Now available from Passion in Print Press

The Order of the Golden Rose
A Siobhan Bishop Erotic Underworld Novel

In a stunning tale set against the rich urban landscape of modern-day Boston and
Cambridge, Massachusetts, occult book authority Siobhan Bishop uncovers a century-old
secret society of sexual mystics. A rare edition detailing the dark sensual practices within
the Order of the Golden Rose has surfaced. On her quest for answers, Siobhan encounters
charismatic Harvard professor Richard Blake, and passion ignites, plunging Siobhan into
Richard’s circle of hidden knowledge and transcendent eroticism. But does love stand a
chance amidst the twisted obsessions of Richard’s scorned lover, Olivia Dorian? Having
tasted the sexually charged magic of the Order of the Golden Rose, Olivia will not be
satisfied until she possesses all of the perilous knowledge of the erotic mystics, no matter
who is destroyed in the process.
                  The following is an excerpt from "The Order of the Golden Rose" by R. Paul Sardanas,
                                                            now available from
Passion in Print Press.


  Richard looked long and hard at her; a naked woman cradling a rare book in her hand was a sight to stimulate
more than one level of emotion. If she felt the intensity of his gaze, she didn’t show it. The slight curl to her lips
might have been amusement, might have been interest. Then her tongue appeared briefly; she lifted a fingertip
to her newly-moistened lips, used the finger to turn a page.
  “The rose is the gateway, its measure rolls fire toward the horizon, ringing the world, closing the circle.”
  She had the voice of a natural orator, just the right amount of inflection to actually make the words feel as if
they prompted the air to ripple. What reader of spells, he thought, though with her it seemed impossible to judge
whether she truly felt the words, or simply recited them beautifully. Surprising that she’d had such an
undistinguished career as an actor when she’d been young. Of course her formidable mind hadn’t even
considered that a setback. Going in a heartbeat from acting to producing, her plays in the Theatre District were
always hits. As the principal owner of the Promethean Theater, she had the reputation of managing one of the
most cutting-edge stages on the East Coast.  She probably had more money than he and all of his Harvard
colleagues combined.
  Richard undid his tie, then slipped out of his white dress shirt. He’d always been a modest man, but had his
share of quiet pride in the fact that at forty he remained trim and strong. Those male professorial colleagues for
the most part had only the charisma of their intellects rather than their bodies. But, he mused, perhaps his looks
were no blessing. The men and women he worked with mostly had loving partners…they had kindness and
caring in their lives. He had this. Women like Olivia Dorian. Attracted by magnetism rather than emotional depth.
They had met a few months ago, when the Dean of Students had been called out of town unexpectedly, gifting
him with tickets to the opening of a modern reworking of  I, Pagliacci at the Promethean Theater. The play was
still running, showing no signs of slowing in popularity. Sex, betrayal, murder…he smiled. Right up Olivia’s alley.
During the intermission he had noticed her standing with the writer and director, surrounded by smiling critics
and other well wishers. She’d been a little behind them, just as she was the mover behind the production itself;
most of the compliments circling around the group had been for the actors, for the creators. She’d seemed lost in
thought. A former actor rendered invisible, though of course he hadn’t known all that at the time. He’d always
gravitated to people just outside of the spotlight; he introduced himself, leading to an unexpectedly stimulating
conversation before the curtain went up for the second act.
  “Powerful characters,” he’d said of the play. “So many masks, the play within the play.”
  “Yes,” she’d answered, looking at him with growing interest. “I enjoy the dual nature of them all too. Or rather
the triple nature. Actors portraying actors, who in turn portray characters that echo their own lives. And I confess,
I always get a rush when Pagliacci murders Colombina. I played that same role once, long ago.”
  “Did you? An actor yourself?”
  “For a little while. I got pigeonholed. Tragic heroines. Colombina, Desdemona, Ophelia, Juliet.”
  “Dying over and over again. That must have been uncomfortable.”
  “Quite the contrary. Dying is sexy. You think women would swoon over Romeo if he’d lived?”
  She had actually invited him to dinner after the show, rather than the other way around. And over wine and
talking about the hidden sexuality in the tensions of life and death and theater, the talk had turned to mysticism.
  Point of no return, he thought now.
  Fascinating woman that she was, Richard immediately felt the mixed sensations that always seemed to
surround him since he and Olivia had become lovers. Sex, particularly sex elevated to a mystical experience,
should be a step in bonding, should bring them closer each time to a union that was far beyond a fuck. But even
as the sight of her and the sound of her voice caused his cock to harden and his breath to come short, he felt a
conflicting desire to tell her to get dressed; send her away, tell her this was pointless.
  Yes, you speak so beautifully, Olivia. Only there’s one word that is hard to imagine ever coming from your
mouth. Love.
  Richard finally stood naked too, the bedroom of his Massachusetts Avenue apartment filled with the purple light
that came with twilight’s deepening. They had eaten an early dinner in one of the classy downtown bistros that
she enjoyed, then they’d come to his place just as the sun had begun to set.
