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Guest: Emy Naso


This is from the 5 part series “Slaves of Desire” set in Victorian times. Emy Naso has written many novels set in the Victorian/Edwardian area. Emy Naso was British and wrote erotica, poems, essays and other work for magazines. He has forty novels with two main publishers and also left some twenty works that we are still getting ready for publication.

For all the work of the late, great Emy Naso:

The driver bored him. It was a never ending string of small minded talk. Ever since picking up the Doctor from the railway station at Norwich he’d gone on about the countryside.

“And the ice age formed the cliffs along by Sheringham and Cromer,” he prattled on. “Isn’t that where you are staying, Doctor Calvani?”

“Yes.” It was a one word terse answer. But it didn’t stop the flow of tedious tales.

“You’ll love Cromer. Can be a cold and bitter place when the wind turns and comes from the North East. Straight across the sea it blows. Look, Doctor, the church in the center of town. Almost there. Pity, I‘d have loved to tell you more about the place that is to become your home.”

Doctor Calvani tried to smile at the driver. He never had been a particularly jovial man when he’d lived in London. Attempts to show amusement usually ended up as a grimace. That was about all the driver got.

They clip-clopped along by the cliff, the noise of the sea at least smothering the drivers voice.

“Hold up there, boy.” The loquacious driver pulled on his reins, bringing the two horse buggy to a juddering halt.

“Nice house, Doctor. All it needs is a competent gardener to tame those trees and bushes, and the sun will be shining on you…and the house.” The driver laughed. He appreciated the joke, even if the Doctor didn’t.

“Carry your bags in, sir?”

“That would be…required.” Doctor Calvani thought about saying ’good’ but resisted the word. It was not that sort of experience in the long driver from the station. He should have been pleased that the railway from London, with it’s branch line to Norwich, had been completed the year before, otherwise it would have been a two day coach journey from the Capital to this remove part of Norfolk.

“The door is open,” the driver said supposedly to himself, making a show of the heavy cases, angling for a large tip.

“Down there will do,” the Doctor churlishly said, pointing to the middle of the dark hall. He was beginning to grow openly weary of the driver.

“As you wish, Doctor. No doubt you’ll have servants to take care of them.

The truth was Doctor Calvani had engaged three staff when he’d come a month before to view the house and rent it from an absent Earl, the rich nobleman owning much land in the area, but who had not visited it for over ten years.

“Well, then Doctor. That will be…” the driver hesitated. They’d settled the price of the journey when Doctor Calvani got off the rain at Norwich. The driver stood, smiling, shuffling on his large feet.

Doctor Calvani wanted him gone. He searched around in his cloak pocket, found the right coins, looked at the expectant face of the driver, and added, grudgingly, a few more copper coins.

“Erm, thank you, Doctor.” The facial expression and general demeanor of the driver strongly suggested he thought the money disappointing. Doctor Calvani cared nothing for the man’s feeling, hurrying him out of the door.

Now there was silence. The Doctor liked it. He stood perfectly still, his thoughts on all that had happened in London and the necessity to leave and find a home and sanctuary in Cromer, a small fishing town on the north Norfolk coast.

The dingy tranquillity of the hall was broken. From the gloom a portly man waddled across the hall. His sideway movements were almost as much as the forward ones. He was a broken human crab.

He nodded his head. It looked more like an affliction than a greeting of respect.

“Good evening, Doctor,” he said, the voice heavy with the Norfolk accent.

“Yes, will you take my bags to my rooms, er…”

“Greaves, sir.”

“Yes, I…well, Greaves.” It was obvious the Doctor had forgotten the name of his butler and general handyman. They’d only met once before. A local solicitors who handled the Earl’s estate and rented the property to Doctor Calvani also made arrangements for the staff to be interviewed. Calvani now wondered why he had approved this decrepit crustacean.

“Would you like to see the other members of the establishment, sir?” Greaves hovered with the bags. He swayed to the left, where he carried the heaviest, tilting him like a badly loaded cargo ship..

“Yes, let’s get that out the way,” Calvani sighed, anxious to be alone.

Doctor Calvani had not meant to sound so brusque, yet it was the way he felt. He did not relish human contact. Not on these terms, anyway. He disliked most people but had predilections toward certain others. He shook his head, clearing the thoughts from his mind. That was London. Now he was away from all that. He hoped.

Greaves rolled away with his unusual gait, put the bag at the foot of the stairs, toddled unsteadily over to a row of switches, pressed two and gave the Doctor a bad impression of a smile. Both men were ill at ease.

A short time elapsed, the loud ticking of a long case clock in the hall echoing as the pendulum swung on its ever monotonous journey, back and forth for all time.

