Showing posts with label Mikala Ash. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mikala Ash. Show all posts

Tuesday, May 27, 2025

Ky’s Revenge by Mikala Ash ~ @RABTBookTours #RABTBookTours #KysRevenge #MikalaAsh #postapocalyptic @ash_mikala

 

The Rebellious Slave 3


Ky’s Revenge by Mikala Ash

Post-Apocalyptic SciFi Action Adventure Romance

To Be Published: May 30, 2025

 

 

Rowan teaches the art of love to a lusty novice, while Ky suffers at the hands of an old enemy.

The lusty adventure continues!

 

Slave girl Rowan attempts a daring escape from her mysterious kidnapper. She hopes to be reunited with Ky and find the Key that will release her from the bonds of slavery and let them love as equals. Rowan is found by Lopi, a virgin fisherman, and she gratefully teaches him the joy of sex.

Ky has sworn revenge against the bearded man who took Rowan from him. However, he’s been handed over to his old enemy, the evil Warlord Thorfin, who seeks Rowan for his own purposes. Will the conjoined twins, Pus and Tule, be able to help Ky escape with his life? And what of Chin Lau? Rowan’s fellow slave has accepted the wolf brand and is the personal bodyguard and lover of the beautiful war chief, Tamin Gutra. He soon discovers she demands much more than his satisfying skills in bed.

To unlock the secret of this strange medieval world that coexists with advanced technologies, Rowan must first survive and then be reunited with the love of her life.




Read an Excerpt:

Copyright ©2025 Mikala Ash

 

Ky’s head felt as if it was going to burst. It throbbed in time with the beating of a drum that seemed to be not two inches from his ears. This wasn’t his only torment. His wrists and ankles were cruelly knotted with thin twine that cut deep into his inflamed flesh. When he struggled, a wave of nausea overturned his consciousness. He dry-retched, which sent fresh stabs of lightning through his tortured brain.

He forced open his blood-encrusted eyes. The bizarre scene caused a moment of confused alarm. Everything was upside down. The pain emanating from his ankles was explained; he was hanging by his feet. He reasoned, after a few moments, that he was inside a vast tent, and against the walls the flaring torches cast dancing shadows of a parade of exotic animals and bizarre circus performers. Ky caught sight of Pustule, the ridiculously named two-headed dwarf. The cunning oddity was the loyal creature of Boss, the carnival’s owner. Laughter erupted from the audience who sat at long tables, amply supplied with wine bottles and ale mugs. Ky licked his dry lips.

What is this place? In brief disordered snatches he recalled his and Rowan’s attempted escape from the caravan, the fight with the bearded man, the taking of Rowan, the boss’s betrayal, and the arrival of the Skolls, the vicious marauders of the wastelands. He recalled that instead of just taking him, the Skolls had captured the whole caravan. After that the numerous beatings, too many to count, blended into one continuous thread of pain.

Nausea again threatened to take him out of his pain when a bucket of foul wastewater from the cook tent was emptied in his face. He coughed and spluttered as the stale liquid filled his nostrils.

Before him, only a few yards away, flanked by guards armed with spears, a naked gargantuan occupied an ivory throne. The big man pushed away the thin whore who’d been curled in his lap sucking his engorged prick. She slid to the floor gasping. Ky experienced a pang of recognition, but in his confused state he couldn’t put a name to her. Released from her immediate duty, she crawled away into the shadows.

The giant gave a hand signal, and the drumbeats ceased, as did the chattering of the assembled guests.

“He lives, does he?” he asked a thin, rat-faced man who stood by Ky.

“As you ordered, Captain,” the man replied.

Ky cursed the fiend who obviously revelled in inflicting pain with skills designed to take a living body to the brink of death and coax it back again.

“He hangs by his feet so as not to drown in his own blood.”

“Call me Lord Thorfin!”

“Lord Thorfin,” the man hastily corrected himself.

That some sort of promotion had occurred mattered little to Ky. It was the name that stabbed him in the heart.

Thorfin!

He hadn’t recognized the warlord from his dizzying position. He doubted he would have known him under normal circumstances. Thorfin had grown prodigiously fat during the dozen years that had passed since Ky had been on the losing side in the War of the Three Sovereigns. Filled with rage and grief, he’d stood with his father and brother while Thorfin personally walked among the ranks of prisoners choosing those who’d be sacrificed to Po. Ky had stared defiantly into the eyes of Thorfin, who laughed and chose his older brother, Sandor. Ky had rushed forward only to be beaten to the ground, his head held up by the hair so he could watch Sandor dragged to the crude block to have his body ripped asunder.

Ky had screamed every curse known to man till his voice failed. In the cells he’d watched helplessly as his father died of grief. Then, after a month-long trek, he’d been returned to Slavin Hold and pressed into service as a guard. At Slavin he’d started every day by swearing bloody revenge, an impotent gesture, as it turned out. Now the tyrant had him trussed up like a beast ready for slaughter.

Ky forced his mind to rise above his pain to concentrate on Thorfin’s words.

“I am bored with this,” Thorfin said. “Will he talk, Greeg?”

The torturer slapped Ky’s arse. “If he knows what’s good for him he will.”

“Then put him to the question.”

What question?

Greeg extracted an iron poker from the fire and waved it so close to Ky’s eyes it felt as if his tears would boil. “Where is the girl?”

Of course. This was about Rowan!

