Welcome to Circlet on LJ (sticky post)
Table of Contents:
Initiation by Christina M. Parker
Sun Chases Moon by Michael M. Jones
The Seduction of the Sea by T. K. Ashley
Become the Mystery by Kara Owl
Ordinary Girl by M. A. Earnshaw
The Warmth of a Wood Nymph by Clarice Clique
D- in Distress by Nadine Wilmot
Primè Nocta by Kierstin Cherry
Excerpt from the introduction:
Many of us dream of being something greater than what we are; something powerful, something special, maybe even something to be worshiped. We find ways, in our everyday lives, to fulfill these dreams. We cut from the fabric of the lives we are given, mold and shape the stones of our paths, to fit our desires and fantasies; for some, this means simple role playing in the privacy of our bedrooms, or, if we’re braver, in a fetish club or at a party. For others, it simply means trying to be a better person, to echo the tenets of the gods we worship in the actions of our daily lives. For others still, it means calling to our gods, offering up our bodies, our wills, and our spirits in their service.
What if they answered? What if they came to us, not in dreams or in spirit, but in flesh and blood that we could feel with our skin and our teeth, and the beating of their hearts beneath our hands? How would it feel to have them wrap their arms around us and claim us as theirs? How would it change us to know that we were chosen? To be shown things that most mortals never get to see or experience?
Excerpt from D- in Distress by Nadine Wilmot:
Dragons were cruel creatures, Isibel knew. They enjoyed playing games with people in the same manner that cats enjoyed playing with battered mice, and they were known for playing long games, and subtle ones. Suffering was, to them, spice; fear the most delectable flavor.
Secretly, Isibel understood that pleasure, and was ashamed. However many elves the beast had stolen from this shanty-town, none of them would have had an easy death, or a quick one.
Isibel looked around herself at the silent gathering—the entire population of the shantytown seemed to have assembled by now—and came to a decision. Far be it from her to take the part of paladin—mercenaries made more profit—but there were more kinds of payment than money.
If nothing else, it never hurt to pad her reputation.
"I'll deal with it," she said.
You can find Like Myth Made Flesh here on Amazon: Like Myth Made Flesh or on our website: http://www.circlet.com/launching-today-l
by Cam Andrews
The light is fading when I find her. Only one faint star shines in the darkening sky this Sabbat night.
She stands at her bedroom window and makes a wish: Star light, star bright. Her true desire chants the spell. She has summoned me, the Lightbearer, though she does not know it. Not yet.
She lights a candle on the bedside table. I crouch in the shadows, watching her. From the drawer she takes the tools of her magic and arranges them within reach. Her robe drops to the floor; she is naked before me. She sinks back onto the pillows with a sigh.
Her touch is practiced and sure, but she does not hurry. Her husband will be gone all night, working; she has her body to herself, just as she likes it. Her warmth grows, and with it, my power.
Her fingers trail like feathers across her flesh and I trace the same patterns in flame, each nerve sparking. Her body is a network of pulsing light, electric. I take shape in her mind, a shimmering mirage, an angelic lover etched in fire.
Her palms stroke her belly, her thighs, teasing. I take her hand, slide it between her legs. Her heat radiates, the sheen of her skin reflects the candlelight.
She grasps the smooth glass phallus, illuminated as from within. I take hold of it, my winged form hovering above her, waiting. She is tinder ready to be set alight. Even her wetness will not quench my flame.
I am not gentle when I thrust the phallus into her. She knows my rhythm; she has always known it. In her dreams she has prayed to me, night after night. In her darkness, there is light – my light.
The fire in her belly grows. It spreads along her limbs until the edges of her body send sparks into the night. Her flesh is a crucible into which I will pour pure luminescence. Head thrown back, her face flushed and sweating, she cries out. It is an incantation, a song older than time, older than flesh itself. Fiat lux.
I reach into her chest and crush her passionate heart. It melts into liquid gold in my hand. It pours out between my fingers, between her legs. A final shuddering sigh and she is quiet. The candle gutters. The flame has drowned in its own wax.
