Wednesday, June 15, 2016

Brexit Ho-Hum

Alexander Crown, link.

She suggested I kiss her.
I laughed.
She pushed a small handgun to my neck.
"Kiss me now," she said.
I snickered.
She jammed the barrel of the gun deep in my neck. Since I only have one neck and didn't want a hole in it, I kissed her on the cheek.

"Mudderfucker," she said, and pressed the gun harder to my neck. "Kiss me on the lips. You know how to pucker don't you?"
"I know how to pucker," I grumbled.
"Kiss me or become inexorably dead," she snickered.

Inexorably dead to me meant that my death was impossible to stop, or prevent, and she is the one with the handgun.

I knew how to pucker my lips and plant a kiss, and I felt her demand to kiss her was inextricably crazy. I puckered, pushed my lips toward her but didn't feel the spongy, warm wetness I had expected when our lips touched. Our lips didn't actually touch. When I opened my eyes I was kissing the cold, hard barrel of her small handgun.

I expected to feel empty and heartbroken, but instead I felt inextricably alive. Well, not dead but almost dead since the handgun was now pointed down my throat.

"Just kidding," she screamed with laughter. "Now give me the diamond and emerald necklace Michelangelo made or a bullet will spin down your throat and exit from your asshole."

I slowly pulled the necklace from my inner jacket pocket, moving slowly and showing the blue-eyed, blonde-haired lovely woman that I respected her demand and wasn't a threat to her well-being, I snapped her wrist with the felt bag holding the necklace and her handgun flew from her hand. It landed on the cement ten feet to the side. Since the park in London was empty I thought about Brexit, and then I grabber her by the arm and dragged her to the gun. I let her go and pointed at the gun on the ground. She cringed and rubber her wrist.

"Pick it up," I said.

She stepped away from me, cocked her head like a puppy trying to understand human language. She knelt down. Just when her hand grabbed at the gun I kicked it away. She jumped after it and fell on her side. I stepped over her and picked up the gun, examined it and then threw it in the river. I picked up the pretty Parisian, shoved her against the wall, wrapped one leg around it and planted the biggest kiss on her lips, one that nibbled and bit her to where it almost drew blood.

When I pulled away she said, "Fuck you, do that again and I'll have you killed within twelve hours."

"Promises-promises," I said, and kissed her again. She wrapped her hands around my shoulders and pulled me into her. I resisted then relented. "Do that again and I'll see the day after you try to have me killed. She pulled me in and kissed me this time.

Ah, Paris, there's no where else in the world where romance can threaten you with death and excite you with life simultaneously.

Alexander Crown, link.


Wednesday, June 8, 2016

UK Crown

Alexander Crown, link.

Is he or is he not a philanthropist? Perhaps he's still a mercenary. Alexander Crown reeks havoc in the global gem industry, in the global artist industry and in the world known as Special Interests fugitive.

Is his real name Alexander Crown?

Alexander Crown, link.

Monday, June 6, 2016

Unified Graphics

Alexander Crown, link to amazon.

Time is double-edged. Every day brings the idea that we should live life to its fullest; travel, dine, and achieve a host of neglected ambitions. But, part of the cruelty of living is death. The idea of death limits your time. It also limits your energy, vastly reducing the amount you can squeeze into a day.

When you come to one of the many moments in life where you must give an account of yourself, provide a ledger of what you have been, and done, and meant to the world, do not discount that you don't hunger for more, and then you salivate for more resets in your life when you were not satisfied and want to correct the wrong you've done. In this time, right now, all that is an enormous thing, don't you think?

Sitting at a table outside at the Grand National Hotel my contact arrived. She was gorgeous, of course, they all were gorgeous, and wanting, not needing to wear the diamond and emerald gold necklace Michelangelo designed and crafted over five hundred years ago. What gorgeous woman wouldn't want to own and wear the fabulous yet crude necklace even if the woman isn't that gorgeous. The necklace alone would make an ugly woman gorgeous.

