Three Circlet Press titles are Lambda Award Finalists!

We’re very excited to announce that three titles we published in 2014 have made the finalists lists for the prestigious Lambda Literary Awards.

Best Bi Short Stories, edited by Sheela Lambert was published in May 2014 after a successful Kickstarter campaign. The first-ever anthology of bisexual-themed literary fiction, Best Bi Short Stories seeks to combat bisexual invisibility on the bookstore shelves while showing the incredible quality, breadth, and depth of bisexual literary talent. BBSS has made the finalist list for the Bisexual Fiction Lammy award. *Buy Paperback* *Ebook*

Incubus Tales by Hushicho originally ran as a web serial here on circlet.com, and was collected into an omnibus ebook and paperback edition in 2014. Also a finalist for the Rainbow Award this past year, Incubus Tales features the same protagonist as the Incubus Tales webcomic, the sweet and sexy Dhiar, incubus, shopkeeper, and erotic philosopher. Incubus Tales is up for the Lammy Award in Gay Erotica. *Buy Paperback* *Ebook*

Leather Spirit Stallion by Raven Kaldera is also up for the Gay Erotica award! Raven is a longtime Circlet Press author and this book highlights the intense BDSM relationship between a modern Mongolian shaman and his partner. Not your typical “pony play.” *Buy Paperback* *“>Ebook*

Good luck to all! We’ll find out the winners on June 1st at the gala awards ceremony in New York City. This is the 27th year for the Lambda Literary Awards. For more information check out the Lambda Literary Foundation website.

Best Bi Short Stories
edited by Sheela Lambert

ISBN 978-1-61390-089-5

Best Bi Short Stories is the first book of its kind, a literary anthology bringing together the finest representations of bisexuality in fiction. With an all-star author lineup ranging from Katherine Forrest to Jane Rule, Ann Herendeen to Jan Steckel, and curated by longtime bi activist Sheela Lambert, Best Bi Short Stories encompasses the diversity and richness of bi experience and imagination.
Price: $9.99
Format :

Incubus Tales
by Hushicho

Welcome to the intriguing city of dreams, Noctemberg, where it is always night, and to Phantasies, a very special shop run by Dhiar, proprietor and gay incubus. Sensuality is more than just Dhiar's stock in trade, it is his raison d'etre. In Incubus Tales: A Thousand Words, Dhiar meets new loves, rekindles relationships, and bring his special brand of sexual healing to lovers and readers alike.
Price: $5.99
Format :

Leather Spirit Stallion
by Raven Kaldera

Gay BDSM with a spiritual twist. When Erlik Solongo--modern Mongolian shaman, broke grad student, and experienced dominant--saves the life of a young man named Paj, the two men are instantly drawn to each other. They begin a sexual relationship that might even turn into something more. But Erlik wants a partner he can be open about, while Paj worries about disapproval from his traditional family.
Price: $3.99
Format :

Microfiction: The Arena by Niki Crow

The Arena

I make my way through lamp-lit streets. It’s the middle of the night but I woke up with a craving I couldn’t quench.

I can see it just up ahead—the Arena Club. I’ve been on this planet a year now and I’ve been a member for nearly as long. In fact, I became a member the same day I first heard about the place. It’s housed in a modern building, with big signs telling everyone what’s inside. This is a fancy neighborhood; on Moha it isn’t shameful to have sex. So unlike the people of Earth, the Mohans don’t hide away to make love.

I’m at the entrance to the club now, and I can feel the pulse in my pussy, filling my clit with blood, engorging it and making it sensitive. How I love that feeling of anticipation! I hurry inside and choose my usual seat at the back of the female only section. For me, it’s as much of a thrill to watch other women bringing themselves to orgasm as it is to watch what goes on on the stage. There’s nothing quite as beautiful as a woman touching herself, watching her as she spreads her legs and pushes her pelvis forward to expose her clit, or to watch her fuck herself with any kind of object. There’s nothing quite as beautiful as the look of utter pleasure on her face as she comes. It’s remarkably similar in all humanoid species.

