The Toymakers Guild X-rating

Lisabet Sarai is joining us today to share a glimpse of her novel The Toymakers Guild:

The Complete Series

Welcome Lisabet

Clockwork and Concupiscence

I've always felt an affinity for the Victorian period. I was wearing high-necked blouses with cameos, long flowing skirts, and lace-up boots in my teens, long before they were fashionable. (The corsets came later...!) With my long hair parted in the middle and pulled back into a bun, I could well have been one of the heroines in the books I loved so much.

I was also a science geek from my earliest days. I received my first microscope when I was five, and my first chemistry set at seven. I entered every science fair. In seventh grade, I won grand prize on a televised science quiz show.

So it’s hardly surprising I’ve become a devotee of steam punk. I've been in love with this strange meld of science fiction and Victoriana for as long as I can remember – long before steam punk even had a name.  When I was in high school, I devoured H.G. Wells and H. Rider Haggard, and shared a Sherlock Holmes obsession with my dad. Later, I marveled at Neal Stephenson's The Diamond Age and more recently, I discovered Gordon Dahlquist's incredible The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters. 

I've written a number of steam punk short stories for anthologies, as well as a full length novel, Rajasthani Moon. All these tales, though, were set in Asia rather than in the British Isles. I think I was afraid I’d make errors my UK readers would notice if I tried setting a story in Queen Victoria’s home country. In my steam punk trilogy The Toymakers Guild I finally bit the bullet and wrote an English steam punk novel. I had a lot of help with details from my critique group at the Erotica Readers & Writers Association, but of course I take responsibility for any residual mistakes.

I just hope you’ll find the story so exciting, you won’t notice them!

Blurb

At Randerley Hall, lust is a lubricant to creativity. Nothing is impossible. Nothing is forbidden.

Defying the repressive morality of the Victorian era, the Toymakers Guild uses advanced technology to fabricate bespoke sexual devices for the discrete pleasure of select clients. Its members are not only brilliant engineers but also sexual renegades seeking freedom from the prudish society that surrounds them.

Nineteen-year-old prodigy Gillian Smith arrives at Randerley to apply for an apprenticeship in the Guild. With her technical abilities and her lascivious temperament, she is eminently suited to join the Master Toymaker’s close-knit band of uninhibited erotic artisans. Gillian flourishes among the Toymakers, designing and implementing ever-more-outrageous carnal contraptions. Each voluptuous commission she completes, each sensual adventure she enjoys, binds her more tightly to the Guild and to the perverse, tortured genius who is its founder.

If you like brilliant, wanton women and kinky steam punk sex toys, dive into the alternate universe of the The Toymakers Guild.

Excerpt

Gillian remained where Rawlings had set her down, emotionally exhausted and utterly confused. She’d always been proud of her rationality and her practicality. Other young women might be changeable, flighty, swayed by impulse and sentiment, but she, Gillian Smith, was as steady and single-minded as any man. The afternoon’s events had thoroughly shattered her illusions about her own nature. Never would she have believed that she could threaten a man with castration, yet in the heat of rage, she’d not only made the threat but come perilously close to carrying it out.

Then there was her visceral reaction to Rawlings – a rough, common man who lacked even the rudiments of the social graces – the exact opposite of the elegant and cultured Sébastien. His powerful physicality affected her in new ways. The arousal his presence kindled had little resemblance to her playful lust for her fellow apprentices or her kinky yearning for the journeyman. There was no subtlety to this desire. He wanted her. She wanted him. There was nothing more to be said.

She knew she’d surrender the instant he returned. He’d walk into the stables and scatter her pretensions to the four winds.

Where was he, though? He’d been gone for a half hour, easily. Was the prisoner giving him trouble? Or had he been mocking her, bringing her to the edge then leaving her dangling? Was he watching now, chuckling at the way he’d duped the hungry little lass from the big house?

“Jill.”

