Angora Shade

 

Angora

ANGORA SHADE’S AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY

Angora Shade is an American author living in what she lovingly refers to as “Sheep Shit Nowhere” Europe. In an attempt to add some spice to her small town life, Ms Shade began writing explicit erotica as a form of entertainment. Exploring the boundaries of acceptable sexual literature, she often seeks to create stories that not only entertain others, but also expose and push against the negative stigma surrounding sex in modern day society. She believes that sex, in literature, art, personal thought, and physical nature, should be celebrated and expressed freely and as easily as any God given freedom. Her favorite themes in writing include revenge, self discovery, alternative materials for love play/bdsm, as well as anything that produces a good tingle, sizzle, or laugh. When not writing, Ms Shade enjoys red wine, travel, dancing, classic cartoons, baking, and creating fine art.

ANGORA SHADE’S SOCIAL MEDIA LINKS

Angora Shade’s Twitter: https://twitter.com/AngoraShade

Angora Shade’s Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AngoraShadeAuthor

Angora Shade’s Amazon account: https://www.amazon.com/Angora-Shade/e/B00MD23Z3C

Angora Shade’s Blog account: http://angorashade.blogspot.com.au/

ANGORA SHADE’S BOOKS

thequeercollection

THE QUEER COLLECTION

A Blurb…

Four stories of gay and lesbian erotica and romance await you in this compilation of Angora Shade’s best short stories. There’s something for all tastes, ranging from sweet romance to hot and spicy encounters. From drive bars to city buses, military uniforms to theatre costumes, you’ll find it all in this exciting collection.

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The Queer Collection Amazon

CatGames

CAT GAMES

An Excerpt:

I hear the shower running and get up from bed. It’s getting to be that time when, like Rayne, I have to get ready for my nine a.m. class at the local university. Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I throw a robe around my bare shoulders and walk down the hall toward the kitchen to find some breakfast.

I stop when I see that Rayne has left the bathroom door open halfway, and steam from a hot shower is billowing over the threshold. Peering through the arm-sized crack, I see a naked silhouette—Rayne—standing erect and allowing the water to rush over her. Although her breasts are large, gravity doesn’t pull them too aggressively. Their round shape balanced and mimicked her full, tight ass. I hear her moan and watch her outline sway. A moment later I see her hands pull down over her face and grab at one of her breasts, while her other hand pushes down further, cupping her sex.

I unclench the hand that’s been holding the sides of my robe together. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. I’m instantly turned on, fed by the month of fantasies I’ve had about her. There had been several like this, where I was the voyeur, catching Rayne in a moment of human weakness… and I hope that in her mind she’s thinking about me. I take a hesitant step closer, tiptoeing over the floor, trying to restrain the thumping of my heart. My feet slide slightly against the cool, condensation covered floor tiles as I push the door open further and embrace the steamy air. I begin to sweat, but I’m not sure if it’s the warmth of the air or my own exited heat. Leaning against the open door frame, I feel myself licking my lips, and find my hand reaching toward the inside of my robe.

Rayne moans, an eerie sound that resonates inside me, furthering my arousal. I can’t see much more than simple movements and shapes past the clouded shower glass, but I envision Rayne’s elegant fingers busy massaging her clit and her smoothly shaved mound, with her warm wet flowing freely from her slit. I can hear her breathy vocalizations growing louder and echoing off the plastic shower wall as her hand moves faster and her legs separate farther apart to give her more freedom of movement. As if her mounting pleasure were my own, my heartbeat races faster and faster with each quickening pant Rayne makes.

I reach a hand down my torso and touch myself, navigating the wide space between the small mounds of my cleavage, over my navel, and the bump of my pubic mound, until my fingers push between the twin folds of my labia. I’ve quickly become wet as slick, summer heat. My own breathing is hard to control as I stimulate my clit with soft taps of my index finger, and I feel a deep ache growing—a need for release—in my gut as my eyes remain focused on Rayne.

If only my hand were hers.

