Tag Archives: Aussie Mikala Ash

Goblin Girl Blitz

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Empire of the Sky, Book 4

Steampunk Romance

Date Published: 7/26/24

Publisher: Changeling Press

 


 

 

Nancy Lea is the Lunarian envoy to Queen Victoria. She and Jacob McCleary
come to Earth with a deadly warning from Mon Ilson, the Emperor of Space. At
an isolated airfield in the midst of a raging storm, Nancy is cruelly
mistaken for the murderous Lady Neva Talbot-Rhys. Nancy is interrogated by
the Queen’s Agent, the witch Felicity Cressy. To keep her off guard,
Felicity employs an unorthodox strategy. She introduces the dashing Captain
Jaimee Dalgliesh to the alien in human form. His mission is to seduce Nancy,
but can he avoid being seduced in turn?

Goblin Girl continues the Cressida Troy saga in which an unprepared world
faces alien invasion. In a time where airships are commonplace, and
witchcraft plays a crucial role in Queen Victoria’s empire, Goblin Girl is a
steamy adventure in the strange but curiously familiar universe of what
could have been.

 

 

Excerpt

Copyright ©2024 Mikala Ash

 

Nancy Lea

1867 A Goblin Girl Goes to Earth

 

It was a rough descent. Inside the capsule, Jacob and I were pressed
together in the contoured couch, hip to hip, and shoulder to shoulder. The
belts that held me securely in place as we were jostled about bit through my
one-piece flying costume and would surely leave bruises. We were riding a
human test vehicle which we had captured some time ago. Jacob had been the
pilot and had been our prisoner until he reluctantly agreed to be Mon
Ilson’s envoy. I was to carry my emperor’s voice to the
queen.

Jacob was wearing a leather flying cap and green filtered goggles and
looked quite amphibian as his gaze shifted from side to side. He was closely
monitoring the gauges and dials on the control panel and manipulated the
various levers that controlled the ship’s buoyancy. Occasionally he
would glance at me, and the visible part of his face split in a broad grin.
He was excited to be returning home.

By Mon Ilson’s magic, the churning storm camouflaged our arrival.
Barely two minutes before, we’d been released by the Lunarian airship
and were descending at a rapid rate toward the Lizard Peninsula on the
Cornish coast. Our ship, little more than a spherical steel ball barely ten
feet wide, bucked and swayed at the mercy of the tempest. I bit my lower
lip, imagining the gale that raged on the other side of the vessel’s
thin shell, just a few inches from my head.

Jacob was adjusting the controls to release helium gas from our envelope so
that we landed as close as we could to the designated airfield. Timing was
of the essence if we were not to be blown too far off course. A violent wind
gust rocked us, and I clutched Jacob’s arm.

“Chin up, Goblin Girl. We’ll be on solid ground
soon.”

The appellation took me back to the first occasion he called me by that
vile name. At the time I knew he’d intended it as an insult.
We’d been “fucking like ferrets” as he described our
frequent coupling, and I was panting frantically in the aftermath of a
thundering climax.

“Why do you call me that?” I had asked resentfully once my
breathing had calmed.

“Goblin Girl?” His smile as he chucked my chin was annoyingly
patronising. “My dear,” he began, his tone mocking. “I
know inside that pretty little human head is a leather-skinned goblin, like
those stone gargoyles perched high up on a cathedral wall. You have huge
yellow eyes, slimy slits for nostrils cut in a grey face as flat as an
anvil. Rows of pin-sharp teeth hide behind knife-edged lips. You have bony
shoulders, and muscled arms like knotted wood, so powerful you could snap a
human neck. Not to forget the pair of oily black wings like those of a
demonic bat, equipped with a half dozen razor-tipped talons, and ugly
gnarled feet! For God’s sake, don’t get me started on your
feet!”

I would be lying to pretend it hadn’t hurt, but his description of
our — yes, my — natural form was accurate. What cut deeper was that
he’d use those words to hurt me while his pearly seed dripped from my
very bruised and unmistakably human cunt. I had given him the most hateful
of glares and stuck out my tongue.

He laughed. “That’s the spirit! On occasion you act so human.
Sometimes I quite forget.”

“I don’t want you to forget.”

“Why do you say so?”

“I want you to love me for myself, my soul, not my outward form
whatever it takes.”

“Huh! Beauty is only skin deep as they say. Is that what you mean?
Are you sure you want to go down that thorny trail?”

My feelings were hurt, still an odd sensation, and I didn’t yet know
when to stop. “Perhaps.”

Jacob knitted his brow. “Why on Earth do you want me to love you?
Don’t answer that. I know you are just following orders and will say
anything to get inside my head.” His expression had changed, from mild
curiosity to utter contempt.