  “Olivia, I think we should talk,” he said.
  She raised the finger she had used to turn the book page to her mouth again, letting it linger there between
her lips for the space of a long breath. Then she lowered her hand, stepped forward, and caressed his cock with
her dampened finger.
  “You always want to talk,” she said. “People talk at me all day long.”
  “Well, I’m not one of your stage managers or actors,” he persisted, refraining from touching her in return;
instead he reached out and gently nudged the still-open book. “Maybe you don’t take this seriously, but I do.”
  Her eyebrows went up slightly, and the curl of her lip ceased to be ambiguous; this time she did smile.
  “I take it perfectly seriously,” she said. “Haven’t I shown how proficient I can be?”
  She set the book aside, placing it on the edge of his nearby desk. She knelt down in front of him, smiling again,
then extending the tip of her tongue so that it just brushed the head of his cock. He shuddered, half-involuntarily.
Electric, she was electric. She inscribed her tongue-tip in a perfect circle around him, raising her hands at the
same time to caress her own small breasts. For a moment she stopped, still kneeling, and looked up at him.
  “We open the first gate, where the thick river flows, and the air sighs,” she said.
  He put his hands against the side of her head. Her blonde hair had been arranged with care into a
professionally perfect coif. He pictured her as she must be during the day: sitting in her office, talking to one
person after another, making calls, using that exquisitely modulated voice…knowledgeable, decisive. Filled with
perception and drive. He strongly suspected that nobody messed with Olivia more than once. He knew she was
similar in age to him, but she didn’t look it. Not a single worry line, or laugh line, for that matter, on her face.
  . He looked at that face, between his palms. He’d never known a more intelligent woman. Why did it seem so
impossible to move her to the beauty of the sharing in what they were doing together? Looking at her, he felt the
hopeless desire to try, one more time.
  “Warmth, Olivia. Mystical lovers inspire warmth, and life.”
  She raised her own hands and pushed his away.
  “The sun sets,” she chanted, “and we see the bronze doorposts which open one way only. Their outlines are
jagged and hover on perception’s edge. Venom runs hot, and pain rips along the opening of a cut.”
  She moved one of her hands to curl around the edge of his thigh, then scratched him there with a nail. Again
he put his hands against the side of her head.
  “Do you feel any affection for me at all?” he asked.
  “Of course I do,” she sounded impatient. “You’re quite brilliant. I admire that a great deal.”
  “You don’t see any problem between the question I’m asking and the answer you’re giving?”
  “Fuck that,” she said, and when her eyes raised again to look at him they were clouded by an immense rush of
lust. “The second gate opens in sudden, crystalline clarity.”
  Waste, this is just a waste, he thought, but he used his hands to pull her head toward him. Her mouth opened
with an intensity of greed that shocked but inflamed him; she took him deep in her mouth, holding him there
against the back of her throat until he half-thought she must be choking, suffocating. But then finally she ran her
lips back along his shaft with infinite slowness.
  Unable to resist any more, he reached around the back of her head and tangled his fingers in her hair. She
responded, sucking him with an almost elemental ferocity, until he gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut.
  The gateway, yes, all of this was a key, but what she wanted when they passed the gate remained an absolute
mystery to him. He had asked her before of course, and she had just been as maddeningly obscure and evasive
as ever.
  “I’ve had my fill of
la petit mort,” she’d said. “Grand deaths, or nothing.”
  He tried. He calmed her slightly, slowing the motion of her fellatio, touching the side of her face this time with
conspicuous, intentional gentleness. He said the next words:
  “Four, five and six are ruby, emerald and diamond…”
  But there was no chamber inside her with anything like love. Fuck, fuck fuck was all. All right then, that’s the
way it is. Time to retreat from the point of no return, if such a thing was possible. His only consolation in the
moment was that he’d only taken her so far, not fully into the circle that embodied the knowledge that they were
experiencing now, from book and from screw, from half-wisdom and barren reach for bonding.
  He pulled her away from him by her hair, the smile she gave him this time positively feral. Continuing to pull her
hair, he got her into a standing position, then lifted her under the armpits and sat her on the desk. She managed
to take an instant to shove the rare, irreplaceable book she had been reading from where it had been resting on
the desk onto the floor. Then she leaned back and opened her legs wide. He plunged in his tongue, drawing the
circle there as she had done on his cock; circle of life, it was supposed to be. He moved his mouth to taste the
lips of her vagina, then used the Serpent’s Kiss against her clitoris, darting in, touching, retreating, darting in
again. She stayed silent, not a single moan. A woman of infinite control.
  She used her nails again, once again choosing a spot that wouldn’t show when he was clothed. The side of his
torso near his heart – she made the spiral there, breaking his skin and marking with a tracery of blood the sign of
Ouroboros, answer to the Serpent’s Kiss: the snake with its tail in its mouth.
