An ENE Review of the e-book


Reviewed by G. Russell


"Everything I do or see triggers a story to be told, what if the waitress being hit-on by the pushy guy is really a succubus? What if you were seduced and caught a rare STD; lycanthropy?"


Writes the author Morgan Hawke in her afterword to Phantasmagoria. And her answers to those self-posed questions will honestly fire your senses as if Satan himself has his pitchfork jabbing at your butt.


Okay, I'm guilty here of indulging in outrageous hyperbole, I'm still in Halloween spirit. But, nonetheless, I do stand by this book. I endorse it.


Morgan has a mastery of her craft. And what a dark, and arousing talent it is. She knows how to write very evocative and convincing sex. Furthermore, she's adept at weaving the sex into these fantastical, original, and highly imaginative narratives, which leave the reader with pulse racing.


New wine - (blood red wine) - in old bottles is one metaphor that easily springs to mind. All the usual themes that combine the supernatural and sex (such a darkly irresistible combination) but with new ideas. We have a succubus turning the tables on a vampire, the werewolf that needs to make love to retain human form, Egyptian Goddesses summoned into living flesh, cat-people, Highwayman ghosts, and loads more.


A real hot toddy of a book. Definitely night-time reading.


There's no room for coyness here. Bodices don't so much as get ripped but shredded by gleeful claws. This is sex play as opera, or phantom of the opera.


To enter for one moment that most long standing argument beloved of eroticists - the erotic Vs porn debate - one, which I personally believe, is redundant. There's good sex writing and there's bad. Simple as that. Morgan's is good.


However, to play Devil's advocate, if I were to apply the criteria that erotica is the female viewpoint and porn the male, then Phantasmagoria is unashamedly the latter. Which from me is a compliment.


Muscular and burly, unafraid to take chances. The sex is often bloody, the participants sometimes initially unwilling. No coy romances these, this collection take chances and walks the line, but never goes over it.


She doesn't flinch from writing long, detailed sex scenes. Written so each encounter reads fresh, avoiding the cliches that are so problematical for the erotic writer.


In Juxtaposition to the above, Morgan writes with confidence, richly, and often humorously. She's equally at ease writing from the male viewpoint as the female. But in every tale there is the tension, the power play that is essential to good, effective erotica. Coupled with offbeat imagery:


My wings spread wide, the thin membaranes stretched taut and sheer over the long elegant bones. I'm always amazed when I see them form from my body. Another advantage excusive to the succubae vampires.


With a lunge, I leapt up and perched atop the railing of a balcony, clutching my pillowcase of clothes. The city night below me was quiet in those softest moments before dawn. The concrete valleys and cliffs of the city's tall buildings beckoned.


I could go on and on. I loved this collection of wickedly written sex. And at 316 pages, there’s a hell of a lot of it.

Phantasmagoria by Morgan Hawke

PHANTASMAGORIA by Morgan Hawke is available for purchase through

What dreams make you writhe in your satin sheets in the night? - Tall sinister strangers enshrouded in shadows and waiting just out of sight, only for you? Elegant seductresses with carmine nails and wind-blown tresses who need your passion as you need food and drink? the powerful and dangerous embrace of a werewolf under the full moon? A sweet sharp kiss from full pouting lips hiding curved fangs? Sorceresses in dragon-scaled armor to take you against your will and make you howl your delight? Arrogant ghosts in wine-colored frock coats who chill your skin and thrill your blood?

Step into Phantasmagoria my collection of shadowed dreams, but tread lightly... Vampires, werewolves and powerful sorceresses populate the landscape of my demesne.

Oil tycoon, shipping magnate, thaumatologist and disinherited aristocrat, G. Russell feeds his senses by indulging his passions in frivolous, casual sexual encounters with anyone. He enjoys his precarious spare time breeding homunculi, tiny creatures no more than four inches high and wholly subservient to his will. He also writes late into the night and has been published everywhere. With the exception of the novel, Mni pot chanting, light opera, and fado. Well- read, erudite, suave, strikingly handsome, and much sought after by discerning women with gargantuan sexual appetites. He is availiable for discrete perversions, but remains happily married.
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