Neale Sourna's Hobble Paragragh Excerpts


 [A Dark, Passionate, Disturbing Tale of Exhilirating Sensuality.]

Neale Sourna’s HOBBLE [An Adult Fiction]

        My mind was ... fixated on a problem, now entirely forgotten, while I ran, as I turned my head, toward the frightened, anguished cry of a lone sea bird, who sounded ... terribly and despairingly lonely to me ... and, somehow, devastatingly lost. And, in gazing aside at the bird, for all of two blind seconds, I knocked her down, onto the sand [of Virginia Beach]-a brown woman, in a long, potato sack, calico dress.


        An American face of excellently blended African and Native American genes, with a healthy little dollop of European blood, a terribly agitated face, as she [DAY] fetally balled up in great pain and wouldn't let me look at her injured ankle.


        I [BENNET GILLESPIE] have a lot more than "a healthy dollop of European blood" myself, from Dad's side, which explains the beard [a recent addition] and the general curliness of my hair, which I've let grow to its own rule for months now. But, despite the Old World genes, I look most like my mother's Peruvian-Incan / Mexican-Mayan, New World genes.


        She was lying there sobbing actual tears. I know because I pulled her hands away from her face and checked. However, whether the tears were also actually genuine...? I glanced up and down the beach and saw absolutely no one else around for continents. The nearest anything was a lonely looking, one-story beachhouse behind us, that was showing no life or interest in us, and I had a little insight.

        Did I mention she was naked, shamelessly, casually naked, which, of course, caught my attention; but, she seemed to take no particular notice of it, while in my arms.

        She attempted stopping me, as she sat up and wordlessly defended her secret, until finally allowing me, in mute, humiliated resignation, to unlace the other boot-that stiff and pained ankle was also restitched. Both of them were sewn quite a way around, like a can opener makes a cut around a lid, until it's nearly severed. However the original lacerations had been made, it hadn't been by penknife or train wheel-I've seen the resulting cuts of both of those on the human body; these'd been done by something in between.


        If it had a style name other than beachhouse, I wouldn't know. I have cousins in the Yucatan with a shack on the beach, at the edge of the jungle where, on our vacations as children, we caught snakes and milked them of their venom for cash from a New York City researcher, who "wasn't good" with poisonous serpents. This house wasn't huge but it was no shack, either. The Scotswoman [MRS. GORBACHEV / MRS. G] was its live out housekeeper, as she led us in and found a proper place on the sofa for me to place my shapely charge.

        I know that sounds a bit ... but, a man gets a fairly involved idea of a woman's body, when he's carrying it against his own.


        Yeah, like he [MR. HOPKINS / "HOPPY"] wasn't old enough to have heard or probably worn one himself sometime. Probably back during The Blitz, The Great War, or that little altercation between Generals York and Washington even. Something about the man pissed me off. I think it was just him — not because he was English, or much older, but because he was ... him — whoever he was. I took a step to leave and Ms. Day grabbed my hand, tightly. She dug her sharp, natural, and hard, little nails into me, not to hurt me, but plainly because she was afraid for some reason.


        I — unfortunately or fortunately, depending on your perspective — never actually gave it serious, full consideration; but, it crossed my mind, more than once, while I was gone from Day ... not to go back. Which wasn't disputable. The heartshaped locket was not emotionally or psychologically replaceable; and Day's ankles, especially the one I'd bruised on top of the old injury and surgical repair, needed my attention.

        I'd said I'd take care of it, and I was most likely the only person she'd allow near her who could help what was wrong with her — in the leg department, at least.

        I also had to admit, when I took a few moments to rinse off, change, and grab a bag, that Day ... intrigued me. Maybe, I should've sat and thought about that a while longer, perhaps in a chilly shower. Her "intriguing me" was probably not a good thing, as my newest, gratis client; especially, since Hopkins was so clearly defensively overprotective of her ... and I had no possible clue about whatever it was that kept her so stressed way up there on that thinly taut highwire of hers.


        His face screamed that it pained him to have me there, killed him to need me, and if he could've dropped a house on me right then, I know he would've.


