Sex in the great outdoors is the theme of this erotic anthology, edited by Victoria Blisse and Lucy Felthouse.
From the dramatic gritstone escarpments of Derbyshire’s Peak District, to a quiet caravan site in deepest Wales, Smut Alfresco has it all. Whatever your interpretation of frisky outdoor fun, there’s something nestling between the covers for you.
Sexy woodsmen, daring couples, rock stars, cougars, map enthusiasts, mattresses, ex-lovers, tour guides, hunky sheriffs and nature reserve rangers all appear in this hot collection of stories from erotica’s finest authors.
- See the anthology website for further details, reviews, and links to the other contributors: Smut Alfresco at SexyReads.
- Read my guest blog post at Lucy Felthouse’s blog: Days of Idyll: Writing ‘Meadow’ for Smut Alfresco
From Debi Hursh at Goodreads:
The only reason I gave this book a 4 out of 5 stars was because some of the stories were to short! I wanted more. Smut Alfresco was Smutacular! I loved the outdoor adventures.
The editors Lucy Felthouse and Victoria Blisse did a wonderful job of choose 14 different stories to complete this book.
Read the full review at Goodreads.
B looked at Lucas in the dappled sunlight, and all she could think was; I could take you right here, right now, and not care who was watching. I could straddle your hips and sink onto your lovely cock and rock back and forth until we both came.
Lucas, she knew, would rather drink two gallons of water from the Cam, risking mud, slugs, fish, and its vile reputation for infection.
B smiled to herself, bit into a chunk of apple, and wondered if they could compromise.
They’d packed the picnic together that morning. After she’d made some cracks about going off like Mole and Rat, Lucas had stared at her, and said with false solemnity that he’d never call her a rat.
B had put her hand on her hip. “But you’d call me a mole?”
He’d given her a level gaze, and said they should probably stop talking about children’s books, before he’d chuckled and hugged her.
“But you’d be my mole.”
B had hoped that was a compliment, not a veiled, though affectionate, jibe.
They’d cycled across Cambridge, down Mill Lane, past the weir and the Mill Pond, over the fen-like Sheep’s Green, through the playgrounds of Lammas Land, until they came to Grantchester Meadows.
Grantchester Meadows lay between Cambridge and the village of Grantchester. Owned by King’s College, it was the summer’s best place for walking, cycling, and swimming in the river Cam. On the river itself, canoes and punts went leisurely by – the College rowing teams used the north parts of the river, where it was wider and with longer stretches of straight water. Here, by the meadows, a stone could be thrown across with river with little difficulty. It was more like a long, meandering pond; peaceful, for play. The only threats were the nettles clustered on the bank, and the swans when their cygnets were especially young. In the past, B and Lucas had seen one harass a man on a canoe who, life-jacketed and carrying an oar, really should have had the upper hand, but instead cowered by the river bank, gingerly poking the oar in the swan’s direction, while the creature had arched its neck, wings up like a white hooded cape.
Lucas had called out to him, grinning as he did, “Go on, give it a good thwack!”
“Shh!” B had said, lightly smacking him on the arm. “Don’t want to kill one of the Queen’s pets!”