Rowan, the rebellious slave who he loved. Ky spat a wad of blood from his mouth. If he told Thorfin that Rowan had been taken by the bearded man, he might know who that mysterious fellow was and go after her. Did he really want Thorfin to get his hands on her? Even if he lived beyond this day, could he protect her?

Then, in a moment of clarity he realized that Boss, the corpulent owner of the carnival who had handed him over, would have already told Thorfin everything. There was no reason not to speak what he knew.

“The man with the beard,” he said his words barely audible.

Greeg struck him with an open hand. “Speak up!”

Ky repeated his answer.

“Yes, yes,” Thorfin said irritably. “I know of him. Who is he?”

“I don’t know. He never said his name.”

“No one in the town knew him either,” Greeg confirmed. “I asked them most pointedly.”

“You haven’t killed them all, have you?” Thorfin demanded.

Greeg chuckled. “Not yet, but they wish for it.”

“They must know something. There are more clues to a man’s identity than just his beard.” Though a beast in human form, and despite consuming a vast amount of wine, Ky knew Thorfin was not without intelligence.

“I will persist in my questioning, my Lord Thorfin.”

“I want answers.” Thorfin returned his gaze to Ky. “She means something to you, this slave, Rowan.”

 

About the Author:

Aussie Mikala Ash used to be a mild-mannered training & development consultant by day, and a wild sci-fi and paranormal adventure writer by night. Now she is a brazen full-time writer and nature photographer who is concentrating on having among other things, “… bags, and bags of fun!” Mikala can be found on Facebook and on Twitter.

 

Author on Facebook

Author on Twitter

 

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

 

Pre-Order Today



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Wednesday, April 2, 2025

Warrior Queen by Mikala Ash ~ #RABTBookTours #WarriorQueen #MikalaAsh #LGBT #Steampunk


Warrior Queen by Mikala Ash 

LGBTQ+ Steampunk Romance

Date Published: April 4, 2025


 

A volatile cauldron of magic, love, and the empire may be on the edge of a precipice, but witches, humans, and automatons indulge in pleasures of the flesh.

 


Victoria has been dubbed by her adoring public as their Warrior Queen. Destroying her Continental enemies is nothing to the challenge she faces now. For years, the Lunarians, goblins from the moon, led by the powerful witch Mon Ilson, have been murdering humans and stealing the bodies for his followers to “adopt.”

Beautiful witch Selena Whiteheart, Mon Ilson’s human agent on Earth, is closely watched by Home Office Agent Harry Kincaid, whose loyalty to the Queen suppresses his ability to show Selena his true feelings. Spiritualist Miss Cordelia Warrington has been exploring the carnal attributes and mechanical stamina of Adam, her automaton butler. Now Selena needs Cordelia’s help, and allows herself to be entertained by the amorous pair in a steamy ménage à trois.

Meanwhile, Agent of the Queen Rachel Clayton is instantly attracted to the hauntingly handsome Major Guy Tremayne, hero of the Coronation Island disaster. Can he be trusted? She throws all caution to the wind to find out. At a crucial moment the Queen is cruelly betrayed and threatened with assassination. Selena, Rachel, and Victoria all face difficult choices as love and lust compete with their duty to the Empire.

 

Author’s Note: Enjoy Warrior Queen as a standalone tale or as part of a continuing narrative.

 

 

Read an Excerpt: 

Thwack!

Thwack!

The sound of two cane sticks striking each other reminded me of how a scant two hours ago the Home Secretary had slapped my posterior as he ravaged me. Pressed for time he’d unceremoniously bent me over his Whitehall desk, pulled down my culottes and drawers, grabbed my shoulders for leverage, and drove his prodigious erection into me with frightful force. A few minutes later he flooded my quivering cunt with his lava hot seed. It had been a perfunctory fuck, short and sharp, and my climax perversely satisfying.

My cunny still retained a fair quantity of his ejaculation, and I shifted in my seat contriving to put pressure on my fleshy nether lips to keep it from escaping. My apparently not-so-subtle contortions did not escape the notice of the fine-looking man sitting opposite me. I’d quite forgotten about him as I relived the morning’s carnal adventure. He cleared his throat which brought me back to the here and now.

I was sitting in a Buckingham Palace anteroom, and I felt my cheeks warm under the scrutiny of this ruggedly handsome and smartly uniformed officer. When I’d first arrived, he’d introduced himself as Guy Tremayne. He was in fact the famous Major of the Southern Royal Air Corps who’d distinguished himself by leading the survivors of an airship crash on Coronation Island, a frozen rock midway between Tierra Del Fuego and Antarctica. Their inspirational struggle for survival on the barren island was a true Boys Own Adventure. I’d read his file during my recent convalescence and believed Major Tremayne to be a brave and resourceful officer, respected by his men and superiors alike.

He had given me an elegant bow, took my proffered hand, and lightly brushed his lips against my knuckles. To say I was instantly attracted would be an understatement. He was the epitome of masculinity: well over six feet tall, slim, and long legged. His hips were narrow, his chest deep, and his shoulders broad. His sharply chiselled face was suntanned, and above a thin black moustache his nose was pleasantly symmetrical. The palest of blue eyes gave his countenance a strikingly mysterious and yet desirable aspect.

My cunny throbbed.

He was sitting as if he was on parade with his back straight as a board. He’d started his career in the cavalry, and I couldn’t help but imagine him in the saddle riding into battle, his sabre held high, its razor edge glinting in the sun. He’d actually seen combat, and his curly hair disguised the missing left ear, lost during a bloody skirmish in the Punjab.

