Merveilleuse

Portrait of a young woman by Pierre-Narcisse, baron Guérin (1774 - 1833)

Guérin is not considered an erotic painter. He was a highly respected artist in his time, and most of his paintings were of grand historical subjects. So I was very surprised to see this painting by him at the now sadly retired Jahsonic blog--and also quite taken by it. It's gorgeous, isn't it?

There's a fine line between innocence and eroticism. In this painting, the eroticism rests in the position of her fingers. That's it. If her fingers were closed, it would be a whole different kind of painting. As it is, though, those beautifully painted hands highlight what they are supposed to conceal, and make her breasts fascinating and luscious and tempting.

Who is she? I don't know. But I can guess some things about her.

We're used to seeing women with elaborate hair in old paintings, so if you didn't know better, you might think she's a poor kitchen girl or something like that. But you'd be wrong. She's a trendsetter, a rebel. Knowing that Guérin's is French, and that he painted during the revolutionary period, I'm willing to bet all my donuts that this girl is a Merveilleuse.

During the French revolutionary period, rebellious young people began to wear outrageous clothing that mocked both the excesses of the old regime, and the restrictions of the new ones. The men called themselves Encroyables (The Incredibles) and looked like dandies on acid. The women were the Merveilleuses (the Marvelous Ones). They cropped their hair so they'd look like they were on their way to the guillotine, and wore transparent, Grecian style dresses.

It seems to me a Marveilleuse would love to be painted toplesss, glorying in her brutally cropped hair. Far from being simple, the girl painted above was a rebellious, priviledged wild child who ran in a pack of immodest cropped-haired girls and dangerously frivolous dandy-boys.

So yes, for ever and for always people have wondered "Just what in the hell are those kids wearing???"

Here's a little article on The Incroyables and the Merveilleuses if you want to learn more. And here's another one with pictures.

Win a copy of Damned by Blood

It's release day! I'm celebrating the publication of Damned by Blood, the third and final e-book of the Faustin Brothers trilogy, by giving away a free copy.

First, about the book:

Plan A: Marry Her. Plan B: Kill Her.

Mikhail Faustin is the prince of New York. His authority is absolute, his power unquestioned—and his heart is empty. The pain he carries inside leaves him with nothing to offer a mate. When he discovers that Alya Adad is not only his destined bride but also the source of his misery, his fate is sealed. He must either kill or claim the woman he despises most--or die trying.

Alya is the most powerful of her kind born in generations and a prince in her own right. Alya Adad kneels to no one, certainly not to her first lover, Mikhail. She plans to kill him before he captures her, but when she realizes she holds the key to his heart, and all his secret desires, things become a little more complicated.

Alya Adad and Mikhail Faustin are darkest, most reckless characters I’ve ever written. On their twisted, blood-soaked path to love, they break every rule in the book, write a few rules of their own, and break those, too. They surprised me at every turn. I hope you'll enjoy reading this unconventional love story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Read an excerpt right here on my blog, a couple of entries down. Learn more about the whole series over at my website.


Breaking news: The first review is already in! Jane at Dear Author gave it an A-!


How to win a book:

All you have to do is join my email list so I can tell you about future releases. I swear I have no plans to spam you. I'll only send you new book announcements two or three times a year.

Just send me an email with "mailing list" or something similar in the title so I recognize it. You don't have to write anything in the body. I'll draw a name from that pool for a free copy on this Thursday morning (9/24). My email is evbyrne at gmail dot com.

If you are already on my mailing list, or think you might be, send me an email anyway. I'll double check your address against my list and enter you in the drawing.

Please be aware that all of the Faustin books are only available as e-books. Damned by Blood is what they call "category length" -- 148 pages long. However, my publisher will release the 3 books as a print anthology in about ten months.

A little surreptitous frottage

Illustration by Louis Berthommé-Saint-André (1905-1977) Image source: AMEA

"Still, she didn’t violate the man too much, just indulged in a little surreptitious frottage ."

