Sapphic
Smut: Tales of Lesbian Lust
Edited by
Lucy
Felthouse and Kev 'Mitnik' Blisse
#sapphicsmut #erotica #anthology
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| Sapphic Smut: Tales of Lesbian Lust |
Blurb:
Light hearted, sexy Sapphic smut is the
theme of this erotic anthology, edited by Lucy Felthouse with assistance from
Kev ‘Mitnik’ Blisse.
From coffee shops to exotic Indian
adventures to cosy cabins in France, Sapphic Smut has it all. Fun with sugar,
naughty spankings, seductions by strangers, seductions by friends, cougars and
even a twist on a fairy tale abound in this exciting collection of lesbian
stories from erotica’s finest authors.
This delicious girl-on-girl anthology
contains stories from Lucy Felthouse, Kay Jaybee, Louisa Bacio, Sallyanne
Rogers, Vanessa de Sade, Tabitha Rayne and Elizabeth Coldwell.
Buy Links:
Amazon: http://mybook.to/sapphicsmut
Editor’s Facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/lucyfelthousewriter
Excerpt:
Alana really couldn’t believe how flat
Holland was. She’d been told by many people, but somehow, she still wasn’t
expecting a place that made Cambridgeshire look like the Peak District. Her
view from the train as she traveled from Schiphol airport to Amsterdam’s
Central Station was unimpeded. Not so much as hillock was visible.
And now, here she was, standing outside the
station with crowds milling around her. A mixture of tourists, business people
and natives. She herself was a combination of two of those groups—she was here
on business, but she’d deliberately extended her trip so she could spend a
couple of days exploring the city. She had a day either side of her meeting,
the boring part a filling to a sightseeing sandwich. Though, despite the boring
tag, the meeting definitely wasn’t a bad thing, it was an appointment to cross
the ts and dot the is on a very lucrative deal—certainly the trip was
worthwhile.
After watching the insanity for another
minute or so, she began to head away from the station, wheeling her small case
along with her. Already armed with a guidebook and a decent map, she knew where
she was going. Her map-reading skills were excellent, and she made the short
walk to her hotel in less than twenty minutes. Anywhere else, she’d have gotten
a cab, but it appeared they were a rare commodity in this city.
She’d checked in, dumped her bags and
freshened up within another ten minutes, and was back on the street.
An online acquaintance had sent her a bunch
of information for her trip—about the best museums, interesting things to see
that might not be in guidebooks, and details on transport. It appeared that
Amsterdam was unlike London, Paris and Rome, in as much as it had trams as its
preferred mode of transport, rather than underground trains. Only one Metro
line ran through the city, north-to-south. Everywhere else was utterly
dependent on trams, bikes and being on foot.
And fuck, there were a lot of bikes. They
zipped here, there and everywhere, not always staying where they were supposed
to be, it seemed. The slim Dutch people atop the bikes were oblivious, just
concentrating on getting where they were going.
Alana searched for the nearest tram stop,
and quickly discovered she needed to be on the other side of the road to head
in the right direction.
Crossing the road was a chore in itself. A
dice with death. She’d thought Rome’s motorists were insane, but at least they
were fairly predictable. Here, she was faced with crossing a road that held a cycle
path, a tram line and a lane for cars. Shifting down the pavement, she stood at
the conveniently placed crossing. It still didn’t make things much easier, but
at least she could mingle in with the crowd. Traffic was much more likely to
stop if it was going to hit a crowd of people than a single pedestrian. Right?
By some miracle, she reached the opposite
pavement unscathed—except for her nerves, which were shot—and approached the
tram stop. As if by magic, a tram arrived, and it was the correct number.
Things were looking up.
After a few minutes, she realized that
public transport in Amsterdam was nowhere near as easy to navigate as in the
other major cities she was familiar with. There, their Tube or Metro stations
always had plenty of large, unmissable signs telling you where you were.
Piccadilly Circus, Anvers, Piramide. Here, it seemed you were left to your own
devices. There were announcements on board the tram, but they were in Dutch—a
language which she knew very little of—incredibly muffled, and pretty much
drowned out by the sound of the tram’s motion and its passengers.
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