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...

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News:

The King's Viper
Rights to The King's Viper have reverted to me after the demise of Ellora's Cave Books - and it has become my first self-published work!

The Prison of the Angels

Romance Novel: third in the Book of the Watchers trilogy

The second in my fallen angel series, In Bonds of the Earth, has been released by Sinful Press - and the third, The Prison of the Angels, will be released in December 2017!

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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!

Recent Publications:

Sweet Hel Below

Short story: Sweet Hel Below

The Pier by Night

Short story: The Pier by Night

In Bonds of the Earth

Romance Novel: second in the Book of the Watchers trilogy

Latest Blog Post

Blue Monday: Dale Cameron Lowry guests

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest is Dale Cameron Lowrywith an excerpt from their story The Cave, which appears in Myths, Moons and Mayhem: paranormal gay menage and erotic romance


Myths, moons, and mayhem make the perfect threesome—and so do the men in this anthology.

Enjoy nine erotic stories of paranormal ménages a trois fueled by lust and magic, where mystical forces collide with the everyday world and even monsters have their own demons to conquer.

A werewolf gets a lust-fueled lesson on fitting in with the pack, a professor unlocks ancient secrets and two men’s hearts, and a pair of supernaturals find themselves at the erotic mercy of a remarkable human. Ghosts, fairies, aliens, and mere mortals test the boundaries of their desires, creating magic of their own.

Penned by favorite authors such as Rob Rosen and Clare London, as well as by newcomers to the genre, Myths, Moons & Mayhem is an eclectic mix of paranormal lust and polymythic beings that will spark your fantasies and fuel your bonfires.



About “The Cave”: Losing sleep to the sounds of his tent-neighbors’ nightly lovemaking has nature photographer Ethan at his wit’s end. What kind of magic can convince the two men he should join them?

This scene takes place when Ethan is alone by the campfire, when the other campers are in their tents. He’s been listening to his tent neighbors, Mendrika and Joseph, have sex. Mendrika is a common man’s name in Malagasy, the national language of Madagascar. His husband, Joseph, is French.


In addition to being a photographer, Ethan is a light mage. Arousal makes his magic stronger.





I take a handful of dirt and sprinkle it over the coals, trying to snuff out the embers. A few extinguish, but most continue to coil and writhe. The low, dancing light of a fire usually reminds me of snakes, but tonight the flames are lovers, wrapping over and around each other, twisting together, merging into a larger light.

I feel their reach as strings against my skin, but they aren’t the neatly spaced guitar strings of the afternoon. Now they’re a thick, dense tangle of spider silk, wrapped around my body, running through me. I barely have to move to send a vibration to the heart of the web—the embers at the bottom of the campfire. If my heart picks up, so does the flame. If my cock swells, so does the light.

There’s no control here. Only connection. I am connected to the light the way Mendrika and Joseph are connected, deep at the center of my being.

Which one of them cried out earlier, Mendrika or Joseph? Was it the same man each time, or one after the other? And who’s making those other sounds now—the murmuring and the soft, plaintive moans I might confuse for the nearby stream if I didn’t know any better?

I picture them in my mind’s eye: naked, cock to cock, kissing and necking as they rub together, each movement awaking another frisson of heat deep in their balls.

Or maybe Mendrika’s lying on his back, exhausted and sore from the day’s ordeal, but eager for the mouth of his lover, for Joseph’s lips on him, for the comfort and agony of Joseph’s wet, hungry mouth on his dick.

Or is Joseph the one on his back, legs splayed apart, baring a hole as pink and round as his lips when he pronounces the letter u, begging Mendrika to enter?

My cock surges. So do the flames. Nothing turns me on like a stocky, muscular guy getting pounded. I imagine Mendrika’s shaft as hard a tree trunk, swelling and twitching as its head pushes past Joseph’s clenching asshole, and Joseph biting his lower lip to keep from crying out. I can almost feel Mendrika’s cock inside me—a delicious, terrifying ache, too much and not enough, and in my mind’s eye Joseph starts rocking, rocking, making that sweet ache move deeper until it spears him at his core.

The cooking fire roars up like it’s been doused with gasoline.

Heather was right. As long as this ache lasts, I won’t be able to put out this fire.

A ravenala tree surrounded by shrubby undergrowth stands a few feet from Mendrika and Joseph’s tent. I slip into the center and hide among the leaves.

I can hear Joseph and Mendrika better from here. Smaller, more intimate sounds. Their sleeping bag shifting between their bodies and the ground. One of them whispering something, almost like a chant, a soft stream of words punctuated by rustling moans, so understated they might be the leaves of the ravenala shaking in the breeze.

I wipe my thumb over the head of my dick, spreading precome over my skin. I close my eyes and imagine Mendrika’s fingers on me instead, wrapping tight around my shaft, and Joseph’s tongue where my thumb is, lapping up my juice with wet, hungry licks.

Soft slapping sounds. Whispers turn into panting. I imagine the sleeping bag shifting under Mendrika’s knees, his balls smacking against Joseph’s ass with each thrust. Through the leaves, the campfire flares.

Though its light is almost too bright to bear, its tug is irresistible. Its visible portion skitters around the coals, rising higher into the air—one feet, two feet, three—until it’s almost as tall as a man.

No. Two men. Twin tongues of flame: one at the center, stolid and steady; the other winding around it in a graceful dance.

A grunt from the tent.

The flames take sharper form now, licking out to form limbs, then heads, then cocks. With each passing second, they become more detailed, like statues emerging from marble. Their hands develop distinct fingers. Their faces grow eyelashes and lips. A foreskin circles the head of one cock, and a circumcision scar appears on the other.

Have I lost my mind in a hallucinatory fever, or has my lust unlocked a new depth of light magic? When I lost my virginity, I set off a sky flare that local weather observers later reported was visible from miles away. But that’s as impressive as my powers get. Giving light shape and mass and life—it’s inconceivable.

And yet it’s happening, right before my eyes: Mendrika and Joseph, captured in light.

They’re gorgeous together. Legs tangled, fingers entwined. They settle down in the charcoals, Joseph straddling Mendrika’s waist, their faces radiating desire. Joseph grasps Mendrika’s dick in his
glowing hands, steadying it as he lines it up with his hole.

J'ai envie de toi,” I hear from the tent. I want you.

In the fire circle, two points of light meet. Mendrika’s radiant cock rises into Joseph’s flame.

A groan, deep and rib-shaking.

Flame Joseph’s back arches. I feel it arch, through the strings connecting me to the light. They tug at my dick, brush across my nipples, thread into my ass.

Encore.” Joseph’s plea, whispered but clear as day.

The strings of light coalesce into something denser, like flesh. My ass stretches open to accept them; they embrace my cock with sucking warmth.

Flame Joseph shifts his hips. The sleeping bag rustles. A stutter, a sigh.

Thump, thump, thump, against the earth.

And, oh. My. God. They’re fucking me. Or the light is. I can’t tell the difference, only the sensation: wanton, relentless, driving. In the tent, there’s panting. In the fire, thrusting. The light surges into me, deeper than any man has been, stretching my ring of muscle, pounding against my prostate. I’m going to come, I’m going to come, I’m going to—


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 Dale Cameron Lowry’s number one goal in life is getting the cat to stop eating dish towels; number two is to write things that bring people joy. Dale is the author of Falling Hard: Stories of Men in Love and a contributor to more than a dozen anthologies. Find out more at their:

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