I leave everything but my favorite dildo in the locker room, and make my way to my seat. I have a clear view of the stage, but what goes on there– an ordinary guy-girl fuck–can’t hold my attention. There’s someone in the seat next to mine, and she’s mesmerizing. Her shapes are soft and rounded, her skin as dark as the night, and there’s a thin sheen of sweat covering her forehead. Her legs are flung up on the armrests of her seat and she’s slowly pushing a pink dildo into herself. I can’t help myself; I lean forward to get a better view. She notices, of course, but only smiles at me. God, how I want to touch her! I want to rub her clit, suck those prominent nipples, and drive that dildo deep inside her. But there’s no touching in the Arena Club, no sex allowed unless you’re on stage. But I bend the rules, just a little, and reach out to touch her thigh.

“Wanna play?” I ask.

I’ve never been up on the stage before—not that I haven’t received invitations—but I’ve been happy watching and touching myself. Until now.

Her smile broadens and she leaves the dildo halfway inside her to tap on the panel next to her seat. A moment later, a light flashes on my own panel—her invitation. I accept and we’re entered into the queue.  There’s no going back now, and as the couple leaves the stage to make room for three Mohan men, both our panels flash again. We’re up next.

In the props room, I choose a strap-on with a built-in vibrator for the wearer. I put it on and align the vibrator. The metal against my clit feels wonderful and I brace myself not to start it just yet.

The guys don’t take long, and before we know it, it’s our turn. She takes my hand as we enter the stage.

“I’m Anna, by the way,” she whispers.

“Rita,” I reply.

And then we’re on. Anna lies down on the padded table in the center of the well-lit stage, and spreads her legs. She’s flexible, giving the audience a great view of her gorgeous, wet pussy. I put the tip of the dildo against her and push inside, slowly. I can feel the eyes of the audience on us, and it’s turning me on like crazy. Why have I never been on stage before?  I set the vibrator on slow and fuck Anna in an equally slow pace, in rhythm with the suggestive alien music, pushing upward with every stroke to touch her G-spot. All the while I rub her clit with my thumb, and she’s pinching her nipples.

It doesn’t take long before we’re both about to come. I push harder into her, speed up the pace, and amp up the vibrator to maximum. Seconds later, we’re shouting out loud as our bodies lock in spasms and I’m swept away into oblivion. It’s divine. It’s heavenly and  it’s without a doubt the best orgasm I’ve ever had.

I catch my breath for a second and then I meet her eyes. I want more, I’m not ready to get off the stage just yet. And as I remove the strap-on and move to straddle her face, I know for certain that I’ll never spend my nights at the Arena Club cooped up in a seat in the back again.

 

Win a paperback copy of LIPS LIKE ICE by Peggy Barnett

Enter this giveaway on Goodreads before March 17th and you could win one of 10 copies of LIPS LIKE ICE that are up for giveaway to readers in the US or Canada! https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/127299-lips-like-ice

Goodreads Book Giveaway

Lips Like Ice by Peggy  Barnett

Lips Like Ice

by Peggy Barnett

Giveaway ends March 17, 2015.

See the giveaway details
at Goodreads.

Enter to win

Microfiction: Custom Made by Tuulia Saaritsa

Custom Made

The brain is a sexual organ.

Mine sloshes in its container, a pretty metal casing, its outer layer shaped like a skull. My skin (another organ) stretches over it, pulled by a minute network of wires. I am smiling up at my lover.

Tonight, she’s a bear.

I bury my face in her coarse fur, my fingers at her shoulders, searching out the slip of leather on metal. The skin is real, but not alive like my organic skin, which fires up at the feel of thousands of single hairs pricking my thighs. We couldn’t afford more than one real skin apiece; we’re not old enough. Decades to go yet on the assembly line before my next promotion, putting together radios, motors, escape pod control panels; tiny intricate metal entrails.

“Screw me in both holes?” I pant, the bellows in my chest drawing in cooling air, and she flips me over. Her claws dig into my hips.

She is enormous as the sky, and the familiar purring of her machinery picks up pace as her desire heats her core engine. I spread my legs and bury my head in our pillows as she skewers my oiled cunts with her many-jointed pricks.

Goldilocks, she calls me through our neural link, and I imagine a young woman of gooey flesh, spread willingly on the bedsheets by a creature of muscle and bone. Fantasies. Always fantasies. It wouldn’t work otherwise.

We grind together, hard enough to dent, and my brain lights up like fireworks.