I'm surprisingly humble and unfiltered, and sometimes funny. My course in life begins with a classic crossroads moment. At twenty-four years old, backpacking through Europe and Africa as a Special Forces Black Ops guy, wrestling with life’s Great Questions, I decide to take an unconventional path toward my future. Rather than work for a big corporation, like the U.S. or other Governments, I did something on my own after I'd quit Black Ops missions. I did something new, dynamic, different. I took terrifying risks along the way, many with crushing setbacks. I got entangled with ruthless competitors, countless doubters and haters and hostile killers—as well as experiencing many thrilling triumphs with narrow escapes. Above all, I'd formed relationships around the world, perhaps its a group of misfits and savants who quickly became a band of swoosh-crazed friends and supporters of mine, but nonetheless they're my friends.

That's not all.

The gal that arrived sat at my table outside the Grand national Hotel today wanted to seduce me, but business had to be conducted first. She resembled the pretty American actress Renee Zellweger, you know, the one that played the roll of Bridget Jones in Bridget Jones diary? Anyway, not that sexual seduction doesn't take priority, it does many times, yet today, I was inclined to conduct business first, while I ignored the restaurant commotion surrounding us.

Ten thousand U.S. for the necklace, I said.
I have the money in this paper bag as you requested, she said.

With long, slender and manicured fingers she tapped the bag she dumped on the small, round table. I first looked at the bag than her face. Her face was French, her accent British. Her demeanor was pleasant, her attire a blue off-the-shoulder floral-print sheath dress from Neiman Marcus, New York. I knew a fake British accent when I heard one. I also new a rip-off dress when I saw one, but her dress was a Neiman Marcus, NY, and her accent was fake.

I was told you were French and not British. You're fake accent gives you away, I said.
Qui vous dit que j’étais Français? she asked in her native language, her fingers still tapping on the paper bag and her eyes looking devious in a pretty sort of way.
You know who he is, I said, the man that set up this meeting, Mr. Yen.
She nodded. Her next five words were English with a French accent. May I see the necklace.

I pulled the small black felt bag from within my brown leather jacket pocket. I pushed toward her across the short distance of the small table. When I reached for the paper bag of money she jerked it away and placed it on her lap.

After opening the felt bag she pulled the necklace out, held it up, extended it in mid-air level with her examining gray eyes and blinked several time. Only a few gemologists could tell that this Michelangelo necklace was real or fake. She slipped the gorgeous diamonds and emeralds set in gold, back into the felt bag.

Do you have another? she asked.
I stood up, pushing my chair away. Sorry?
This is fake. Do you have the authentic one?
You just held the authentic one in your hand.
I took the felt bag and put it back in my jacket pocket. Apparently you don't want it. I'm depart now go you can wallow in your sorrow for passing up the beautiful authentic Michelangelo necklace.
Don't go, she said. God, I love her French accent. Here is the cash like you demanded. I'll take the necklace now.
She pushed the paper bag across the table. I looked at it but didn't touch it.
No thank you, I said. Try to trick me once but not twice. Goodbye Ms. Boucher. Oh, by the way, your last name translates in English to butcher,  a person who slaughters animals than dresses their flesh for sale.
In one motion her right hand was a flash that pulled a handgun from her purse and shot at me. The loud register drew everybody's attention. I slipped to the side unharmed. Restaurant customer screamed, a few dashed away, a few crawled under their tables. A couple of servers ran into the restaurant. I kicked the gun from Ms. Boucher's hand. She fell onto her chair, stunned, and started crying.
What the fuck was that? I yelled. Get the hell out of here before the police arrive.
She jumped up and ran down the sidewalk.
I caught up with her, grabbed her arm and led her around the corner. She protested when I slammed her against the building wall, pinning her arms against it. Whipping her head back and forth she tried to knee me in the groin. I let her go and stepped back, letting her have breathing room.
What the fuck was that about? I repeated.
That was me being sloppy and stupid, she yelled, her French accent twitching against my groin where I started getting an erection.
I threw the paper bag of money at her. She snatched it up and pulled it to her bosom.
Next time you want something, try not to kill the messenger.
Her eyes softened. She dropped the paper bag to the cement. None of this is real, is it? There's no money in the bag. It's just paper.
I nodded. She took my arm and started pulling me down the block.
Let's go to your hotel, she said. I need you to have sex with you. I need you to fuck me.
Fine with me, I said, stepping beside her. As long as you don't try to kill me or steal the necklace.
What fun is that, she said, and we both laughed.