        Day turned her mouth from his, and I believe she saw me, as he whispered something in her ear, unheard by me, which made her flinch, before he more loudly, coaxingly instructed her to "close her eyes," "as always," because it "would be all right," it "would be better that way." It did seem to help calm her, as she lay still as death in her unenthused, desireless body, as he stared at her, touched her in his coveting of all of her.    


        I became hot with shame, anger, and confusion — probably pretty much what she was feeling ... unless this was some convoluted game of theirs.


        I sat beside Day, who had a serrated breadknife in her hands and was holding the deadly sharp point at her throat. Her hands were steady.

        "Day, if you don't mind, I don't want blood on my mother's locket."

        She held the blade, handle end out, and allowed Mrs. Gorbachev to retrieve it. The poor woman had left it alone a few seconds, while cutting bread, to answer the phone, then turned to find Day had it. It turns out that "Ms. Day's not allowed to handle sharp knives."

        I didn't ask about pointy forks. Or hard, plastic sporks.


        Part of me was thinking of what Hopkins did with her, which was soon flushed from my mind, when she brushed her electrifying hand down my bare chest. She placed one of my very warm hands on her gooseflesh cold, round breast, warming the plump flesh of it, as I ran my thumb tip around its dark brown, hard nipple. She took my other hand and swept it across her soft, damp bush of gentle curls.

        Then, I slipped my probing fingers deep into the inviting, warm cleft between her thighs; she was dry there, having just bathed and evidently assiduously douched, until my touch was rewarded by generating liquid heat.


        It was her turn for another perplexed look. Then she smiled, as she sat up, and I half realized that even the simple thing of her hand sliding gently up my arm made me want to be hers.


        I felt her relax against me, then I started over, a little quicker this time, to get back to where I'd stopped. I put my lips and tongue to her natural fruit scented and flavored body and strove to delight her however I could, which plainly was a great deal. She'd been a bit tense before; evidently waiting for me to strip and hurriedly dive in like good ole Hopkins would've. Without there being any joy in it for her. But, this was my game, and when I play it, the way I play it, nobody's better at it.

        All modesty aside, of course.


        Perhaps, my hormones were just dissolving my egotistical brain too much, as I removed my underwear and knelt on the sofa, as she opened herself wider to receive me.


        There is ... there is something very, very intoxicating about a woman, who actively, completely desires you, and who actively, openly responds and entirely yields to you. Or, entirely controls you, for that matter.


        "You, sir, have no idea what we're about. What she is."


        Mama had also warned me to stay away from crazy girls. Peculiarly, she'd done that more than once.



        "I mean, personal ego's not that damned important, is it? It's all conceit being who we are; trying to be big shots, and smarty-pants, trying to have absolutely everything we want. Controlling 'all we survey' but unable to even control ourselves. That is such bullshit! One really special thing, one person outside of our self-indulgent selves ... and how we take care of it or them, is all that matters. It says tons more about who we really are than anything else. Doesn't it?"

        She waited; but, I wouldn't answer her. I'd ... heard and ... felt her every word, as I watched two seabirds in flight, far out over the waves, they swooped drastically, erratically it seemed, then plunged out of sight towards the rolling vast expanse of water. It looked very much as if they'd drowned below the tidewaves together.


        When I got back-and, I'd truly considered not going back, not for anything — I ran into her in the bathroom and watched her brushing her tongue so furiously, I thought it'd bleed. She also took such a large portion of mouthwash that she swallowed most of it, then violently coughed and half-wretched, to spit it and the feel and taste of him out. She was becoming more and more frenetic about cleaning herself, when she reached for the shampoo. I physically stopped her.

        "He touched my hair."

        "I touched it first."


        Her brief puzzlement was followed by a crooked little smile that lit up her eyes, with a smoldering flicker. She sniffed me, deeply, after run sweat and all, then led me by the waistband and sat on the toilet lid, pulled down my pants, and unabashedly buried her face in the scent of my pubes. Her ... subsequent "activity", with my happy cock ... her ... gloriously well-educated mouth erased most of any memory of what she'd just likewise done for Hopkins, except that I noticed she hadn't done it for him with this kind of dedication and passion.


        "Your Mr. Gillespie needs to know the truth, young lady, especially if you're going to continue ... confusing him with your pliant body."

        "I'm not confused." I lied. Well, not completely.