“I wonder you can bring yourself to lie with me if that is what you
believe.”

Jacob shrugged. “A man has urges. I can’t control the call, the
quickening of the blood, or deny the demanding reality of my hard cock. That
body you have stolen, killed for, I should say, would get a rise out of any
man — alive or dead! Your human covering is just an empty vessel, somewhere
to dump my seed.” He glared at me, his eyes as hard as flint, and I
saw the hatred behind them. Then they softened. “Ah, don’t do
that.”

He wiped the tear away with his thumb. The gentle action broke the dam, and
there followed a flood.

“Ah, my Goblin Girl… come here!” He held me close, his
heart thudding in his chest, his warm breath upon my cheek. “I’m
a beast too. There’s no denying it.”

Later, after he’d ploughed my furrow once again and jetted more seed
into my human cunt, he held me tight. “Why?” he asked after a
few moments.

“Why what?”

His gaze took in my quivering form. “All this. Why did you give up
your natural body for this human one? Marjorie was so in love with hers
she’d do anything to get it back, even murder and treason. Why are you
lot not attached to your form?”

He was referring to Marjorie, a nascent witch whose body had been taken
from its grave and later adopted. Her soul found sanctuary in Cressida
Troy’s mind until Mon Ilson enabled her to return to her body for
helping Cressida kill the human scientist, Fleur Cumberland. Now Marjorie
was our most powerful agent on Earth.

Jacob had thumped his naked chest. “My attachment to this weak and
breakable frame was so strong it allowed me to survive after my soul had
been wrenched away.” He took my chin between thumb and forefinger.
“You chose to do this,” he continued, forcing me to justify
myself. “Why?”

Why indeed? “I do not regret it.”

“I’ve noticed, and that’s what I don’t understand.
Have you all been mesmerised by Mon Ilson to deny your love of your natural
form?”

“I have not!”

“Then why? I want to understand. It’s no small thing to give up
your body, no matter how grotesque it is.”

“We do not see ourselves so,” I countered.

His brow furrowed with incomprehension. “Then why? You could fly, for
God’s sake!”

“It is hard to express. It is too easy to say, as many will, I did it
because Mon Ilson commanded it. Those words are just a public display of
loyalty. As wonderful achievements as our cities are, the selfish reason is
we are heartily sick of existing underground. We want to live under a wide
blue sky rather than a roof of stone, feel fragrant wind on our cheeks
rather than a sterile breeze from a fan, to bask in the summer sun and have
our faces tanned, impossible under cold artificial light. We want to swim in
the ocean and feel mud squish between our toes. We want to make love, to
feel a kiss and take pleasure in it, to quiver with a soft caress, and be
overwhelmed by the glorious sensations of making love.”

 

About the Author

Aussie Mikala Ash used to be a mild-mannered training & development
consultant by day, and a wild sci-fi and paranormal adventure writer by
night. Now she is a brazen full-time writer and nature photographer who is
concentrating on having among other things, “… bags, and bags
of fun!” Mikala can be found on Facebook and on Twitter.

 

Author on Facebook

Author on Twitter

 

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok:
@changelingpress

 

Preorder Today

 

RABT Book Tours & PR

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Cressida’s Agents Teaser Tuesday

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Steampunk

Date to be Published: June 7, 2024

Publisher: Changeling Press

 


 

 

Replete with all the trappings of an alternate world — airships, steam
powered aircraft, automatons, moon bases, and witches with psychic powers —
Cressida’s Agents is a steamy thrill-a-minute ride in a universe of
what could have been.

Cressida Troy, after being mesmerised into betraying humanity, is now the
wife of Mon Ilson, the alien leader, and is crowned Empress of Space. While
pretending to be the love of his long-life, Cressida is desperately seeking
a way to redeem herself, and somehow save human civilization from
destruction at his hands. Then her former fiancé, Jacob, is captured
and brought to the moon. Can she earn back his love, or has her seeming
betrayal hurt him too much?

Meanwhile on Earth, Marjorie, in the guise of brothel madam and casino
owner is acting as an agent of Mon Ilson. Her goal is to learn from him the
secret of immortality, and for now she must do his bidding. A violent
assassination attempt on her airship Fortuna brings her into the strong arms
of handsome Squadron Leader, Sir Christopher “Kit” Colby. Her
attempt to uncover the mastermind behind the plot leads them both into
deadly danger.

