8) Slave-Mines of Tormunil, Aran Ashe, 272 pagesOkay. This is bondage porn. I admit it. But as a writer of bondage porn, I occasionally get the urge to see what’s being done in my field. Some of it is good, but there are, inevitably, horrors in store. Horrors that make me laugh even as I fling the book from me with an exclamation of disgust.
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This book is so bad it made the baby Jesus cry. (Which is why I read it again, I guess -- yes, this was my second time through this festering dungheap.)
But thank you for being entertained by my agony. Aah, Schadenfreude.
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You have now presented me with yet another mound of literary crap that I feel I just have to read. Thank you muchly.
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(Ironically, the author makes relatively little mention of actual hymens, which is refreshing in its way, as most fiction of this sort dwells on the most lurid and excruciating 'cherry popping' imaginable.)
Once more, Aran Ashe bends the physics of the human body to his/her will. So mangled are male and female responses that I cannot even judge whether I believe the author to be male or female.
I'm coming down tentatively on male.
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OUCHIE.
Yes, my guess is a male as well.
An ugly old single male holed up in a house somewhere out in the country with no means of transportation to the outside world and no chance of ever gettin' any.
::nodnod::
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The poor sheep.
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