Alexander Crown, link to amazon.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B004H4XGN8

Tuesday, May 31, 2016

Rio Olympic Graphics


Love in Rio


Christian Love, Book 2


By Tessa Blade

The second erotic adventure featuring

Christian Love

Handsomely flawed, refreshingly hot, effortlessly skilled and sex-citing, this Christian Love book 2 is completely open and unashamed. You are erotically invited to partake.

Copyright © 2015 by Tessa Blade

ISBN-13: 978-1508650058

ISBN-10: 1508650055

ASIN eBook: B00U1LAZ6C

Fiction / Erotica

Content warning: This novel contains naughty language, explicit sex, personal empowerment, scorching seduction, and it is fashionably pornographic with insights about life in a frolicking adventure of lust. Love in Rio is not for readers that are offended by sexual fantasy and sexual behavior. The content could be considered unsuitable for readers 17 years of age and under, and which may be offensive to some readers of all ages.





Christian Love


 “I LIVE my life by how much my vagina quivers,” the feverish voice hissed above my head.


If I hadn’t stayed one night at the Hilton near the Logan International Airport in Boston, the opportunity to have China Jennings fuck my brains out would have been a ninja fantasy.


Her shift at the Hilton’s front desk ended at 10 p.m. She was in my room by 10:15, in the shower by 10:25 and sitting on my face at 10:35.