When he arrives home the next day, she is gone. Only the tangled bed sheets remain as a witness to my coming.
She sets out, bearing the torch of her passion. She stands at the crossroads and calls out to those with ears to hear. They come forth from the shadows, one by one, and then in twos and threes. Her fiery kiss awakens them, my votaries. All acts of love and pleasure are their rituals.
Their offerings rise like sparks in the darkness, until they take their place in the heavens. For every man, every woman is a star. It is in your nature, as in mine, to shine.
Cam Andrews lives in a small town in the wilds of western Massachusetts with his beloved and two black cats.
Happy Halloween from Circlet Press and we hope you’ve been enjoying our Halloween erotic microfictions series! Here’s a treat for all you readers: 10% off any online order here at Circlet.com now through October 31st. Use the coupon code HALLOWME at checkout.
by Sonni de Soto
“Tell me.” Her voice, hoarse and hushed, whispered into the sightless, scopeless space Eli no longer recognized as his room. Without his glasses, the witching hour had warped his pitch-black bedroom, distorting the familiar shapes and scales into strange shades of themselves.
“Say it.” Her tone tightened as he felt Her lean in closer. Her hot breath felt wet as it fluttered against his shivering skin. He bit his lip to seal the words back, blood touching his tongue sharp and metallic like a sacrifice.
He wouldn’t say it. Couldn’t.
Lord knew, he shouldn’t.
Eli tried to turn away, but he was dragged back by the tangled tug of his trapped strands held tight in Her hand, his scalp burning as She pulled. His teeth released on a gasp, his head forced back to stretch and expose his vulnerable throat as he gulped breathlessly.
He loved Her.
“I can make you,” She murmured with a biting sweetness that sunk sharp as the nails that scratched and scored his scalp. “You know I can.”
Utterly unwillingly, he loved Her.
She held such power over him already; giving Her those words—tiny things that always felt so large—felt like too much. He could feel them bubble, like an incantation or a potion, in his throat. Felt them burn on his tongue. He bit his lip.
A part of him wanted to give them to Her. He wanted to give Her everything.
But, if he did, he wondered—worried—what part of him would be left.
Her silken weight swooped almost unbearably hot atop him, making his head rear back and his spine arch against the sensation—like a current, live and electric—that shot through him. She slithered over him, the satiny slide of Her hair spilling around him as She lowered Herself over him, the touch of Her skin a scorch along the length of his body. Each caress felt like a lash as Her ankles linked and lingered, brushing the bony bridge of Her left foot up and down and up his leg again.
Her hands crept to press hard against his chest. It scalded, that touch, as She sidled over his body, Her legs vise-like as they pressed into his hips. He cried out, the sound scratchy and weak compared to the scream caught—choked—in his throat.
Blind in the heavy darkness, he writhed against the small, but unshakable shape anchoring him down onto the comforter. Fragile fingers gripped his wrists like manacles as manicured nails dug like talons into his skin. He couldn’t see Her. Not really. Just a faint outline—a sinuous shadow—flowing, undulating over him as his near-sighted eyes strained to see.
He tried to trace the curve of Her, to touch with his gaze what his shackled hands couldn’t take. But the more he fought to focus on Her—to know the secrets of Her shoulders and spine, Her cheeks and thighs—the more She seemed to melt into the moonless night.
He lunged for Her, gritting out a throaty growl. With his hands and hips still held tight, he surged—whole-bodied and determined—toward Her, reaching for Her heat. Aching against the halted arch, he snarled as his chest met nothing.
Just the echo of Her.
Warmth like the smoke from a spectral flame.
He fell back to the bed, defeat a dull thump in the down as Her laughter, light and low, purred in his ear like a taunt. “Tell me.” The summons was a song that set his teeth on edge. Her tongue flicked a fiery lick along the sweat-slicked skin of his neck. “Tell me.”
So he did.
Like he always did.
He told Her. He loved Her.