This is a line from my most recent book, Damned by Blood. It refers to my vampire heroine rubbing herself against her victim's knee while she takes his blood. In that peculiar way that coincidences seemed planned, the same day I wrote that line someone I knew mentioned out of the blue that she'd just learned the word frottage. After doing a very small, very informal survey, I discovered that a lot of people aren't familiar with this term. It happens to be one of my favorite words, so in the spirit of public education, the Erotická Revue brings you:

FROTTAGE

Frottage has two meanings: 1) a Surrealist art technique and 2) a form of non-penetrative sex


Meaning 1:

In an art context, frottage refers to making art by putting paper or canvas on top of a textured surface and rubbing it with pigment to capture an impression of the pattern below. Yes, just like brass rubbing. But it's more arty. The goal of frottage is to capture random, abstract patterns that either stand on their own as art, or can be embellished to make art. The Surrealist Max Ernst is usually credited with developing frottage in the 1920's.

Meaning 2:

Dry humping. That's such an unfortunate term for a very pleasurable practice. For that reason I I prefer frottage. However, I do use "dry humping" in my 2nd vampire book, viz. "Miércoles! I am dry humping Gregor Faustin in the back of a cab." In that case I used it because the character would use that term, not the fancier frottage.

Frottage is a wonderfully adaptable form of perversion. You can indulge in on the dance floor, the back seat of a car, or in a packed concert arena. It can be a form of foreplay, or the main act itself.

The term frotteur is used for someone who rubs up against people non-consensually. This is the DSM IV definition. But frotteur is just French "one who rubs" so I think we should take back the term from the shrinks. Are we not all frotteurs?

Frottage is a staple of lesbian sex, specifically the act of scissoring (more formally known as Tribadism), as illustrated by the lovely young ladies above. The word Tribadism comes from tribas, the Latin term for a woman who wanted to be the active sexual partner (ie top).

One thing I did not know about frottage when I began to write this post is the new-ish slang term, frot. According to Wikipedia, the word was developed out of frottage in the 1990's to describe a specifically male on male form of non-penetrative sex, offered up as a safer alternative to anal sex. The word frot, apparently, only refers to this particular form of man on man behavior.

It seems a wee bit strange to me that they get the corner on this word and specific definition, when what they are doing sounds to me like classic frottage--full on frottage ending in orgasm. Frottage is such a widespread practice, among people of all ages and sexual orientations, that I have trouble seeing why this act must be set apart as frot. But I do understand that this is a specific subculture and there seems to be some politics bound up in the definition, so I'll leave them to it. In time, I expect the the word frot will migrate, and end up being more universally used as a slang for frottage, no matter who's participating.

Please, make yourself comfortable

I thought it might be fun to have one space where folks can stop by and talk to me about my writing.

So if you have any questions or comments about my stories--the characters, availability, etc., please don't hesitate to ask whatever your heart desires. I'm also happy to talk about art history & erotica, if you have questions that don't fit under an individual post. And heck, I'll answer questions from the lovelorn and the vampire-stalked, too. Just don't ask me what color my panties are, and we'll be cool.

This space will always be accessible from the sidebar--just look for the chaise lounge.

Excerpt Monday

Once a month, a bunch of authors get together and post excerpts from published books, contracted work or works in progress, and link to each other. You don’t have to be published to participate–just an writer with an excerpt you’d like to share. For more info on how to participate, head over to the Excerpt Monday site or click on the banner above.

***

The following is an excerpt of Damned by Blood, releasing September 22nd from Samhain Publishing. It's the third and final installment in my Faustin Brothers series. In this scene, which takes place about twenty pages into the book, the heroine, Alya Adad prepares to receive a very unexpected visitor to her office--Mikhail Faustin:


Why would Mikhail ever—ever—visit her?

It must have to do with Minnesota. But why a parlay now?

She wasn’t worried about him ambushing her. If his intention were murder, he wouldn’t come to her office under a flag of truce. If Mikhail struck, it would be a complete surprise, scrupulously planned, utterly devastating and yet perfectly legal under vamp law. That was how he’d taken out all his enemies thus far. So she had to assume he had some sort of legitimate business with her.

