Tuesday, May 26, 2020

Sexy ebooks online for you to read





Hardcore Fiction
[short stories, novel excerpts]


Published Client XXX Sex Game Stories / Game Scripts written / revised by Neale Sourna at Writing-Naked.com, ALL  AVAILABLE  FOR  ONLINE  SUBSCRIPTION:

Softcore and Medium Fiction
[short stories, novel excerpts]

3 Poems

"All Along the Watchtower: Submerged" novella from the unpublished book 1 novel; on sale

"Becca DuMaurier", an historical romance novel, Book 1 of The Black Rogues Series, publishes Late Spring 2020

"Garba Magic" (entire extended short story, html) / love and dance

"Hesitation" A Playgirl Forum shower wet love story. short story; on sale

"Mile High Club" (pdf) / sex on high), original client version; brief short story

"No Kisses" (html) / "No Kisses" (pdf), original client version / love despite kids; brief short story

"No Wedding Night" on sale; brief short story

"Raj" (entire short story, html) / British India

  • "Raj" (part 1, pdf), original client version
  • "Raj 2" (pdf), original client version 
  • "Raj 3" (pdf), original client version

"Rini and Kala" (html) / "Rini and Kala" (pdf) (budding lesbian college romance; brief short story)

"Temple & Silent Tommy" [an online novel excerpt]

"Temple & Silent Tommy: Bedrooms" [short story excerpt from novel] on sale

"The Freelancer" [soft core Romantic Erotica; brief short story] on sale


Published Client Softcore / Sensual Romance Game Stories / Game Script written by Neale Sourna at Writing-Naked.com, ALL  ON  SALE: 


Additional Scripts:

"FRAMES", Feature Intro

PRIMAL

QUANTUM LEAP: "Rule of Thumb"

THE  X-FILES:  "Insidious"

Tommy's Rubbers [PSA commercial]

TOY  GUNS  ...  AND  TRUTH [a Juvenile Detective Thriller, Feature (Tweaked client script)]



Wednesday, May 20, 2020

"Becca DuMaurier" Book 1 of the Black Rogues Series (novel excerpt 3) Coming Late Spring 2020




            It's 1688 AD, in the midst of the "Glorious Revolution," another British civil war between Protestants and Catholics with interested international players from Catholic France and Ireland, plus the Protestant Netherlands from whom England “invites” an invading force Britain’s loathed Catholic king with a new Dutch Protestant one.

            But wealthy widow Rebecca DuMaurier, a brown-skinned African British royal court favorite has more personal cares. She’s running from a forced marriage to a famous white-haired earl and heroic general; going to her birth home in her stormy ocean-tossed Cornwall county, just to find a moment to breathe and think; but a many-faced Irish Catholic pirate troubling the Protestant English now sails her shores, walks among her neighbors and servants, and hides his ship in a cliff cove near her home.

            Becca’s beloved rocky, treacherous Cornish coast proves a slippery stepping stone for the lively courtier runaway bride, her soldier English fiancé, and an intriguing, enigmatic gentleman and self-professed pirate with brown skin, many accents and faces Lady Becca will meet when he saves her life then steals her heart. However, her soldier is a tenacious man and it’ll take more than the ends of the earth and the wide ocean to escape his reach. Plus, on a ship of pirates, who’s to say all of them will welcome the lady's entry into their captain’s life.

Historical Romantic Adventure Fiction


Tyburn, London, England

1 July 1681

Draft, Chapter: BECCA WITNESSES ENGLISH JUSTICE

        The unrelenting stench struck her nose, along with the cacopho­ny of voices, which swelled and ebbed, and shrieked.

        This must be what Death’s Wake smells like.

        The jostling, unwashed crowd was too coarse, too vulgar, and too loud with its maggot-like teeming of thousands of grubby bodies. They had come for their cruel entertainment, their victory over Rome, and it sickened Becca. The very emotional feel of the crowd made her scowl in upset discontent, de­spite her elevation above them — all the better to see, and be seen.

