Several things happened since I first had the idea for this mini-anthology. First, I wrote my own story ‘Reunion Tour’ (excerpt below) in record time and immediately considered it my new favourite (amongst my own short stories.)
Then, I fell in love with the model on the cover, and used the image of the gorgeous woman as inspiration for a character in my novelette Piano Lessons (to be released in January.)
Around that time, cougars started to take over my life and I became obsessed with them on Facebook. And all of that was before I read the other authors’ (as usual: Erzabet Bishop, Laila Blake, Cheyenne Blue and Lucy Felthouse) contributions. Needless to say, after reading those, my cougar love reached even greater heights. I haven’t recovered yet. 😉
This brand new mini-anthology is out now. I believe I just made clear how much I love it. (I think we’ll need to do a sequel.)
Here’s the blurb:
Mature women are on the prowl in ‘Cougars’, Ladylit’s new collection of lusty lesbian tales in which older ladies seduce younger ones… or the other way around. An ageing rock star has it bad for the singer of the latest hit band in Harper Bliss’s ‘Reunion Tour’. In Cheyenne Blue’s ‘Gorgon and Goat’ cheese plays its part in bringing two women together, while in Laila Blake’s ‘The Girl Next Door’ it’s a blackout in an apartment building that does the trick. Erzabet Bishop and Lucy Felthouse bring their usual light-heartedness to their stories of, respectively, an older airplane passenger in first class who has a young flight attendant all to herself, and a girl walking her dog who needs to return a stray pup she encounters on her path. ‘Cougars’ contains five mature tales of lesbian desire, in which gray strands of hair are a turn-on, and age and experience are celebrated, not ignored.
Caution: This title contains graphic language and mature f/f sex and is suitable for adults only.
And here’s an excerpt from my story ‘Reunion Tour’.
You’re a cocky little thing up there. The way you wriggle your ass—I can’t wait to stripe it with my belt. I watch you from the side of the stage. If this were a festival in Europe, my band would be headlining, but here in our home country, yours gets the number one spot. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t smart a little. I may have to take that out on you as well. It’s a win-win, really, the way you bat your lashes—your head twisted up to me—when my hand comes down on your flesh, always defying me to give more. And, when it comes to you, I never fail to have more to give.
You shimmy to the edge of the stage, lifting your arms high above your head, giving your fans—and me—a glimpse of your pale, taut belly and the little silver ring driven into the delicate skin above your belly-button.
“No one will know what it means,” I said when I arranged for Lisa to administer the piercing. “Only the two of us.” Now, every time you flash it, every single time you bare this glittering symbol of whatever we have between us for the world to see, something pierces me, too. A wave of something I don’t wish to define washes over me. I’m old enough to recognize it instantly, but still foolish enough to deny it.
Because you drive me crazy, make me feel things I haven’t felt in years. Not even taking the stage again, after a nine year hiatus, flanked by Tommy and Matthew and Sam, my brothers in arms since 1981, affected me in the same way as the first time I saw that glint in your eyes. All it took was one glance, and I knew.
You flick your head to the right, momentarily pinning your eyes on me, and the whole motion thunders through me, leaves my panties drenched. Speaking of, you’re wearing a pair of mine underneath those leather trousers—the ones that hug your ass so sublimely I need to catch my breath every time you present your back to me on the stage.
“Please allow me to present to you the next big thing,” my manager said. “The Harriettes.” You were obviously their leader, the way you hung back a bit—the way I learned to do all those years ago—to allow the others to shine during moments of lesser importance, like being introduced to a band long past its prime.
“Oh my god,” your bass player giggled. “We are such huge fans. You are our biggest inspiration.” It sounded a bit rehearsed, what with her not even being born yet the year we broke through. You appeared smarter, more composed, shrouded in that cool sort of silence that no one can take issue with.
When we shook hands, though, I detected the slightest hint of sweat on your palm, and when you met my gaze, I knew. I’m old enough to know.
You take your first of many faux-modest bows. After five months on the road, I know your routine by heart. I can only imagine the adrenalin coursing through your blood right now. Not that it doesn’t still happen to me, but the years have taken away the highest highs. I’ve learned to put it all into perspective more, to see the long-run—the end game. But I hope you’re enjoying this moment, because it truly is glorious. Unencumbered by self-consciousness, lifted up by the incessant roar of the thousands of people in front of you, that one moment you sang and strutted your ass off for the past forty-five minutes. The higher your high, the more you’ll want me after.
Yes, I ♥ Cougars! I hope you do too.