 

Cressida's Agents tablet

 

Excerpt

 

Bauble-like, the Earth shone down on ash-hued desolation, embarrassing the
barren scene with exuberant fecundity. Patches of white lace speckled the
deep blue of the oceans and brushed the rich ochre of North Africa. Above
was Europe and, if I squinted my eyes, I fancied I could see my island home,
the lush green of England.

My breast ached with a fervent yearning.

My husband, Mon Ilson, the self-anointed Emperor of Space, drew me closer
and kissed my neck. “It will all be ours, my love.”

“When?”

“In due time, my darling.” He pulled me to him, and I snuggled
against his muscular chest. “Do you miss it so?”

I thought a moment and shook my head. “Not when I am with
you.”

His lips brushed my earlobe. “We will return soon. I promise. Our
plans advance by the day. Once again you will walk upon the green grass and
feel fresh air upon your cheeks.”

I turned my head and returned his kiss, deepening it, allowing the stirring
in my quim to mask the confusion of my thoughts. As homesick as I was, did I
really want to go back? Could I conquer my guilt? I feared that with the
first step the grass beneath my feet would turn to cinders as dead as the
lunar dust.

Much had happened to me in the year since I’d left the world of my
birth. I was no longer the same woman, the naive and selfish Cressida Troy
who’d been fooled into betraying humanity. That silly girl had become
Nil Ilson, Empress of Space, wife to Mon Ilson, and co-leader of the
Lunarians. I was no longer responsible only for myself. Thousands now
depended upon me, be they hideous goblins, or those who’d
“adopted” human bodies.

In the deepest recesses of my mind, where I was safe from mental probing, I
knew that I’d been possessed, mesmerised into being a traitor to
humanity, deceiving my fiancé, Jacob McLeary, and then killing the
two greatest threats to Mon Ilson’s plans, Fleur and Horatio
Cumberland.

The problem was only the agent of my apparent treachery knew that. The
spirit of a murdered girl, Marjorie Gilbert. She had taken over my mind and
had deluded me into believing I loved Mon Ilson, and deceived him into
believing it too. She’d also tricked him into giving her advanced
knowledge of witchcraft. My anger at her was tempered by the realisation she
had not done this to me out of maliciousness, but so she could regain her
body which had been stolen by Mon Ilson’s goblins. Because she loved
me, Marjorie had confessed this, and passed on all the magical powers and
knowledge Mon Ilson had given her, including the ability to hide my deepest
thoughts.

That was the past. I had committed myself to saving humanity from
enslavement at my husband’s hands. How I would accomplish this I did
not know. I was impatient. Biding my time waiting for an opportunity to
present itself was both frustrating and dangerous. Not only could I be
discovered, but I ran the greater risk of letting my growing love for Mon
Ilson blind me to the chance if it arose, and then could I bring myself to
exploit it? That I had come to love him no longer surprised me. Over the
last year I’d learned his dreams, ruled alongside him, and shared his
bed. I’d seen firsthand what an extraordinary and charismatic man he
was, and in other circumstances I would have unreservedly given him my heart
and soul. However, those benign conditions did not exist. The reality was
Mon Ilson was a murderer.

A moan escaped my lips as Mon Ilson caressed a hardening nipple. We were
lying on a couch in the top deck of the royal barge, he behind me, with one
leg draped over my hip. In the crease of my posterior his cock
stirred.

I wiggled against him. “Make love to me,” I murmured.

“That was my intention.”

My husband deftly lifted the hem of my robe and pressed the swollen head of
his cock against my quim. He gently nudged apart the moist lips and
effortlessly slid inside. With a slight adjustment of his hips the tip of
his cock touched that especially sensitive flesh on the roof of my cunny.
Pure pleasure flooded my system.

Mon Ilson was over a thousand years old, and with countless sexual liaisons
behind him he had developed techniques that ensured a woman’s complete
satisfaction, and men too. He used sexual magic to bond his people to him
after he transferred their spirits from their goblin bodies into the vacant
husks of murdered humans, a process they termed Adoption.

When Marjorie had occupied my mind she would stimulate my senses from the
inside, maximising my pleasure, and bonding me even more tightly to Mon
Ilson’s influence, and made him even more convinced of his devotion to
me. He had been trapped in Marjorie’s web of deceit just as tightly as
I had. His hold over his people was not just through sexual magic, but the
promise of eternal life. Only he could give them that. Only he could
transfer their goblin souls into human bodies. That was why Marjorie stayed
his servant, hoping to learn the trick. Though she had possessed me, she
didn’t know how. That was the one secret Mon Ilson did not share with
her. Marjorie wanted so much to live, over and over again, that she would do
anything for him.