        “Compose your face, Lady DuMaurier; you represent me,” he spoke gently for her ears alone, but it was still a command. Becca glanced up at him, so tall above her and mirrored Her King’s own bland ex­press­ion. She’d become so upset with all around her that it must’ve shown upon her visage, all her displeasure and dis­con­certing fear for her People’s Souls; so much so that she’d forgotten where she was — by the side of her Uncle Charles — and who she was — a reflection of him.

        The King had come to witness, as they all had; from the most common of men to His Most Royal Majesty.

        Marcus was away, again, on the king’s affairs, traveling with Ec­cleston to discuss important matters with their allies of the mo­ment, and to implement growth changes in her husband’s intelli­gence net­work. Allies changed, constantly; both abroad and at home; plus, true information gathered swiftly was always a premium product.

        Lady DuMaurier felt nauseous and earnestly wanted to express to His Maje­sty that she wished to, no, needed to leave; but knew he would not let her. He had requested her presence, in particular, not his queen’s, not any of his mistresses’, or any of his children, not even his eldest, the bastard Monmouth, who so desired to be king, and never could be.

        The entire place smelled of offa, rot, and death; a mixed offense to nose and taste and eardrum, as this pathetic farce passed as a holi­day for stony-hearted apprentices, whilst amusing themselves as the lives of the unfortunate condemned were extinguished through capital punishment, weekly. The condemned’s chance to have the crowd stop their death trundle and let them “fall off the wagon” for a final pint of ale with their audience, before getting “back on the wagon” was a condemned prisoner’s second to last privilege.

        Their final privilege was to speak their Final Words.

        This tainted place was the Place of Punishment, at the cross­roads—Tyburn. Criminals and traitors, and the occasional martyr voiced their final farewells and exited here; sometimes quietly with insouciance, sometimes with heartrending screams, but never prettily.

        Sometimes even a ripened corpse, like that of the late Lord Pro­tector Oliver Cromwell himself, was disinterred to be pos­thu­mously “executed” by a Traitor’s Hanging in Chains for his Treasonous Crimes, by order of King Charles II; Cromwell’s head was yet on dis­play on a pole before Westminster Abbey’s Parliament. His was a belated humiliation for successfully usurping and “murdering” by humiliating public be­heading England’s lawful king with Divine Right as Ordained by God, Charles I, before Cromwell ascended his own type of throne; a commoner ascended to mock king, but usurper king just the same.

        But that this was 1681, in the tangled ends of the confused and convoluted debacle of The Popish Plot; both the lie it was, the lives it was destroying, and the souls it stained and ruined.

        “There were things One does not want to do, and appearances One has to make. For them. For the People,” Her King had said.

        Things one did for the continuation and security of the estab­lished hierarchy. All Traitors to it, whether royal, noble, or common, suffered and died, publicly, because Treachery was an Insult to every Soul in the State.

        “We watch with neutral faces as Witnesses of Justice, Wit­nesses of this Wheel that cannot be stopped, and that We cannot change, though We struggle against it and pray for Divine Intervention and Human Clarity and yet are undermined by our own true and loyal councillors and allies,” Uncle Charles had bitterly concluded.

        She would always remember his voice, the sadness in it, the exhaustion from both the Frustration and … the Outrage; knowing he was surrounded by those “barren of Faith and Rightness” forcing him to be “too impotent to defend and protect a true Saint of Innocence.”

        Becca’s face remained apparently aloof to all the vicious mock­ings, the pleading tears, and the disgust­ing cajolings and exhortations for and against. The entire “ceremony” was an affront to God, man, woman, and King, as she stood close enough to him for he to feel her and he her; that was their only comfort in this trial.

        The horrible day had finally gone, the harrowing night to come with its feverish nightmares in disjointed dreams embellishing the day’s workings. His Majesty had asked for her and she stood by him still in the Banqueting Hall of White Hall overlooking the bal­cony where his father had died; Murdered, by ignominious public execu­tion on the order signed by the usurper Cromwell.

        No candles were lit in the Hall, and no fire was in its hearths. King and Courtier were covered in Darkness, hiding in its obscurity.

