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About the author:
“Val Noirre” is the erotica byline of an acclaimed writer working in other genres under another name.
What inspired you to write your book?
The result is this fantasy cornucopia of sensual delights underneath the silken moonlight, during A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Here is a short sample from the book:
I burn even now, in this same watery moonlight, as I did on that perfect night of Midsummer, countless seasons ago. On such nights I will always burn thus, remembering him, my Lord Oberon.
* * *
“Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania,” my Lord had spoken to her who entered the shaded glade, followed by a host of pixie shadows.
The Faerie Queen met my Lord’s immortal gaze with a pair of lodestone eyes, and a smile of honeysuckle and venom on her lips. Moonlight streamed down her soft nude unearthly flesh through diaphanous cobweb silk. In the pale light, her breasts glittered like heavy globules of dew, with just tiny sharp points of nipples standing pert and inviting.
I saw my Lord’s gaze momentarily slide thither.
“Jealous sweet Oberon,” said Titania, with a smile. “Since you will not give me a child of our own flesh, this child is mine, and will grow up to be my minion, and my dearest son. You will not have him, ever. And until you agree to such a state of affairs, neither shall you have me.”
“I see. Is that why you deny me, out of spite?” said Oberon, tall and eternal, a dark silhouette against the moon’s silver.
But she had turned her back on him, and was moving, quicker than air, her element, holding on tight to the small chubby fingers of a tiny changeling boy, her newest plaything, for whom she had traded my Lord’s bed and risked his immortal anger.
Titania’s Faerie host flew like a swift gust of midnight wind, and laughter hung in the thick air of the night of Midsummer.
It was then that my Lord turned to me, placing his hand lightly against my fair glittering hair standing up in dandelion spikes, and brushing my smooth cheek.
“My gentle Puck,” he said, “I have a task for you. You must haste away to a secret place where the god of love had once fired his arrow at the virgin moon, and was unable to sway her cold frigidity. The arrow fell upon the earth in that same spot, and struck a little western flower that grew there. Once, the flower had been vestal white. But now it is purple from love’s wound, and is called ‘love-in-idleness.’ Bring that flower to me.”