Now that she was gone from my mind, my physical reactions to his lovemaking
were under my control. To overcome my natural aversion to him — a murdering
megalomaniac goblin in a human body — I used magic to bury my repugnance,
project lustful thoughts, and intensify my physical reactions.

“Fuck me harder,” I encouraged him.

His technique, with my magic, quickly filled my body with the pulsating
energy that took me to the precipice of climax, a cliff edge from which I
gladly launched myself, and was lifted like a skyrocket to an explosive
culmination.

My response caused him to reach his own conclusion, and he filled me with
his copious essence. He wanted children, and my tardiness to provide the
gift was, from his perspective, the only negative aspect in our
relationship. Not that he put any pressure on me — he loved me too much,
but I’d felt his need. The reality was that any unnecessary delay
would need to be explained and defended. I knew of no reason to defer the
inevitable any longer. Though I had control of my fertility, when and by
whom I became pregnant, it was not something I expected to enjoy despite my
intention to use magic to remove the more onerous aspects that plague many
women. At most it would be awkward. Being with child might give me the
leverage I needed to control Mon Ilson’s ambitions and hopefully
mitigate the worst excesses of the invasion, if not avoid it
completely.

My husband’s kisses became more fervent, and he resumed his lusty
thrusts. He used his own magic to remain hard, and he fucked me to another
shattering climax. Another glut of his seed filled me to overflowing, and
those fireworks exploded in my head once more. We lay in each other’s
arms, his cock still rigid, while our ragged breathing slowly returned to
normal.

“My Lord,” Gloria said diffidently. While we recovered, she had
waited by the bed, head bowed, her hands clasped before her shaven quim.
Gloria had befriended me after I’d been first kidnapped. She was
blonde, with caramel eyes, and a deliciously curved mouth. Like all Lunarian
women who’d adopted a human body, Gloria was not only beautiful with a
spectacular bosom and narrow waist, but she was also obsessed with sex. I
gave her a smile, and she nodded acknowledgement. “Nil Ilson, I am so
sorry to interrupt. The humans have sent a vessel beyond the
atmosphere.”

Mon Ilson sat up. “Have they really?”

 

About the Author

Aussie Mikala Ash used to be a mild-mannered training & development
consultant by day, and a wild sci-fi and paranormal adventure writer by
night. Now she is a brazen full-time writer and nature photographer who is
concentrating on having among other things, “… bags, and bags
of fun!” Mikala can be found on Facebook and on Twitter.

 

Contact Links

Author on Facebook

Author on Twitter

 

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok:
@changelingpress

 

Preorder Today

 

 

RABT Book Tours & PR

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Cressida’s Moon Teaser

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A Steam and Spells Steampunk Christmas Adventure

 

Empire of the Sky, Book 1

 

Steampunk Murder Mystery Romance

Date Published: December 22, 2023

Publisher: Changeling Press

 

 

History got it wrong. The first live human made it to the moon just before
Christmas, 1865. Her name was Cressida Troy.

An assignation in a moonlit graveyard begins a perilous and sensual journey
for plucky Cressida as she and her lovers track down an alien plot to
conquer Earth.

Rocket ships to the moon, body snatchers, ghosts, aliens, romance, and
illicit erotic congress — Cressida’s Moon has it all.

Cressida's Moon black tablet

Excerpt

Copyright ©2023 Mikala Ash

 

I was a bluestocking, eight and twenty years of age, and teaching at Mrs.
Nolan’s School for the Poor in a small village in Shropshire when I
met Jacob. I had been orphaned before ever knowing my parents. A typhoid
outbreak in the year of our Queen’s ascension to the throne took them
both away. I was raised by my childless uncle and aunt, he an infirm veteran
of the Peninsular Wars, and she a charwoman. We lived in a small cottage
just five minutes away from Mrs. Nolan. Though poor, I couldn’t have
wished for a better upbringing. Aunt Jenny cleaned for the school, and it
was through this stroke of luck that I had a place to learn, and then
somewhere to work.

My aunt took in lodgers to augment her meagre wages. There was a succession
of spinsters and widows, before Jacob McLeary, a fellow teacher at the
school, came to stay. Jacob was a tall handsome man, sandy-haired, with
bright azure eyes, and a fine blond moustache over his sensuous lips. When
he smiled, which was often, the hint of dimples appeared in his cheeks at
the ends of that moustache, and when he laughed, rarer but more affecting to
the observer, the intimations were confirmed, and magnetically caught and
held the gaze. He was eight years my senior, but his easy manner, quick
sense of the ridiculous, and high intelligence captured my lonely heart the
moment he was introduced. Though I had all but given up on the thought of
love, I was besotted, and my innocent, but strangely feverish dreams were
all of him.

