she pointed a waggling finger. “Maybe I’ll just force you to come back to life,” and she took hold of it, rubbed and squeezed it, gently massaged the shrunken head. Nothing happened. So she leaned forward and kissed it, trailed her tongue along the limited length of its shaft. Nothing happened. Not a sausage.
Hmm. This was a headscratcher. How to coax an erection from a seemingly impotent cock. If anyone could do it, surely it ought to be the former eminent cockologist, Dr Katrina Moore? Medically, she knew exactly how the damn things worked. Give her the right combination of tools, physical therapy and drugs and she could raise even the limpest of winkles from the dead. To personally inspire a stiffy was a different matter, however. She’d never exactly pushed the frontiers in the bedroom department. Standard missionary with the lights off was perfectly sufficient, thank you very much. Just get it over with quickly, because she had far more important things to do.
“Got to be sexy,” she whispered to herself, as she narrowed her eyes and tried to second guess the reluctant cock. She undid a couple of buttons and leaned forward, giving the Jesus Penis an eyeful of cleavage. Nothing happened. How about a bit of dirty talk? “Hey there. How’d you like to engage in full penetrative intercourse and be inserted into my vagina?” Nothing. God, she sucked at this.
How did they do it, those seducers and teasers of men? How could a grown woman pout and jiggle and slowly strip naked for some drooling man, without the patent ridiculousness of the situation sending her into a laughing fit? She thought about the girls she’d seen on TV, how they held their audience enraptured by simply hinting they might take off their clothes. Maybe that was the answer; would a lap dance entice the Jesus Penis out of its shell? She got to her feet, stood over Willy and undid a couple more buttons while swaying her hips in what she hoped was a vaguely erotically pleasing manner. Nope. She couldn’t go through with it; it was just way too stupid. “To hell with you,” she snapped, turned her back on the cock and stormed away to put the kettle on.
Angrily throwing a teabag into a mug, she decided to take matters into her own hands. What was the point hanging around here waiting for a limp dick to tell her what to do? Since when was a man the master of her? She carried her cuppa to the kitchen table, then went and fetched a road atlas from the shelf in the drawing room. Opening it out at a full page map of Wales, she blew the steam off her tea and pondered the image; here was Coraton, down on the south coast, and out of its urban sprawl, a network of highways led off in all directions, each one a potential journey in the making. All she had to do was choose one; throw Willy in the back of the car and set off; see where the road took her.
As she traced the red line of a motorway with her fingernail, she became aware of movement in the corner of her eye, and turned to see the Jesus Penis expanding and swelling. “Oh, finally you decide to put in an appearance.” She folded her arms and stuck out her bottom lip, keen to let the appendage know it wasn’t in her good books right now. But there was something different about this erection, something altogether more powerful, and instead of arousal, fear coursed through her veins.
Below her feet, a tremble shook the ground, and she clutched at the rim of the table in alarm. The light in the hall dimmed and surged, dimmed and surged, and the digital radio sprung to life, broadcasting some ominously heavyweight German opera. The Jesus Penis grew bigger and bigger, passing a foot in length, vibrating as if being manipulated by some unseen hand.
“Oh my God,” Katrina ducked down. “I’m sorry, alright? I’m sorry I snapped at you.”
A deafening roar, like the approach of a tsunami, had her put her hands over her ears, and she dived below the table for cover. Plates tumbled from the cupboards and pictures fell from the wall as the whole room shook. The Jesus Penis’ angry purple head swung around in her direction.
No, please, stop.”
With a sound like the popping of a champagne cork, the King of Cocks ejaculated a wad of spunk. It flew through the air, six feet off the ground, and landed with a splat on top of the table, somewhere above Katrina’s head. The shaking stopped. Everything became quiet and still.
After a couple of minutes, she dared to creep out from her hiding place. The room lay wrecked, broken crockery and glass shards scattered across the beige floor tiles. Katrina got to her feet, trembling with fear. The Jesus Penis had returned to its dormant state, tiny and insignificant, a snail in its shell. “What the hell happened?” She took two steps out into the open, and only then did she realise.
The blob of greyish white spunk had landed on the atlas, plopping down right on top of a town called Rhyl.
Buy Return to the House of Foxat:
Amazon (universal link)
SJ Smith is a neurotic recluse who lives in a small town in North Wales. It has long been his dream to become a filth monger.
SJ Smith blog