Myths, Moons, and Mayhem

Myths, moons, and mayhem make the perfect threesome—and so do the men in this anthology.

Enjoy nine erotic stories of paranormal ménages a trois fueled by lust and magic, where mystical forces collide with the everyday world and even monsters have their own demons to conquer.

A werewolf gets a lust-fueled lesson on fitting in with the pack, a professor unlocks ancient secrets and two men’s hearts, and a pair of supernaturals find themselves at the erotic mercy of a remarkable human. Ghosts, fairies, aliens, and mere mortals test the boundaries of their desires, creating magic of their own.

Penned by favorite authors such as Rob Rosen and Clare London, as well as by newcomers to the genre, Myths, Moons, and Mayhem is an eclectic mix of paranormal lust and polymythic beings that will spark your fantasies and fuel your bonfires.

The blurb for my story INSIDE MAN: There’s that joke, where the ghost doesn’t go to the party because he has no body to go with? Well, I’m in no position to find it funny. Nowadays, I’m caught in a spirit limbo, unable to touch, and my only entertainment is to watch lovers together. Like this cute couple Jake and Benjy, having a few problems with their relationship. Nothing some honest talk and good loving wouldn’t put right, I reckon. I follow them home, led selfishly by curiosity, mischief, or maybe just loneliness. But maybe I stay around for far more personal reasons.

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© Clare London

I haven’t had the luxury of a cock in hand for a long, long time.

Not my own, and not anyone else’s. Because that’s what happens when you snuff it. The loss of corporeal touch, that is. You get used to it over time, believe me—those early days of stepping through the back of a sofa, grabbing for a handhold when you fall and watching your arm just pass through a decoupaged coffee table; they’re thankfully in the past—but that doesn’t mean I don’t miss it.

You know what I mean, right? There are times when sexual need is a pure, unadulterated agony, when the desire is as mentally strong as ever, but the limbs won’t respond. Times when I’d give up all the new benefits—you know, sharper hearing, no need to buy a train ticket, free front seats at the gig of my choice, and the chance to see what politicians are really doing behind closed doors with their expense accounts—just for the chance to feel my own junk again. To scratch my pubes. To fold my palm around my dick and feel the sheath crinkle and stretch. To reach a finger down to nudge my balls. To sigh with the cleanest, simplest pleasure of all, of satisfying myself.

And one of those times is right fucking now, watching these two guys together.

They’re a gorgeous couple: not model material, or that overgroomed, city trader look. They’re just young, living life, naturally good-looking, and… really fine. Just over an hour ago, they came into this bar on Blackfriars Bridge, at the end of a long, languidly hot London day. The place is packed with tourists eating overpriced snacks while fanning themselves frantically with their , kids whining because the signal for their phones is unreliable, and city workers who’ve discarded their jackets and ties, surrendering to the damp clamminess of their shirts, and are gulping sauvignon blanc like it’s water. It’s Friday, the end of the working week.

This is one of my favourite places: you see a huge cross-section of humanity here, whatever time of day or night I visit. Which, let’s face it, is all much the same to me.

These guys are now sitting at a corner table, sheltered from the crowds at the bar, their heads leaning toward each other, almost touching, but not quite. There’s a tangible spark between them. I see it in the way each one’s gaze is fixed on the other; the way their fingers brushed together when Guy #1 passed a pint over to Guy #2. Yet they’re discreet. No embraces, no caresses. Maybe they’re not out to their workmates. Maybe they’re just modest in public. But the familiarity I see between them implies they’ve been a couple for a while.

Guy #1 is on the left, the taller of the two, even sitting down, with a shallow buzz cut of black hair, a neat beard, and bronzed forearms. He’s in a tailored suit, his shirtsleeves rolled up against the heat, the front of his crisp white shirt a little creased over a stocky torso. His shoes are pinching—I can tell by the way he’s stuck his feet out from under the table and is rubbing one against the other—and his shoulder muscles are tight with tension.

If I still had my touch, I could massage it away. I used to be bloody good at that.

Guy #2 is on the right. He’s younger, with plenty of upper body muscle but slimmer hips and legs, and shaggy hair half scooped up under his beanie. He’s dressed more casually in jeans and a polo shirt, his hands coarser, his boots dirty from brick dust and long-ingrained paint. He’s more relaxed than his partner, but bolder too. How can I know that? I can’t always explain how I do. For now, it’s something about the easy way he’s stretched out his legs under the table, the fact that he seems restless sitting down, and restricted by the limited space in the pub. His smile is quick to appear, though it’s quenched as swiftly, His hand darts across the table top, as if to grasp the other guy’s, but stalls somewhere behind the menu holder, cradling the salt cellar instead.

Perhaps he knows the touch isn’t welcomed. His frown tells me he’s not pleased about it.

What’s the problem between them?