She smiled, the white gleam almost swallowed by the dark, as She tore the confession from his mouth—his soul—on a howling moan. His whole body tightened as the tortured sound spilled out into the shadows. He jerked, his release a ragged, rough relief that left him feeling drained as Her body blanketed his.
She’s so hot, he marveled on a mewling yawn, Her skin all soft and slick heat. He should have been warm beneath Her, warmed by Her. Instead, he let his tired eyes close and shivered against Her as She cuddled closer, a fire that burned but offered no comfort. A flame that stole heat and gave none back.
God help me, he thought as he drifted off into dream, I love Her.
When he opened his eyes again, after hours of pure, peaceful darkness, he raised his hand to shield himself from the sun’s glare and sighed.
She was gone.
He could feel it.
His room was sunlit but cold. Empty and alone.
He lay back down, rolling onto his side as he touched the warm space where She’d been. The warm space where They’d been. He sunk low against the bedding, all but burying himself in the last remains of Their heat and scent.
He should leave the bed. The day shone bright and new as sunlight fanned itself across his bed.
It was time to wake up.
And he would.
But for now, while Her warmth lingered, he lay here, pressed flat against the mattress and nuzzled his cheek close, as he felt the comforter inevitably cool.
Sonni de Soto is a kinkster of color who loves horror’s ability to make the strange seem settled and the settled strange. Please find more of her work at sonnidesoto.blogspot.com and follow her at facebook.com/sonnidesotostories
by T. C. Mill
Before the darkness, before the hunger, the people of Orriak donned their masks. Hidden even from the gods, they enjoyed their last indulgences. The winter would be long and even in these days of comparative advances, not all would survive. For those who would, it helped to have sweet memories.
And so when the ringed moon set for the last time until spring, an air settled over the city. A hush of anticipation. Many barred their doors, shutting their families and invited guests safely away. The rest took to the streets.
Safe or not, nobody spent the Night of Masks in comfort. But for some, these twelve hours of darkness would be worth an entire year of fasting. It was risk, it was challenge, it was adventure.
He knew all this when he went out.
Not that anything might happen free of consequences. Families could avenge insult or harm—if they knew the party responsible. The masks weren’t just tradition. But then, they could also hide someone who might otherwise be a target in the chaos of the carnival.
He was a modest person in a minor family who had no reason to become a target. He had no plans to antagonize anyone, much less to cause them harm. And whether it was foolish or not, he feared no harm himself.
He wore a dark suit that flattered his figure, thin enough that he looked taller than he really was. His mask was also black, plain velvet. He blended into the night, but not into the whirling pageantry that flooded the streets. No one collided with him by accident. A young couple took hold of his arms and pulled him into a dance, which he went along with gamely, but they released him after being outpaced by the marching musicians. Distantly he noted that the musicians went unharassed, the only group that had any form of immunity.
Before he could be dragged into more dancing, however spirited, he ducked down a side street. He continued down a maze of alleyways, until the only sounds were his own footsteps and his breathing and distantly a swelling and tuneless cacophony. He thought he’d known the city well, but this was a part of it where he had never gone and didn’t recognize.
Still, there was a sense of arrival as he turned one tight corner and found a figure standing there.
Its shoulders, beneath stiff lace in the shape of epaulettes, stiffened. Not in surprise, he thought, so much as increasing focus. Studying him.
She wore a plain mask edged in more lace—the fabric glimmered like scales. It revealed a round chin and firm mouth, which together seemed incredibly sensual. Her gown was cut full to allow movement, and as she took a step towards him, her body was not displayed so much as her physicality. Her movements, sharp and fast and powerful.
His heart hammered with anticipation almost beyond enduring.
“Good evening.” She didn’t sneer the greeting but her irony was apparent, dripping from her mouth like syrup. He licked his own lips.
Unable to find words to greet her, he settled on a bow. As he rose he saw her smile. His eyes darted down, to her hips, belted. The scabbards only proved what was already obvious by her bearing. “Your knives.”