Thwack! Thwack!

“Do you singlestick?” I asked him, my mouth dry, and my voice husky.

Thwack! Thwack!

The corners of his mouth curled into a smile. “Indeed, I do. The sabre is my weapon of choice.”

Singlestick fighting had been a feature of English martial life for centuries and cavalry men used it for practicing sabre strokes from horseback. Though the sport had become highly regimented, it required fast reflexes and strict discipline. I found it useful for developing forearm and wrist strength.

Thwack! Thwack!

“Perhaps we should have a bout?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

Thwack! Thwack!

My cunt throbbed lustily, and inside my blouse, my nipples ached. I licked my bottom lip, slowly. “Are you residing in London?”

He threw up his hands. “Alas. I exist at the whim of the War Department.”

Thwack! Thwack!

“Then we should arrange a time soon.”

“I believe I am free tomorrow evening.”

“As it happens, so am I.”

Thwack! Thwack!

We’d just concluded arrangements to meet at a restaurant in Chelsea when the door to the anteroom opened, and a footman showed in a slim, elegantly dressed woman. She was about forty years of age, with an attractive oval face and perfect complexion accentuated by challenging hazel eyes and provocatively painted red lips. Her luxurious auburn hair was coiled expertly around her head in such a way that suggested considerable length. The bulk was held in place with gem-tipped pins which glinted in the harsh electric light. I imagined her standing naked, her hair cascading over her ample breasts, reaching and discreetly hiding her mound of Venus. I recognised her as the wife of a member of the House of Lords, and this sensual impression I’d constructed was at odds with her reputation. She was known as a straitlaced prude, active in charitable institutions and a fierce and passionate advocate for women’s suffrage. On one occasion she’d been seen at a rally striking a constable with a placard after she accused him of taking undisclosed liberties.

I curtsied. “Lady Fogerty, I’m Rachel Clayton.”

 

About the Author:

Aussie Mikala Ash used to be a mild-mannered training & development consultant by day, and a wild sci-fi and paranormal adventure writer by night. Now she is a brazen full-time writer and nature photographer who is concentrating on having among other things, “… bags, and bags of fun!” Mikala can be found on Facebook and on Twitter.

 

Author on Facebook

Author on Twitter

 

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

 

Pre-Order Today



RABT Book Tours & PR

Tuesday, June 4, 2024

Cressida’s Agent by Mikala Ash ~ @ash_mikala ~ @RABTBookTours #RABTBookTours #CressidasAgent #MikalaAsh #Steampunk

 

Cressida’s Agent by Mikala Ash

Steampunk

Date to be Published: June 7, 2024

Publisher: Changeling Press


 

 

About the Book:

Replete with all the trappings of an alternate world -- airships, steam powered aircraft, automatons, moon bases, and witches with psychic powers -- Cressida’s Agents is a steamy thrill-a-minute ride in a universe of what could have been.

Cressida Troy, after being mesmerised into betraying humanity, is now the wife of Mon Ilson, the alien leader, and is crowned Empress of Space. While pretending to be the love of his long-life, Cressida is desperately seeking a way to redeem herself, and somehow save human civilization from destruction at his hands. Then her former fiancé, Jacob, is captured and brought to the moon. Can she earn back his love, or has her seeming betrayal hurt him too much?

Meanwhile on Earth, Marjorie, in the guise of brothel madam and casino owner is acting as an agent of Mon Ilson. Her goal is to learn from him the secret of immortality, and for now she must do his bidding. A violent assassination attempt on her airship Fortuna brings her into the strong arms of handsome Squadron Leader, Sir Christopher “Kit” Colby. Her attempt to uncover the mastermind behind the plot leads them both into deadly danger.

 

 

Read an Excerpt: 

Bauble-like, the Earth shone down on ash-hued desolation, embarrassing the barren scene with exuberant fecundity. Patches of white lace speckled the deep blue of the oceans and brushed the rich ochre of North Africa. Above was Europe and, if I squinted my eyes, I fancied I could see my island home, the lush green of England.

My breast ached with a fervent yearning.

My husband, Mon Ilson, the self-anointed Emperor of Space, drew me closer and kissed my neck. “It will all be ours, my love.”

“When?”

“In due time, my darling.” He pulled me to him, and I snuggled against his muscular chest. “Do you miss it so?”

I thought a moment and shook my head. “Not when I am with you.”

His lips brushed my earlobe. “We will return soon. I promise. Our plans advance by the day. Once again you will walk upon the green grass and feel fresh air upon your cheeks.”

I turned my head and returned his kiss, deepening it, allowing the stirring in my quim to mask the confusion of my thoughts. As homesick as I was, did I really want to go back? Could I conquer my guilt? I feared that with the first step the grass beneath my feet would turn to cinders as dead as the lunar dust.

Much had happened to me in the year since I’d left the world of my birth. I was no longer the same woman, the naive and selfish Cressida Troy who’d been fooled into betraying humanity. That silly girl had become Nil Ilson, Empress of Space, wife to Mon Ilson, and co-leader of the Lunarians. I was no longer responsible only for myself. Thousands now depended upon me, be they hideous goblins, or those who’d “adopted” human bodies.

In the deepest recesses of my mind, where I was safe from mental probing, I knew that I’d been possessed, mesmerised into being a traitor to humanity, deceiving my fiancé, Jacob McLeary, and then killing the two greatest threats to Mon Ilson’s plans, Fleur and Horatio Cumberland.