Microfiction: Multiplicity by Cèsar Sanchez Zapata

Multiplicity

“It is a tribute—the ultimate tribute to decadence,” said he, the man named Stephen Orrok, standing on the second-story balcony and staring out at a coterie of media vans cluttered beyond the steel gates bordering his estate. Four aerial cams hovered two feet over his head, their flickering lenses trained down on him. Static droned inside his ear, and then through the buds, he heard the rapid-fire questions of journalists—out there.

“You think yourself God?”

“Pray to me in any name you wish.”

“You certainly consider yourself above the law.”

He tapped a fingertip over his pursed lips. “I abide by the ones I agree with.”

“You’ve violated hundreds of international cloning edicts. Special agents from three different global agencies are on their way to shut down your operation.”

“They arrived ten minutes ago.” He grinned, turning on his heels and walking inside. He crossed his hands behind his back, pacing slowly with the cameras always floating above him. “I offered them a deal. They accepted—every last one, man and woman. They leave my little party alone, and in exchange, they get one free night.”

“To do what?”

“To do her.”

He felt the awe, the excitement take hold of their bodies, as profoundly as he felt it overflow his own; felt it, more than heard any indication, no gasps or tight frenzied murmurs. The farther he moved, the more he felt the heaviness in his balls, and thousands of moans and sighs bleeding together, reaching out to him from beyond.

“How do you respond to critics who claim you’re only a bitter, vengeful cuckold, hell-bent on soiling the image of the world’s most beautiful woman?”

“I’m not dealing with androids. These are not machines designed to act, or sound, or to resemble her. Those fools fail to understand—they are her, every single one; her heart, body, and all-consuming passion. Albeit, minus certain inhibitions. Well, they don’t hold their silly reputations sacred.” The moaning grew louder, bouncing off the walls in the corridor, as he neared the corner. “Rest easy, the world will still have its most beautiful woman . . . just multiplied infinitely.” He reached the iron-cast railing overlooking the grand ballroom, so the cameras could survey his kingdom. His voice dropped to a whisper impossible to hear over the cacophony of sex, “How special will she be then?”

The buzzing set off again, the hacks riling up for another barrage of questions; he tapped his earlobe severing the feed. Interview ended.

He gazed at the ocean of bodies—naked dozens tumbling over naked dozens more, here, there, everywhere two dozen more arms, legs, breasts, tongues moist and slavering. A chorus of hers, a choir of orgasms with which he was intimately familiar. Each her was more than a mere replica of her—they were fantasies. Fantasies come to life, scalding flesh and blood, with the hunger for pleasure emanating from every pore. Every man and woman had paid to attend and realize a dream by owning her for the evening. Roaming eyes be damned! The fantasy came true the moment they took her, any which way they chose.

That’s when he saw that one, knowing immediately she belonged to him.

The desire was so clearly, frustratingly, evident on her face—the hammering ache of lust that is unstated, and worse yet, unsated. Clad in just a silk, purple robe, she weaved amid the orgy, like a queen over her subjects, gazing steadily, unwaveringly at him.

He walked along the rail, undoing his belt, unbuttoning his pants, and started down the grand staircase as she reached the first step. She rose out of the sea of coitus like Venus herself, slowly removing her robe, revealing her stunning perfection. She was a goddess—fit for a god.

He snatched her wrist, wrenching her forward and hauling her into his arms. “Welcome home, lover,” said she, and it didn’t matter that he knew; it always shook him when they first spoke. In that instant when the words first reached his ears, he felt all alone with Dianna—with the only her.

He steered them backwards, and she had her hands full of him before his bottom touched the steps, and climbing onto his lap, thrusting her breasts over his mouth, positioning. He seized her ass and she dug her nails into his back, her thighs tightly embracing his hips, her elbows carving into his shoulders as his cock slipped lower between them, between shaven lips. He doused her chest with kisses just as he entered her; tracing the tiny, scattered birthmarks on the underside of each breast with his tongue while his prick explored within.

She moaned into his face. Hot, hurried breaths—a tiny squeal, as he rolled them over laying her on her back. She rolled them around again, and on and on they went, restlessly, eager, oily and pliant as seals when they came together. It was bestial; it was greedy, each voracious and unforgiving. He never relented on her nipples, his licks and bites measured and meticulous. Precise.

She always said he had a talented mouth.

The real Dianna said.

