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.
~M
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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
Blurb:
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.
Excerpt:
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.
Buy
link:
Bio:
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.
Twitter:
@VicyCross
Blog:
thevegetariancannibal.blogspot.com/