The problem was only the agent of my apparent treachery knew that. The spirit of a murdered girl, Marjorie Gilbert. She had taken over my mind and had deluded me into believing I loved Mon Ilson, and deceived him into believing it too. She’d also tricked him into giving her advanced knowledge of witchcraft. My anger at her was tempered by the realisation she had not done this to me out of maliciousness, but so she could regain her body which had been stolen by Mon Ilson’s goblins. Because she loved me, Marjorie had confessed this, and passed on all the magical powers and knowledge Mon Ilson had given her, including the ability to hide my deepest thoughts.

That was the past. I had committed myself to saving humanity from enslavement at my husband’s hands. How I would accomplish this I did not know. I was impatient. Biding my time waiting for an opportunity to present itself was both frustrating and dangerous. Not only could I be discovered, but I ran the greater risk of letting my growing love for Mon Ilson blind me to the chance if it arose, and then could I bring myself to exploit it? That I had come to love him no longer surprised me. Over the last year I’d learned his dreams, ruled alongside him, and shared his bed. I’d seen firsthand what an extraordinary and charismatic man he was, and in other circumstances I would have unreservedly given him my heart and soul. However, those benign conditions did not exist. The reality was Mon Ilson was a murderer.

A moan escaped my lips as Mon Ilson caressed a hardening nipple. We were lying on a couch in the top deck of the royal barge, he behind me, with one leg draped over my hip. In the crease of my posterior his cock stirred.

I wiggled against him. “Make love to me,” I murmured.

“That was my intention.”

My husband deftly lifted the hem of my robe and pressed the swollen head of his cock against my quim. He gently nudged apart the moist lips and effortlessly slid inside. With a slight adjustment of his hips the tip of his cock touched that especially sensitive flesh on the roof of my cunny. Pure pleasure flooded my system.

Mon Ilson was over a thousand years old, and with countless sexual liaisons behind him he had developed techniques that ensured a woman’s complete satisfaction, and men too. He used sexual magic to bond his people to him after he transferred their spirits from their goblin bodies into the vacant husks of murdered humans, a process they termed Adoption.

When Marjorie had occupied my mind she would stimulate my senses from the inside, maximising my pleasure, and bonding me even more tightly to Mon Ilson’s influence, and made him even more convinced of his devotion to me. He had been trapped in Marjorie’s web of deceit just as tightly as I had. His hold over his people was not just through sexual magic, but the promise of eternal life. Only he could give them that. Only he could transfer their goblin souls into human bodies. That was why Marjorie stayed his servant, hoping to learn the trick. Though she had possessed me, she didn’t know how. That was the one secret Mon Ilson did not share with her. Marjorie wanted so much to live, over and over again, that she would do anything for him.

Now that she was gone from my mind, my physical reactions to his lovemaking were under my control. To overcome my natural aversion to him -- a murdering megalomaniac goblin in a human body -- I used magic to bury my repugnance, project lustful thoughts, and intensify my physical reactions.

“Fuck me harder,” I encouraged him.

His technique, with my magic, quickly filled my body with the pulsating energy that took me to the precipice of climax, a cliff edge from which I gladly launched myself, and was lifted like a skyrocket to an explosive culmination.

My response caused him to reach his own conclusion, and he filled me with his copious essence. He wanted children, and my tardiness to provide the gift was, from his perspective, the only negative aspect in our relationship. Not that he put any pressure on me -- he loved me too much, but I’d felt his need. The reality was that any unnecessary delay would need to be explained and defended. I knew of no reason to defer the inevitable any longer. Though I had control of my fertility, when and by whom I became pregnant, it was not something I expected to enjoy despite my intention to use magic to remove the more onerous aspects that plague many women. At most it would be awkward. Being with child might give me the leverage I needed to control Mon Ilson’s ambitions and hopefully mitigate the worst excesses of the invasion, if not avoid it completely.

My husband’s kisses became more fervent, and he resumed his lusty thrusts. He used his own magic to remain hard, and he fucked me to another shattering climax. Another glut of his seed filled me to overflowing, and those fireworks exploded in my head once more. We lay in each other’s arms, his cock still rigid, while our ragged breathing slowly returned to normal.

“My Lord,” Gloria said diffidently. While we recovered, she had waited by the bed, head bowed, her hands clasped before her shaven quim. Gloria had befriended me after I’d been first kidnapped. She was blonde, with caramel eyes, and a deliciously curved mouth. Like all Lunarian women who’d adopted a human body, Gloria was not only beautiful with a spectacular bosom and narrow waist, but she was also obsessed with sex. I gave her a smile, and she nodded acknowledgement. “Nil Ilson, I am so sorry to interrupt. The humans have sent a vessel beyond the atmosphere.”

Mon Ilson sat up. “Have they really?”

About the Author:

Aussie Mikala Ash used to be a mild-mannered training & development consultant by day, and a wild sci-fi and paranormal adventure writer by night. Now she is a brazen full-time writer and nature photographer who is concentrating on having among other things, “… bags, and bags of fun!” Mikala can be found on Facebook and on Twitter.

 

Contact Links:

Author on Facebook

Author on Twitter

 

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

 

Preorder Today


RABT Book Tours & PR
This blog uses affiliate links.

