The Bitch Majestic by Judith Chambers

Find more from this author on:

Amazon

Author Site

GoodReads

Twitter

About the author:

Having said that I do declare myself a fan of all types of romance, and I’m an avid reader of high-brow erotica, I love alpha males, sweaty couplings in dimly lit rooms, and lots of raunchy talk. I have a tropical vocabulary, filled with hot sweaty vowels and moist juicy consonants.

What inspired you to write your book?

Every woman has a little of the character of Judith Chambers in them, every woman has a dark side, I based a lot of the stuff in The Bitch Majestic on real life experiences, but then again a lot of it is pure fiction, and I’ll darned if I ever tell you which is which.

Here is a short sample from the book:

Angelo has been a dancer all his life, he tells me that he was born dancing, that he danced his way into the world and that someday, if the music is right, he’ll dance his way back out again, his feet covered in blisters, corns, open sores, but laughing feet, happy feet, that spent a lifetime doing what they loved best.
Personally I think the man is a consummate dreamer.
But he’s one of the best lovers I’ve ever had.
His studio is on the second floor of an old building on Portobello Road. There is a large bronze statue of Shiva performing Nataraja, the dance of destruction. It is a fitting symbol. Angelo dances. That’s all he does. We have been casual lovers for a little over six months now and yet he remains as indifferent to me as the day we first met. At first this suited me just fine, I’m not a woman who seeks commitment from her men, but as time went on I found myself oddly piqued by his attitude, perhaps even intimidated. It is as though his passion for dance has built a wall of stone against all the wiles and lures of my craft.
The more he resists me the more I find myself drawn to him, and the more I am drawn to him the more I resent him. I am like a moth pledged to the flame, filled with the certain knowledge that neither I nor the flame will last the night.
And how shall I describe Angelo?
His long black hair is usually swept back into a pony tail, revealing a high, regal forehead, his eyes deep set and piercingly bright, his jaw squared and determined. He looks like a cross between a pugilist and a poet, with a body streamlined to perfection.
He is beautiful.
And he will never be mine.
I’d suspect he was gay if he wasn’t such a great fuck.
‘Did you miss me?’ I ask as I enter the studio that night.
He smiles. ‘You look beautiful,’ he says, ‘I think you grow more beautiful by the day, Judith.’
‘And you grow a little more insincere, Angelo.’
He laughs.
I wish I could say something that stung him.
That cut him right to the quick.
But so far that hasn’t happened.
He simply doesn’t care what I think.
‘It is a good thing you didn’t come here for my sincerity,’ he switches the sound system on and Latin music fills the hall. ‘Come,’ he beckons me towards him, ‘show me your fuerto.’
He is versed in all the great dance forms, the Cha-cha, the Danzón and Mambo, the Bolero, Rumba and Salsa, and when we move together it as though, just for a moment, I can leave behind my life of labyrinthine plots and circuitous schemes, and allow myself to be carried along in the bosom of the moment.
Tonight we dance with the studio lights turned down low, he stands behind me, his arms circling my waist, and as the music surges around us our movements become more intimate, my buttocks grinding back against his pelvis, his hands caressing my belly as our feet move in perfect tandem.
Angelo once told me that dance is the mother of all languages and that sex is the oldest dance of all.
‘Lose yourself,’ he whispers in my ear and deliberately lets his hand fall to my mound, I arch my back, my arms rising, my hands circling his neck, and now my buttocks swells against the hard angles of his body, my breasts pushed high and proud.
Angelo’s hips undulate as he draws me backwards into his arms, our movements perfectly synchronised, there is no space between us; we have become a single indivisible organism that falls and rises, rises and falls….
He undresses me and yet hardly seems to touch me at all, shedding his own skin at the same time, and naked we coil like serpents around a single invisible limb, his lips burning against my breasts, my throat, my mouth, his hands exploring every inch of my body.
The music ends at the very instant he enters me. I gasp into the sudden silence, my fingers digging into the muscular swell of his buttocks, face buried in the curve of his throat.
‘Jesus…!’ I curse.
He looks down at me with concern: ‘shall I stop….?’
‘Don’t you fucking dare,’ I hiss.
He continues to make small circular motions with his hips, his cock buried to the hilt in my flesh, and still we dance, micro movements now, soft and unhurried, swaying to the sound of our own heartbeats, and I am unprepared for the moment he pulls back, or the savage instant he thrusts home again, a gasp ripped from my throat as he pulls me to the ground and crushes me beneath his weight and every thrust deeper than the last, my fingers caressing his arms, his tongue flicking serpent-like against my swollen nipples.
We roll over and now I’m straddling him, my hands pressed against his chest as I rock back and forth, clenching and releasing my buttock cheeks.