Alas, he was a recent widower, and in deep mourning. His wife had been
consumptive and had lingered in a nursing home on the south coast to where
the majority of Jacob’s money had gone to maintain her in some
comfort. I would occasionally catch him gazing at her image in the gold
locket he kept in his waistcoat pocket, his eyes glistening with incipient
tears. Once a month, if his finances allowed, he would leave us for a
weekend to visit her grave and was always very quiet and reflective upon his
return. My heart broke for him.

When my uncle followed his dear wife to the grave, I inherited the tiny
cottage, and despite the misgivings of Mrs. Nolan, that two of her unmarried
staff shared the same roof with no chaperone, Jacob continued to rent the
upstairs room next to mine. While we shared a bed at night, we maintained
separate bedrooms so as not to arouse the suspicions of the charwoman. Every
morning he’d swap the pillows and disarrange the blankets and sheets
of his narrow cot.

What Mrs. Nolan didn’t know was that by then Jacob and I were secret
lovers. I won’t go over the hesitant and protracted beginnings of our
affair, except to say it was I who initiated and progressed it. Jacob was
the reluctant party. Betraying his wife’s memory did not come
easily.

That I had no similar scruples should bother me, I suppose. My moral
judgement was impaired, obviously. I was raw, selfish, and madly in love.
Now I am ashamed, I must admit, of the strategies I employed to lead him
into his sometimes-crippling self-imposed dishonour. Subtle flirting in the
beginning, followed by overt sweet-talking, then the staging of intimate
scenarios that I blush to recall.

Our first kiss was everything I dreamed of. The soft warmth of his lips,
the hesitant pressure, his surge of passion surprising me when his tongue
forced my lips apart to explore my mouth in a most urgent fashion that
hinted at long suppressed desire. His soft caresses set my flesh aflame, and
inside I felt a sultry heat that echoed my feverish dreams, and his first
touch of that sensitive little nub between my secret lips committed me to
the roiling flames of passion. I can still remember in exquisite detail the
explosion of stars in my head, and wave after wave of prickly heat that
flowed through my entire body, leaving me shaking at the knees, and
clutching him so tightly lest I fall.

Jacob taught me some of the crude names given to male and female genitalia,
and I must admit to becoming somewhat flagrant in using those slang terms
instead of the boring old vagina and penis of the medical publications. My
private place, as my aunt had referred to my cunny, had a variety of
bemusing names: tulip, quimmy, quimbo, horse-collar, poke-hole, nursery,
love-trap and cock-trap, pleasure pit, flaps, clam, buttonhole, and
Cupid’s furrow, as well as the more familiar curses: cunt, and twat.
We had many a laugh over these, as well as those for the male member: dick,
doodle, ploughshare, trouser serpent, poker, broomstick, sword, Adam’s
dagger, and the buttonhole worker, among countless others. Jacob had
garnered these from certain salacious publications he’d purchased to
assist him in his loneliness.

Aunt and Uncle were still alive then, and we took to making long walks in
the twilight. Those twisted amblings would eventually take us to the old
cemetery where privacy was assured beneath the yews. We’d kiss, and
he’d lay his coat on the ground between the ancient headstones, and
there we would make love.

Oh, how glorious those times were. I learned so much about the breadth of
sensations my body could experience. He played my body as if it were a
musical instrument, extracting so many types of sighs, building into a
spectrum of moans, groans, and high-pitched cries of release, culminating in
whimpers of breathless dissolution.

Jacob taught me how responsive my nipples were to the gentlest touch, and
how they ached for the next stroke, lick, and suck. How his breath on my
neck and throat made my innermost walls throb and moisten. Soft kisses from
my breasts to my pelvis sent quivers of expectation along every nerve and
cell.

He was always considerate of my comfort and pleasure, and ensured I would
experience a breathtaking release before he asserted his own desire with
careful penetration. He never spent his lust inside me, fearing to worsen my
dishonour with a child. Instead, after I had reached the pinnacle of
pleasure and found release, he would withdraw, and his marvellous rod of
steel would pulse and jump, firing pearly drops across my quaking
belly.

Habits are difficult to break. While we were free to make love at home, we
also enjoyed our walks in the parkland surrounding the church, and it was on
one such tryst that under a full moon we sat on a crumbling stone burial
vault sacred to the memory of Ebenezer Boyse and his devoted wife Maryanne,
who had both departed this life in 1722:

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.”