“I can’t take too much more of this,” China whispered. “Yet, multiple climaxes are my specialty.”
Midnight in Paris by Woody Allen was playing on the television. I wouldn’t have noticed except the volume was up and my favorite scene of walking with Adriana around Paris took my attention. The evening was passionate with conversation about the arts, socializing and relationships, the points of interests I was obsessed about. Jesus, what was I thinking? Gorgeous China Jennings is fucking my brains out and I’m listening and trying to catch a glimpse of the television playing fucking Midnight in Paris.
China moved forward and was now humping her tender, swollen vaginal lips over my extended tongue. When she ran her fingers through my hair and pulled my mouth and nose into her opened pussy I almost asphyxiated, gulped some air and didn’t protest. How often does a man get this close to a delicious pussy, its soft, wet, spongy opening massaging his face? Not often.
She was my kind of sexual deviate, just like Midnight in Paris was my kind of romantic, comedy-fantasy. Could I have both simultaneously? You bet, and it was all happening at this moment.
I’d decided that China’s Victoria’s Secrets yummy body could sit on my face anytime she wanted in the future. Her delectable brown eyes drifted over me and her mouthwatering lips were more than a substitute for tasty, sweet Skyy vodka, they were scrumptious appetizers, while she gyrated, moaned, and yelped fuck me, fuck me deep and all the way. Please come inside my pussy. Come all over my pussy man of my dreams, and she jammed down around my dick all the way so hard several times I thought it would poke through the top of her head. How could I come inside her when she was sitting on my face?
She took my face between her palms and guided my lips, where my tongue slicked back and forth and up and down then slithering, lapping up and digging into her wet cock-buster hairy doughnut. For a few reasons I liked a hairy snatch. It’s pleasant to the eyes, offers comfort and is a natural part of the female persuasion.
The voracious China Jennings above me swiveled her hips like a Bollywood dancer. She cooed like a pigeon while I continued to eat her out, my mind a drifting halo of enjoyment.
Her heated voice fizzed again. “If your aroma wasn’t irresistibly forbidden, Mr. Love, I wouldn’t be exploring your face. I’d be at home spooning down strawberry Greek yogurt.”
Being chosen over yogurt was astonishing, and of course I was privileged that China chose my hot, aromatic body and not a sweet creamy yummy from her refrigerator to satisfy her appetite.
She wasn’t good at hushing her alto cries as she grabbed my hair and tried to stuff my entire face into her honey pot. Her bottom trembled, shaking like a mini earthquake. “Now, now, now,” she quietly cried. Then her voice turned into an operatic sonata of, “my god, oh my god, eat me, harder, harder, right there, yes, yes and yes.”
I thought perhaps her multiplicity climaxes would last forever, but they each lasted about fifteen seconds. I was short of breath by the time she released my head and it fell against the soft pillow.
I gripped her wrists and was happy she released my cheeks and moved her muff and sat on my chest. Bottom heat washed over me like waves of fire. Her hands released flames when she reached behind her and grabbed my penis, yanking him up and down like a pump handle.
“I can’t believe you’re so good,” China said. “Getting relevant cunnilingus is challenging.”
“You did all the work,” I said.
“I did, right? Your penis is a steel girder and I have to get it inside me.”
On her knees she scooted backward on the bed. Her sexual fire pierced my entire body. She dipped her mouth over my wanger, swirling her tongue around the shaft and nibbling on the tip of the head, as if tasting a simmering sauce.
I threw her a condom. “Put this on.”
She took the metallic packet and stripped it open. Her fingertips slid the condom down to my core. She lifted her head and the sexiest face I’d ever seen came into view. I thanked God for Salma Hayek’s resemblance.
I could have never overlooked inviting this beauty to my hotel room. If she refused, I’d have set up a future date with her. But she didn’t refuse. She was naked on top of me and I cupped her medium size boobs with my palms. They were perky and flexible like balloons filled with hot water.
Nibbling on a woman’s neck and biting her pits were my fixed sexual rules for when I’d be on top of her, and I wouldn’t neglect performing them on China Jennings.
Walking one hand of fingers up my abdomen, stalling and puckering a lip kiss at me had me whimpering for more excessive man-handling. I was her manipulative puppet for whatever she desired. If her desire included a finger up my ass or my big toe inside her pussy, so be it. I was ready for any kind of deviate sexual adventure.
To me she was an Annie Liebovitz photo-op at this precise moment. I’d have to dismiss taking her photo however how much I needed to photograph her disheveled appearance. The facial composition, lighting and colors were all tuned to perfection. Ears and eyes were nonexistent underneath the tousled hair. Just those pouty glossed lips and button nose with heated cherry cheeks were discernible by low shadows on her left side from the table bed lamp.
I wanted to love her so bad and I wanted to fuck her so bad my gonads ached all the way up to my throat. I gulped air and snapped a mental image of Chine’s face for when sex wasn’t available and I’d have to masturbate.
Fucking China’s brains out wasn’t actually a given for me, and making her feel loved would always be the better choice. What woman or man didn’t want to feel they were loved, especially in the sexual arena where love can be secondary to a man’s needs?
She was in command at this moment and I was under her spell on this flash-love, yet I couldn’t let the moments slip away. I had to fulfill my desire to not just make her feel loved by me. This was my calling to justify us loving each other first if just for a minute, and then fucking each other second if just for the next fifteen minutes.