Let others write lies, but the love they’d shared was nothing if not a lesson in hedonism.

The one thing they both prayed never to see was the one inevitability. And when they reached that end, they did so together—collapsed forward on all fours, breathless. Tangled.

Shit.

Only a man who’d once possessed the real thing could tell the difference—and such was his hell, for he knew—unlike the others—he knew in his heart, festering inside, that the woman now beneath him, squirming, pleading in whispers for his prick wasn’t, as they say, the real McCoy.

A suitable alternative, surely, but he would never taste or feel or touch the real her again. If ever that chance existed, he’d spoiled it tonight.

A small sacrifice to pay for revenge.

Bitter? Perhaps—

Multiplied infinitely.

Microfiction: Latex Hack by Dee Maselle

Latex Hack

My body floats in a gel tank, my brain and nerves wired to the infinite sensations of the exonet.

I can shape my appearance here, but appear I must. Nothing is invisible in the exonet’s virtuality. My shieldcode becomes a skintight suit of black latex embedded with intelligent micromesh, covering me from toes to fingertips to chin. I feel the latex; smell it via the conductive gel bath. The tightness and sheen empower me, make me bold and lithe.

Still–I fall into an unseen trap as I glide around EasBank’s patrols. Nothing is invisible, but destruction can wait beneath a layer of benign code.

I find myself in a seamless granite pit, its opening capped with bars. My wrists are shackled to the floor. Electric blue chains had dived to snare me as I tumbled, disoriented by the explosion of the trap.

An agent appears in my prison. He is cleanly bald, his bronze arms wrapped in fine cybernetic wires. Black latex trews cling to his lean legs like wet ink. A dark metal cuirass protects his torso.

He saunters around my straining body and raises an antiquated monocle. He leans to examine me through the lens. I know the device must not be as quaint as it appears; he is probing the data structure of my suit.

“Well, well,” he rasps, tucking the monocle in a compartment on his cuirass. “One of MachEmerge’s. Pretty outfit.  But what were they thinking, sending an ingénue like you against EasBank?”

> YOU’LL NEVER KNOW, I send in plaintext. The intelligent mesh in my gloves has abraded the encryption in the cuffs. I rush the agent. When he grapples me, I steal his monocle. I spring toward the bars above, melt through them, and escape with my fragment of EasBank tech.

> DUEL. The text scorches the rubber of my palm. I keep my grip on the smoking monocle; the pain is illusion. I have won, but the agent wants to meet me in neutral territory.

We are professional exonet specialists, but there is a secret stratum of the curious, the proud, and the inventive who will duel. My breath catches at the notion of a curious, proud, inventive agent in black rubber and cybernetic wire.

He meets me in a frost white chamber. “Let’s talk deal, not duel,” he says huskily. “I’ll study your suit, and you’ll detank with two million fresh toll codes.”

The agent has not hidden the stiff bulge stretching the glossy rubber between his legs. I cannot hide my arrested stare.

“Four million, and I’ll study your pants,” I whisper.

A transparent blade extends from his fingertip. He slices circles from my latex top, allowing my breasts to spring through the holes. The blade comes exquisitely close to my skin, but never touches it; my nerve interface is left intact as the code of the suit is cut away.

My nipples are stiff; my breathing quick. My breasts are pale moons against the darkness of my suit. The agent meets my gaze and allows a twist of a smile. He crouches and slices a careful oblong in the latex at my crotch. I do not stop him. I am sure my tanked body is aroused by this exposure, and I am wet in virtuality. I feel it as the chill of the chamber brushes my shaven cleft.

The agent’s cuirass vanishes, its shieldcode sinking into his skin. He keeps his latex trews. He slices them open and his cock presses forward: thick, veined and tawny. The blade retracts. His hand curls around my core and he squeezes his palm to the mound above my clit, three fingers arcing into my slick opening.  The curve of his wired hand hums with vibration. Curious, proud, inventive indeed. My passage quakes and I whimper with pleasure. I tug him to the white floor.

He sinks between my legs and thrusts into me. We are both on corporate time. It will be a fast mind-body mating for two anonymous rubber lovers a globe apart.

