Lovers in Their Fashion. A Marmite book – readers love it or they hate it

 

Lovers in Their Fashion has eleven ratings on Goodreads. They break down like this:

Lovers in Their Fashion Ratings

 

1 reader gives it 1 star, 2 give it two stars, 2 more give it three and four and five star ratings each have three reader ratings. How on earth can that happen? How can we have such total disagreement so evenly spread? This is a Marmite book – people love it or they hate it – which would you be? There’s only one way to find out for yourself and that is to read the book. So what kind of book is it? Lovers in Their Fashion is an erotic romance set in the present day. Here’s the blurb:

A Decade of Undiminished Desire
When Alice Springer and John Pagan meet again after ten years it is clear their love is as strong as ever – but can it survive the dreadful secret that Alice has been hiding all this time? Alice ended her relationship with the love of her life because she had done something she believed he could never forgive. When they meet again after ten years, she knows she wants him back. But before she can confess her secret, he learns it in the worst possible way from another source – and it seems that this time their chance of happiness together really is over.

And here’s a short extract to help you decide whether this book is for you:

John woke at three the next morning, his body still functioning on London time. Cathy was fast asleep beside him, her black hair spread out on the pillow, her limbs flung in abandon across the rumpled sheets. How long? he wondered. How many nights was he doomed to spend like this, his hungry male body satisfied but his heart filled only with longing for what could not be?
They had gone from bathroom to bedroom, sitting in their white robes on the broad bed, drinking champagne and feeding each other with plump, succulent morsels of lobster interspersed with increasingly passionate kisses. Then they had stripped off their robes and explored each other’s bodies – frankly and openly, exulting in their mutual desire. It had been a time out of time, a time of giving and sharing. The room seemed still to echo with Cathy’s cries of joy as he had pleasured her with his tongue. Then, when he had raised himself above her, he had smothered her face and throat with kisses as she reached down, holding him, guiding him into herself.
Afterwards they had lain in each other’s arms and talked. She had told him about the end of her relationship, her sense of loss and the fellow-feeling that had driven her to invite him to change hotels. ‘I’m not usually as forward as this,’ she had whispered. ‘You may not believe that, but it’s true. I saw something in you that spoke to my own pain, and I wanted you.’
And John had told her what it was that she had recognized. Possibly for the first time with any woman, he had talked about Alice and what she had meant to him. He had told Cathy how certain he had been that he and Alice would marry. And, sipping the last of the champagne, he had told her of that dreadful day when Alice had explained that it could never be. When she had told him that, young though she was, there was something in her past of which she was deeply ashamed. Something she knew would return to haunt her. Something that would prevent his ever respecting her, and doom their marriage to failure.
Cathy had rested on her elbow, looking into his eyes, sharing his pain. ‘And she wouldn’t tell you what it was?’
John had shaken his head. ‘I tried. Heaven knows I tried. But she was immovable.’

If you like what you see, you can find Lovers in Their Fashion on Amazon here. It can also be downloaded free of charge as part of your Amazon Prime subscription.

My new collection is online

Young Couple in Bed

Young Couple in Bed

The Transformation of David and Other Stories: The S F Hopkins Collection Volume 1 was published today for Kindle and the Kindle Subscription Library. WARNING: Contains explicit sexual activity. If that is not for you, don’t read this book. Every variety of sex – willing, forced, straight, LGBT, TG – is here in the form of a novella, a short story and two full length novels. The contents are:

The Transformation of David – a 48 page novella
The Chakin teach Andrew Matthews how to transfer people between bodies. Breaking a solemn promise, he turns his daughter, Lottie into David Walters in order to seize David’s fortune–and, along the way, enjoy the carnal pleasures of the beautiful female body that was forbidden him. The Chakin cross the seas to release David from his bondage as a woman, and David is grateful to them…but the gratitude is not total. Has David, in becoming a man once more, lost more than he gains?