Lowering her bottom over my rigid piece of flesh, it plunged inside of China Jennings half-way. I gulped again and groaned. She stalled for a second, her face lit with a notion. She squatted all the way down and sat still for a few seconds. Her hips were forward and her anus rested on my balls, the heat of which if ignited would boil my vat of sperm.
Her hips were forward and her anus rested on my balls, the heat of which if ignited would boil my vat of sperm.
Our laughter filled the room while our smiling eyes were glued to each other. She closed her eyelids and swished her hips back and forth like she was vacuuming a short carpet, the tightness and deepness and silky texture around my penis was so irresistible that I took her hands in mine and drove deeper inside her, feeling her dead-end but wanting to go deeper, needing to saturate her entire life.
Wanting more, I sat up and China wrapped her arms around my neck. In one swift movement I lifted her up, twirled her sideways and settled her underneath me, missionary style. Struggling slightly with my weight on top of her, she spread her legs and wrapped them over my hips.
What an excellent water slide.
“You’re too much,” China giggled.
“Am I too much as in too big or too much as in aggressive?”
“Neither,” she cooed, “I’m way more sexual with you than I’ve ever been with my two ex-boyfriends.”
“How much more sexual are you with me?”
“That’s over the top sexual, Christian Love. My boyfriends were aggravating sex partners and I’ll never be able to get enough sex from you.”
She’s wholeheartedly opened up, so I slowly dove inside her all the way to my uncouth whimpering and her silly giggles. I knew that she had succumbed to my desire when she pulled her knees up and wrapped her legs over my shoulders.
Taking her silky calves in my hands she let me push her flexible legs parallel with her torso. I was now tactically the deepest I could go inside her, my penis head swaddled against her soft uterus and her swollen vaginal lips rubbing against the sides of my tight testicles, which I was hoping they would slip inside her tight vagina but no way Jose.
“Nail me, Mr. Love,” she murmured. “Take it home.”     
What else better to do than to nail her and take her home? I nibbled on the back side of he left calf, nibbled on her left armpit, squeezed her left tit in my palm and slithered my tongue in circles on her hardened nipple. I thrust in and out of her like a fucking machine, a robot on automatic pilot, humping and dipping my fleshy appendage into her deep, pink socket sugar basin.
Primed with full effort, I let loose, my sperm a steady stream, my shuddering less tangible than emotional raptures. I squirmed and yelped, “Oh my god,” and spurted again and again.
China laughed and gyrated, shot her legs down beside me, wrapped her arms around my back, thrust and crushed her hips against mine, cramming and wedging and mixing our hot lives together like cake and icing.
Relieving my weight off her by rising on my forearms, I nibbled on her nipples, brushed my lips across hers and winked at her satisfied face.
“That was too much,” China said, and bit my ear. “I can’t think of a better way to end a work day and you don’t owe me anything.”
Sliding off and lying beside her, I bit my tongue and thought about how I was to reply to not owing her anything.
She heard my sigh, rolled sideways, put one leg over mine and propped herself up on one elbow. Her fingertips walked around my hot face.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” she said, and kissed me on the cheek. “I meant it like a perfect fuck to end a long workday. I had no choice but to fuck you, Christian Love. Your delicious scent attracted me. After I realized how desirable you were I had no choice but to do you.”
“I knew what you meant,” I said, and kissed her lips. “You really had a choice.”
“No, I didn’t,” she said, and looked at the red readout on the clock on the bed table.
Her eyes drifted to mine as if to say, midnight is an excellent time to end our one-night-stand. Neither of us expected her to spend the night with me in a hotel room where she worked.
She dressed and I watched and pondered whether China Jennings would have given me the time of day if it wasn’t for my pheromones. My answer was yes, she would have, but not in a sexually driven manner.
After buttoning her white blouse, she pulled up her black skirt and gripped the adjoining room doorknob while she slid on her black heels. She watched me as I watched her with admiring eyes.
When she returned from the bathroom a few minutes later and her straight shoulder-length brunette hair settled, her lips were highlighted with gloss and her brown eyes were aglow with a judicious decision.
She sat on the edge of my bed. “Thank you for all the affection, and thank you, thank you, thank you for the best sexual experience I’ve ever had.”
I took her hands and kissed them. Her pretty face followed my lips. She brushed one hand against my cheek.
“I’m on my way to Rio de Janeiro,” I said. “I’d like to see you again when I return if you’re still single.”
“Who said I was single,” she said. “Listen, we all have fetishes and mine for tonight was you. We did each other so let’s leave it at that.”
I sat up. “You’re kidding me, right? You mean we’re done.”
She stood up and walked to the door, opened it and turned her head toward me. “We’re done for now, Christian Love.”
The door automatically closed behind her. The last scene of Midnight in Paris had ended on the television. I jumped up from the bed, turned off the TV and went to the curtains. I pulled them apart and stood naked in front of large window.
The full moon was clear and the parking lot was crowded. What better way to anticipate my departure to Rio de Janeiro than to fuck and be fucked in return with my favorite movie playing in the background?


