Ooooh we have something special for today! *evil grin* I have new author, Vicy Cross, here at Decadent Delights... and this is her first book. EVER!!! Y'all know what that means, right? We got ourselves a virgin! Whoot!
Okay, be gentle with her guys and please make her feel welcome. ;) We'll tell her about the chains and whips later lol.
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Hello everyone—thank you all for being here to pop my cherry! No, really. This is my first EVER guest blog post for my first EVER published novel. It is fitting we talk about virgins since the main character of my novel is a virgin nun (ha!) Unfortunately a lesbian tentacle monster pops her cherry, but I’m certain my first time with Decadent Delights won’t be as…um…bizarre.
So what is my erotic-horror novel, Tuesday Apocalypse, about? Well, there are sexy alien squids, handsome WWII soldiers, and lusty nuns…but what I’m really writing is about a reality that might have been. Horror and dystopian novels are great at stripping away the masks we wear. They ask the big questions and force us to think: “What If?” Fantasy and science fiction are popular genres for this reason. Even in erotica, there’s room for speculative fiction.
And yet I was warned by my beta-reader (who is a devout Catholic who graduated from the same Catholic school I did) not to push “too far” or probe “too deep” with this book. For the most part, I took her advice. Yes, some people might find the idea of eroticized nuns and closeted priests to be vulgar and offensive…but I hope those same people look beyond the sex to appreciate the larger question. What is more offensive? Repressing and persecuting others for their sexuality? Or is it better to allow people to live healthily as honest, sexual human beings? Of course I choose the latter, and I hope readers who read Tuesday Apocalypse agree on the same principle. J
Storm Moon Press just released my book last month, and I am so excited to make my debut as a real author! I’ve wanted to be an author my entire life. Thank you so much for hosting me at Decadent Delights! I hope you’ll have me again when my next book comes out! Blessed be and Namaste. J
In the war-weary year of 1940, just one rundown hospital survives London's collapse. Sister Barbara, a nun and volunteer nurse, inspires hope in her patients, but that faith is shaken when an unidentified aircraft explodes near the hospital. The half-eaten corpse beneath the mangled wreckage appears to corroborate the pilot's story that some sort of "tentacle-monster" attacked his plane. However, Sister Barbara pushes these dangers aside and plunges beyond the rubble when the man she loves disappears in the wastelands.
She discovers a bloodstained beauty in his place—but the girl's outward innocence hides a voracious sexual appetite, and an even more disturbing secret. One by one, the terrified patients vanish from their beds. Titillating tentacles lick the hospital walls at night. And the dreams, always the dreams, drawing Sister Barbara deeper into a well of madness. She suspects she and the other women at the hospital are transforming into something... unholy. Sister Barbara knows she must figure out what before the evil in their midst consumes them all.
In my dream, Mrs. Tuttle played the pipe organ in the cathedral. Her fingers assaulted the keys until the ivory was stained with blood. She played my favorite song, the hymn I sang to my mother before she died, “Nearer, My God, to Thee.” However, in Mrs. Tuttle’s version, the music sounded macabre—almost as if the organ was wailing in protest, begging her to stop!
I remember Mrs. Tuttle’s crazed smile even as her fingers turned to pulp on the keys. She did not stop playing even when the organ groaned and made that dreadful sound.
The ceiling trembled from the violent music. The stained glass rattled in the windows; I clenched my teeth and, when the pipe organ shrieked louder, I shook with fright.
Somehow I knew Mrs. Tuttle was deliberately desecrating my mother’s memory with this song. Then Robert was standing in the cathedral beside me. This time when he reached for my hand, I did not pull away. I was too distracted by Mrs. Tuttle and the vengeful organ to acknowledge his presence.
However, when Rob touched me, I gasped in pain. His skin felt so hot and angry! He seared my hand with his commanding caress and then drew me toward him before I could cry out in surprise.
I heard Mrs. Tuttle laugh hysterically above the thunderous music. The cathedral pulsed as if it had suddenly sprung to life! The old woman’s shrill cackling grated my eardrums and clogged my throat with panic.
I was reminded of my mother and the wilting violets I had placed on her nightstand. The delicate, blue petals shriveled, browned, and then dropped upon my mother’s pillow—killing her.
Rob wanted to keep me in his grasp, but, worried for my mother, I turned to shoot a desperate look over my shoulder.
To my horror, blood spilled from the organ, splattering onto the floor by Mrs. Tuttle’s feet. The old woman’s finger bones were just as white as the ivory keys she pounded on. She mashed her hands on the wounded organ and laughed like a demon. She seemed determined to destroy herself and the instrument.
The cathedral seemed to realize Mrs. Tuttle’s murderous intent, for the pipe organ suddenly rumbled with desperation and anger. The music sounded more violent than ever because I knew the organ was now fighting for its life!
I ran to stop Mrs. Tuttle and save the organ, but Rob yanked me back and tightened his grip around my arm. “You can’t save her, Sister Barbara,” he said. His fiery grasp burned my skin. “Look at me. Don’t ever pull away from me again.”