To whet your appetite, here’s how it begins:
It was a wicked thing they had done to him. He knew that. Wicked. As he lay on his front in this beautiful female body that he had been trapped into, skirt raised to his waist, a hand playing gently over his bottom, he knew that he should hate the person who had done this. She sat on the bed beside him in the body of the young man he had so recently been, and she toyed with him. Through the soft silk of his panties her thumb traced the space between his firmly rounded bottom cheeks. Her hand pressed on, down, down, until the tips of her fingers grazed the lips of his sex. Lips that he knew were moist with longing. A sex that ached to be entered once again.
Her head moved down, close to his own. She nibbled the lobe of his ear; she kissed him gently on the back of his neck. Her other hand was now in play, sliding beneath the waistband of his panties. ‘You want me, don’t you,’ she whispered. ‘You want to be fucked again. Turn over, my little darling. Let me give you what you crave.’
He rolled onto his back. Her hand now was right inside his panties, drifting over the smooth skin of his stomach, stroking where the fine hair had once been until she shaved it off, sliding down between the legs he opened wide to help her debauch him. ‘That’s it, my sweet,’ she murmured. ‘Open for me.’ She slipped a finger into his yearning sex, finding with her thumb the little nubbin, stroking it erect. He put his arms on her shoulders, reaching upwards, looking for a kiss. She obliged, pressing her lips against his, pushing her tongue into his mouth, searching for his own.
He lifted his bottom as she took down his panties and threw them aside. He lay, legs splayed, knees raised as she undressed without haste. Then with her knees she pressed his thighs further apart. Her cock rested for a moment on the moist lips of his sex. Then she pushed forward and he, helpless in the hands of one bigger and stronger than him; helpless also in his overwhelming need; was filled once more. She rode him, that handsome cock driving furiously in and out of his cunt, whipping him on towards his climax, his mind empty now of anything but this, on and on until the sudden, devastating leap over the waterfall into some unknown, unnameable nirvana, and he collapsed beneath her as she pumped her seed—his seed—deep into his honeyed cavern.
He was a man, desexed and used like a woman. Everything he had been raised to do and to be had been taken from him. He should hate the person who had done this to him.
So why did he feel this aching, remorseless need?

The Binding A full length novel of 168 pages.
A diary and a cache of letters from a hundred and twenty years ago introduce Caroline and James to the sad story of their forebears who gave up the people they loved out of Victorian ideas of honour and what was fitting. Are they doomed to do the same? In 1893, Captain Rodney McKenna chaperoned the young Melissa Blaze to India – he to rejoin his regiment and she to find a husband. Melissa falls in love with the Captain and the Captain with her, but his sense of honour forbids him acting on his feelings and the journey ends in disaster, with the Captain stripped of his rank and Melissa banned from returning to England. Now, in 2013, their great great grandchildren, Caroline and James, find themselves in the same dilemma. Caroline has led what can only be called a dissolute life. Can she overcome her past to accept the love that is offered her?

Lovers in Their Fashion A second full length novel, this time of 10 pages.
Their love is as strong as ever – but can it survive the dreadful secret that Alice Springer has been hiding all this time? Alice ended her relationship with John Pagan, the love of her life, because she had done something she believed he could never forgive. When they meet again after ten years, she knows she wants him back. But before she can confess her secret, he learns it in the worst possible way from another source – and this time it looks as though their chance of happiness together really is over. Do they between them have the power to change their fate?

The Dream A short novella of 19 pages.
Christine is nearly 40 and divorced from a husband who took no care of her sexual needs. She has dated occasionally since the divorce but never taken a man into her bed. Prim and demure on the surface, her nights are filled with The Dream in which she surrenders her chastity. On holiday, she longs to fulfil the dream with a man staying at the same hotel–but he goes home and Christine gives up hope. Then the chance to live the dream comes from an unexpected quarter. Christine has to decide whether to pass the chance up, or let it happen.

Find the book here: http://tinyurl.com/pc5gbl7

Buy one, get one free; Read two full length erotic novels for the price of one. Spend £2.00 and save £2.49

2 SFH covers_Page_1

When you buy The Binding by S F Hopkins for £2.00 on this site (available in eBook, pdf of .mobi (Kindle) format, send a copy of the purchase confirmation to admin@mandrillpress.com and we will send you absolutely free a copy in the same format of Lovers in Their Fashion by the same author (usual price £2.49). This offer is good for all purchases of The Binding up to and including 25th January, but make your purchase no later than midnight UK time on Sunday, 18th January and we’ll throw in an eBook, .mobi or pdf copy of each of two short S F Hopkins novellas, The Dream and The Transformation of David, also absolutely free. Don’t delay – bargains like this don’t come along every day.