We fuck with the shameless aggression of craving. He presses me into the floor, his clean-shaven sac pounding against my ass. He rests his weight on one wired arm; he catches my breast in his hand and the aching tip of the other breast between his lips. He nips the crown, and laves it with his hot tongue. The processing power! The intricate randomized detail of a realistic tongue!  My gloved fingers grip his pumping ass, stretching his latex and letting it snap against his skin. The smell of hot rubber rises between us.

I gaze at the bars above, my mouth opening to release immaterial cries. I know my body is silent in its tank, tubes in my nose and throat preventing anything but quiet air from escaping. The agent’s cock scythes without mercy through the opening he has cut for himself in the crotch of my suit. He explodes, sending his own low groan to the digital abyss.

I feel his cream pulse hot inside me, and I wonder if he has ejaculated in his tank in EasBank.  He pulls out and smears our mingled fluids on the rubber stretched across my belly.

That–and the image of his essence dispersing like a cloud in a warm gel bath—and I am lost. He rubs his twitching meat against my clit, growling and biting the side of my neck. I wrap my glistening legs around him and crash to a ferocious climax. I cannot stifle an anguished shriek. I pull his hips hard against me to compress my wracking pulsations.

I still quake as a MachEmerge tech yanks me from the tank. “What on earth were you up to in there?” He jerks his head toward my vitals screen. “Got a few million toll codes rolling in, though.”  He begins to towel away the damp residue of the bath. I want to dive back in.

END

Microfiction: A Blindfold. A Cigarette, Offered and Declined. by Bernie Mojzes

A Blindfold. A Cigarette, Offered and Declined.

There is the blindfold, of course. That always comes first, though he could always decline. He never does. The blindfold, and the wrist-binding rope. Then the long walk through cold, stone corridors. The scent of mold, of the sawdust that scuffs under his bare feet, and under the heavy-booted feet beside him. The creak of rusted iron hinges, and harsh step into the light. Hot sand between his toes, the sunlight warm on his face, spots of brightness–the closest thing to daylight he’s seen in a year–through the black fabric covering his eyes. The scent of gunpowder.

They’d played this scenario so many times, Emelia leading him out of her basement and onto the desert sands that sifted through the courtyard of her family’s home. Toe-tripping over rubble from the bomb blast. Pressing him against the hot stone of the courtyard wall.

The sound of the rifle being loaded.

Always, was this the time she’d actually do it?

There was an offered cigarette. Always. Part of the ritual, though he’d never taken it. Though Emelia knew he didn’t smoke. The one true thing she’d known about him. The rest–their courtship, their marriage, their shared love of cheesy romantic comedies–all a lie.

Now her family was dead. His fault. His mission.

Once a month, she’d lead him out of his cage, out into the courtyard, up against the wall. The blindfold, the cigarette, the loading, the gunshot.

Splinters of stone cutting his cheek.

Then her hands pulling at his belt, pulling his cock free, hardening in her hand.

The rustle of cloth. Rough fingers gripping his hair, forcing him to the ground, and then Emelia, his captor, his wife, his enemy, straddling him, taking him inside her, riding him hard and fast and angry. Shattered stone digging into his back, his ass, his thighs. His bound hands a painful lump in the small of his back. The scent of her enfolding him.

Her need is as desparate as when they’d first met. Of course it is, he’d been designed for her, sculpted to her tastes, his pheremones tuned to her locks. The perfect spy.

“I loved you,” she said, always said, her tears wet on his cheek, her cunt wet on his cock. Or, sometimes, “I love you.”

I love you, too. Thought, not said. He’d lost that right, when he’d sent the codes that disabled the compound’s anti-missle defenses. When he’d killed her family.

For God and country.

But he couldn’t kill Emelia. And though he could have escaped, how could he deny her this one thing?

It’s Pavlovian, by now. The blindfold, the long walk, his erection pressing against the thin cloth of his cotton trousers.

Emelia comes first, always, at least once. So much has gone into his design, down to curve of his penis and his sexual endurance. Nothing left to chance. The perfect lover, the one you don’t let go.

Sometimes, she sends him back to his cage, still hard. Aching. Sometimes, she brings him to climax, his seed sticky on her fingers, or spilling into her mouth to be spat back contemptuously on his face.

Now, today, there is the sun on his skin, the fabric on his face, the sand under his toes. The cigarette. The cartridge sliding into the chamber. The bolt being drawn.

Always, is this the time she’d actually do it?