“But Robert—!” I cried, fighting back. I was so afraid!
Stained-glass windows shattered above our heads. The sharp glass studded the cathedral floor with a kaleidoscope of color while the organ bellowed and the ceiling thumped. But despite everything crumbling around us, only I seemed aware of it.
I tried to tell Rob about the organ and the glass beneath our feet, but he ignored me. His expression hardened and I couldn’t breathe when he reached forward and cupped my face in his hands.
Although he did this gently, his touch cauterized my skin. My heart leaped to my throat and I began to tremble.
He spoke just over a whisper. “Barbara…”
“Rob, I can’t,” I told him, my voice pleading, but he refused to hear me.
He brushed my mouth with the rough pad of his thumb and coaxed a dark moan from my lips. I was not even aware this deep, primal sound lurked in my own throat! And yet I could not stop myself from whimpering again when he caressed me.
“Barbara,” he said, repeating my name in that soft, intolerable way. I saw the quiet heat in his eyes and trembled much more violently.
My heart slammed against my rib cage, so hard, I thought my bones would break. The glass shards reflected all the sweet, angelic faces plastered around the cathedral: saints, virgins, and cherubs. Always smiling, crosses and lances in hand.
Then a sharp, sudden pain stabbed my breast. Golden light flashed beneath my eyelids as the pain dulled, spreading warmth and euphoria throughout my entire body.
I whimpered with pleasure, closing my hands round the celestial staff that had impaled my heart!
I thought of the Transverberation of St. Teresa of Avila and the hungry seraph who had repeatedly thrust the very light of God into her body. She described the experience as being both a physical union of pain and ecstasy. I had not fully understood St. Teresa’s writings until that moment He penetrated me too!
Liquid arousal scalded my thighs. When I opened my eyes, the golden light and the arrow disappeared, however my raw exhilaration did not. I realized my breathing had become short and erratic—I was blushing and I knew Rob could see it. I resisted the feverish impulse to press my body to his.
“I am a nun.” I spoke louder so he would hear me over the tormented organ. His face remained hard and unreadable, but he studied my mouth while he dragged his thumbnail across my bottom lip. I whimpered again. The pain in my breast grew.
Temptation commanded my aching loins; the seed had already sprouted inside me. My eyelids fluttered. I faltered and tried to find my voice. “I… I made an eternal vow to Christ to remain celibate. I am a virgin. And I am old enough to be your mother!”
That last bit was not true, of course, but I said it anyway to discourage him.
Rob just laughed. His pale blue eyes reflected the dizzying colors from the gleaming glass. “You are lying and I will prove it,” he said, wrapping his arm around my waist. He swept me against his hips and held my chin so I could not avert my face. “Kiss me, Barbara.”
The command made me shiver with wicked delight. But how could I possibly kiss him? Even though I knew I was dreaming, I knew that kissing Rob would be a sin. Squirming, I begged him to release me.
Mrs. Tuttle sang in a sharp, sarcastic voice: “Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee! E'en though it be a cross that raiseth me, still all my song shall be, nearer, my God, to Thee!”
The rafters thumped in rhythm to the song and I thought the cathedral would collapse and crush us. Again I tried to warn Rob about the danger we were in, but he ignored my pleas. He slapped his hand over my buttocks and forced me to grind against him.
His erection teased my inner thigh. It felt so hot and thick that I began to moan. My sex lusted for it.
I don’t think Rob heard the ground quake beneath our feet. I don’t even think he was aware of Mrs. Tuttle’s singing to us. He just flung me against the wall and, placing his arms on either side of me, caged me there.
“Stop—we can’t... I can’t…” My knees went weak and I gasped, “Please, don’t…”
“You are lying to me again.” I shook my head, but he ignored this. “You want me. I know you do.” His eyes burned like two live coals. “I’m making you mine whether you agree to it or not.”
I knew Rob would overpower me, but I put up a half-hearted offense anyway. The sad truth is that I wanted to kiss him. I wanted him to ravage me upon the brightly colored shards of glass, but I was also terrified.
Via Amazon: http://t.co/2DSUmOc8DU
Via Storm Moon Press (available in ebook and soft back): http://www.stormmoonpress.com/books/Tuesday-Apocalypse.aspx
Vicy Cross' obsession with weird began at an early age when she first devoured Edgar Allan Poe's, "The Tell-Tale Heart." Her love of gothic novels, geeky comic books, and literary fiction intensified until she graduated from college and decided to write creepy tales of her own. Horror, sci-fi/fantasy, and speculative fiction are Vicy's favorite indulgences, however she'll dabble in any genre where she can tell a good story.
Vicy survives the Texas heat with plenty of iced tea and the loving, wet kisses from her dog and boyfriend. In addition to writing full-time, she is a veg*n political activist, hoodoo witch, and empath. Autobiographies embarrass her.