        “This was a bad thing, Becca, my little dear.”

        “Yes, sire.”

        “I am no monarch this day and night. Perhaps on the morrow; but not this sad Day of Evil Done.”

        “Yes, Uncle Charles.”

        She had hugged him, tightly; and cried for her own soul and for his. And he had held her, tightly, taking innocent physical and emo­tional comfort in a young soul who loved him utterly. Her Loyal Ardent Love made him smile a little, but she did not see it for her eyes were closed and she listened to the strong heart of her Monarch and was glad she knew what others did not—for their blindness, deaf­­ness, or Uncle Charlie’s consummate verisimilitudes.

        She hadn’t known in full as a child, but as a woman, now, she’d had time to ... reconsider, and love even more with perfect pers­picaci­ty a man who was flawed. Charles Stuart was a good man in most extraordinary circumstances, a tall man who could see far, but was always blinded and hobbled by those grasping at his heels, and his own inep­ti­tudes.

        He had often told her his truths, though she had been only a child, but a discreet counsel, she, more so, in her adulthood; oftimes it was just a look, unguarded, just for her to see his true thoughts and feelings, which she reported back to Her Majesty in those times when their Queen was not healthy enough to accompany him, or living in separation.

        The execution pamphlets were out, more being printed and the severed pieces of the famous now infamously deceased scattered as a lesson in criminality or to be cherished and suredly used in sacred blessings to cure most things incurable; from scabies to impotence to God only knew what.

        “This day, Britain had created a saint,” His Majesty bemoaned, in sorrow for a priest accused of “high treason” and “for promoting the Roman faith,” by no less than the Chief Jus­tice of all England.

        “That blackguard Titus Oates’ fictitious conspiracy, his ‘Popish Plot’ has betrayed and murdered the last innocent in my name and those of my Great Britain, made by my grandfather’s own hands. Three years of this anti-Catholic hysteria and arguments of the ‘true religion.’

        “Where was this man’s bitter tongue when true assassins were sent from the pope to murder Elizabeth. Or when no man could save my great grandmother, Mary, of the Scots.

        “This unfortunate ... ‘Traitor’ makes twenty-two by my reckon­ing, whilst others try to codify in law the religious exclusion of my brother as my heir presumptive because he is an avowed Roman Catholic.”

        “It is a thing most hideous, Uncle Charles; but you spoke nu­mer­ous pleas for Christian Mercy, for most of them, who came before, and most especi­ally for this man.”

        Charles stepped forward nearly to stepping out upon the bal­cony, where his father had breathed his last, wearing an extra shirt so he would not tremble in the winter cold and others believe it was his Fear.

        It was a long while before Charles spoke.

        “ ‘Mercy’. Words too few and too late, lost to deaf hearts and cold souls. This religious intolerance will beggar this nation’s Spirit, arguing to the death what is the one true and only path to God’s Loving Grace. And whether a Scottish tongue or English tongue, or even Irish tongue is the way to….”

        He sighed greatly, and spoke his true heart to Becca.

        “Why is there such hate for the Innocence of Spirit, for a differ­ent view of worshipping God? We English are so ... terrified that any neighbors’ different Faith, whether Quaker, Puritan, and especially Catholic will drag us all inexor­ably to Hell or, worse, back into Rome’s Catholic embrace, half a continent away? My English People’s fear is so palpable that I am too fearful that this man’s life is too politically dangerous to spare his life with a Royal Pardon. That they man come for my brother—.

        “But I care not anymore! My heart and soul are aggrieved with this weighted stain.” He paused, breathing heavily, until he was more contained. “Becca…?”

        “Yes, Uncle?”

        “If you or Marcus should ever come to have to make a decision of who dies and who does not; if there is any question as to innocence against guilt, Vote for Innocence. But if the Evil is clear, be Ruthless, Becca dear, and rejoice in clean work under the unflinching gaze of God and His Judges. For this was not ... clean.