It’s spring, and the gentle breeze brings the scent of desert wildflowers he will never see.

New book: Laura Antoniou’s THE INHERITOR (Book 6 of The Marketplace)

The Marketplace coverThe Inheritor
Book Six of the Marketplace Series
by Laura Antoniou

$9.99 ebook now available for download!
ISBN 978-1-61390-126-7 ebook

Formats: :

The long-awaited sixth installment of Laura Antoniou’s Marketplace series!

Also available from: AmazonSmashwordsBarnes & Noble Nook • All Romance eBooks • Kobo • and more!

When last we saw Chris Parker, he had been bought by master trainer Tetsuo Sakai and was blissfully ensconced in Japan under Tetsuo’s wonderfully sadistic boot. And here we join Robin Cassidy, now contentedly serving a slave contract for a rich Chicago businessman. But the Marketplace is shaken when a new Trainer of Trainers must be anointed and the resulting machinations and clashing loyalties threaten to tear their world apart. Everyone has a stake in the outcome and Chris Parker is about to find out who is with him and who is against him.

Richly told, interconnecting threads of Parker’s previously unseen past with his complicated present, The Inheritor also weaves in the narratives of many favorite Marketplace characters, including Robin, Ken Mandarin, Ron Avidon, and features appearances by many more, including Jiro, Rachel, Michael, and Grendel.

Laura Antoniou is the award-winning author of The Killer Wore Leather and the long-running series that began in 1993 with The Marketplace.

Enjoy a delicious excerpt from THE INHERITOR:

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New book! Silent Shadows Come: Erotic Tales of Ninjas

silent_shadows_come_cover_iconsizeSilent Shadows Come: Erotic Tales of Ninjas
edited by Jennifer Levine

$3.99 ebook download
ISBN 978-1-61390-123-6

Formats: :

 

Ninjas were historically spies and assassins, trained to blend in using disguises and stealth. Beyond these facts, we have only myth and legend, but there is unquestionably an element of the erotic, the mysterious, the fantastical, in the idea of the ninja. Stories by Hero Freyr, C.V. Madison, Emily Moreton, Nina Parker, Kaysee Renee Robichaud, and Vinnie Tesla.

Hot excerpt, keep reading! Continue reading

New Release: Spyder’s Trouble: BDSM Space Opera by Korin I. Dushayl

Spyders_Trouble_Cover_cover_iconsizeSpyder’s Trouble
by Korin I. Dushayl
$5.99 ebook
ISBN 978-1-61390-124-3

Formats :

As the shadow of a repressive piety movement spreads across the system’s free worlds, the Lady Cassandra and her slaves must flee home. The Dominatrix persuades her loyal clients to smuggle her out of the city where she lives. Exiled to the desert, she contacts Spyder, captain of the spaceship Trouble, who offers her only hope for salvation.
 
When he rushes to her aid, Spyder’s troubles follow him. The delay caused by Lady Cassandra’s rescue angers the influential and overdue government official on board and infuriates Creeper, the powerful criminal who owns the cargo in Trouble’s hold. Spyder struggles to make up time and meet his commitments, but Creeper accepts no excuses and suffers no delays. He sets a reward for his illicit shipment’s return and bounty hunters chase the ship from one end of the system to another. When rumors of the stolen cargo reach the authorities, they join the hunt for Trouble as well.
 
Pursued both by the law and the lawless, Spyder and his navigator exploit every evasive maneuver and smuggler’s trick they know. But, Spyder’s troubles find the ship’s location with uncanny precision. With a price on his head and his ship, Spyder sets Trouble’s course for the only planet in the system out of reach of criminals and cops alike. There one crew member’s past catches up to her. When another disappears, Spyder learns the true meaning of trouble.

About the Author: I.G. Frederick trades words for cash, specializing in erotic and transgressive fiction and poetry since 2001. Her erotic short stories appear in Hustler Fantasies, Forum, Foreplay, and Desire Presents, as well as electronic, audio, and print anthologies. Her novels receive high praise from readers, critics, and other authors. Ms. Frederick writes about finding love in BDSM relationships from the authority of one enjoying that for almost a decade. As an observer, she also sees the many ways BDSM turns ugly. She writes about abusive and tragic interactions as Korin I. Dushayl.

Excerpt under the cut! Continue reading