“Here they are.” Greaves broke the silence. “Mrs. Morton, the cook, Doctor. And you remember, Alice…the maid.”

Doctor Calvani grunted a greeting. He didn’t recall Mrs. Morton. She was a stout lady, her chubby face ever in motion, even when not speaking. Her graying hair severely tied back with a black ribbon. However he remembered Alice.

At the initial interview of the staff in the solicitor’s office he could picture the moment she walked in. There had been three young women applying for the position as maid. The other two had more experience. Doctor couldn’t say, or admit, why, but it was Alice who made an impression. One that had returned often to his mind.

Looking at the young woman now he hoped he’d not engaged her for the reasons all the difficulties started in London. She was twenty, an outwardly slim woman in her plain long white apron and black dress. Yet the Doctor had watched her move at the solicitors office. He detected that under her austere servant’s uniform there was a shapely body. The shabby outward clothes hid crowning femininity waiting to be discovered.

“Fine. That will be all. Greaves, take the bags upstairs. I will eat in my room tonight.”

The instruction were curt. Doctor Calvani abruptly shook his thoughts, pulling them away from Alice. 

Here are just two of Emy Naso’s poems

I am

I am your dream
Where love arouses
Our shared senses

I am your life
Together we ‘oft dally,
In craving, human arms

I am within you,
And never without
Our fire of sensuality

I am your passion,
Giving all of myself
Whatever you demand

I am the ever constant
Light in your existence,
The flame of all desire

I am your heart
Beauty in great joy,
Holding in flesh pain

I am your sorrow
When you watch
My dying body

I am your spirit
Now you weep
At my grave 

I am still there
So speak to me
In my eternity 

I am yours alone
So do not forget
My love was real

For My Love

Let me inside, not to invade
But furl my spirit in your heart,
The being of your memory
Slumbers in this troubled mind:
Let me comfort, now I hold the key
Between this realm and far beyond,
Tenderly waiting, always with you,
Called by the power of your love:
Let me gently reside in each thought,
Living in this world forsaken now,
Guiding in truth, holding in desire,
Gone but for a temporal moment:
Let me whisper in the deep sorrow
And hold your hand through the day,
Resting by your side when night comes
In the years and tears of separation.
Let me not drift too far, my love,
We shared, we cared, time went,
Fear not the valley of lost souls,
I have returned to hold you near.


  1. peggy says:

    great interview and the poems was just so romatic

  2. I really liked the second poem the most. It’s really nice to see romantic men.

  3. Che Dee says:

    wonderful writing – good to see someone who knows how to use language

  4. Nicky says:

    thanks for all the kind comments from the friends of the late emy naso here in the uk

  5. Denise Eagan says:

    Oh those poems are beautiful and touching! Lovely.

  6. MaryJ says:

    I’ve read some of Emy Naso’s books. Very erotic and a geat way with words. One of the best storytellers. Probably because he was a Celt from the mountains of Wales. And he had a wonderful sense of humor.

  7. Ruth says:

    read his victorian taboo novel – wow, what a writer – also love these poems – can we see more? would like to know more of emy naso – looks a handsome man

  8. Ruth says:

    forgot to say – also loved the poems

  9. Ruth says:

    I wish someone would publish his poems. Here’s another one I saw on his site.

    Song of You

    Electrified with spirits from history’s cave
    My body feels the power of the rain
    Beating, meeting past desire,
    Sensual ghosts cascading like a wave
    Shivering in this naked dance to be insane;
    Breaking, shaking in lust’s fire:

    This love possesses in greed’s entirety,
    Wanting you is but my single thought,
    Crying, flying to be near
    Your essence fills all that is truly me
    And fragrance is once again now taught,
    Pounding, sounding, senses clear:

    Nearest to the soul of my destiny
    Is the movement of my inner need,
    Fearing, searing, loneliness;
    Supplication to be forever free,
    Sing the paean with this passion’s greed,
    Holding, folding into sweet caress.

  10. Nicky says:

    That’s kind of you Ruth. Where are you? UK, USA or elsewhere in this wide world. Although Emy Naso has many books published we’ve never offered his poems. Hope you like this one. Bye

    Blame It On You

    Do I blame you for the loneliness through my damp eyed night?
    How dare you steal away the contentment of past solitude,
    Now crumpled pillow feels my tears till comes the light
    When morning rescues me from this dreamless interlude:
    Body sleepless remembers touching,
    Reaching out and closely clutching;
    Yes I blame you for the deepest pain
    Inflaming love with no defense,
    Give me back my common sense
    Stop teasing, driving me insane.