        “Perhaps it is time I let you return to your little children, they must be eager for your hugs and kisses, and have missed you this....”

        He didn’t finish and looked exhausted.

        “What will you do, now, Uncle?” He didn’t answer her and now how he looked even more than exhausted; he looked … old, fragile, and weary.

        He finally kissed her forehead and cheek with gentle affection, then retired from the dark-filled room for Somerset House and his sweet Queen’s gentle comfort; comfort of a different kind than he had with his many mistresses, a comfort only his Queen Catarina could give. Charles was many things; but he was also loyal to this woman who had pro­duced no heir for his throne, and nearly died in her failure.

        And unlike Henry Tudor, the eighth of that name, Charles Stuart, the second of his name, never petitioned for divorcement or annulment, even whilst knowing he was a confirmed and strong sire of children.

        Left alone, in the dark, with Marcus far from her and her small ones fast asleep, Becca’s emotions went back to the day, whilst com­pos­ing a letter to her faraway love.

        “How do you say a man ‘dies well’ when he is Betrayed, Vilely Abused, and Displayed; his body and mind, if not his very heart and soul were ripped apart, Marcus.”

_continues in the novel "Becca DuMaurier"


"Becca DuMaurier" Book 1 of the Black Rogues Series (novel excerpt 2) Coming Late Spring 2020


            It's 1688 AD, in the midst of the "Glorious Revolution," another British civil war between Protestants and Catholics with interested international players from Catholic France and Ireland, plus the Protestant Netherlands from whom England “invites” an invading force Britain’s loathed Catholic king with a new Dutch Protestant one.

            But wealthy widow Rebecca DuMaurier, a brown-skinned African British royal court favorite has more personal cares. She’s running from a forced marriage to a famous white-haired earl and heroic general; going to her birth home in her stormy ocean-tossed Cornwall county, just to find a moment to breathe and think; but a many-faced Irish Catholic pirate troubling the Protestant English now sails her shores, walks among her neighbors and servants, and hides his ship in a cliff cove near her home.

            Becca’s beloved rocky, treacherous Cornish coast proves a slippery stepping stone for the lively courtier runaway bride, her soldier English fiancé, and an intriguing, enigmatic gentleman and self-professed pirate with brown skin, many accents and faces Lady Becca will meet when he saves her life then steals her heart. However, her soldier is a tenacious man and it’ll take more than the ends of the earth and the wide ocean to escape his reach. Plus, on a ship of pirates, who’s to say all of them will welcome the lady's entry into their captain’s life.

Historical Romantic Adventure Fiction


The Hawk on the Celtic Sea; 

November, 1688

Draft, Chapter: BECCA GETS BLOODY

        The bottom of the ship left her feet just as—.

        B-BOOM!!!

        Becca fell securely back into the Present.

        The Hawk was hard in the grip of a heaving tempestous sea as the assaulted little ship reverberated with bone-jarring intensity, be­spoiled by cannon shot and quick turns as The Hawk snaked down along the sickening edges of swells to briefly hide at the bottom of them, before nauseatingly rising up, like sliding up a wall, as all clung to whatever they could and water sloshed everywhere and many a thing not secured ended everywhere upon the floor with Her Ladyship.

        Out of nowhere, Ezekiah helped her back onto her feet, then led her foreward by hand, through the dancing chaos of cannon, whilst the flooring heaved out from underfoot and the walls tilted in to strike you.

        “He needs you safe, Lady ... March….” He stopped talking, not certain about her titles or how to address her, whilst under duress himself.

        He dragged her across the deck lined on both sides with open ports and loaded cannon, and someone opined:

        “That woman’s a Jonah. Throw her over for the Dutch to fish out and be their plague!”

        She looked about to see who’d said that or the shocked reaction of the men, and saw only men and powder boys at their posts.

        “This is the safest place.”

         Ezekiah left her in the medico’s tiny cabin, adjacent to the sur­gery, from where hard smells and sounds came. Men moaned. One shrieked in terrible pain, fear, or both. Becca understood the man having fear, because she was feeling her own coursing through her. She even feared that her fear was about to be terror soon, as the scents of frightened men undermined her control.