“Do you want to see them?” Not waiting for him to answer, she drew one. The long, slender blade gleamed. It curved just slightly, tantalizingly.
“It’s beautiful…” he murmured.
She came closer, and he didn’t retreat. Her nostrils flared. Her breath fell on his cheek, then her lips, skimming over his skin in something not quite a kiss.
He swallowed hard, and then turned his face in an attempt to catch her mouth. She gasped, pulling back. He caught the flare in her dark eyes as she seemed to change her mind. Her gloved hand grasped the back of his neck, holding him in place as she closed her lips over his. He moaned as she added her tongue. Then her teeth.
His hands rested above her waist, above the belt. The hilt of her sheathed knife knocked against his knuckles as her body shifted. Her drawn knife, and the hand that held it, rested along his back, pushing him even closer.
Sensing the blade so near sent a surge of prickly excitement through him. As the kiss ended, he rocked his hips against hers, yearning for the sensation, not exactly soothing, of her warmth.
In contrast, her voice was cool. Considering. “Someone would only stride down a dark alley like this if they were completely innocent of the Fasting Customs, or if they wanted what was at the end of it. And an innocent wouldn’t wear a mask.” She stroked his, her fingertip running along its bottom edge. They both went still, otherwise, as if in morbid fascination. But then, after flirting with the one taboo of this night, she dropped her hand without revealing his face.
Her fingers skimmed down his stomach, which lurched as he took a shaking breath, then past his waist and over the laces of his trousers. She rubbed him through them, finding him already hard. When she chuckled, showing she approved, he reached between her fingers to unlace himself.
She pulled along his cock in a firm, slow rhythm. He rocked towards her, but from the corner of his eyes he saw the knife waiting in her other hand.
She followed his gaze. And he suspected she could feel his pulse pounding through her intimate grip.
“You are certain you want this?”
The question flowed thickly out of her mouth, and he answered with his own question, not mocking but ironic: “Don’t you?”
She gripped him tighter, but only for a moment—then made one more long, sweet stroke that left him aching but not enough to be distracted as she touched the blade to his chest. She cut his tunic open, and then began.
It hurt more than he had dreamed. First she muffled his cries against her palm, pushing him back against the alley wall. Her rich lips kissed the blood from his skin. Then she began to lick away the tears at the corners of his eyes, to gently kiss the lids and nibble along the line of his nose. He felt so tender that he was breaking apart, and all the while she didn’t stop, not her caressing or cutting. She quieted his last sob by sliding her tongue into his mouth.
He’d bear the marks of this night the rest of his life. The marks of her. Something that would last far beyond the fast. On any other night he might wonder if it was worth it, but her hand had closed around his cock again, and he tasted her smile as she found him still hard. Nothing in his life had ever been like this, or ever would be again. So terrible and lovely.
His hands were free; he followed the sides of her breasts through the gown, moved down her thighs, tried to work a hand under her full skirt, and when that didn’t work, she spread her legs wider and pressed against him so he could pleasure her through the velvet. She was so hot there, and growing wet. It would take very little to bring her to climax. But she broke his stroking off, dropping to her knees to lick more of the beading blood from his chest. This seemed to thrill her as much as his touch. Her next kiss stank of it, wonderfully.
Her hand returned to his cock, moved in mirror to his. It felt like they were becoming one being, in one moment; hurt and hurting, pleasuring and pleasured, with no need to ask and nothing to forgive, all fulfillment. It could last forever.
His thighs trembled and slickness ran over her fingers. A light sparked behind his eyes, and the moans she swallowed from him were of ecstasy more than pain. Her own breathing roughened with approaching orgasm.
She would release him, soon. And that was the only part he regretted.
T.C. Mill is a freelance editor and writer. Her short fiction has appeared in anthologies from Circlet, Storm Moon Press, House of Erotica, and Cleis Press and on the Nerve and Bright Desire websites. With Alex Freeman, she co-edited two literary erotica anthologies under the New Smut Project. https://www.facebook.com/tcmill/
Please visit http://www.circlet.com to read the rest of our wonderful Halloween microfictions!