Jacob’s head was hidden beneath my skirts, his face between my spread
thighs, his agile tongue alternating between licking the labial flaps,
spearing deep inside my quim, or teasing my clitoris. I was leaning back on
my hands, lost in sensation, staring blankly at the silver orb hanging in
the sky. My rising excitement inevitably led to a hysterical paroxysm, as
the medical books termed it, and I moaned like a madwoman, and shuddered in
convulsions of ecstasy.

Cressida's Moon tablet

About the Author

Aussie Mikala Ash used to be a mild-mannered training & development
consultant by day, and a wild sci-fi and paranormal adventure writer by
night. Now she is a brazen full-time writer and nature photographer who is
concentrating on having among other things, “… bags, and bags
of fun!” Mikala can be found on Facebook and on Twitter.

 

Contact Links

Author on Facebook

Author on Twitter

 

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok:
@changelingpress

 

Preorder Today

 

 

RABT Book Tours & PR

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Dolly’s Ruse Teaser Tuesday

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Dolly's Ruse cover

(Sisters Three)

Steampunk, Murder Mystery, Romantic Suspense

Date Published: Oct 20, 2023

 

London is under attack!

At Allenby Hall the net tightens around Dolly Preston and her gentleman
friend, Pascal Baudelaire. Lies abound. Who can she trust?

The chaos in the heart of the empire requires Agent of the Queen, the
predatory Miss Clayton, to make an ultimatum. The snowstorm ends, and Molly,
caring for the wounded Mr. Allenby, is in for a shocking disappointment as
events reveal the truth behind the Lewellen murder.

While London burns, Polly risks her new relationship with the honourable
Tom Gold by revealing her extreme carnal desires. The three Preston sisters
deal with the threat to their family’s future in their own inimitable
styles, but will they succeed?

 

Dolly's Ruse tablet

EXCERPT

 

Copyright ©2023 Mikala Ash

 

I cleared a circle on the fogged glass and peered out at a vast sheet of
white: the snowbound grounds of Allenby Hall. Above the distant ice-shrouded
trees, the pale outline of the sun was visible through thin, leaden clouds.
It was a beautiful scene worthy of any Christmas postcard, but for all that
it was a cruel deceit. The picturesque vista cloaked a deadly reality, for a
fathom of snow entombed the landscape and smothered the helpless creatures
beneath. That was my melancholy state. I felt trapped, unable to extricate
myself from a suffocating fate.

Instead, I should have been happy, or at the very least satisfied. The
fornication, my stock in trade, had been as unrelenting as the snowfall.
Indeed, during the last week all my lusty holes had been filled countless
times over.

“At last,” I murmured. “It has finally
stopped.”

“Come back to bed,” Anthony Jamieson implored.
“It’s too bloody cold to be out. The fire in the hearth has
died, but not the furnace in my heart.” He chuckled at his saucy
wit.

“My heart is incandescent with desire,” added Mathew, not one
to be outdone by his twin brother. “My cock is harder than an oak and
is impatient for your attention. Lying in such a state next to my brother
is, however, unbecoming in a gentleman of my manly nature.”

Though my quim pulsed with lust, I ignored their bantering. The Jamieson
twins, impecunious younger sons, were customers of long standing. Having
found me at Mrs. Q’s bawdy house, they often and enthusiastically
indulged their love of sodomy, my particular speciality, whenever they were
in funds, and were as generous as they could be. They had even invited me to
move from Mrs. Q’s to rooms in the fashionable West End, where I would
be theirs exclusively, their own private whore. My objections had simply
been financial — they would not be able to afford both the rent and the
extra they gave me to pass onto my impoverished Mama and my two half-sisters
Holly and Lolly. My and my full sisters’ goal was to get them out of
the Whitechapel slum in which they lived, and away to the country. Then I
had a flash of inspiration, and suggested the twins invite a third gentlemen
into the scheme to defray the costs.

Anthony interrupted my recollections. “I’m afraid our rampant
displays of lust have scared away your Frenchman, Dolly.”

He referred to that third gentleman, Pascal Baudelaire. He had come into my
life on a search for my sister, Molly, because of her nascent relationship
with an engineer, Mr. Lewellen, who had been brutally murdered. Molly had
stumbled upon the poor man. The fiend James Polk, who had minutes before
found the dying man, watched from the shadows, and had mistakenly believed
Lewellen had told her something as she comforted him in his last moments.
That mistake had set off a tumultuous couple of weeks, replete with gruesome
murders, violent kidnappings, daring robberies, and shootings with a roiling
undercurrent of espionage. Hardly the usual fare of an East End whore or toy
manufacturer, which was Pascal’s family business. He too had shared
our adventure by being kidnapped and losing a finger to the maniac’s
knife.

