23 Nov 2015
Arla Dahl pays a visit today with The Watchman, the culmination of the Immoral Virtue Trilogy. It mnorphs the dark and twisted history of European witch trials into something that’s just as dark and twisted, but a lot sexier and more entertaining to read about. Face it, the Salem witch trials weren’t exactly fun unless you were a sadistic-in-the-pathological-sense psycho with a place in the legal system or the church. Arla’s version, on the other hand, offers the readers a lot of sexy fun–and erotic rewards for the characters to balance moments where they face their darkest fears.
The final installment in the Immoral Virtue Trilogy is here at last!
“Totally worth the wait! THE WATCHMAN was so hot and satisfying.
The perfect conclusion to this trilogy.”
— Smart Mouth Smut
(Immoral Virtue, #3)
Evil is found when evil is sought
For when those in authority neglect to reprove sin, then very often the good are punished with the wicked.”
– Heinrick Kramer, 1486, The Malleus Maleficarum
For yielding to the proud tears of an accused witch, The Watchman’s soul may have been blackened by evil. To prove himself unmarked, his body free of the witch’s branding, he must stand naked before all and submit to the governor’s thorough and shameful examination.
Though Giles Scott would resist the governor’s practiced and patient touch, only complete abandon might prove his innocence. And since the witch cannot feel, only Giles’ arousal can spare his neck from the noose. And so, he surrenders.
Yet screams from another chamber – perhaps pained, perhaps pleasured – awaken memories from Giles’ dark, torturous past, and the governor’s touch no longer teases but stings… much like the punishing bite of a whip against the flesh of
“I will take only that which you offer.” He went to her, watched as she skimmed her fingertips from her throat to her breast as he had urged her to do earlier. As he vowed to do himself had he been unbound.
And now, free of the shackles, he took a step closer to her. “What do you offer, Elizabeth?”
“I offer all for you to take.” Her voice was near a whisper, a flutter of air, mesmerizing him near as much as her body bared there before him.
She smoothed her hand lower, a slight brush of her fingertips over her belly, the ripple of her touch pebbling her flesh in tiny bumps of pleasure, pleasure that made his bound cock reach for her. “I would have your hands against me like so,” she said, and with a slowness that pained him, she dipped her hand lower still, to the ruddy thatch he wished to touch and taste. “Your fingers thrust inside of me.” She stroked the tight curls there, tangled her fingers within them. “I offer all of me,” she said, “whatever you wish me to share.”
“Spread yourself for me Elizabeth. Share that part of yourself with me.”
She did not move and he raised his gaze to hers. Saw desire within it, was certain his held the same haze of need. Her breaths grew heavy, her breasts heaving, capturing his attention.
He reached for her, strummed his fingertips over the swell of her breasts, gently brushing his thumbs over her nipples until they stood firm. The hard nubs seeming to swell as he held them, as he lightly pinched them and used them to pull her to him, not letting go even when she stood so close the head of his cock brushed her belly.
“Do it, Elizabeth,” he whispered, pulsing his fingers against her nipples, lightly, firmly, stroking them in time to her breaths. “Spread yourself so I might see more of you.”
With a sigh, she reached between them, between her legs, and spread herself, her body swaying, his fingers tightening on her nipples, holding her in place. Watching her eyes, then lowering his to see how well she spread herself for him.
He stood back so he might see. “Wider,” he said, his voice thick with need.
She adjusted her stance, her feet further apart, her fingers peeling herself open further, exposing glistening, blush-pink flesh from which he wished to sip. Her graceful inner lips were delicately frilled, like petals on the most succulent flower. Her core, weeping with desire.
He drew closer to her again, brushed his fingertips over her lips then gently parted them and dipped into her mouth. Her tongue, hot, stroked over his fingers, wetted them. And he withdrew, fitted his hand to her waiting core.
Desire barely tamed, he eased two fingers into her, steadily, yet so slowly, they seemed twice as long, sliding yet deeper into her heat. The slickness on his fingers mingling with the slickness of her need. Her body closing around him, the tightness there, gripping him. His mouth grew dry as she moaned softly. Her breaths, small puffs of heat against his cheek.
He withdrew as slowly, taking his time, watching as passion etched her face, furrowed her brows, parted her lips further.
His cock ached now as it seemed to plead for the same pleasures enjoyed by his fingers. And then he pulled them from her completely, held them near her core, felt the heat of her as if to draw them back inside. He brought his hand to her lips again, let her taste herself.
She closed her eyes, took his fingers into her mouth, licked them tenderly, until he could take no more and he withdrew again.
“I wish to taste you myself,” he said, his gaze on her mouth. “Do you offer yourself so, Elizabeth, that I might dine?”
THE WATCHMAN, Book 3 in the Immoral Virtue Trilogy is a dark erotic twist of an already twisted period in American History, the Salem witch trials. It contains elements of BDSM, forced consent, M/m, ménage, M/f/f, M/f/m and M/f as well as other sensitive concepts such as forced consent and spanking.
THE WATCHMAN is intended for audiences 18 and over.
Arla Dahl is a lover and avid reader of all things sexy and suspenseful. Her inspiration comes as much from history as from the daily headlines, and she is often surprised by how today’s issues mirror those from the distant past. In her current work, the Immoral Virtue trilogy, which is set during the witch hysteria of the 17th Century, Arla twists an already twisted history into a daring erotic work of passion and pleasure.
A New Yorker, born and bred, Arla is forever fascinated by the varied cultures of her city – and the exotic foods that go along with them, with their rich flavors and provocative scents that tempt and tease and satisfy. Beyond its rich diversity and decadent cusines, the close and heady feel of a moody late-night jazz club is Arla’s favorite part of living in New York.