It’s a good time to be a woman

the-binding-coverWhen I published The Binding, I wrote this on Amazon:

Women in the Western world are living now through the best time they have ever known. I realise that there will be some who argue with me and accuse me of not being a Feminist, but I stand by the statement. It’s true. What I set out to do in this book was to show the changes in the way women are treated now and how they were treated a century or so ago. I started with two female characters, both of whom Society might see as somewhat dissolute though I hope their underlying humanity shines through; my intention was to compare the way one was dealt with at the end of the nineteenth century with how the other fared in the twenty-first. Then I added two men, one a model of Victorian manliness and one with some pretensions to being a “New Man”.

The story always comes first with me. My characters will make love, because that’s what people do in real life, and I don’t hesitate to show the love-making in graphic detail, but what most interests me is: How are they feeling while they’re doing it? And WHY are they doing it? People in real life have sex for all sorts of reasons, and so do my characters. In another of my books, Lovers in Their Fashion, the time is today, but still we have a man and a woman struggling to find their way to each other. There’s probably a little less sex in that one. The Unquiet House, coming later in the year, goes back to the Victorian/modern day split and is probably the most sexually explicit of all my books to be published this year.

I got a nice review from Manic Reviews:

The Binding by S F Hopkins is an enjoyable read. In the beginning I felt just Rodney and Melissa’s story. It had more substance. However, as the story went on I came around to Caroline and James. Still Rodney and Melissa were my favorites in this book. I like how the past and present intertwined with each other. There was good balance between the past and present. Readers who like historical romance stories with a happy ending and don’t mind some spice should check out this book.

But the review I got today on Amazon really made me feel I’d hit the mark and said what I’d wanted to say in the way I’d wanted to say it:

***** Five Stars Excellent Historical Erotica

I loved this book. There is an interweaving between present and past as Caroline and James are introduced, by way of handwritten letters (they used to do that), from Captain Rodney McKenna, of the Indian Army, and the diary of Melissa Blaze, the great great grandmother of James. Of what significance are these letters and this diary? Captain McKenna states “…because I desire that one, at least, of those that know me shall know the truth behind the calumnious statements of me… with instructions that they be opened one hundred and twenty years from today.”

These letters and diary are of an erotic nature that Caroline and James feel compelled to act upon. It is a brilliant premise to base a story on, similar to the 2004 movie, The Notebook. I found this to be an excellent read. I couldn’t wait to find out what was going to happen next, and why.

Keeping It Real

The Binding Cover

Visiting an old friend in South Africa a while ago, I was convulsed by TV commercials with the theme: Keep It Real. Some man (it was always a man) would be making a complete idiot of himself when Louis Gossett Jr stepped out of the shadows to correct his behaviour, hand him a bottle of Windhoek Lager and tell him to “Keep it real”. I’m not a beer drinker, ever, so the fact that I remember the name of the product more than a year later says how good the ads were (although, because I’m not a beer drinker, it hasn’t done Windhoek any good).

“Keep It Real” had vanished from my mind until, in the last two days, I was drawn to a post called 10 Things I Hate About Sex (Scenes) on the wonderful smartbitchestrashybooks.com blog. If you haven’t read it, you’re missing a treat.

Katie Carlton and I talk all the time about sex and how to portray it in fiction. Well, okay, not all the time—we live 3,500 miles apart for a start—but we do talk about it. We talk about it to John Lynch, too, although—as his blog has repeated a number of times—he (unlike us) doesn’t write about sex. We’re all Mandrill Press writers, though, and we try to meet Mandrill Press expectations which—in a nutshell—are: that the characters come first, that the characters and their motivations should be believable, and that sex scenes should be there for a purpose. They must carry the story forward.

Keeping it real means removing the fantastical, “all-is-perfection” style that marks so much erotic fiction. Katie and I don’t do Adonis-like male heroes with washboard stomachs and huge wangs because (a) we’ve met very few Adonises; (b) the few we did meet were too self-absorbed ever to make good fictional heroes (read: “We didn’t like them”); and (c) neither of us has any wish to be penetrated by anything in the sort of size range we so often read about. Nor would our heroines meet teenage male fantasy standards: their stomachs could often be flatter, they’re sometimes tired and irritable, they’ve been known to have spots and they prefer comfortable underwear to the sort of stuff that appears on too many book covers.