Pascal also enjoyed the depths of my arse, and I had brought him to Allenby
Hall while I visited my sister who was recovering from that same ordeal. The
twins, friends of Mr. Allenby, had unexpectedly shown up just in time to be
caught by the snowstorm.

With the intention of making the twins’ plan a reality I introduced
Pascal to the joys of group copulation, and the idea of sharing the cost of
the rooms which the Jamiesons proposed. He had been cautious at first but
had soon given himself up to the novelty of enjoying my holes in the company
of others, a new experience for him. He quickly agreed to the proposal so
when he visited London, he could use me with the two Jamiesons, rather than
the untold hundreds who visited me at Mrs. Q’s. His contribution would
allow the twins to finance my plan of relocating Mama. All that planning,
unfortunately, would be for naught. It wouldn’t be possible because of
that bitch, Miss Clayton.

“Though the bed is large, I think Pascal was afraid of accidently
touching my impressive member,” Mathew added with a mischievous
chuckle. “He should realise that I have eyes only for you,
Dolly.”

“I rather think, after our latest debauch,” Anthony mused
drowsily. “He has retreated to his own room to recuperate before Dolly
once again roused him into action. He is an impressive stallion, I must
admit.”

That he was. I sighed, feeling his future departure most keenly. Not from
this bed, but from my life entirely. A surge of guilt rushed though me. I
hadn’t told the twins of the disaster that had befallen me and Pascal
— that he would be soon leaving England, never to return. They would have
to give up the idea, and I would lose any chance of escaping Mrs. Q and
saving Mama.

Our sojourn here in Molly’s employer’s country estate had not
been all fun and games, hugs and kisses and inevitable bedroom antics. Our
stay had been overshadowed by the consequences of the Lewellen murder in
London, and the unexpected appearance of two Agents of the Queen, the
catlike Miss Clayton and her equally predatory Miss Felicity Cressy.

They suspected Pascal of being a foreign agent attempting to steal military
secrets from Mr. Allenby’s factory. Miss Clayton had ordered me to spy
on him, a repellent task which I’d soon whispered to him under the
bedclothes. Despite the cost of ending my dream, I’d begged Pascal to
leave England as soon the snowstorms had relinquished their bitter hold. He
resented the need, having protested his innocence, but had agreed, albeit
reluctantly, that the more distance between him and Miss Clayton the
better.

Feet padded behind me as one of the twins grabbed me by the waist, lifted
my silk bathrobe, and with his feet and knees he pushed my legs apart so his
determined cock could find my semen-filled cunny. Our debauchery had caused
us to run out of Cumberland prophylactics, which meant yet another douche
with Mrs. Q’s secret potion.

He draped a blanket over both our shoulders to keep us warm while he fucked
me. Was it Anthony or Mathew? I couldn’t tell. They were truly
identical in every respect, even to the size of their manly organ. The only
way to tell Mathew from his brother was to insert my finger in his arsehole
while he fucked me. He didn’t enjoy it, while his brother did. Whoever
it was, his thrusts were urgent and powerful, and I soon rested my forehead
against the cold pane and lost myself to his plundering.

 

About the Author

Aussie Mikala Ash used to be a mild-mannered training & development
consultant by day, and a wild sci-fi and paranormal adventure writer by
night. Now she is a brazen full-time writer and nature photographer who is
concentrating on having among other things, “… bags, and bags
of fun!” Mikala can be found on Facebook and on Twitter.

Author on Facebook

 

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok:
@changelingpress

 

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Polly’s Gold Teaser Tuesday

Polly's Gold banner

 

Polly's Gold cover

(Sisters Three 2): A Stream and Spells Steampunk Adventure

 

Historical / Steampunk / Romance

Date Published: 08/04/2023

Publisher: Changeling Press LLC

 

The consequences of the Lewellen murder continue to plague the Preston
sisters. Polly braves an ice storm to recover the bag of gold sovereigns she
dropped from the airship and falls into the hands of desperate fugitives.
Molly the factory girl is taken to the country estate of her employer Mr.
Allenby, who is showing more than gentlemanly interest, and Dolly the
wagtail follows with her lusty client Pascal Baudelaire in tow.

Why are the mysterious and threatening Agents of the Queen, Miss Clayton
and Miss Cressy, snooping about? When the Jamieson twins show up out of the
blue to proposition Molly, the green-eyed monster threatens Pascal’s
equilibrium.

Mayhem follows the sisters as they seek to disentangle themselves from the
mystery and gain their freedom from the dangerous streets of London. Their
future depends on the money, but will Polly accept that gold doesn’t always
come in the shape of coins?