Security took their sweet time. Wisely. In the meanwhile, she relaxed into the idea of Mikhail being in LA, and even began to like it. It was so damned convenient, almost as though the universe had dropped him in her lap.

It was also a bit sticky, because she’d figured they’d fight over New York, and she’d kill him in battle. That was how she liked to work. It was direct—and fair.

But if he was going to come uninvited into her town and stroll right into her office, she’d be a fool if she didn’t grab this opportunity to take him out quickly and quietly. Then, in the confusion following his death, she’d take New York. It would save lives in the long run.

Mikhail Faustin. She hadn’t seen him since he was younger than Matthew and Maya. She glanced their way, admiring their supple, slender bodies and their flawless skin, her mouth quirking into a smile. She and Mikhail had been very young indeed.

It seemed like there should be a law against killing your first lover, though considering their history, Mikhail probably wouldn’t mind driving a spike through her head. She wondered exactly how much he hated her.

Dominick paced, checking his weapons as he did.

Alya kicked off her heels and put her feet up on the desk, all the while keeping one eye on the front office monitor. “I hope security remembers to use plenty of lube. Did you get some of that knyaz lube I asked you to stock for distinguished visitors?”

Dominick scowled at her. This would be his first face to face with a genuine Faustin, and it had him all riled up.

Maya spoke through a yawn. “Is the Iceman as gorgeous as they say?”

Alya shrugged. Iceman, Ice, Frost—these were all street names for Mikhail. He must have changed a lot over the years, because when he was young, he ran as hot as any man she’d ever met. Even his pale blue eyes burned like the heart of a flame.

Mikhail walked into the front office that moment. The security camera caught him from a high angle, showing her a sleek animal in a severe black suit. Her chair hit the ground with a thump as she leaned close to the monitor.

Rapt, she chewed on the side of her thumb while she watched him speak to her secretary, marking all the ways he’d grown up. He was taller, broader through the shoulders, and the sweet lines of his face had turned austere and sharp as a blade. His straight, platinum hair brushed his collar. That hadn’t changed. She remembered his hair well, how it slid through her hands, heavy and fine.

As she’d heard, he did absolutely nothing to hide his vampirism anymore. Some vamps could pass naturally. Others made adjustments in order to pass. For instance, she wore contacts and sunglasses when she went out, and she did her best to move slowly, like a human. If you knew what to look for, it was easy to spot a vampire in any crowd, but no one would ever mistake Mikhail for human.

The power he held as his family’s leader shimmered around him like a second skin. He made a beautiful prince. Once upon a time she could not resist the draw of that power, but she wouldn’t pay the price for it anymore. Princes demanded absolute submission from those around them, especially their lovers. Now that she was a prince herself, she submitted to no one—not on the street, not in the council chamber and never, ever in the bedroom. She’d done her time on her knees. She had no intention of kneeling ever again.

Tapping Mikhail’s image on the screen with her fingernail, she murmured, “Very pretty. Too bad I’m going to have to kill you.”

He chose that moment to look up, directly into the camera. Straight into her eyes. Alya snatched her hand from the screen.

Her assistant buzzed. “Ms. Adad? Mr. Faustin and Mr. Silver are here.”

Mikhail continued to stare into the camera lens. She could not shake the feeling that he was tracking her with his uncanny eyes. Alya turned off the monitor, annoyed that he could rattle her with a trick like that. She checked her knives and leaned back in her chair. “Send them in.”

When Mikhail walked through the door the curtains stirred and the air temperature dropped. In a glance he took in every detail of the room, just as she would, memorizing the layout, cataloging the feeders, Dominick, and hanging Frank, and tucking that information away for future use.

Alya stood to greet him. She sampled his power, letting it brush over her skin before shaking it off with a shiver, like a cat that’s been stroked backward.

Their eyes locked and held without the camera as intermediary. She’d not been challenged so directly for a long time.