        "You've ... tasted her, boy. There's nothing 'innocent' about her, which is why you're still here, isn't it?" A very talented fellow, this Mr. Hopkins. "If not that story, my sweet flower, then, please, do tell him about your mother."


        I bounded out of my seat and got another nasty, warm beer and drunk half or more, before she took it from me. She polished it off, gazing at me, making certain my eyes were on her, and her pink tongue, as she licked, then sucked the last foamy drops from the dark, hard bottleneck. I heard Hopkins laugh at me as, with a flash, he lit another cigarette. "I'll make the decision easy for you, boy, get out while you still can. She tricked me into believing she'd be safer with me than in the asylum, and now she's expertly playing us against each other. I have the money, you have the ... hard youth, and she has each of us, by our manhoods.


        [DR. STEPHANIE GILLESPIE / STEPHIE] "You always have great taste, Benn. This one's even managing to look delicious with no makeup and absolutely nothing on under that frumpy potato sack of a dress. Even so, she must be incredible in the sack to have both my Bennet's swelled heads on backward, so swiftly. She does look like a definite gotta - have - her - latex - free - lay, though. Am I right or am I right?"


        Two hours later, niggling thoughts were still active; annoyingly preoccupying me with every gesture and movement I'd seen between the two of them. I finally grabbed my car keys and told Stephie I'd be back in a bit. She asked if I were going "to the house for a quickie with the cripple."

        She's a sweet girl my big sister.


        "No. I don't want to be protected from you, Bennet. Not ever. Never."

        That got to my ego ... and it shouldn't've; well ... I shouldn't have let it. Yet, still, I most definitely shouldn't've deferred to her wishes; but, I nearly always did.

        How sane is that, heeding a documented headcase? Letting her play my ego so effortlessly. I evidently needed more protection from her than a simple latex rubber shield could ever provide.


        Day retaliated-she abruptly kissed my twin, on the mouth, long enough to get the upper hand, as Stephie openly responded to her desire for Day; then my woman brazenly gazed in Stephanie's eyes, smiled her triumph, and went inside. Stephie sucked her lips, savoring the kiss.


        Stop thinking I'm being too hard on Stephanie, she used to break my best and most favorite toys.


        I ripped open the top of her dress and clearly reminded her of what it felt like to have my strong hands and my hot, hungry mouth on her breasts, then I fucked her and she fucked back. When we both were ... very close, and I was fucking her with a tinge of anger still in me, I heard her starting to make a delightfully seductive and familiar sound that she never makes for "Hoppy" and certainly hadn't made on the too long and infamous vid. That's when I pulled completely out of her and forced her to let me go. Her fearsome temper blazed hotly, as she rightly accused me of torturing her, even if I had to torture myself, as well, to do it.

        Ain't love grand?


        She didn't hesitate and seductively crawled over my feet and legs, only pausing to stroke and kiss them, my thighs, my balls ... all of me was aching for her, as she then rubbed my penis along her throat and against her breasts, with her eyes always on mine. She deeply kissed my mouth, and made certain my eyes were still fixed on her, before slowly removing the dress, so I could see all of her, then she sunk me deep into her, completely swallowing me, taking me.


        “Y’know, he says things to me, burning whispers in my ear. Nasty things. They don’t sound bad nasty when you say them ... but.... He has things he wants me to say to him, to call him. Things that if they were true would be ... have to be ... illegal and immoral.”

        “What words, Day?” She shyly shrugged, refusing to verbalize them.

        “I was told that Jesus was ... ‘inno­cent’. People say I ‘look innocent’, that I am innocent. But, it kinda implies stupid or ignorant, doesn’t it? I asked a minister, a day resident, what exactly ‘innocent’ was. He said ‘knowing what the possibilities are’, ‘knowing what the choices are’ and ‘knowing full well what will be, and yet doing it anyway’ ... that’s ‘innocent’, like Jesus supposedly did­ — knowingly going to his death. Innocent­ — not stupid or ignorant, like most people think.

        “It seems laughable, I know, considering all I’ve done, what I am; but, being with Hopkins, is far worse than being with all of the others all together. I know that. That ... place was killing me, and yet this feeling about the wrongness of him never leaves me. It’s like being encased in a solid, prickly, brick wall. I couldn’t ...  I can’t go back; I couldn’t ... I can’t stay. I’m exhausted, burned out—. And, no matter how many times I’ve told him ‘no more’ he says—.”