I flex my vaginal muscles and slip an eager finger inside myself, squeezing my legs around my hand. I swallow the noises I wish to make; Rayne’s noises are getting me somewhere fast: her hand wraps around her midsection while her other hand moves between her legs, her head raising toward the showerhead, her voice becoming a series of sharp, high pitched gasps. Perhaps we’ll come together, but I make a mental note to be finished before she sees me watching. I push my back hard against the doorframe to support my weight as I lift my leg up and out to brace my foot against the other side. The wood creaks loudly and I freeze.

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Buy Links: https://www.amazon.com/Cat-Games-Angora-Shade-ebook/dp/B01MSWKT1T

NormalGirl

A NORMAL GIRL

An Excerpt:

“Cream makes me rabid,” she purrs at him, her voice low and controlled. She looks up at his face, watching for his reaction, feeling his lips clamp around her finger as she pulls it back out of his mouth completely clean.

Ryan adjusts his glasses again and flattens himself up against the wall of aprons as she pushes up against him. She deliberately pushes her bust into him, enjoying the wide-eyed and uncertain expression on his face. He barely opens his mouth in time as she forces her creampuff toward him, smearing a wide ring of white around his lips and cheeks. He chews and swallows what he manages to take into his mouth and then stands frozen, like a prey animal crossing the road, caught in headlights.

Beth laughs softly. “Oh dear, look what I’ve done.”

She pushes her hand against his chest and feels the hard outline of his pectoral muscles. She’s secretly pleased, thinking he must work out, and she digs her fingernails lightly into the cotton fabric of his white polo. Parting her lips, she rises up slightly on her tiptoes and slips her tongue between her teeth, taking a long, slow, labored lick from the corner of his mouth.

“I’ve made a clean spot,” she taunts as she comes to rest flat against the floor.

Pressing her perky breasts into him a bit harder, she rises up a second time, sliding against the resistance of their clothing and back to his face. She feels him shudder, and his arms twitch at his sides. She’s ecstatic; growing even wetter between her thighs, eagerly licking from the bottom of Ryan’s chin and up over his mouth. The quiver upon his lips sets her alight, and she can’t help but discard the creampuff to the floor and run her hands up over his shoulders. She hates kissing him so desperately but mentally shakes her impatience away, giving in to the moment completely.

Remaining cream smears across them both. Beth can taste it as her lips pucker and part, and then make contact again. She loves the way Ryan kisses her back, undisturbed by the sweet addition of cream sliding between them. It doesn’t even bother her how hesitant and nervous his kisses are. It’s just the way she likes it. A hesitant man knows his place. A hesitant man will do what he’s told.

Beth pulls back from Ryan’s lips and drags her hands from the tops of his shoulders, down his arms to his hands. Pulling him gently away from the wall, she moves backward toward the table. Feeling her lower buttocks bump the edge, she stops and brings Ryan’s hands up to her breasts. She feels him stiffen when his skin makes contact with the worn fabric of her apron, his palms easily swallowing her average bust. A slight push into them, she sighs and reaches out to grab his face.

“Bet-h-h…” he stutters into her mouth.

She spins Ryan around and kisses him with intense force. He stumbles, and Beth is pleased to hear a satisfying rumble as the heavy table behind them shifts a bit over the floor as he stumbles into it. Ryan’s arms instinctively reach behind himself and away from her in search of stability, irritating her. She smacks him hard across the face; angry his attention would waver over such an insignificant thing like balance. His glasses come askew, slipping down the bridge of his nose.

Ryan straightens up. Shocked to attention, he pushes his glasses back to their rightful position. Surprise burns equally in his eyes as on the abused skin of his cheek. He stares blankly at her a moment, and then looks down at his feet. “Beth, this—”

She breaks him off midsentence with a second slap across his other cheek. Harder this time, the action stings her hand, and seeing the flushing red of her force upon his skin causes tingles of lust in her nether region.

She sees his emotions flowing between confusion, frustration, and desire, causing her to lick her lips in greedy anticipation as she reaches to the table for another creampuff. Bringing it up to his mouth, she again forces him to take a bite.