One of the things we've been doing is posting Halloween/spooky themed microfictions on the website for the past week and that will continue through Halloween itself. I don't want to make a bunch of catch up posts because I don't want to fill your feed that much but I'll post tonight's when it goes live. In the meantime, if you visit our website you can easily go back and read the previous ones if you like. They are all tagged Halloween microfictions and easy to find.
So far we have posted the following stories:
And Then No More of Thee and Me by Vinnie Tesla
Heaven Sent by Jordan Castillo Price
Touring Moreau by Cat Voleur
Din-Din by Sommer Marsden
A Contract Until Dawn by Sita Bethel
Ruined by Jean Roberta
Manipulation by Trisha J. Wooldridge
Haunting Touches by Greer Thompson
Room with a Boo by J. T. Seate
Thanks again and I hope you are all having a great October!
The sex golem had a liquid magic heart.
“As opposed to powdered magics,” said Arianna. “Too much limp, not enough lymph.”
Veronica stared at it in wonder. No, not it. He. He wasn’t alive, but he wasn’t exactly dead, either. He was a training implement, but calling him a tool was a bit …
“Ah,” said Arianna, “I see you’ve noticed his tool.”
Veronica nodded. “Yes, it’s, um … well, it’s rather …”
“Gargantuan is the word, I think. Yes, quite so. Molded from the still-erect remains of the Mad God Hüelly after the great battle orgy of the Second Age. This golem’s been in service of the Royal House of Pleasure for millennia.”
The Royal House of Pleasure. The House of Houses, the very last word in erotic entertainment in this, the supreme capital city of the great imperium. Bedded floors. Scented ventilation. Sex novelties and toys packed into every drawer and shelf.
“You do think you can handle him, don’t you girl?” said Arianna, motioning at the golem.
Veronica had barely been in training two years. She’d only just learned the art of dark-craft fellatio runes the month before. A novice like her? Handle the sex golem?
“Only one way to find out,” said Veronica. She paused for a moment, took a deep, steadying breath, and then she untied her dress from around her neck. Her breasts tumbled out, full, burgeoning, voluptuous. The dress fell down around her hips, and she bent and shimmied back and forth, back and forth, until she was free of it.
Arianna smiled, taking in Veronica’s perfect naked form with a sparkle in her eye. “That’s the spirit, girl. And if I’m not too much mistaken …”
The sex golem powered up in an instant. It’s fabled, godly penis rose to full erection in precisely five seconds.
Arianna timed it. “Five seconds,” she remarked. “I think he must like what he sees.”
The sex golem strode forward, his taught, tanned muscles shifting like continents beneath his skin. He had the face of an angel, save for his hungry sneer and glistening white tusks.
“Is that really all I have to—”
The golem pulled Veronica in. She inhaled. Dear gods, the smell of him! Like musk and burnt rosewood. It filled her up, made her swoon, made her go limp in the golem’s arms. His gigantic cock—no, no, gargantuan!—pressed against her thigh. She could feel it throbbing, throbbing with liquid magic-powered desire. She suddenly felt giddy. She giggled.
“Concentrate, girl! Concentrate!” said Arianna.
Yes, of course, concentrate. Veronica had a job to do.
She smiled at the golem, that certain sexy smile. She pressed her lips to his, playfully let her tongue slide over a tusk, deep into his mouth. He bit her. She cried out. He pulled her closer. The taste. Smoke, steam of ages, ancient magic, thick and heady.
The golem reached a long, slow hand between her legs. She stiffened. Couldn’t help herself, really. He slipped a finger inside her.
And then he spanked her. She yelped. He spanked again. This time she laughed. He lifted her up and threw her to the bedded floor. It hurt a little, but still, all Veronica could do was laugh.
“Is he supposed to be so … spirited?” she said.
“Well,” said Arianna, “on occasion he has been known to … But listen here, girl, you must control the situation!”