        Watch the physician, not phantasms in your mind!

        He seemed an appropriate fellow, this medicine man; but wheth­­­er he was a full physician or even trained in any formal or use­ful surgical skills, Becca could not tell, from this distance; and didn’t recall anyone saying he was. Actually, she hadn’t known there was one aboard, had not seen him, as far as she could tell, at this angle; but, no one had men­tioned him in his medical capacity, nor had she been formally introduced to him. However, since few to none of the men had conversed congenially with her, nor volunteered appro­pri­ate introductions, her ig­nor­ance was quite the obvious thing.

        She was abruptly distracted from her offended thoughts on a lack of bas­ic, common civility, when the ship heaved in a great roll, and the Mar­chi­oness did like­wise; emptying her stomach more than once in a Heaven-sent bucket, perhaps placed for her, in that area so densely fetid with a mix of cold fear’s musk, hot blood, pungent urine, and excrement.

        Disgusted with herself, Becca proclaimed her intention, “I will not be useless here, not now, not when there is need.” Thankfully, the storm was softening its rage, the sea settling from angry swells to less nauseating ones.

        She rinsed her mouth, ate a bit of salt she’d found by a neglected meal, to angrily force her stomach to settle by salt and by Will, then stepped from her shelter into the main space.

        “Hold still, Liam,” the medico commanded. “Hold still, man!

        “How can I be of help to you, sir?” Becca said clearly to be heard above the battling above between Pirates and Dutchmen.

        The medico looked up and stared at her as if not knowing what she was or from where she’d come; then he ignored her, whilst fully engrossing in Liam’s concerns. She now recalled the Medico’s face, one of many men, to whom she’d not been introduced. He had had the appearance and manner of a gen­tlema—.

        Wait. She abruptly recalled some­one say­ing his name. She must have cataloged it, with­out thinking much on it; it was a necessity at Court. Watching him handle this chaos in a competent fashion, and how the men sought his help, she had her answer; he had true educa­tion as a phy­sician.

        And whether he liked her or not he needed another pair of hands.

        “Crace, isn’t it? Doctor Crace, how can—?”

        “Ignatius Crace, Lady Cornwall. If you truly want to help, bring over that ointment there. In the blue jar,” he commanded. “Please,” he added, self-consciously.

        She obeyed, whilst both Crace and the injured pirate seamen watched her, in disbelief. She held the jar out to him for his use, Crace said no­th­ing, only continued staring, as the injured man, Liam—­she recalled Liam’s face now as well. Plus, he was just “Liam” to her now, they all were, not mere­ly a sailor … nor pirate even, any longer, but a frightened-eyed, in­jured man needing help, like all the others here.

        “Shall I open it for you?” she queried, and her voice, her gentle ques­tioning manner roused Crace from his stunned reverie.

        “Yes, my lady. But, wrap this around you.”

        He handed her a length of sturdy clean-ish canvas, well, it was clean until his fingers left bloody finger marks. She tucked a corner of the fabric into her busom and wrapped it around her clothing, and thus Lady Cornwall entered Dr. Crace’s medical service; helping him pull blood-stained finger-long splinters. For some time, she had her own line of injured; dabbing ointment on burns from the hot can­non, cannon tapers and one from a coal brazier that had made sear­ing con­tact with a man’s face, then his bared foot. Becca had gingerly swathed that handsome man’s face then tended his singed foot with the soft ar­omatic goose grease ointment from the blue jar.

        “Lady Cornwall I need you. Talk to him,” Crace commanded her, when he began preparing to cut upon a man’s messy adominal wound.

        “What?” she said, in utter incomprehension.

        “Distract him, my lady. Say anything, please. Look at the Mar­chion­ess, Diurmid. When surrounded by dark ugliness, man, look to beau­ty and its light.”

        “Mm. Oh. Well...,” she stuttered, before....
more at....