        Hopkins always seemed to have a hell of a lot to say, when he could cut the heart out of someone. The rain was thinning and apparently stopping.

        He still says what he said then. That he was tired of my ‘hemming and hawing and holding out like some untouched virgin’ and if I didn’t behave ‘like the whore’ he knew I was and should be with him, he’d invite them ... all of them from there, to ‘party’ with me. He said that, to me....” She had to think. “...the same day I had my accident....” 


        Half Native American medical professional BENNET GILLESPIE'S off track life dangerously spirals, as his compulsive sexual and love entanglement with DAY, a knife-happy African American innocent, and her overbearing, elderly British guardian / stepfather threatens to cost Benn more than his life.
        Is Benn falling in love or is he just "having the hottest sex" he's ever had with the seductive cripple with the childlike, homicidal mind?
        Will Benn take her away, before her stepfather, who's keeping his stepdaughter as his sex slave, sends her back to lockdown, far from Benn?
        Or before the girl takes matters into her own hands, and kills, again?


[Fiction / Adult Fiction / Adult Erotica / Explicit / Erotica for Women / Dark Sensual Romance / Erotica / Spiritual Sex / Dark Romantic Erotica / Dark Romantica™ / Paranormal / Psychological Erotica / Spiritual Erotica / Multiracial / Interracial / Literary Fiction]


 Benn: "Sex with Day is fun, exciting, and risky. It's not just her and me. She has another lover, too, her stepfather, who hates me, but needs me, because beautiful Day needs me; and does what I say. I can go anywhere, have anyone, but still this childlike woman holds me here."

Day: "I need Benn, and I love Benn. I'll tell the world and show the world I want him, and that makes him want me more; my open, shameless, prideless need and desire for him. He's a player and I know it, but that's exactly what I need, to get away. From him, from Hoppy."

Hopkins: "The boy thinks he can take her away, but he can't, she's my property, and if he tries, I'll sic the law on him. But, curse him, he must remain, I must keep him here, with us, to let her seduce him, over and over again, and drive him mad, until he burns like a sinner on fire in Hell, just like me; because this foul triangle of sex and madness and wrong hopes, secures her more to me, than anything I ever did to her before, and certainly more than if he were gone."


[Fiction / Adult Fiction / Adult Erotica / Explicit / Erotica for Women / Dark Sensual Romance / Erotica / Spiritual Sex / Dark Romantic Erotica / Dark Romantica™ / Paranormal / Psychological Erotica / Spiritual Erotica / Multiracial / Interracial / Literary Fiction]

Award-winning Neale Sourna's HOBBLE!

        Yippee and huzzah!!  My baby, HOBBLE [An Adult Novel], won the award:  


        What a surprise!  Thank you so much. The award certificate looks "mahhhvelous," don't you think?  Thank you, Dolores Thornton; thank you,, for this sehr tres cool honor.


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Critics' Reviews!

 "Dipping into several genres from erotica to mystery, even sprinkling a little comedy into the mix, Sourne created a story like no other. This ... tale had me shaking my head in astonishment and I can honestly say I never read anything like Hobble before.

        Sourne wrote a novel with such a large supply of twist and turns it'll have you dropping your mouth in shock. But be forewarned, Hobble has a crazy mix of characters.... Some of the sex scenes had me (a person who loves erotica) squirming.

        Although the book is racy, it was an interesting read and should be picked up by anyone who enjoys reading something different from the norm."

—Joy Farringdon, Nubian Sistas Review

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"Hobble is a story of lust and obsessive sex ... I was so moved ... I went back to my (Franklin) dictionary ... hobble means to limp along ... to impede ... to tie-up, shackle or leash ... all of [which] were used in this steamy story, of sex, incest and betrayal!"

—Delores Thornton, Reviews

READ Delores' full review

[A Review]

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YB Free - Reviewed By: Jennifer Walford

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READ Jordan Duke of ScriptCLEVELAND'S written informative

        INTERVIEW: Jan 2003, Neale Sourna's HOBBLE

Handsome JD's HOBBLE rating:

        "compelling", "very sensual & spicy", "a terribly sexy, erotic, and guy friendly, um, romance". 

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