For the briefest moment, she glimpsed him as the angelic boy he’d been, kissing her with a smile. Was that really him? Had that girl been her? Some version of them, maybe. An incarnation on another plane. Butterflies filled her stomach, a visceral memory of how he’d once thrilled her. She hardened herself against the unsettling feeling. Sentimentality was a dangerous luxury.

“Knyaz,” she said, inclining her head without lowering her eyes. She used the title he’d be known by among his own people.

“Knyaginya,” he said, his gaze level, his hands folded in front of him, his expression that of a church saint. His use of the feminine honorific made her smile. It was quite an ugly mouthful. And properly, she should be knyaz too. She was no one’s princess.

“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

Mikhail gestured to his lawyer. Alya had forgotten the man even existed, but he’d been standing there at Mikhail’s left shoulder all along, grey and unobtrusive. He stepped forward with a letter sealed with black wax and dropped it on the table.

“Ms. Adad, I’ve come to testify that this sworn affidavit from Natalia Faustin is certified as genuine prophecy by the Council of Mothers.”

What in the hell did that mean? Now she’d have to call in her lawyers to find out. She didn’t touch the letter.

Mikhail pulled back his coat sleeve, revealing a strange bracelet—no, rather a slender black rope coiling up his arm. She hissed as she recognized the magic crawling over it. How had security let that by?

Shit. Hoping against hope, she pushed her panic button with her toe. Dominick raised a brow at her. She made a subtle “wait” signal with one finger.

“Alya Adad, I declare you mine by right of dream, bound to me by fate and blood—”

And then she understood. He hadn’t come to kill her, he’d come to marry her.

***

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There are bears, and then there are bears

Illustration by Charles Raymond for a privately printed edition of
Venus in Furs by Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, 1928

Excerpt Monday

Charles Monnet( 1732-1808), engraved by d'Ambrun

Source Taschen's Erotica Universalis
(I've blogged about this image already.)

It's already time for another Excerpt Monday, that magical day every month where a bunch of writers share our excerpts. Please check out the link above to learn more, or scroll to the bottom of my excerpt to find a list of links for participating authors.

This month I'm returning to my work in process, Cry Surrender--an erotic medieval tale--picking up almost where I left off last month.


Set up:

Those of you who visited then remember the introduction to this story wherein a a convent girl becomes fascinated with a masked knight who comes to the nunnery to steal a virgin. She volunteers to go with him, and this excerpt picks up a little later. They're on the road away from the nunnery, sharing his horse. The knight is about to be surprised.


***


Only the thin linen of my chemise stood between my skin and his wandering hand. I told myself he only stroked me to comfort me. Or perhaps to know more of the goods he’d just obtained. Soon he’d “use my body for his ease” but as ignorant as I was, I was fairly confident he could not do that whilst riding a horse.

He opened the ribbons at my throat, stretching my chemise wide enough to tug it down my shoulders. I kept my hands fisted in the horse’s mane, more terrified of falling than being fondled. Cold breezes circulated under his cloak and chilled my bare skin.

I hunched forward, trying to avoid his hands, but they closed over my breasts anyway. The serpent skin of his mail chafed my flesh. I bit my lip as he cupped my breasts and tested their weight like fruit. But when his big thumbs began to circle my nipples, heating them with hellfire, I yelped.

“Silence,” he hissed, his hand tightening on my left breast in warning. I knew he must feel my heart thudding beneath his hand. I envisioned how the interlocking circles of his mail would leave round, red bites on my skin. Agnes always said that it took no more than a whisper to mark me. I realized I wanted to be marked by his armor. I wanted to bear the traces of its passage over my body.

He pressed my spine to his chest. No longer hunched, I could protect nothing from him, and I could no longer reach the horse’s mane. Balanced precariously between his thighs, I had no choice but to be still, and trust he’d keep me safe.