Friday, December 15, 2023

Cressida’s Moon by Mikala Ash ~ @ash_mikala @changelingpress @RABTBookTours #RABTBookTours #CressidasMoon #MikalaAsh #SteampunkRomance


A Steam and Spells Steampunk Christmas Adventure

 

Empire of the Sky, Book 1

 

Cressida’s Moon by Mikala Ash

Steampunk Murder Mystery Romance

Date Published: December 22, 2023

Publisher: Changeling Press


 

History got it wrong. The first live human made it to the moon just before Christmas, 1865. Her name was Cressida Troy.

An assignation in a moonlit graveyard begins a perilous and sensual journey for plucky Cressida as she and her lovers track down an alien plot to conquer Earth.

Rocket ships to the moon, body snatchers, ghosts, aliens, romance, and illicit erotic congress -- Cressida’s Moon has it all.



Read an Excerpt:

Copyright ©2023 Mikala Ash

 

I was a bluestocking, eight and twenty years of age, and teaching at Mrs. Nolan’s School for the Poor in a small village in Shropshire when I met Jacob. I had been orphaned before ever knowing my parents. A typhoid outbreak in the year of our Queen’s ascension to the throne took them both away. I was raised by my childless uncle and aunt, he an infirm veteran of the Peninsular Wars, and she a charwoman. We lived in a small cottage just five minutes away from Mrs. Nolan. Though poor, I couldn’t have wished for a better upbringing. Aunt Jenny cleaned for the school, and it was through this stroke of luck that I had a place to learn, and then somewhere to work.

My aunt took in lodgers to augment her meagre wages. There was a succession of spinsters and widows, before Jacob McLeary, a fellow teacher at the school, came to stay. Jacob was a tall handsome man, sandy-haired, with bright azure eyes, and a fine blond moustache over his sensuous lips. When he smiled, which was often, the hint of dimples appeared in his cheeks at the ends of that moustache, and when he laughed, rarer but more affecting to the observer, the intimations were confirmed, and magnetically caught and held the gaze. He was eight years my senior, but his easy manner, quick sense of the ridiculous, and high intelligence captured my lonely heart the moment he was introduced. Though I had all but given up on the thought of love, I was besotted, and my innocent, but strangely feverish dreams were all of him.

Alas, he was a recent widower, and in deep mourning. His wife had been consumptive and had lingered in a nursing home on the south coast to where the majority of Jacob’s money had gone to maintain her in some comfort. I would occasionally catch him gazing at her image in the gold locket he kept in his waistcoat pocket, his eyes glistening with incipient tears. Once a month, if his finances allowed, he would leave us for a weekend to visit her grave and was always very quiet and reflective upon his return. My heart broke for him.

When my uncle followed his dear wife to the grave, I inherited the tiny cottage, and despite the misgivings of Mrs. Nolan, that two of her unmarried staff shared the same roof with no chaperone, Jacob continued to rent the upstairs room next to mine. While we shared a bed at night, we maintained separate bedrooms so as not to arouse the suspicions of the charwoman. Every morning he’d swap the pillows and disarrange the blankets and sheets of his narrow cot.

What Mrs. Nolan didn’t know was that by then Jacob and I were secret lovers. I won’t go over the hesitant and protracted beginnings of our affair, except to say it was I who initiated and progressed it. Jacob was the reluctant party. Betraying his wife’s memory did not come easily.

That I had no similar scruples should bother me, I suppose. My moral judgement was impaired, obviously. I was raw, selfish, and madly in love. Now I am ashamed, I must admit, of the strategies I employed to lead him into his sometimes-crippling self-imposed dishonour. Subtle flirting in the beginning, followed by overt sweet-talking, then the staging of intimate scenarios that I blush to recall.

Our first kiss was everything I dreamed of. The soft warmth of his lips, the hesitant pressure, his surge of passion surprising me when his tongue forced my lips apart to explore my mouth in a most urgent fashion that hinted at long suppressed desire. His soft caresses set my flesh aflame, and inside I felt a sultry heat that echoed my feverish dreams, and his first touch of that sensitive little nub between my secret lips committed me to the roiling flames of passion. I can still remember in exquisite detail the explosion of stars in my head, and wave after wave of prickly heat that flowed through my entire body, leaving me shaking at the knees, and clutching him so tightly lest I fall.

Jacob taught me some of the crude names given to male and female genitalia, and I must admit to becoming somewhat flagrant in using those slang terms instead of the boring old vagina and penis of the medical publications. My private place, as my aunt had referred to my cunny, had a variety of bemusing names: tulip, quimmy, quimbo, horse-collar, poke-hole, nursery, love-trap and cock-trap, pleasure pit, flaps, clam, buttonhole, and Cupid’s furrow, as well as the more familiar curses: cunt, and twat. We had many a laugh over these, as well as those for the male member: dick, doodle, ploughshare, trouser serpent, poker, broomstick, sword, Adam’s dagger, and the buttonhole worker, among countless others. Jacob had garnered these from certain salacious publications he’d purchased to assist him in his loneliness.

Aunt and Uncle were still alive then, and we took to making long walks in the twilight. Those twisted amblings would eventually take us to the old cemetery where privacy was assured beneath the yews. We’d kiss, and he’d lay his coat on the ground between the ancient headstones, and there we would make love.

Oh, how glorious those times were. I learned so much about the breadth of sensations my body could experience. He played my body as if it were a musical instrument, extracting so many types of sighs, building into a spectrum of moans, groans, and high-pitched cries of release, culminating in whimpers of breathless dissolution.

