Today, Dark Erotica Author Anthony Beal gives us a taste of The Escapists. Thanks Anthony.
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I'm both honored and grateful to Barbie Scott - Erotica for this opportunity to offer up a tiny taste of my debut book-length erotica, The Escapists: An Erotic Fantasy Novel. In the same way that a shot of hard liquor is bracing and smooth and rushes to the head, I hope the excerpt to follow is found not only to be palatable, but that it whets reader appetites for more.
The story follows protagonist Esme, a stunning 40-something redhead in need of a change from her usual relationship woes, on holiday to an unnamed, unmapped resort island that trades in paid sexual encounters for wealthy women with money and time to spend. Soon after arriving, she finds in her chosen paramour, a lean, bronze-skinned twenty-something named Reynaldo what she has failed to find in any relationship she's ever had: a sexual equal as committed as she is to keeping their arrangement uncomplicated. Some kinds of complications, however, are unavoidable, and the unexpected development of romantic feelings between the two of them demonstrate this fact quite loudly...
Everyone who knows Reynaldo knows he is a special soul: from his best friends/fellow male prostitutes BrucePaul, Giancarlo, and Marosco, to Vasumitra, owner and main attraction of a mysterious local sex club and a woman with her own private interests in Reynaldo, to Sandrine, the shapely bartender with whom he is pursuing his first legitimate romance at the time he meets Esme. Just how special he is will be determined by the island itself, and by the ancient deities locked in a revenge-fueled war upon its grounds. They too have chosen Reynaldo, selected him for purposes he has yet to discover. Making matters worse is that Reynaldo also shares unpleasant history with the leader of the island's criminal element, a man named Cabrales. That history will soon place both Reynaldo and Esme in the proverbial crosshairs.
I'll say no more than that for now, except to share that if any part of this guest post inspires anyone to pick up a copy of this book and see how its tale of lust, vengeance, and secret fantasy gods at war plays out, one can get it for 50% off its usual price of $5.99 until 07/07/12 by using coupon code JL35N at SMASHWORDS
The following excerpt looks at happier aspects of our tale than are described above. It offers a bit of insight into Reynaldo as viewed through the eyes of the women who have known him intimately, and details how and where he first met Sandrine. Happy reading:
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He had an ease about him, a catlike way of stretching and lying about that made wherever he was seem like the most comfortable place in the world. Body language that would have betrayed a slothful nature in any other man, in Reynaldo conveyed nothing of listlessness. A sensual viscosity defined his movements, like taffy pulled to and fro, a radiant heat that recalled molten things in the way he seemed to flow about when arousal took him, which was often. Reynaldo embodied comfort and carnality in a manner that always discomfited people meeting him for the first time. His gaze was a pheromone; a word of greeting as affecting as a kiss. A smile from him left most people feeling sexually exhausted, as though he'd taken them by force, as though he'd pushed something of himself inside of them to gently chip away all resistance. Everything about Reynaldo dared one to withstand his artless magnetism with even a single inhibition intact. Something destructive and furious and patient reposed beneath his skin, intimated in his every act as a thunderstorm's implication permeates the dead calm that precedes it, its imminent passions carried on winds already warmed by its currents, already charged with the lightning soon to come.
Reynaldo was the rainstorm, the ensuing flash flood, and the rainbow pouring conciliatory color over the ravaged aftermath. A common joke that circulated among women who admired him claimed that a fire hazard was having him in one's bed. His beauty smoldered with such effulgence that it bore the brunt of blame for the frequency with which he moved from place to place and from boudoir to boudoir. His heat setting ablaze any surroundings in which he tarried too long was an unacceptable risk. So this man who was as without arrogance as he was without pretense, had maintained the cleanliness of his conscience and contentment of his spirit by remaining transitory, quickening feminine pulses everywhere that he should roam.
Then he'd met Sandrine.
Last Autumn, they danced together on the patio of a beachfront property belonging to a mutual acquaintance. With waves like curling blue ribbons sounding their ingress and egress onto the sand, tossing up salty sea spray like handfuls of silver confetti, Reynaldo and Sandrine danced and laughed and sipped chilled spirits until long after the sun fell into the water and colored glass torches were lit. Her skin as brown as the bourbon that Reynaldo favored, Sandrine was a stick of dynamite whose fuse Reynaldo's heat had lit. He'd found himself instantly drawn into her, smitten with the lithe woman whose dark hair was braided into a soft rope that she tended to draw in front of her to occupy her fingers when she thought no one was watching her.
Their conversation was lighthearted, its stewardship volleying between the two of them with the same urgent energy as would exist between two people passing a hot potato from one to the other. Sandrine's first impression of Reynaldo, aside from his obvious physical grace, was that here sat a man well-accustomed to the attentions of women.
They didn't leave the party together, but exchanged contact information and promises to pursue a rendezvous before the end of the month.
Later that evening, as he lay naked, beautifying his hostess's bed of silks and lace, he said to her, Nazir, his fierce friend and casual lover, "Tell me about Sandrine."
Nazir's dark eyes flashed with arousal at his roaming hands. That he'd held the question until the evening's end, until the last of her guests had departed and she lay naked with him, amused her.
"What more might I tell that she did not?" she responded, speaking first in her native Farsi, then in English. Her enjoyment of touching him and being touched by him far outstripped her desire to chat about another woman. Her mouth found his. Reynaldo abandoned the question for a time.
Nazir climbed astride her friend and houseguest, and ground her wetness against him, sex against sex, their needs meeting with sounds and aromas that rippled in the air between Nazir and Reynaldo like a heat mirage. When Reynaldo penetrated her, it was with less of a thrust than his seeming to flow over her, into her, to glide along her curves like high tide against which she could either thrash or upon which she could float forever, a sea in which any woman would kill to drown. Reynaldo made languid love to Nazir until there remained no orgasm between them to be enjoyed. She fell asleep in his arms, telling him all he wanted to know about Sandrine.
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(Rating: 4.75 stars and counting!)
ISBN: 9781476074030
Available online at Smashwords.com, BN.com, Amazon.com, and elsewhere.
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The Escapists
Anthony Beal
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Thanks, Anthony!