    I blame you for the danger when skin strokes more skin
    In that first hectic moment of our onward rush to fornicate,
    Racing thoughts urge you each night to commit delicious sin
    With two quick eager mouths and lips greedily infatuate:
    Promising this time to slowly savor
    Tasting deepest inside my favor,
    For sure I blame you as passion climbs
    From beginning to the very last
    Craving ecstasy from your shaft,
    I blame you for the best of times.

    Who do I blame when matter becomes substance of the mind?
    The past rushing to catch the accelerating wings of future bliss
    And the present is convention, which seeks to hold and bind,
    Say farewell, and hold long embrace in one last eternal kiss:
    This cannot, must not, never end
    With sharpened desire I’ll defend
    You from the blame of our infatuation,
    I knew you were my illicit sweet
    What was said, the word used cheat,
    There is no blame in this temptation.

  11. Weavers Way says:

    I’ve only just caught up with reading this author. As a critic and reviewer I have to say the work was beautifully written. Often with such erotic work, the writing suffers, but here we have an author who writes prose as if it was poetry in some of the descriptive passages. I hope to discover much more. The only sadness is that I found Emy Naso’s yahoo group and it came as a shock that he died young about four years ago. Let’s hope his work gets recognised. Just on a personal note I see he was a Brit, and so am I, although living in France.

  12. Mary Davies says:

    Then you have a lot to discover with Emy! Very erotic work

  13. Weavers Way says:

    Thanks Mary. I’ve just picked up a download of his series on the Victorian Doctor (fictional), Calvani. fascinating

  14. Mary says:

    Saw this on another site by this author and got permission to post here as I think it’s a lovely bit of Victorian writing

    A short story lust and horror, written in the style of cinematic scenes. Hannah goes into service when her father dies. The secrets at Overstrand House are many and deep. Sexual decadence, strange desires, and death stalk the lonely mansion on the edge of the brooding sea. You are left asking, “Who is Hannah?”

    ( from an unedited version – copyright estate of the late emy naso)

    It was the end and the beginning. The Queen was dead. So many people had known no other monarch. On the 22nd. January 1901 the Victorian age came to an end. It was the sixty-fourth year of her reign, and Hannah Rollesby’s twenty-second birthday.

    The train journey from Thetford to the fashionable seaside resort of Cromer was long and daunting. Not that the distance was much more than ninety miles. Her mother had gone as far as the railway station and the departure scene became a tearful one. From there, Hannah watched the heathlands roll past from the carriage of the train, and at every stop another little slice of life came into view.

    It was mainly women traveling from the market towns with their wares to sell and hawk. They were raucous and she enjoyed watching and listening to them talk. She was from a quiet family. Before his death three months ago, her father had been a gentle and considerate man. When he suddenly died, the small income from his work on the smallholding had stopped. To make matters worse, he was only a tenant farmer, and the owner now demanded the land back, unable to countenance the land being worked by women.

    Mrs. Beatrice Rollesby tried to manage on her own, but she had three daughters. Hannah was the eldest, so she had to seek employment away from home. This would lessen the burden on the family and enable Hannah to send home part of her earnings.

    The county town of Norwich appeared on a platform sign, and Hannah collected her few belongings together. She had to change here and take the train north to Cromer.

    Slowly the countryside changed. In her twenty-two years, she had never left the flat lands of central Norfolk. It was a sheep grazing and market garden district. The soil was meager and the people even poorer. The landscape now became rich and she could see many fine houses dotted in the distance as the train chugged toward its destination. With her nose pressed against the window, Hannah played mind games, guessing if the next cloud of smoke from the engine at the front of the train would be darker or larger than the last one to stream passed her.

    The train strained up an incline. Hannah saw something she’d never seen before. It was the sea. The young woman tried to open the window to get a better view. As she leaned out her brown hair steamed back and those deep black eyes had to squint to keep the grit and smoke from the engine from getting in them.

    So this was the way the land ended? All Hannah knew of the sea was from books and tales. Britain still had a mighty empire and she had read about how it stretched across the world. But for Hannah Rollesby, this was a great adventure. This was her expedition. Her world had expanded.

    Struggling down the platform, Hannah managed to hand in her ticket, and then stood lost on the outside the station. Watching the scenery from the train had diverted her thoughts from the trepidation she felt. But now she was here; maid to the Paston family. But what was she supposed to do?

    “Miss Rollesby?” She turned. A tall figure addressed her. His face severe, feigning interest, but indifferent. It reminded Hannah of the undertaker who had come to the house when her father died. He’d expressed condolences, but was more interested in seeing her mother’s burial insurance policy to make sure the family had the pittance needed to pay for the simple funeral. ?

    “Yes,” she answered, aware he was waiting for her reply.
    “Come with me. I am from the Paston family.” He marched off with a slow coffin cadence. He made no attempt to help carry her bags.