Jacob taught me how responsive my nipples were to the gentlest touch, and how they ached for the next stroke, lick, and suck. How his breath on my neck and throat made my innermost walls throb and moisten. Soft kisses from my breasts to my pelvis sent quivers of expectation along every nerve and cell.

He was always considerate of my comfort and pleasure, and ensured I would experience a breathtaking release before he asserted his own desire with careful penetration. He never spent his lust inside me, fearing to worsen my dishonour with a child. Instead, after I had reached the pinnacle of pleasure and found release, he would withdraw, and his marvellous rod of steel would pulse and jump, firing pearly drops across my quaking belly.

Habits are difficult to break. While we were free to make love at home, we also enjoyed our walks in the parkland surrounding the church, and it was on one such tryst that under a full moon we sat on a crumbling stone burial vault sacred to the memory of Ebenezer Boyse and his devoted wife Maryanne, who had both departed this life in 1722:

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.”

Jacob’s head was hidden beneath my skirts, his face between my spread thighs, his agile tongue alternating between licking the labial flaps, spearing deep inside my quim, or teasing my clitoris. I was leaning back on my hands, lost in sensation, staring blankly at the silver orb hanging in the sky. My rising excitement inevitably led to a hysterical paroxysm, as the medical books termed it, and I moaned like a madwoman, and shuddered in convulsions of ecstasy.



About the Author:

Aussie Mikala Ash used to be a mild-mannered training & development consultant by day, and a wild sci-fi and paranormal adventure writer by night. Now she is a brazen full-time writer and nature photographer who is concentrating on having among other things, “… bags, and bags of fun!” Mikala can be found on Facebook and on Twitter.

 

Contact Links

Author on Facebook

Author on Twitter

 

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

 

Preorder Today  https://amzn.to/41sjVvU



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This blog uses affiliate links.

Tuesday, October 17, 2023

Dolly’s Ruse by Mikala Ash ~ @changelingpress @RABTBookTours #RABTBookTours #DollysRuse #MikalaAsh #Steampunk

(Sisters Three)

Dolly’s Ruse by Mikala Ash

Steampunk, Murder Mystery, Romantic Suspense

Date Published: Oct 20, 2023

 

About the Book:

London is under attack!

At Allenby Hall the net tightens around Dolly Preston and her gentleman friend, Pascal Baudelaire. Lies abound. Who can she trust?

The chaos in the heart of the empire requires Agent of the Queen, the predatory Miss Clayton, to make an ultimatum. The snowstorm ends, and Molly, caring for the wounded Mr. Allenby, is in for a shocking disappointment as events reveal the truth behind the Lewellen murder.

While London burns, Polly risks her new relationship with the honourable Tom Gold by revealing her extreme carnal desires. The three Preston sisters deal with the threat to their family’s future in their own inimitable styles, but will they succeed?

 


Read an Excerpt:


Copyright ©2023 Mikala Ash

 

I cleared a circle on the fogged glass and peered out at a vast sheet of white: the snowbound grounds of Allenby Hall. Above the distant ice-shrouded trees, the pale outline of the sun was visible through thin, leaden clouds. It was a beautiful scene worthy of any Christmas postcard, but for all that it was a cruel deceit. The picturesque vista cloaked a deadly reality, for a fathom of snow entombed the landscape and smothered the helpless creatures beneath. That was my melancholy state. I felt trapped, unable to extricate myself from a suffocating fate.

Instead, I should have been happy, or at the very least satisfied. The fornication, my stock in trade, had been as unrelenting as the snowfall. Indeed, during the last week all my lusty holes had been filled countless times over.

“At last,” I murmured. “It has finally stopped.”

“Come back to bed,” Anthony Jamieson implored. “It’s too bloody cold to be out. The fire in the hearth has died, but not the furnace in my heart.” He chuckled at his saucy wit.

“My heart is incandescent with desire,” added Mathew, not one to be outdone by his twin brother. “My cock is harder than an oak and is impatient for your attention. Lying in such a state next to my brother is, however, unbecoming in a gentleman of my manly nature.”

Though my quim pulsed with lust, I ignored their bantering. The Jamieson twins, impecunious younger sons, were customers of long standing. Having found me at Mrs. Q’s bawdy house, they often and enthusiastically indulged their love of sodomy, my particular speciality, whenever they were in funds, and were as generous as they could be. They had even invited me to move from Mrs. Q’s to rooms in the fashionable West End, where I would be theirs exclusively, their own private whore. My objections had simply been financial -- they would not be able to afford both the rent and the extra they gave me to pass onto my impoverished Mama and my two half-sisters Holly and Lolly. My and my full sisters’ goal was to get them out of the Whitechapel slum in which they lived, and away to the country. Then I had a flash of inspiration, and suggested the twins invite a third gentlemen into the scheme to defray the costs.

Anthony interrupted my recollections. “I’m afraid our rampant displays of lust have scared away your Frenchman, Dolly.”

He referred to that third gentleman, Pascal Baudelaire. He had come into my life on a search for my sister, Molly, because of her nascent relationship with an engineer, Mr. Lewellen, who had been brutally murdered. Molly had stumbled upon the poor man. The fiend James Polk, who had minutes before found the dying man, watched from the shadows, and had mistakenly believed Lewellen had told her something as she comforted him in his last moments. That mistake had set off a tumultuous couple of weeks, replete with gruesome murders, violent kidnappings, daring robberies, and shootings with a roiling undercurrent of espionage. Hardly the usual fare of an East End whore or toy manufacturer, which was Pascal’s family business. He too had shared our adventure by being kidnapped and losing a finger to the maniac’s knife.