Creampuff in his mouth or not, he stares at her, speechless. Clearly Ryan has no idea how to respond. She doesn’t blame him. She knows her looks are deceiving. Blonde, tan, and delicately boned like the traditional Baywatch beauty, she muses she’s transformed before his eyes from a deliciously attractive coworker into some crazed and famished hell kitten. Surely he’s never been struck before—at least not by a girl—and she secretly hopes he enjoys the sting on his face she continues to feel in her hand.

Ryan swallows the bite without taking his eyes from hers. Smiling at him, she reaches behind her head with her free hand and undoes the knot of her apron from around her neck. It falls to her waist, folding over at the bow upon her lower back, revealing a white cotton shirt with a low-dipping V-neck. Beth takes a bite of the creampuff and then squishes it flat against her exposed cleavage.

“Oops,” she says innocently, raising her eyebrows and drawing her lips together like a pouty child. “I’m dirty.”

She watches Ryan gulp. The air in the room feels electric with anticipation, almost supercharged with explosive energy. He stands stiff and immobile as she feels his erection push softly into her torso. In order to help ease his shyness, she takes charge again, reaching both her hands up to his face, removing his glasses and setting them onto the tabletop. His eyes wander with her movements but come back to her face as she pulls and guides his head with both her hands down to the sticky mess on her chest.

“Clean me up,” Beth commands.

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Buy Link:   https://www.amazon.com/Normal-Girl-Angora-Shade-ebook/dp/B01NCJIT

TheDragon'sGift

THE DRAGON’S GIFT

An Excerpt:

 The maintenance door creaks and suddenly slams shut. A cool draft accompanies the sound, rushing past my face and blowing my hair toward the back of my head. I feel a deep breath from Maxine at my back, and watch as the shadows from the paper lantern flicker abruptly as the candle inside protests before snuffing out. The darkness around us is complete, save for a sliver of light visible from underneath the door; and all the hair on my arms and the back of my neck stands on end.

 But I’m not afraid. I’m with my best friend. Here in the dark, under the stage—the might have, could have, should have—is finally happening.

I hear another hum in my ear, but it’s deeper and breathy like muted laughter. I add my own amusement into the dark as I embrace the moment, and push away the frightening thought of the closed door locking us inside. I can think of worse situations than finding myself trapped under a strage with a lover for an undeterminable amount of time….

Hands move upward over my arms and press lightly upon my shoulders. Guided down upon the floor, I feel its cool, rough surface contact my knees, and then my hands and rear as I sit down. I can’t help but feel nervous; I’ve dreamed of this happening for so long. I wipe my sweaty palms against my bare thighs and embrace Maxine’s midsection as she lowers me flat against the floor.

My heart flutters. This is really happening.

Another hum comes from inside Maxine’s costume. She takes my hands away from her body and lays them under her own. We drag our hands in unison down over my torso and bunch the fabric of my shirt together into fists. In a graceful movement, we’ve shimmied my shirt out from under my back, and discarded it over my head. The air is cool against my bare skin, but the contrast of Maxine’s warm touch flowing over me leaves behind a trail of sweet warmth.

Maxine’s heavy costume makes a soft thud next to me as she settles at my side, shucking my shoes from my feet and tossing them. My jeans, in a rumple around my ankles, quickly follow, and I reach out to her again with both hands. I grasp nothing but air, but the tinkle of her bells tells me she’s there.

Mouth; hot and wet.

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Buy Link:  https://www.amazon.com/Dragons-Gift-Angora-Shade-ebook/dp/B01MXXESUS

                CompatibleGardens

COMPATIBLE GARDENS

An Excerpt:

 Ms. Greencoat is moving.

Her legs, which had shuffled a bit back toward the middle of her seat, press together while her knees angle toward me like an arrow. Her fingers flex under the corner of her bag in my lap, and the back of her hand presses down into me with deliberate force. At first I think she must just be adjusting to the continuous weight of her bag pinning her hand in my lap, but then I question her intentions as things go further. Each bump in the heavily used city street seems to allow her a moment to defy gravity: all passengers bounce, their bags and purses bounce, rise into the air, allowing for Ms. Greencoat’s hand to twist, slightly turn, or roll, until her hand is palm down, leaving it to rest like it’s natural to grasp a high inner thigh.

