“I usually prefer a lot more romance in my books, but Sharazade is such an excellent writer that I thoroughly enjoyed myself. It’s hard to pick my favorite, but the ménage would probably be it. I enjoyed watching the woman learn to love her body exactly the way it is. Our flaws just make us real. I also enjoyed learning a bit about the world without feeling like I was getting a history lesson. I will never travel again without thoughts of these stories flitting through my mind.”   Read more …

—Kris, BittenbyParanormalRomance.com

“Transported: Erotic Tales is a lusty book full of sultry encounters…. Sharazade gives her readers nine hot stories that are so well written that you almost forget that it is erotica…. these stories aren’t about doing the deed and getting it done. They are all about seduction, the build-up, the sensual ride and then the mind blowing release. They will get your heart racing, and your body tingling. Sit back, relax and enjoy the ride.”

— Clea R. Gellar, Bookwenches.com Read more….

** CLICK THE COVER IMAGE TO ORDER **

“I found every story to be a wonderful example of fine writing. Not just fine as in ‘of high quality,’ but the type of ‘fine’ with which you would preface ‘wine,’ ‘detail’ or ‘hair.’ It’s all about context…. I highly recommend this book.”

—Willsin Rowe, Coffeefuelederotica.blogspot.com Read more….

“The strength of these stories is in their realism, their ability to convey the feelings of man-loving women (who can be submissive exhibitionists in the right circumstances) and woman-loving men who know how to make the most of an opportunity. The reader who travels with these characters will discover (or rediscover) that sexual excitement is more of a journey than a destination.”
Read more ….

—Jean Roberta, Erotica Writer

Meet our newest author, Sharazade. Just in time for summer—the perfect beach reading. Even if the weather’s cool, you’ll still be hot!

Shar is the author of Fanny Press’s newest release, a collection of short stories entitled, Transported: Erotic Travel Tales (110 pp, $14.95, ISBN: 978-1-60381-465-2). Sharazade is the nom de plume of a professional writer and educator with more than fifteen books published under another name. Transported is her first venture into the realm of erotic fiction. One of the stories in this collection, “Just Browsing,” was a finalist in the 2009 bettersex.com erotic fiction contest.

Read an interview with the author at “Rude Words for Readers of Erotic Fiction.”

Something about traveling can bring your blood to the boil: Is it the exotic locales? The chance encounters with attractive strangers? The break from the routine? These nine sizzling tales of love and lust on the move capture a few of these scenarios: A single woman, wandering the dusty corridors of an old bookstore, runs across a book of erotic woodcuts… and a man with like interests. A slide presentation at an Alaska hotel has some of the guests squirming. A long train ride offers a young woman a chance to examine how she truly feels about her body … with two other passengers. Two lovers on a business trip to Japan confront their problems and their passions in a steamy outdoor bath. A man on a layover makes excellent use of his downtime. Told from both male and female points of view, Sharazade’s inventive stories of goings and … well, you know … will have you at the edge of your window seat, spinning your own fantasies about the unexplored potential of planes, trains, and hotels.

Although Transported touches on themes of exhibitionism, voyeurism, bondage, and group sex, its stories contain a large dose of old-fashioned romance and feature independent women with healthy egos. “I enjoy stories that are realistic enough that they might have happened,” the author says, “and fanciful enough that they might not have. I value communication, adventure, exploration, passion, and love, and they’re present in some form in all of my stories.”

Sharazade divides her time among Asia, Africa, the Middle East, and the U.S. You can read more about the adventure of writing and publishing Transported by visiting her blog.

Buy it on Kindle or other ebook versions on Smashwords.

You can download the first story for free at Scribd.

Here’s an Excerpt from “Just Browsing”:

I can’t seem to find anything I like in Travel. I don’t want to read about someone’s chartered wine tour of France or family road trip through the Midwest in a camper trailer with Nutsy the Dog. Doesn’t anyone bicycle solo through Pakistan anymore? I stroll down to the end of the aisle and turn. Art? Either I’ve come full circle or someone can’t alphabetize. I intend to walk straight through it, but my eye is caught by something Japanese. I step in to take a closer look. Oh…erotic Japanese woodblock prints. I glance up and down the aisle to see if anyone’s around (not that there’s anything wrong with perusing an art book), but there’s no one in sight. I open the book at random and turn a few pages. It’s nicely done … not too samurai-n’-geisha, and the quality of the printing is superb. I check the publisher—as I suspected, a small Asian press. I slow down my page turning, studying the pictures in more detail. They’re quite arousing.

I stop at one of a woman alone, nude, lying half on her side, half on her stomach, and bound with rough hemp rope. The background is vague—some arrangement of cloth—so the focus is all on her body. Her arms are twisted behind her and tied tightly, almost uncomfortably, and her hair is in disarray. Only part of her face is visible, eyes half-closed and her expression one of…not pain exactly, or at least not entirely, but some intense feeling. She seems to be waiting for something, a blow or a kiss. I imagine that her lover is in the room with her, just out of view of the picture frame, and I wonder what he has been doing to arouse her feelings of pain/pleasure.

I don’t hear your footsteps until you’re almost behind me. I’m tempted to shut the book quickly, but then I’ll just look guilty. And it’s art, after all, the kind of book one is actually encouraged to browse through. Besides, I assume you’re just moving through to some other section.

You turn sideways to fit behind me in the narrow aisle, and I press up a little closer to the shelves to let you by. But you don’t pass. Can you possibly be searching for a title in this section? Should I move? I take a tentative small step to the side, in case I’m blocking something you’re looking for and close the book slightly. “Oh, sorry,” you say, in a low, resonant voice. “I was looking over your shoulder at the picture.” You move in tandem with me, so that you’re still standing behind.

What? Did you really say that? I feel a blush spread across my face, invisible to you. How embarrassing. What must you think of me for looking at pictures like this in a public place? I scramble for an excuse. “Oh, I lived in Japan for years, so … um … Japanese art … I mean, historically, it’s …” Who am I kidding? I don’t have a thing to say about Japanese art, other than that these pictures turn me on. “Yes, they’re very well done, aren’t they?” you say, easily, seeming not to notice my stuttering embarrassment. “The artist certainly captures the expressions well. And … how nice to see a woman who can appreciate the visual.” As though we were two serious art students. I open the book again, almost defiantly, this time making sure that you can see the page as well.

I glance around to see if anyone watching—no, and thank goodness for that. To assess the situation, though, I had to step back one step. In the meantime, you had somehow moved closer, so that now I’ve accidentally backed into you. And … I’m sure I felt the hardness in your trousers. Oh, dear. Now what? I can’t leap forward or you’ll know that I felt you, and then you might feel embarrassed. These things happen when looking at erotic art, and they’re nothing to be ashamed of. Best to pretend I didn’t notice, to act completely natural and nonchalant. I shift my weight, which eases me very slightly forward, and then casually turn the page, showing you the next picture. Nothing wrong with two people just looking at an art book.