Pascal also enjoyed the depths of my arse, and I had brought him to Allenby Hall while I visited my sister who was recovering from that same ordeal. The twins, friends of Mr. Allenby, had unexpectedly shown up just in time to be caught by the snowstorm.

With the intention of making the twins’ plan a reality I introduced Pascal to the joys of group copulation, and the idea of sharing the cost of the rooms which the Jamiesons proposed. He had been cautious at first but had soon given himself up to the novelty of enjoying my holes in the company of others, a new experience for him. He quickly agreed to the proposal so when he visited London, he could use me with the two Jamiesons, rather than the untold hundreds who visited me at Mrs. Q’s. His contribution would allow the twins to finance my plan of relocating Mama. All that planning, unfortunately, would be for naught. It wouldn’t be possible because of that bitch, Miss Clayton.

“Though the bed is large, I think Pascal was afraid of accidently touching my impressive member,” Mathew added with a mischievous chuckle. “He should realise that I have eyes only for you, Dolly.”

“I rather think, after our latest debauch,” Anthony mused drowsily. “He has retreated to his own room to recuperate before Dolly once again roused him into action. He is an impressive stallion, I must admit.”

That he was. I sighed, feeling his future departure most keenly. Not from this bed, but from my life entirely. A surge of guilt rushed though me. I hadn’t told the twins of the disaster that had befallen me and Pascal -- that he would be soon leaving England, never to return. They would have to give up the idea, and I would lose any chance of escaping Mrs. Q and saving Mama.

Our sojourn here in Molly’s employer’s country estate had not been all fun and games, hugs and kisses and inevitable bedroom antics. Our stay had been overshadowed by the consequences of the Lewellen murder in London, and the unexpected appearance of two Agents of the Queen, the catlike Miss Clayton and her equally predatory Miss Felicity Cressy.

They suspected Pascal of being a foreign agent attempting to steal military secrets from Mr. Allenby’s factory. Miss Clayton had ordered me to spy on him, a repellent task which I’d soon whispered to him under the bedclothes. Despite the cost of ending my dream, I’d begged Pascal to leave England as soon the snowstorms had relinquished their bitter hold. He resented the need, having protested his innocence, but had agreed, albeit reluctantly, that the more distance between him and Miss Clayton the better.

Feet padded behind me as one of the twins grabbed me by the waist, lifted my silk bathrobe, and with his feet and knees he pushed my legs apart so his determined cock could find my semen-filled cunny. Our debauchery had caused us to run out of Cumberland prophylactics, which meant yet another douche with Mrs. Q’s secret potion.

He draped a blanket over both our shoulders to keep us warm while he fucked me. Was it Anthony or Mathew? I couldn’t tell. They were truly identical in every respect, even to the size of their manly organ. The only way to tell Mathew from his brother was to insert my finger in his arsehole while he fucked me. He didn’t enjoy it, while his brother did. Whoever it was, his thrusts were urgent and powerful, and I soon rested my forehead against the cold pane and lost myself to his plundering.

 

About the Author:

Aussie Mikala Ash used to be a mild-mannered training & development consultant by day, and a wild sci-fi and paranormal adventure writer by night. Now she is a brazen full-time writer and nature photographer who is concentrating on having among other things, “… bags, and bags of fun!” Mikala can be found on Facebook and on Twitter.


Author on Facebook


Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress


Pre-Order Today https://amzn.to/3FmOdFW


RABT Book Tours & PR

Tuesday, August 1, 2023

Teaser Tuesday ~ Polly’s Gold by Mikala Ash ~ @ash_mikala @RABTBookTours #RABTBookTours #PollysGold #MikalaAsh #SteampunkRomance

 

(Sisters Three 2): A Stream and Spells Steampunk Adventure

 

Polly’s Gold by Mikala Ash

Historical / Steampunk / Romance

Date Published: 08/04/2023

Publisher: Changeling Press LLC

 

About the Book:

The consequences of the Lewellen murder continue to plague the Preston sisters. Polly braves an ice storm to recover the bag of gold sovereigns she dropped from the airship and falls into the hands of desperate fugitives. Molly the factory girl is taken to the country estate of her employer Mr. Allenby, who is showing more than gentlemanly interest, and Dolly the wagtail follows with her lusty client Pascal Baudelaire in tow.

Why are the mysterious and threatening Agents of the Queen, Miss Clayton and Miss Cressy, snooping about? When the Jamieson twins show up out of the blue to proposition Molly, the green-eyed monster threatens Pascal's equilibrium.

Mayhem follows the sisters as they seek to disentangle themselves from the mystery and gain their freedom from the dangerous streets of London. Their future depends on the money, but will Polly accept that gold doesn't always come in the shape of coins? 

Read an Excerpt: 

Copyright ©2023 Mikala Ash

Polly's Gold (Sisters Three 2) 

The lighted windows of Gravesend lay far behind me. Ahead the ice storm had transformed the marshes into a dark frozen wasteland.

I too had been transformed. That realisation diverted me from the pain of frozen limbs, and the despair that threatened to unhinge me.

Who was I before?

Just a few days ago I’d been a daughter, a sister, mistress of the Golden Bell pub, and known throughout London’s East End as the Bell Gang leader’s moll, “Queen of the Bells,” or less generously: Bill’s cunt.