Anger flares inside me as I stare down into his face, anger at his perfect indifference towards me, his absolute mastery of his own emotions. I feel the insatiable need to pierce his bubble of calm, to enrage him, enflame him, make him feel something beyond this moment.
‘You will hurt me,’ I tell him.
He stares up at me in confusion, ‘Never….’ He protests.
‘I’ll make you hurt me, and I’ll make you enjoy it, I can make men do anything I please….’
I grind my hips against him, the sleeve of my pussy tightening and releasing around his cock, like a velvet fist slowly stroking him off.
‘I can make them crawl,’ I boast.
Side to side, back and forth, my movements designed to dominate him, to control him, his cock growing thicker, more urgent inside me as he pounds the floor with his fists in a futile effort to postpone his moment of truth.
I slam down onto him, harder and harder, and he lets out a long, harsh groan, his head twisting from side to side, caught up in the raptures of the moment.
I laugh wildly as I slow my movements, bringing him back from the threshold, denying him the orgasm that has become his single purpose for living.
He grabs my hips, his fingers sinking cruelly into the flesh. ‘You are crazy,’ he snarls.
‘Not nearly crazy enough, amigo.’
My eyes roll up in my head as I allow one of my alternative personalities, my alters, to rise up from my subconscious, a fierce buzzing sound invading my skull as she seizes control of my flesh, and it’s like being possessed by a demon, like being filled with a thousand fevers all raging at once, the alter’s thoughts overwriting my thoughts, her memories replacing my memories, and moments later fluent Arabic spills from my lips as I take on the features and persona of a Middle Eastern princess.
In an instant I have transformed myself, my flesh visibly darkening, becoming olive toned, my eyes changing from bright green to dark brown, flashing behind a veil of mascara that has appeared from nowhere, my hips widening, my abdomen rolling with the subtle skill of a Bedouin belly dancer, milking my lover’s cock in a kind of controlled delirium.
Angelo recoils in shock, his eyes blinking like a pair of defective shutters, as though refusing to accept what they are seeing.
His hands reach out blindly for me, groping my breasts (smaller), my belly (fuller), my hips (wider), trying to determine if I’m still the same person, and then something like revulsion crosses his face and he tries to push me off.
At once I transform into a Russian fire dancer, teasing him in ancient Cossack, my hair bleaching before his very eyes, my skin becoming alabaster pale and glistening with jewels of sweat.
‘What are you, for God’s sake?’ He gasps.
He’s trying to throw me off, but I grip him with the powerful muscles of my thighs, snarling at him as I pound up and down on his cock, riding him like a cowboy rides a militant bronco.
He cries out, his voice harsh, almost childlike, as the ecstasy begins to overwhelm him.
In the wink of an eye I am a middle aged Cuban woman with slow, heavy thighs and huge pendulous breasts that shudder and flap and crash together as I bring him to his peak.
His back arches, his hands grabbing my breasts, crushing them as he stares up into the face of his own mother, his eyes glazing over, his mouth going slack as he screams once, in abject misery, and climaxes.
Afterwards he lies limp, barely reacting as I continue to ride him, rising towards my own alpha moment, bending down and kissing his eyelids, his lips, the prominence of his Adam’s apple, and his cock sinks towards the centre of my belly, awakening every nerve ending along the way, triggering the urge to hold on to him, to hold him inside me as I grind my pelvis against his, and my gasps are indistinguishable from sobs, my pleasure inseparable from pain.
I pull back as I climax, I must watch his face, I must read his eyes, but they are closed and he looks so anguished, even in the aftermath of passion, and in that moment I want him so desperately and at the same time my heart is twisted by a dark bitterness because I know I can’t have him, that Angelo is the one man I can never tame, he exists beyond my personal time and space, and I hate him for the very same reasons I love him.
I push him away from me. ‘I have to go,’ I say, ‘I hope you enjoyed the show.’
‘You are a witch,’ he says without opening his eyes, ‘you are possessed, Judith, and now I am damned as well.’
‘Cursed be he who lies with a witch,’ I quote, ‘or something to that effect.’
He says nothing, but I know I’ve wounded him deeper than I could ever imagine possible, and I take some perverse delight in this knowledge.
‘I can be anything you want me to be, Angelo, angel or devil.’
He shakes his head, ‘you are nothing I want.’
‘That’s not what your body tells me.’
He opens his eyes and stares at me and the anger in his eyes is shocking in its intensity. ‘You wore my mother’s face,’ he hisses, ‘you profaned her memory; you forced me to ejaculate into my own mother, what kind of sick, perverse monster are you?’
I nod: ‘but let’s face it,’ I say, ‘I’m everything you secretly desire.’
He stands up and spits into my face, ‘usted es una bruja,’ he curses me, ‘you are a fucking witch, if I ever see your face again I will kill you, Judith, I swear to God I will put an end to your life.’
I lick the spit from my face as I get up, ‘you’ll come crawling back to me,’ I promise him, ‘they always do.’