“Control. Yes, con—”
The sex golem shoved his head between her thighs. His tongue slid over her womanhood.
“Gods!” moaned Veronica. It was heat and electricity and the power of the sun. It was the long, slow tongue and the way he nibbled and chattered. “Gods.” This time it was a sigh.
The sex golem mounted her, penetrated her, slid deep inside her. She shuddered from pleasure.
“Control, girl!” she heard Arianna say, “Control, control!” Arianna dropped to her knees beside them. Instantly, the sex golem reached beneath her dress and began to fondle.
“No!” said Arianna. “No, wait! Wait … wait … oh … oh, his fingers ….”
The golem began a slow, steady rut. With every thrust, he seemed to delve deeper and deeper inside Veronica. Hot wires. Red, flaming flesh.
“Too slow,” said Veronica. “I can’t take it anymore! Faster. Please, faster!”
He sped his rhythm, harder, faster, until at last, he was pounding her into wave after wave of ecstasy. With one giant hand, he flipped her onto her stomach. He slid himself back in, never once taking his fingers away from Arianna.
Veronica tried to remember her training. Tried to remember how to maximize pleasure for her partner.
“He’s … he’s too much,” she said. “I can’t … I can’t ….”
“Who cares, girl!” cried Arianna. “Who cares!”
The golem plunged and pounded, and his fingers slid in and out of Arianna, and Arianna screamed, and Veronica wailed, and the sex golem howled to the ceiling, to the stars, to the gods themselves, and then …
All three of them came at the same instant. The golem exploded liquid magic inside Veronica. It was hot. Tingling. Steaming and effervescent. He tensed, howled a moment longer.
And then he powered down, right on top of her. He went limp and fell between Veronica and Arianna.
The two of them lay there panting, dripping with sweat, eyes glazed over, unfocused, uncaring. It took two full minutes for Arianna to speak.
“Typical,” she said, sounding perfectly satisfied. “Right to sleep. Well, dear, what have we learned?”
“Learned?” said Veronica. “I haven’t learned a damn thing! He completely overpowered me!”
Arianna considered this. “Would you like me to give it a try this next time?”
“Next time? You? Absolutely not! I am ready, willing, and able, teacher. Just … just give me a few moments. I feel the need to gather myself.”
Veronica laid her head back and closed her eyes. Very soon, she was fast asleep, napping peacefully beside the sex golem of the Third Age.
C.P. Bonham is currently earning a Creative Writing MFA and is using the time to become the best writer she can be. She lives out on the eastern plains of Colorado with her soul mate and their various critters.
Mirrored from Circlet Press: Welcome to Circlet 2.0.
Circlet Microfictions are looking for some spooky tricks and sexy treats for Halloween. Send in your best short-shorts featuring ghosts and goblins, witches and wizards, pumpkin kings and weird costumes. Who gets more then they bargained for when the knock at the door comes? What does the jack-o’-lantern see? Where does the will-o’-wisp lead us? Dig deep into the lore and traditions of our weirdest holiday, and send in those microfictions. We’ll take a selection of the very best to run in the days leading up to Halloween, and one very special treat to grace the night of trick and treating itself. For the author who best honors All Hallow’s Eve, we’ll offer up an ebook of Like a Chill Down Your Spine in addition to our usual payment of $5 or a free ebook.
So send in those stories to email@example.com. Remember, they have to be sexy, and between 250-1000 words. (As always, guidelines can also be found here.)
Mirrored from Circlet Press: Welcome to Circlet 2.0.
Libby finished the last knot. “Everything feel okay?”
Jess tested the bindings on her wrists and ankles. “Marvelous.” The brass scales behind her head rattled, muffled by the pillow in between. Libby had set aside Jess’s sword, and her own tablet and torch, but it was just too delicious to resist tying her new wife to the device.
Libby took a moment to survey her handiwork, admiring how her new wife’s golden skin gleamed in the candlelight. “If our fathers knew…they’d probably be disturbed by the symbolism.”