His warm, bare fingertips traced the lines of my breast and throat, touching me gently sometimes, and cruelly at others. He was teasing me, I realized, making me expect one thing, and then deliver another. I never expected he’d touch me like this. Anges never touched me with such wicked precision. I closed my eyes, my unease fading under wave after wave of sensation.

For the last twelve-month Agnes and I had been creeping to one another’s cot, or keeping each other warm during night vigil together in the chapel. We were of the age when the devil’s fires burned in us almost continually. Me more so than Agnes, who was naturally good.

Our confessor, Father Marcus explained to us that the desire we felt was sent by Satan to distract us from our holy work. It was he who showed us how to quench those fires in one another, so that we might find wholesome relief, and return to our duties.

Usually Agnes and I would quench the fires by simply tucking our hands beneath one another’s skirts, but I enjoyed those rare, luxurious occasions when I could bare my breasts to Agnes’s clever mouth and hands.

Sometimes Father Marcus allowed us to exorcise our demons during private confession with him. Those were the best times. Agnes and I would strip to the skin. Our confessor watched us comfort one another. Sometimes he offered advice. Other times he’d read scripture aloud, his sonorous voice a steady counterpoint to our panting and soft cries.

Our sessions, he explained, were an expression of lust, and of course lust was a sin. But like a sword, it could be turned to either good or ill. He taught us how to tame lust and make it an instrument for good. We used lust to please the Lord.

He showed us how skilled touching brought the clean Light of God into our bodies. Instead of being tormented by desire, and ending pettish and discontent and open to temptation, he taught us the path to love.

We learned how to invoke the loving light of God. His joy would fill us to the brim, and beyond. It filled us until we screamed His Name in joy. For a few precious, suspended moments, we became one with Him. We knew what it is to be held in his embrace, nameless, perfect and loved.

I did not expect the Angel to know of such things. How could he, when he’d turned his face from the Lord?

He ran his hand up my throat and over my face. I turned my face into his neck, sampled the stinging metal of his collar of mail with my tongue.

I tried to keep my eyes closed and focus on the vision of Christ I carried in my heart. But the Angel’s ministrations did not soothe as Agnes’s had. When he took my nipple between his fingers and tugged outward, I gasped and jerked forward in the saddle. A rush of pleasant heat spread outward from my breasts, flowing deep and settling between my legs, where it waited to blossom.

He rolled and thrummed that same aching nipple until I moaned aloud, caught between pleasure in pain. This time he did not chastise me for it. Instead, he lifted my shift so that he might cup his steely hand over my mound. The lip of the saddle blocked his hand. I wiggled forward, tilting my hips to make way for him. His index finger, so much thicker and stronger than Agnes’s, slid deep into my folds. I knew I was wet. Back and forth it slid, moving easily. Caught in the first stages of rapture, I clutched his knees for I knew not what else to grasp. Thus braced, I bent my knees and opened my legs, inviting his fingers deep inside.

He withdrew his hand as if burnt. “You’re no virgin.”

His voice was quiet, yet implacably cold. I imagined myself in a ditch, my throat cut. “But…but I am, my lord.”

He called for a halt and dismounted, dragging me from the horse and pulling me along off the trail, into the trees. At the bottom of steep slope, he spun me around and slammed my back against a tree trunk.

“You lying bitch. Tell me why I shouldn’t slit your throat right here. Tell my why I should not burn the Abbey to the ground.”

“My lord, tell me how I’ve displeased you. I swear I’ve never known a man.”

“Are you a liar or a half-wit? You spread your legs and moan as prettily as any practiced whore.”

“I—I was welcoming the Light.”

“You were doing what?”

“You wanted to share the Light with me, did you not? Cleanse me? Why else would you touch me so?”

His hand closed around my throat. “Speak sense!”

“I do not mean to displease you. I did not lie!”

He made a frustrated sound, a low growl and jammed his free hand between my legs, scraping my inner thighs with his gauntlets. “Who else has touched you thus?”

“J-Agnes.”

“Agnes. Another nun? You’re toying with your sisters?” Abruptly, he let go of my throat.