Sunday, May 17, 2020

"Becca DuMaurier" Book 1 of the Black Rogues Series (novel excerpt 1) Coming Late Spring 2020


            It's 1688 AD, in the midst of the "Glorious Revolution," another British civil war between Protestants and Catholics with interested international players from Catholic France and Ireland, plus the Protestant Netherlands from whom England “invites” an invading force Britain’s loathed Catholic king with a new Dutch Protestant one.

            But wealthy widow Rebecca DuMaurier, a brown-skinned African British royal court favorite has more personal cares. She’s running from a forced marriage to a famous white-haired earl and heroic general; going to her birth home in her stormy ocean-tossed Cornwall county, just to find a moment to breathe and think; but a many-faced Irish Catholic pirate troubling the Protestant English now sails her shores, walks among her neighbors and servants, and hides his ship in a cliff cove near her home.

            Becca’s beloved rocky, treacherous Cornish coast proves a slippery stepping stone for the lively courtier runaway bride, her soldier English fiancé, and an intriguing, enigmatic gentleman and self-professed pirate with brown skin, many accents and faces Lady Becca will meet when he saves her life then steals her heart. However, her soldier is a tenacious man and it’ll take more than the ends of the earth and the wide ocean to escape his reach. Plus, on a ship of pirates, who’s to say all of them will welcome the lady's entry into their captain’s life.

Historical Romantic Adventure Fiction



"Becca DuMaurier" Book 1

Before Now White Hall Palace, Westminster by London, SE England; 

1 November, 1688

Draft, PROLOGUE: GLACIAL FLEEING

        Blasted irksome it was! Lord Padraic’s infuriating maxims kept dart­­ing ’round the bare ankles of Lady Becca’s thoughts; like house­cats star­tled, fur stand­ing on end, the apprehensive felines’ claws un­sheathed; piercing into her mind—demanding to not be ignored.

        “ ‘May you live in an interesting age,’ he’d spoken so agreeably years ago, and “May you leave without returning,” she finished in a murmur now, chiding her adult shadowed reflection in a whisper; so her lower lady’s maids, in their room beside hers, could not hear.

        Both sayings were Lord Padraic’s, overheard by a mostly forgot­ten little brown-skinned girl at supper during an ambassadorial gathering of several ambassadors. He’d later told her that “interesting times” was not a good thing and too often dangerous, and that “leaving without re­turn­ing,” meant you’d never come back, which was quite bad, if you left your home and wanted to return!

        When Becca had learned the rather polite curse from His Lord­ship, her young escort was sitting higher at table, according to his noble born rank and esteemed favor, while she, a “common little wench” of the gentry, and the Irish Coun­sel­or had been seated just at salt; meaning they were neither favored to sit above it, nor disgraced or ignored enough to sit at table below salt.

        Their posi­tion at supper said neither was of true impor­tance; but were not to be fully ignored, either, even if, technically, he a full Lord was seating at elbow and below a Common Girl Child of no Wealth nor Power. Lord Padraic’s goals, both his Irish ones and Catholic ones, were in disfavor; but he was a nobleman born and powerful in his own right and endured the humiliation of this disrespect.

        Little Mistress Rebecca DeLann, however, well, no one had known what to do with her that entire first year, when she’d abruptly come from “nowhere” and moved into the Royal Court. Her presence had frustrated, sometimes infur­i­ated, and utterly confused Courtiers, both noble and political; especially since none could fully dismiss her because of her Royal Patron.

        She still remem­bered Her Feelings at that long-gone meal; of Lord Padraic’s Frustration in communicating his People’s Needs, whilst being sit­u­a­ted too below Power to be heard, and too close to a foolish low cour­tier bloated on currying higher favor by being malici­ous, spite­ful, and scornful—yes, Becca knew these words all meant the same, but a Child’s Feel­ings are a Child’s Feelings.

        His Lordship had clearly not appreciated being seated so low, nor being part­nered with the youngest and only commoner at table, who was not either an adult nor of significance to Government or Court, as a Parliamentarian or Political Minister, or even the Signifi­cant Wife or Powerful Mistress of one. His Lordship had been seated next to “the King’s new little pet” and, unfor­tu­nately, even her glor­i­ous patron, Charles II of the Royal House of Stuarts, hadn’t yet known fully what to do with her in those early public situations, as she’d begun her Life at Court.