His voice was so soft that if the horses had not been still, she would not have heard him. He must have entered from the carriage house. He stood in the shadows, untouched by the rays of the waning sun.

She bolted to her feet and ran into his burly arms, glorying in the strength she found there. Without the slightest hesitation, he ran his hands over her body in the most brazen and familiar way imaginable. He didn’t ask permission. He knew none was required. She offered him all of herself and he took it as his due.

In no time, it seemed, he’d peeled off her lab coat and tossed it away. He pawed her naked breasts and squeezed her buttocks with obvious delight. Every few minutes, he recaptured her mouth in one of his fierce, unsophisticated kisses. When he placed his hand on her head and pressed down, she knew what he wanted. Sinking to her knees in the dirty straw, she addressed herself to the buttons of his homespun trousers.

He wore no undergarments. No sooner had she undone his flies than his cock sprang out, thick and meaty as some country sausage. The veined trunk strained toward her, the slick ruddy knob stretching his foreskin taut. She breathed in the intoxicating, unwashed smell that emanated from the wiry tangles at the root. Saliva gathered in her mouth as she stared at the glorious, intimidating evidence of his lust.

She didn’t hesitate. Quite the contrary, she lunged forward, engulfing him, trying to accommodate his entire unbelievable length. In truth, she could not take in more than half, but his groan told her he was happy with that, at least for the moment. As he started to move, she struggled to open wider and accept more. For a while he acceded to her futile attempts. Then he wove his fingers into her hair and held her in place while he pushed into her throat, deeper and deeper with each penetration.

Gillian started to choke. Rawlings backed off, long enough for her to suck new air into her lungs, then resumed his relentless thrusting. He tasted strange, earthy and bitter. She didn’t mind, not in the least. All her senses combined to drive her into a state of feverish arousal. The rigid heat of his invading prick, the pressure of his fingers against her scalp, his rhythmic grunts as he ravaged her mouth, the straw pricking her shins, the warm stink of the horses, the faint hoot of a train in the distance – every sensation brought her closer to cataclysmic release.

Little by little, she adapted to his vigorous incursions. Finally, she managed to swallow him to the very root. He stilled. Her nose buried in his fragrant pubic fur, she sucked hard, eager to learn the flavour of his spend. His shaft jerked against her tongue, signalling his imminent crisis. Triumphant, she increased her suction. She wanted to worship his maleness, to drink every drop of his jism, to be nothing more than the receptacle for his lust.

Instead, he pulled out from her bruised lips and dragged her to her feet. “Nay, lass. This first time, I’ll spend in your cunny.” He twirled her around and draped her face down across a conveniently stored saddle. “Bend over.”

In fact, he didn’t need to say a word. Gillian understood what he wanted, as clearly as if she’d read his mind. She leaned forward, clutching the saddle horn for balance, spread her legs and pushed out her bum. He slid one fat finger into her quim to gauge her wetness and chuckled at her gasp of delight. “In faith, yer a randy wench.”

About Lisabet
 
Lisabet Sarai became addicted to words at an early age. She began reading when she was four. She wrote her first story at five years old and her first poem at seven. Since then, she has written plays, tutorials, scholarly articles, marketing brochures, software specifications, self-help books, press releases, a five-hundred page dissertation, and lots of erotica and erotic romance – over one hundred titles, and counting, in nearly every sub-genre—paranormal, scifi, ménage, BDSM, GLBT, and more. Regardless of the genre, every one of her stories illustrates her motto: Imagination is the ultimate aphrodisiac.
 
You’ll find information and excerpts from all Lisabet’s books on her website (http://www.lisabetsarai.com/books.html), along with more than fifty free stories and lots more. At her blog Beyond Romance (http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com), she shares her philosophy and her news and hosts lots of other great authors. She’s also on Goodreads, BookBub and Twitter. Join her VIP email list here: https://btn.ymlp.com/xgjjhmhugmgh

Buy Links

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