“I’m not a nun, sir. And we’re only doing what we’re told.”

“Pox blasted holy orders. And they’d call me corrupt.” He took hold of my chin. “Who told you to dally with your sisters? Who?”

“Father Marcus.”

“You told me you’d never seen a man.”

“Father Marcus isn’t a man. He’s our confessor.”

The Angel snorted. “And this man-not-man, this eunuch, your holy confessor, taught you the ways of perversion. What else did he teach you?”

“Music, scripture—“

“Did he put his hands on you?” He shouted in my face. The contrast between his voice and his smiling mask terrified me. I cringed, sliding down the tree. “Did he fuck you?”

“Fuck?” I crossed my arms over my head, expecting a blow. “I don’t know that word.”

“Did he mount you? Did he put his cock between your legs?”

I guessed he meant pizzle when he said cock. Men did that when copulating with women. I knew that much. That was what I expected he meant to do with me. “No. Never.”

“Did he put any part of himself between your so-called virgin thighs.”

“Only the flail.”

He laughed like a madman. “Only the flail? Only a damned flail?”

“The soft end was for penance, but the hard end he used to teach us joy.”

“I was raised in the heart of vice, little nun, and yet you manage to shock me.” He turned away.

“I know my faults well enough, my lord. But Father Marcus did not corrupt us, he only showed us how to defeat the devil within.”

Once again he pressed close, crushing me against the tree.

“Tell me…tell me how little nuns defeat the devil.” He palmed my breast. “Tell me what he taught you.”


***

Excerpt Monday Organizers:

Mel/Alexia Reed, Urban Fantasy (R)
and
Bria Quinlan, Rom Com (PG)

Joining us this week:

AJ O'Donovan, Poetry (PG13)
Stephanie Draven, Paranormal Romance (PG 13)
Heather S.Ingemar, Dark Fantasy/Poetry (PG13)
Babette James, Fantasy Romance (PG 13)
Cynthia Justlin, Romantic Suspense (PG 13)
Kaige, Historical Romance (PG 13)
Julia Knight, Fantasy Romance (PG13)
Ansha Kotyk, Middle Grade Adventure (PG13)
AdelleLaudan, Contemporary Romance (PG 13)
Jeannie Lin, Historical Romance (PG 13)
RF Long, YA Paranormal (PG13)
Caitlynn Lowe, Epic Fantasy (PG13)
Shawntelle Madison, Paranormal Romance (PG 13)
Crista McHugh, Contemporary Erotic Romance (PG 13)
Bria Quinlan, Rom Com (PG)
Leigh Royals, Historical Romance (PG 13)
Megan S., Paranormal (PG13)
Dara Sorensen, Historical Paranormal (PG 13)
Bethanne Strasser, Historical Romance (PG13)

Melissa Aires, Futuristic Romance (R)
Melissa Blue, Contemporary Romance (R)
Jax Cassidy, Contemporary (R), Furturistic Sci-Fi (R)
Maya Doyle, Parnormal Romance (R)
Ginny Glass, Paranormal (R)
Amber Green, Romantic Suspense (R)
Cate Hart, Paranormal YA (R), Erotic Romance (R)
Ali Katz, Erotic Paranormal Romance (R)
Aislinn Kerry, Fantasy (R)
Inez Kelly, Fantasy Romance (R)
Cherrie Lynn, Contemporary Erotic Romance (R)
Rebecca Savage, Romantic Suspense (R)
Fae Sutherland, Contemporary Erotic Romance (R)

Stephanie Adkins, Paranormal Erotic Romance (NC 17)
Ella Drake, Erotic Contemporary (NC17)
Dawn Montgomery, Erotic Paranormal Romance (NC17) , Erotic Romance (NC 17)
Kim Knox, Erotic Paranormal Romance (NC17)
Emily Ryan-Davis, Historical Western Romance (NC17)
Kirsten Saell, Erotic Fantasy Romance (NC 17)
Jeanne St. James, Contemporary Romance (NC 17)