  You know it all so well, he thought. But it won’t be enough for you, will it? It never is.
  She let him continue, moving her hips in time with the strokes of his tongue. He felt sure she was close to an
orgasm, and many was the time he had coaxed her to climax after climax, but this time as her muscles began to
contract with the beginning of her first, she pushed him away with a foot against his chest.
She narrowed her eyes at him. She knew. Of course she did. After tonight he was never going to make love with
her again. Precisely for that reason: it wasn’t making love. He had a flash of thought that she should be angry at
the knowledge. But she just arranged her lips into that cool smile again. She sat up, leaning over to return his
cock to her mouth, but only for a moment before retreating and inclining her mouth upward to kiss his, giving him
a taste of his own musky heat. She slipped off the desk. Such a small woman, it became so easy to forget that,
as she became such an insatiable force in her passion. But her mind was always working. She took up the next
ritual position perfectly, placing one of her feet on top of his while putting one of her arms around his back and
the other on his shoulder. She bent the knee of her other leg for him to take hold of. Small, yes, easy to lift; he
raised her up and she curled her legs around his ass, then he lowered her on to his cock, impaling her as if on a
spike. He held her there, hands under her buttocks.
  She buried her face against the side of his neck and he fully expected to feel the sudden, shocking pain of a
bite. Vampire: that would suit her. But all he felt was her breath, even and steady. To continue climbing the
tantric ladder would require both of them to pierce the veils and mists of simple lust and begin to gather energies
in the mind and in the body. Almost he began that; the envisioning of the goddess in her, and the summoning of
the god into his own body. Then the tracing of pathways of light in patterns from her eyes to his flesh, from his
hands to the fiery center of her sex. Climbing toward an orgasm that would flood the mind with light and leave him
gasping and transformed.
  Instead, she pressed her feet against the back of his knees and lifted herself off him.
  Only grand deaths, no more little ones.
 “Animals tonight, Professor Blake,” she said. She turned away from him and got down on her hands and knees.
She put one out-thrust hand right on the book she had shoved to the floor, covering the words there. Symbolic
enough. That, and the reversion to his academic identity, took them in an instant fully from being intimates. No
longer magical lovers, just an angry man and woman having sex for the last time. So, he thought, she’s decided
on her own response to the rejection she’s sensed in him. She’d turned her face away, but still wanted
satisfaction. He could have her from behind, leaving any rapture that might enter into her own eyes unseen by
him. She arched her head back slightly, inviting him to take hold of the hair that was now plastered by sweat
against the back of her neck. The Lioness. A position of supposed submission, which he was astute enough to
be aware represented exactly the opposite.
  Yes, animals. This is how the fallen fuck when they have ceased to climb toward heaven. He slipped the length
of his cock into her, feeling a primitive satisfaction in the degree to which he filled her. This time he fancied the
smallest moan escaped from her. It surprised him. This is what really gave her pleasure, then? The moment
before an ending, with nothing but mutual dismissal left in it? He did grab hold of her hair, and so in that moment
he became the primal man, screwing Lilith in the final hour before she turned her back and walked out of
Paradise. He pounded hard at her, until the pearl of heat that had begun to take root in his groin began to
spread outward. Once again he gritted his teeth; his body convulsed in a pleasure that felt closer to pain. If she
had an orgasm of her own she didn’t cry out. Again, the faint moan, then she shook her hair free of his gripping
hand. As he let his cock slide out of her she moved in a casual fashion until she was kneeling upright, then in a
smooth motion she stood, still keeping her back to him. She went right for her clothes, where she had left them
draped over the back of his desk chair.
  His legs felt weak. He wanted to stand too, to be on equal footing with her. But he felt so drained he couldn’t
bring himself to rise.  She was speaking, and it took him a moment to realize the words were the last of the chant.
  “A golden-eyed panther, cut from uncast shadow, will leap and lay open the last of flesh.”
  He didn’t know what to say to her. For all his embrace of the mystical, he had never been a believer in demons.
People were just people under it all. There wasn’t any devil. But as she turned, favoring him again with her icy
smile, he began to wonder.
  “It’s been fun,” she said. “I really wish you’d introduced me to the rest of your friends. They might have more to
offer. In fact, I’m sure of it.”
  “What are you talking about, Olivia?”
  She had put her dress back on. She slipped on her high heels, then crouched  to fasten the straps.
  “Why nothing, darling. Why don’t you take a little nap? They call sleep the little death too.”
  He shook his head. He blinked, raised a hand to brush the sweat from his eyes. When he opened them fully
again she had her coat over her arm. He finally did stand, but made no move to accompany her as she walked to
the door of his apartment. Thank heaven he had never given her a key. When she made her exit without another
word, he took distinct pleasure in flipping the latch of the lock.
  It wasn’t until he came back to his desk and looked with alarm at the empty floor, that he realized she had taken
the book.
 to be continued....

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"Olivia Dorian" artist conception by David Cuccia
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