But it’s not natural.

Each small motion of her rotation makes my body grow more still, and shivers run down my neck and spine. My breath is loud as I inhale through my nose, and each wave of air burns inside my chest. My stomach drops a little too—a motion my jaw mimics for a moment, but as Ms. Stinkeye catches my face, I close my mouth and swallow hard: pray for me Sister; wickedness knows no boundaries.

But is it the wickedness of Ms. Greencoat, or my mistake in thinking her intentions wicked?

Apparently, I’m just as wicked. I can’t utter a word to stop her because I don’t want her to.

A cold sweat begins to coat my back, as if it’s not enough to battle the heat growing continuously inside my gut and filling every vein from my navel down. It’s not enough to keep my clit from screaming a little lower, a little deeper, a little harder.

And it happens.

Is this happening?

My body becomes a statue—as if motion will alert Ms. Greencoat of what she’s doing, or alarm the others in my Stranger Game—as I feel light pressure from fragile digits press individually into my fall weather-appropriate leggings. The fabric is thin, and each tap feels like it has created a divot in my flesh, from the thumb on my outer thigh to the little finger moving in a labored lick over my perfectly groomed patch of nether hair. I think my flesh has burned on contact, cooking me from my outside layer all the way to my core. Something has a hold of me, and I feel it overflow and expel from my body in an excellent and exquisite flash I know will be sticking to my panties.

Ms. Greencoat is moving.

Her legs, which had shuffled a bit back toward the middle of her seat, press together while her knees angle toward me like an arrow. Her fingers flex under the corner of her bag in my lap, and the back of her hand presses down into me with deliberate force. At first I think she must just be adjusting to the continuous weight of her bag pinning her hand in my lap, but then I question her intentions as things go further. Each bump in the heavily used city street seems to allow her a moment to defy gravity: all passengers bounce, their bags and purses bounce, rise into the air, allowing for Ms. Greencoat’s hand to twist, slightly turn, or roll, until her hand is palm down, leaving it to rest like it’s natural to grasp a high inner thigh.

But it’s not natural.

Each small motion of her rotation makes my body grow more still, and shivers run down my neck and spine. My breath is loud as I inhale through my nose, and each wave of air burns inside my chest. My stomach drops a little too—a motion my jaw mimics for a moment, but as Ms. Stinkeye catches my face, I close my mouth and swallow hard: pray for me Sister; wickedness knows no boundaries.

But is it the wickedness of Ms. Greencoat, or my mistake in thinking her intentions wicked?

Apparently, I’m just as wicked. I can’t utter a word to stop her because I don’t want her to.

A cold sweat begins to coat my back, as if it’s not enough to battle the heat growing continuously inside my gut and filling every vein from my navel down. It’s not enough to keep my clit from screaming a little lower, a little deeper, a little harder.

And it happens.

Is this happening?

My body becomes a statue—as if motion will alert Ms. Greencoat of what she’s doing, or alarm the others in my Stranger Game—as I feel light pressure from fragile digits press individually into my fall weather-appropriate leggings. The fabric is thin, and each tap feels like it has created a divot in my flesh, from the thumb on my outer thigh to the little finger moving in a labored lick over my perfectly groomed patch of nether hair. I think my flesh has burned on contact, cooking me from my outside layer all the way to my core. Something has a hold of me, and I feel it overflow and expel from my body in an excellent and exquisite flash I know will be sticking to my panties.

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Buy Link: https://www.amazon.com/Compatible-Gardens-Angora-Shade-ebook/dp/B01MYYYVYP

                              TheEncounter

THE ENCOUNTER A Gay Erotic Story

An Excerpt:

 “Were you looking for me?”