Jess smiled, her wry expression visible in spite of the blindfold. “If our fathers were still alive, we wouldn’t have gotten married at all. Well…except Uncle Benjamin. I have a feeling he’d have been okay with it, the old lech.”
Stripping out of her heavy gown, Libby decided to keep her veil in place, just as she had left Jess’s. Her wife, being blind, wouldn’t know it was there, but it felt good to wear it. Besides, it went well with her crown, lending some softness to its dramatic points. She climbed onto the bed, straddling Jess’s thighs. Her hands meandered down her lover’s body, starting at her shoulders, running down over breasts and belly, and down to shaved mons. “You’re tense.”
“We have so much work to do,” said Jess.
Libby continued her massage, touching more deeply, squeezing her lover’s luscious flesh. “Yes. But now is not the time to worry about that. For now, let’s just celebrate.” She leaned down and kissed Jess, tenderly at first, then more deeply as the tension eased. “As Uncle Benjamin said: We’re only guaranteed the right to pursue happiness …”
Jess interrupted with a throaty laugh. “We have to catch it ourselves.”
She moved down, leaving a line of kisses on Jess’s chin, throat, and collarbone. “I hope you’re ready for a long chase.” Libby continued, sliding down her lover’s body, pausing to lavish attention on breasts and navel. She touched Jess’s sex with a light touch, teasing her mercilessly.
“Oh, I am,” Jess purred, squirming deliciously. “I am.”
A few years ago Nobilis Reed decided to start sharing the naughty little stories he scribbled out in hidden notebooks. To his surprise, people actually liked them! Now, he can’t stop. The poor man is addicted. His wife, teenage children, and even the cats just look on this wretch of a man, hunched over his computer and shake their heads. Clearly, there is no hope for him. The best that can be hoped for is to just make him as comfortable as his condition will allow. Symptoms of his condition include two novels, several novellas, numerous short stories, and the longest-running erotica podcast in the history of the world. You can find his site at nobiliserotica.com
Mirrored from Circlet Press: Welcome to Circlet 2.0.
Call for submissions: Arthurian erotica
Edited by Jennifer Levine
Deadline: November 1, 2014
Everyone knows the story of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. Tales of the world of Camelot, that fabled medieval castle, have been adapted into animated movies for children, dark television dramas for adults, Broadway musicals, fantasy novels, comics, historical fiction books, and epic musical scores. Children play at being Arthur’s knights, teenagers brood over the doomed romance of Guinevere and Lancelot, and historians debate which of the stories, if any, are fact, and which are simply legend or myth.
King Arthur. Guinevere. Uther Pendragon. Morgana le Fay. Merlin the Wizard. The Knights of the Round Table. Sir Lancelot. Sir Gawain. Mordred. Maybe you know all of these names and more; maybe you’ve only heard of a few. Maybe you’ve heard of sordid love affairs between some of these characters, or magic enchantments gone wrong, or murders and betrayals among even the closest of friends.
So many stories have already been written about the world of Camelot, and so many remain to be told. For this anthology, we are looking for both reimagined old stories and altogether newly invented ones; dalliances we are expecting and affairs we wouldn’t have imagined; familiar characters, new characters, and some we thought we knew but discover anew in your telling.
Your story must take place in the Arthurian universe, with at least one or two of the main characters we are familiar with, but beyond that, go wild. Maybe your characters are gender-swapped; maybe your Camelot is a futuristic world with knights wielding sugarcane; maybe your characters are powerful magicians, or maybe magic doesn’t exist in your world at all.
Remember that this is an anthology of erotica, so your story must have an element of sex in it (and not just any sex, but steamy sex, sexy sex, the kind of sex that leaves us hot and bothered after reading it). But this is also a collection of excellent fiction: your story needs a plot, your characters need to be fleshed out and fully imagined, your story needs to be about something.
For submission details, read on.
Mirrored from Circlet Press: Welcome to Circlet 2.0.