        Becca’s eyes had grown round and large, as Lord Padraic had stated each Irish curse, in complimentary tones, and loudly in Eng­lish, confusing the Low Cour­tier and ceasing his ignorant chatter so abruptly, that the man had gaped like a fish, whilst little Becca had giggled in a child’s delight, for she was yet not fully schooled in her Court Manners. Her highly inap­pro­priate but highly affective, and infectious, laughter not only captured an inquisitive glance from His Majesty and a frown from Her Majesty on his left far away at the head of table; but caused the Irish­ Lord to finally acknowledge little Becca’s exist­ence in a positive fashion; he winked down at her.

        Lord Padraic had ignored Sir Low Courtier, Sir Gape Fish, as she renamed him in her retelling to her noble escort, young Marcus, and from that collusive moment of humor, Lord Padraic had spoken ex­clu­sively with her, little Mistress Common Nobody; making it quite apparent to all the “important people” dining there, that he was “giv­ing up the fight, clearly killing his career and ambi­tions.”

        “Where are you from, Mistress Rebecca?”

        “Cornwall near Tintagel, I usually say, for more have heard of it or can find it upon a map. Oh! I can see the sea from atop our home!”

        “That must be delightful. May I ask, what do you like most here?”

        “His Majesty, Her Majesty, and all the colors of the Court. And my Tutor, who teaches me much; including the proper use of the new letters of our alphabet.”

        “But, what of the people, these lords and ladies? What is wrong, dear girl?”

        “I am told I am not to say my mind, for I am a child, a common child, and an uncommonly brown one at that. I must have no opinion about anything,” she said blandly, as having learned it by rote.

        “Who has told you that? And you must tell me because I am your lord friend.”

        “Lady Crawford—one of the poorer Crawfords, the other Craw­fords do not care for,” she added in a discreet whisper. “She was displeased with me for the King had made her my maid, although she was born a Lady, and I was not.” He laughed, and heads turned. “And when she burned my hair and my neck with the curling irons he said he would send her to the Tower.”

        “How shameful of her! Did he?”

        “No. I begged that he not do so. She hated that, too, that I had begged for her; although she was terrified she would be sent there. It is one of her great night­mares I knew. He sent her from Court which ceased her funds as my servant. The Craw­fords said their late brother, her husband, was gone and she was no longer one of them.”

        And Becca whispered more softly, “Because she had no wealth or property or connection to power, except a gentry child, me, and she has lost that. Even her birth family would not help her, and I’d thought, then, that it served her right; until I heard her legs were hurting her more and that she had so little income, with little to nothing else to sell; so, I and my Betrothed, Lord Marcus—.”

        “Your...? So that is true?!”

        “Not officially, but for us it is.”

        He’d smiled at that.

        “What happened to Lady Crawford?”

more at....

Thursday, April 02, 2020

Ebook links for Sexy Adult Fiction from Neale Sourna at PIE: Perception Is Everything Publishing

https://payhip.com/NealeSourna

Neale Sourna at PIE: Perception Is Everything

Neale has been authoring, editing, doing book/ebook layout and publishing about a decade and won BlackRefer.com's Best Erotica Novel award for her first novel, "Hobble," published through her own company, PIE: Perception Is Everything, and Neale successfully ranked as a finalist for New Century Screenplay's national contest for her script, "FRAMES." 

Neale also writes and edits for others through her writing company Neale Sourna's Writing-Naked.com; including stories for the Orchid Games' / Sandlot Games distrib: Heartwild Solitaire Game Series and Inertia Software's Margrave Manor Game Series. 

Neale's many published works, for ebook, print and online, have an edge that always brings the reader back to the core of being human. "I don't write 'romance' stories, but character love stories. http://www.neale-sourna.com/Sournabio.html
http://www.neale-sourna.com/