His voice is deep and smooth, exaggerating every syllable. Suggestive in a friendly manner, it hits a core spot in me, and I feel a response from deep in my loins. It’s something primal—automatic—and I try to control the physical ache and longing to hear this voice again by gritting my teeth. I even forget the dirty, uncomfortable environment around me. There’s just the voice, the table, and the outline of hardened muscle.

The side door opens again, momentarily flooding the hall with light. The air around me shifts from its swing, and I catch a whiff of pleasant musk, making my brain foggy. It’s as if the man at the table knows all my triggers, everything I like, and has brought them to this place to torture me. His lips thin as he smiles at me, and a sparkle of green from his eyes fades away as the side door swings closed.

I clear my throat and look behind me where the employee went with his case of beer, but he doesn’t see us or doesn’t care we’re there. He quickly becomes a speck, entering the bar and disappearing into the dim glow and mass of unremarkable moving shapes.

I turn my attention back to the table, but there’s no one sitting there. Suddenly my stranger is standing so close that I can feel the heat from his body and the light press of his hard chest against my button-down shirt. I see him smile mischievously as my eyes adjust to the dark, and I’m taken a little aback as he takes both beers out of my hands and puts them on the table.

“I like this hallway,” he says, turning back to me and placing two hands directly upon me. His fingers flex over my pecs and the tips of his short nails dig playfully into my shirt. He pushes his body square against me, the movements of his breathing mimicking my own surprised and excited rhythm. Bringing his face closer to my ear, he speaks in a teasing whisper. “I prefer my company in the dark.”

I’m a little shocked at his bold and aggressive personality, but I like it. I hate how so many men I’ve been with have played the come-chase-me game, or the I’m-only-going-to-pretend-I’m-into-you thing. This guy is different—clear intentions. No games. No jokes.

No problem.

I’m about to introduce myself when he pushes me backward against the wall. I hit the brick with a genuine oof of both astonishment and force, and find my hands have shot out around his hard waist. His muscular abs flex under my thumbs, and I feel drowned by his intense gaze.

His breath falls warm against my face. “I think you want what I want.”

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Buy Link:   https://www.amazon.com/Encounter-Gay-Erotic-Story-ebook/dp/B01MQV8GFQ

APlaceofPermanence

A PLACE OF PERMANENCE

An Excerpt:

The strange, slightly older man had sat on the bench next to Jesse. He’d spread his legs wide and comfortably until they’d bumped him, as if bumping the knees of a stranger was an acceptable and common action. Antonio’s hands had folded together in his lap as he’d leaned forward, resting his elbows on his upper thighs. Jesse had watched with curiosity as Antonio’s mouth twitched from side to side as he’d looked appraisingly ahead through his thick, black-framed glasses, eventually using his left pointer finger to drive his point home.

“It is like a living thing,” he’d stated. The low timbre of his voice had startled Jesse; he’d spoken with definitive passion, yet his words were soft as air. His accent became thicker as he’d continued; his consonants sharp, his vowels loose, and his R’s rolling. “You can sit here on this bench and say, ‘It’s just a sculpture of relatively bland, cold, welded metal’, but…” He’d gripped Jesse’s hand, pulled him to his feet, and directed him to the object’s opposite side. “When you reposition yourself here…” He’d darted a few steps to the left and made a crouch close to the floor. “You see something different you hadn’t noticed before. Suddenly, the light flashes across the object in a new way, you see a reflection or shadow, and your mind forms shapes that may or may not actually exist.”

Jesse hadn’t looked at the sculpture as Antonio had spoken, but at his hand gestures, moving with graceful dexterity. Each step he’d taken around the mangled metal thing before them had been a seductive dance, a deliberate footfall—an artistic pattern in its own rite. Eventually, with each word Antonio had spoken, the less interesting the room, other spectators, and everything around him became, and the more fascinated Jesse became with Antonio. The sculpture had been his creation—a discarded bucket of junkyard leftovers—molded, soldered, and distorted into a concept of modern beauty. But it wasn’t only Antonio’s art that was interesting; it was his words, his power, his passion.

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Buy Link: https://www.amazon.com/Place-Permanence-Angora-Shade-ebook/dp/B01N2RT1R3

 

                                 

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