 

 

EXCERPT

 

Copyright ©2023 Mikala Ash

Polly’s Gold (Sisters Three 2)

 

The lighted windows of Gravesend lay far behind me. Ahead the ice storm had
transformed the marshes into a dark frozen wasteland.

I too had been transformed. That realisation diverted me from the pain of
frozen limbs, and the despair that threatened to unhinge me.

Who was I before?

Just a few days ago I’d been a daughter, a sister, mistress of the
Golden Bell pub, and known throughout London’s East End as the Bell
Gang leader’s moll, “Queen of the Bells,” or less
generously: Bill’s cunt.

Who had I become?

I’m still a daughter and sister, but events over the last few days,
much like an unexpected storm from the North sweeping all before it, have
altered my state in the world and within myself too. Bill had been brutally
murdered, and I was alone, with no protection in the savage world of the
docklands. By avenging Bill’s murder, I’d become a killer, a
vicious one at that. Since departing the pub without a word, I was probably
mistress of the Golden Bell no longer, and the new leader of the gang, Isiah
Spike, a nasty weasel-faced sod if ever there was one, wouldn’t
countenance my absence, and would punish me for it, if he ever got the
chance. Lastly by trudging through this freezing wilderness, I’d
turned treasure hunter.

Thanks to the late hour, and the driving sleet, the road out of Gravesend
was deserted. I’d been plodding along this forsaken stretch for a full
half hour after being deposited by a tiler’s dray at the end of
Norfolk Road. The wind howled, the icy rain pattered on my oilskin hood, and
the cold air rasped my throat. My nose was blocked and aching in the cold.
Except for my frozen face, Bill’s coat, hood and cape kept my body
dry, if not warm. Inside Bill’s wet and now ruined boots, my feet were
like numb blocks of wood. My complete costume, even down to the silk
drawers, were Bill’s. I’d decided a man would attract less
attention than a woman here on the southern reaches of the Thames and had
dressed accordingly.

The image of Bill’s mutilated body flooded my eyes with freezing
tears. He’d only been dead a few days, murdered and defiled by a fiend
in human form, a madman named James Polk. Bill, my lover and protector, had
been the ruthless leader of the Bell Gang, and with his death my position
was null and void. The pretenders to the throne had fought it out, and the
mollisher of the dead king was surplus to requirements, as they already had
their cunts ready to hand. My offer to continue running the pub with Hannah,
the cousin of Bill’s lieutenant, also dead by the same hand, was my
one chance of staying alive, at least for the next few days.

I’d taken my bloody revenge on Polk. Yet knowing Bill’s killer
was dead brought me no joy, just a cold hollowness in my chest. The chapter
that Bill occupied in my life had been closed so quickly, so emphatically,
I’d no time to mourn, and I expected my present task would simply
delay the final release of grief.

Just a few days ago, one by one, my sisters: Molly, the factory girl, Dolly
the wagtail, and I, had been kidnapped by the monster and his henchman.
We’d been held captive on an airship, and threatened with death to
reveal a secret we did not possess. In a desperate and savage fight
we’d overcome our abductors and found ourselves adrift in danger of
being lost. Luckily the River Police and marines in a military airship from
Shornemead Fort had rescued us before we had floated out to sea. I’d
been held at Scotland Yard for a day for prolonged and incessant
questioning. Inspector Astonberry knew we were lying about the real
circumstances of Polk’s death, but we stayed true to our story, though
it was a complete fiction. The inspector knew that Bill was up to his neck
in something that had led to his slaughter and, to his obvious chagrin, he
could not trip me up to discover what it was.

That was because I did not know. Bill had hidden a sack of gold sovereigns
from me, and when I discovered it he wouldn’t tell me where the money
had come from. That was out of character as he was usually so proud of his
little schemes. I suspected this had been what got him killed. But what had
he done for it, and who had paid him? Had it been a normal crime, so to
speak, such as burglary, or extortion? Or had he been, as the inspector
suspected, tied up in the traitorous buying of stolen secrets from the
Allenby factory? I didn’t know. Polk had taken Bill’s gold, and
I’d taken it back, and held it for a few minutes before making it
safe, or so I hoped.

I missed Bill so. My body ached for him…

 

About the Author

Aussie Mikala Ash used to be a mild-mannered training & development
consultant by day, and a wild sci-fi and paranormal adventure writer by
night. Now she is a brazen full-time writer and nature photographer who is
concentrating on having among other things, “… bags, and bags
of fun!” Mikala can be found on Facebook and on Twitter.

 

Author’s Instagram and Twitter: @ash_mikala

Author’s Facebook: @mikala.ash.9

 

Publisher on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram: @changelingpress

 

Preorder Today

 

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