What all three of us agree on is that any relationship we’ve ever had that was in any way satisfactory included humour. If you can’t laugh with a man, even when you’re in bed together, you have no future as a couple. I can think of a few episodes in my own life where the hilarity could only be described as scatological and I’d use those incidents if they served a purpose in the book but there needs to be humour somewhere in the book. The two examples I want to give here come from The Binding. In the first, Melissa Blaze, a sexually experienced young English woman in Victorian India, is pretending innocence in order to snare a husband. Her target has other ideas:

‘Sir,’ I said, as with great apparent reluctance I returned my hands to where he had instructed. ‘You are cruel.’

‘Cruel,’ he agreed, the laces in his hands. ‘And determined.’ He pulled the drawers down so that my mound of Venus, now quivering with desire, was uncovered. ‘And stronger than you.’ And with that he pulled hard at my drawers, tugging them down—and off.

‘Take off that foolish hat,’ he ordered. I did so. Apparently he did not regard my stockings or riding boots as “foolish.”

Well, my dear, what happened next was what you will by now be expecting and it proved to be my undoing. When he removed his breeches in order to have at me, I was shocked by the paltriness of his equipment as to both girth and length. I had but little time to hope that he could perform multum with parvo when, after the most cursory fingering of my aching sex, he lay on me and inserted himself.

Three strokes and it was over. I had scarcely felt him enter me and he was withdrawing. Standing up. Wiping himself.

‘Is that all?’ I asked in incredulity.

I should not have said it.

‘What?’ said he.

‘Are you finished?’

‘You expected more?’

Fury took possession of me. Oh, my dear coz, the number of times when, as a young girl, my governess and my mother told me that temper would be the ruin of me. They could not have dreamed how right they would prove to be. ‘Yes,’ I spat. ‘I expected more. Have I gone through the humiliation of pretending to resist rape, only to be disappointed by…by’ and I pointed to his shrivelled cock, now even less impressive than it had been, ‘by that?’

If my governess and my mother thought that I had a temper, they should have seen Mountbank’s! He bent down and slapped me hard across the cheek. ‘You are experienced in men, I suppose.’

‘Enough to know when I have been left unsatisfied,’ shouted I.

‘Are you, bedamm? And you are unsatisfied, are you? We must see how we can assist you with that.’ And he turned and beckoned to his groom.

The man was beside me in a moment. He wore the native costume, which is much quicker to remove than a European’s. In two seconds he was naked. His shaft stood rigid. I looked at Mountbank from where I lay.

‘At least he has the organ of a man,’ I sneered.

Mountbank spoke to him. He fell upon me. We need not dwell on the rude mechanics of the thing. I was rogered. Well. By someone who knew what he was doing and did it with efficiency.

When finally he withdrew I lay still for several moments, catching my breath. ‘Are you satisfied now?’ scowled Mountbank.

‘Yes, thank you,’ I said, mustering as much calmness as I could. ‘That will do very nicely.’ I sat up and began to dress.

Mountbank and his man moved away. Mountbank said something and the other laughed before replying. Mountbank lit a cigar.

When I was fully dressed, Mountbank came towards me. His man was hoisting the unused picnic hamper back on to his horse.

‘Where is he going with that?’ I asked. ‘We have not eaten and he has given me a hunger.’

‘I asked him whether we were the first with you,’ Mountbank said. ‘He says there is no possibility of that. My dear, I do not eat with harlots.’

We rode back in silence. Anger was dissipating, to be replaced by fear. What had I done? I was to find out soon enough.

In the second example an army officer, once again in India, writes to an old fellow-soldier to tell him about his latest adventures:

To my story. Once I had her naked, I began an assault on her arse—first with kisses and caresses and then with the full weight of my open palm. By God, old man, I spanked the woman! Do you remember that young’un who so provoked you and me with her airs? Or what we thought were her airs? As we discovered some little too late, she was the daughter of a Rural Dean and not the streetwalker we had taken her for. I do believe we’d both have been cashiered had not that trouble broken out in Rajput, and every man needed for the fray. I still would not go within twenty mile of Gloucester, even today, for fear of the Dean’s wrathful countenance. I don’t think, old chap, you should have offered to marry her off to your Company Quartermaster as a ruined girl. That only made matters worse, if you want my frank opinion.