Who had I become?

I’m still a daughter and sister, but events over the last few days, much like an unexpected storm from the North sweeping all before it, have altered my state in the world and within myself too. Bill had been brutally murdered, and I was alone, with no protection in the savage world of the docklands. By avenging Bill’s murder, I’d become a killer, a vicious one at that. Since departing the pub without a word, I was probably mistress of the Golden Bell no longer, and the new leader of the gang, Isiah Spike, a nasty weasel-faced sod if ever there was one, wouldn’t countenance my absence, and would punish me for it, if he ever got the chance. Lastly by trudging through this freezing wilderness, I’d turned treasure hunter.

Thanks to the late hour, and the driving sleet, the road out of Gravesend was deserted. I’d been plodding along this forsaken stretch for a full half hour after being deposited by a tiler’s dray at the end of Norfolk Road. The wind howled, the icy rain pattered on my oilskin hood, and the cold air rasped my throat. My nose was blocked and aching in the cold. Except for my frozen face, Bill’s coat, hood and cape kept my body dry, if not warm. Inside Bill’s wet and now ruined boots, my feet were like numb blocks of wood. My complete costume, even down to the silk drawers, were Bill’s. I’d decided a man would attract less attention than a woman here on the southern reaches of the Thames and had dressed accordingly.

The image of Bill’s mutilated body flooded my eyes with freezing tears. He’d only been dead a few days, murdered and defiled by a fiend in human form, a madman named James Polk. Bill, my lover and protector, had been the ruthless leader of the Bell Gang, and with his death my position was null and void. The pretenders to the throne had fought it out, and the mollisher of the dead king was surplus to requirements, as they already had their cunts ready to hand. My offer to continue running the pub with Hannah, the cousin of Bill’s lieutenant, also dead by the same hand, was my one chance of staying alive, at least for the next few days.

I’d taken my bloody revenge on Polk. Yet knowing Bill’s killer was dead brought me no joy, just a cold hollowness in my chest. The chapter that Bill occupied in my life had been closed so quickly, so emphatically, I’d no time to mourn, and I expected my present task would simply delay the final release of grief.

Just a few days ago, one by one, my sisters: Molly, the factory girl, Dolly the wagtail, and I, had been kidnapped by the monster and his henchman. We’d been held captive on an airship, and threatened with death to reveal a secret we did not possess. In a desperate and savage fight we’d overcome our abductors and found ourselves adrift in danger of being lost. Luckily the River Police and marines in a military airship from Shornemead Fort had rescued us before we had floated out to sea. I’d been held at Scotland Yard for a day for prolonged and incessant questioning. Inspector Astonberry knew we were lying about the real circumstances of Polk’s death, but we stayed true to our story, though it was a complete fiction. The inspector knew that Bill was up to his neck in something that had led to his slaughter and, to his obvious chagrin, he could not trip me up to discover what it was.

That was because I did not know. Bill had hidden a sack of gold sovereigns from me, and when I discovered it he wouldn’t tell me where the money had come from. That was out of character as he was usually so proud of his little schemes. I suspected this had been what got him killed. But what had he done for it, and who had paid him? Had it been a normal crime, so to speak, such as burglary, or extortion? Or had he been, as the inspector suspected, tied up in the traitorous buying of stolen secrets from the Allenby factory? I didn’t know. Polk had taken Bill’s gold, and I’d taken it back, and held it for a few minutes before making it safe, or so I hoped.

I missed Bill so. My body ached for him...

 

About the Author

Aussie Mikala Ash used to be a mild-mannered training & development consultant by day, and a wild sci-fi and paranormal adventure writer by night. Now she is a brazen full-time writer and nature photographer who is concentrating on having among other things, “… bags, and bags of fun!” Mikala can be found on Facebook and on Twitter. 

Author’s Instagram and Twitter: @ash_mikala

Author’s Facebook: @mikala.ash.9

 

Publisher on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram: @changelingpress

 

Preorder Today:

Amazon


RABT Book Tours & PR

Tuesday, December 13, 2022

Drawing Temptation by Mikala Ash ~ Steampunk Romance @ash_mikala @changelingpress @RABTBookTours #RABTBookTours #DrawingTemptation #MikalaAsh #SteampunkRomance

 

Empire of Hearts 2

A Steam and Spells Steampunk Adventure


Steampunk Romance

Date Published: December 9, 2022

Publisher: Changeling Press LLC


Torn by grief and desire, Amelia Keystone faces temptation. A faerie invades her sleep, and for a price offers her the powers to save her fiancé, Lord Randolph Cressy, grievously wounded while saving Amelia’s life.

Gravely ill and invalided, Randolph is unwilling to force her into a lifetime committed to his care and rescinds his offer of marriage. As a distraction from her broken heart, Amelia considers becoming an Agent of the Queen and bedding the handsome agent Charles Graves. Can she resist one temptation and succumb to the other?




About the Author:

Aussie Mikala Ash used to be a mild-mannered training & development consultant by day, and a wild sci-fi and paranormal adventure writer by night. Now she is a brazen full-time writer and nature photographer who is concentrating on having among other things, “… bags, and bags of fun!” Mikala can be found on Facebook and on Twitter.

 

The author on…

Twitter

Facebook


Publisher’s Instagram/Facebook/Twitter: @changelingpress


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RABT Book Tours & PR