Sunday, May 29, 2016

Cambridge Graphics


We talked about a lot of things over the past half hour, how she was an English and biology major at Cambridge. We also talked about her love of writing and reading. Her wry, gentle smile with lots of mischief played tricks with my mind.

It was much more than falling in love with the intricacies of her body, much more than the satisfaction of listening to her sweet voice, it was love and empathy for her future that worried me. I was about to kill her and she knew it. It was either kill or be killed and she was about to kill me. The small handgun in her right hand needed to be fired at close range at my face to kill me.

I wonder if she found this funny; she telling me about her most cherished desires, me listening and paying attention to her body-language, thinking about how I was going to wrestle the gun from her hand, drag her down the street to my hotel, throw her into my room and fuck her brains out. Year I wrote that; fuck her brains out. Of course fucking would have to be consensual between me.

But, the thought of screwing her left a bad taste in my mouth, something like a zinc bar. But, what a set of delicious lips, shoulders, hips and legs. The necklace she wanted from me was designed and constructed my Michelangelo over five hundred years ago, and for what do you think he designed it for? An Italian woman just like the one sitting across from me at this sidewalk in Rome. Michelangelo's babe must have had shapely lips, shoulders, hips and legs just like this beauty.

Sitting off to the side, listening to the sounds of Rome and her voice mingling, I went to an empty place in my brain, admiring the light, the silence and where I always find renewal; my skills as an x-mercenary turned philanthropist. I looked her handgun pointed at my face. It didn't bother me. I stood up, pushed back my wooden chair, looked around the sidewalk café at the twenty or so other patrons, smiled at the pretty woman, a perpetrator, threw threw10 Euros on the small table to pay for two coffees, turned my back and walked away, knowing she wouldn't shoot me in the back.

What a great, sunny day in Rome, Italy. Walking away from killing someone or being killed, is the best day in my life.



Sunday, May 22, 2016

Dancing Graphics



When money, drugs, greed, athletes, guns and complicated personalities converge anything can happen. When two artists pursue their dreams, fighting deceptive managers and belligerent hoodlums becomes a lifestyle.



Brent Lord lost the heavyweight title in the South West Bodybuilding Contest. Melinda McKay was fired from the LA Ballet Company. After a Las Vegas dance extravaganza they are embroiled in attempted murder that begins where money and revenge collide.


He was stabbed during competition and came within an inch of dying. She was accosted by madmen killers. In the heat of trouble they blindly undressed each other and gave in to their desires. That is when the real trouble begins.

Trilogy Graphics



An Alexander Crown novel, book 1


Hot men, spicy women and a family feud in war town Croatia. Love can make you crazy, family can make you delirious, and revenge can destroy everything you cherish.

Loyalty, duty, honor and love are the passions and poisons in this erotic pursuit for freedom and love, in a country culturally and politically repressed for decades.

Hot men, spicy women and a family feud changes everything in this war-torn Croatia.

Alexander Crown is the disruptive force inside of this thrilling environment, where soulful passion drives this dangerous triangle of love, despicable murder and search for peace in one country seeking democratic freedom.



“Vitruvian Man” description:

An Alexander Crown novel, book 2



Lusty women, passionate men, Alexander Crown’s instincts were his lifeline. Sexy, powerful, and far too attractive hotshot women tempt his heart. Passionate about those he loves, relentless when fighting for a cause, there is no case too difficult and no danger too brutal to accomplish his goals.

Crazy love for the children in his orphanage, crazy love for beautiful women, wealth and adventure, Alexander Crown thief, mercenary and philanthropist didn’t expect to be corralled by any one of his passions, until stunning Isabella Borghini braved his hunger and Afra Wodehouse endured his hotness.

Thievery is his arsenal, jewelry his targets. His heist at the Cannes Film Festival exposed a Renaissance discovery so profound the French Secret Service wants Alexander Crown dead. Iktar Stanktar intends to kill him. Isabella Berghini seeks redemption. Afra Wodehouse craves his love. The philanthropist only cares about the children in his orphanage.



Regeneration description:

An Alexander Crown novel, book 3



Ensnared with protecting his life-altering medical discovery, Alexander Crown finds himself colliding with forces of power and history, and unfortunately there is only one way out.

This unusual medical discovery inspires conspiracy and murder. Intelligent and talented women, tainted and devious men, this is the new life of Alexander Crown, mercenary turned philanthropist.
A brilliant thriller of deception, greed and murder, Regeneration is the new urban masterpiece of suspense and the new voice in the world of medical discovery and intellectual thrillers.