    She was in for another shock. By the side of the road stood an enormous dark…what did they call it…automobile. Horses still did all the work in her village. Metal horses were a wonder.

    “It don’t bite,” the man huffed in his broad Norfolk dialect. “This is one of those new fangled Daimler Motor carriage.”

    “Put your bags on the back seat, Miss…and get in.”

    Hannah sat next to the gloomy driver, and as the engine roared and spat, she clutched the small personal case she held on her lap, wondering if this was what the minister in the chapel on a Sunday had meant by Satan’s Chariot. He’d condemned all things modern and Hannah remembered the Reverend Archibald even spoke against women, as if they were another evil invention.

    Soon they reached Overstrand House. It stood perilously close to the cliff, the North sea staring up in a sinister way at the ivy covered mansion. It had been built by money made in the colonies by the Paston family. Some say in slavery, back in the eighteenth century. Rum and sugar made a few rich and many poor slaves.

    Hannah sat motionless, her head turning slowly to take in the massive frontage. She tried to count the number of windows. All of them seemed to hide a secret. The light itself showed a reluctance to penetrate through the leaden windows.

    “Come, Miss. We can’t be dawdling. You’re to meet the housekeeper, Mrs. Tremane.”

    Her cadaverous escort walked up the stone steps, pushed at the double oak doors and went into a central hall. The light filtered down through a domed atrium fanlight. Its fantastic design of a dragon, threw colored patterns across the red tiled floor. As Hannah followed, she heard the footfall echo of her tiny leather shoes, and the heavy boots of the man. They echoed in a weird tympanic sound.

    “Enter, girl,” he commanded, and opened a door at the far end of the hall. She went in. The door closed. Before Hannah stood a woman in her mid-forties, red hair, piled and pinned on her oval head. She had her hands on her hips and was a formidable looking lady, attractive and striking, rather than what Hannah would call beautiful.

    “You must be Hannah. I’m Mrs. Tremane. In this kitchen, and when the Paston’s are present, that will be the way you address me. There might…I say might…be occasions when you can call me Henrietta.” The look suggested to Hannah those occasions would be few and far between.
    – authors, published or aspiring always very welcome to post their promos and excerpts on our friendly site

  15. Che Dee says:

    I know. I have the short novel. Love the way he writes in the style of that part of the country. I know, I live there. Here is one of my fav bits.

    “It was horrible,” Bentick said. It was about all he had managed to say since the policeman arrived from Cromer an hour ago. The handyman was taciturn most of the time, now he just kept repeating the sentence.

    Amelia had been put to bed, still in deep shock at finding the hanging, lifeless body of the Master swinging from a rope attached to a hook in the ceiling of his study. Mrs.Tremane administered one of her herbal sleeping potions to calm the maid.

    Rose and Hannah went about their duty in the house but in a subdued manner, not wanting to talk about the ghastly affair.

    “So what exactly did you see, Bentick?” Inspector Halliday asked again, hoping this time for more sense.

    “Heard the maid scream, didn’t I,” Bentick replied in an ill mannered fashion, belated shock getting to him.

    “Yes, we know that, but what did you find?”

    “Got to the Master’s study. That slip of a woman, Amelia, was near in a fit by the door. Staring she was, just staring.”

    “So you went in, Bentick?”

    “Had to, didn’t I”, he mumbled in his blunt way, speaking in the braod Norfolk dialect of the region. It was horrible,” he intoned. Halliday signed at the repetition of this phrase but kept quiet. Bentick went on.

    “The Master was hanging by that rope. His eyes bulging, tongue hanging out like a dog with the rabies.”

    “Was that all, Bentick?”

    “All?, he said, with mock dark humor. The man was indecently naked. His face scratched with congealed blood everywhere. And you ask me if that was all.”

    Halliday looked over at Mrs. Tremane to see if the description was causing her to go queasy. She sat, stony faced, listening.

    “And those words on the wall, Bentick, did you write them?” Halliday returned to his questions.

    “Of course I didn’t. Damn fool question. I can’t write. Only educated people can do that.”

    Five minutes later the detective left the kitchen and went to talk to the new Master of Overstrand House, Mr. Algeron Paston

    “Bentick,” Mrs. Tremane said. “What was this about writing on the wall of the old Master’s study?”

    “You heard me tell that there policeman I couldn’t read it…but young Amelia did tell me what it said.”

    Mrs. Tremane waited for the old guy to decide to tell her.

    “The young maid said it was written in blood and said, “The shallow soul must die.”

    Mrs. Tremane put one hand to her mouth, using the other to dab away the tears from her old eyes.

  16. Tali says:

    Love Emy’s work. Anybody know who publishes the work now? Looking for more to read

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