I said at the beginning of this post that Mandrill Press requires that sex scenes be there for a purpose—that they carry the story forward. You may by now be wondering what purpose these extracts serve, so let me show you how that second one continues:

Be that as it may, I spanked the widow Marjoram with the same vigour we used on that poor victim of mistaken identity, but in this case to more gratifying effect. If I told you she had loved my ministrations beyond all imagining, I should be understating the impact I had upon her.

(Impact! I do not know how I maintain the levity of heart to make these puns. Perhaps it is the recollection of that day, or even of what was to come later with Halanda. But I think, do you know, that I have always been a fellow who saw the rosy side of life, whatever my predicament. Even being whacked at school by old Thwaites. Remember him? Even then I could still raise a laugh. And now I come to think of it, wasn’t he the chappie who said puns were the lowest possible form of wit? The man knew nothing worth knowing about humour).

Devilish good spirits were also what I was in as I beat the widow’s arse into a state of radiant scarlet. The more I beat, the more excitedly she moved in her bonds, the more scarlet became her backside, the greater my good mood waxed.

And then, of a sudden, it was over. I delivered one especially stinging slap right on the crack between those two splendid bottom cheeks and she raised herself violently from the bed as far as the cords would permit before collapsing. There could be no doubt. The woman was sated. I had brought her to a conclusion by the force of my hand.

I untied her. I stripped off the rest of my clothes and lay beside her, taking her tightly in my arms. I smothered her sweet, warm face in kisses. For a moment I regretted that we were to part, and so soon. What is love, my dear old fellow? I am not sure that I know, but I think it must be something like what I felt for my Evelyn at that moment. A combination of desire, and affection, and the wish to protect someone and keep her safe—is this love? You and I may never know; and perhaps that will be the price we pay for serving the Crown.

A warmth emanated from her. In a sort of half-swoon, she let her body press against mine and I felt that she, too, was taking refuge in the moment—that, if I could have offered my protection in the rest of her journey through life, she would have accepted it. But I was a serving officer in the British Army and that could not be. I knew it, and so did she.

She began to stir. She looked down the narrow space between us—a space she had to pull slightly back to create—and smiled. I smiled, too. Importunate, demanding, obstinate, persistent—what name would you give to a man’s tool when it needs release? Like a Ghurka’s knife, which he calls his kukri (brave fighting man, your Ghurka), once drawn it cannot be sheathed until it has been used.

The widow saw my situation clearly. She kissed me on the lips. Then she moved back as far as the tight confines of the bunk would permit, drawing me after her until I was in the centre of the mattress. At this point, she rolled on top of me. Lifting her hips, she reached down between us, took my hard and swollen weapon in her hand and drew it into herself. When she lay down again, I thought I should be unable to move–but that turned out not to matter. It was the widow on top of me who moved, or rather those muscles inside her that needed to move. Have you experienced this, old man? My darling Evelyn milked me, long and slow.

When we awoke it was six in the morning and the stewards were bringing tea. I requested an extra cup for Evelyn, which was served without demur. Stewards on the Peninsular and Oriental are known for their discretion. Having drunk it she rose, kissed me, dressed hurriedly and departed for her own cabin where she would wash before dressing again for breakfast. I felt an obscure regret that she could not do those things in my cabin—our cabin—I mean a shared cabin. Something had come into my heart that had never been there before. I was not sure I wanted it, but I know now that I should have hated to go through life without knowing it at least that once.

It’s sex, it’s humour—but most importantly it is part of the telling of the story.

TENSILE STRENGTH by John Lynch

I’ve known John for a long time. He was the one who made me take my writing seriously. This is a free story from his blog. (There are people who know us both who’ve wondered a question about us. They haven’t asked it but they’ve wondered it. I hope this gives them the answer).

TENSILE STRENGTH by John Lynch.

Four Stars for Winging It

Four Stars for Winging It.

%d bloggers like this: