Welcome to Mills & Swoon, my new series of droll, risqué romance shorts designed for modern readers who want quick escapism with plenty of spice.
Today’s releases include The Velvet Listener and Tara the Time Tourist, two standalone tales spanning contemporary seduction and futuristic time-slipping passion. Both stories are now live in Mills & Swoon Volume 1, with podcast readings available on the Immersion Static channel. This marks the beginning of a playful new series that blends romance, humour, sensuality, and a touch of the unexpected.
Tara Summers was sick of it.
So she booked the only holiday left that required zero algorithmic compatibility data harvesting, sort of. Look, they didn’t send you if you were likely to cause trouble. But on the surface this looked like something that might be right up her futuristic highway. Time Tourism: escape the fake, find the real. This was an undeniably tempting promise.
She didn’t care which era they sent her to. She just wanted two days without predictive emotional analytics shadowing her every sigh. She wanted privacy. Mystery. Maybe even sex without a contract, and with real skin, as in not an android.
The operator grinned as she sealed the chrono-capsule.
“You’re headed to 1812, Miss Summers. Regency period. Very romantic.”
“Romantic?” Tara scoffed. “They didn’t even have plumbing. But I am keeping an open mind, as I am forever hopeful and in my prime.”
“Trust me,” the operator said. “People found ways to entertain themselves.”
The capsule flashed and made a ping-pong noise, whirled a bit, and spat her into a world of rickety transport carriages, mist, and air that smelled like horse poop.
Her landing spot was unfortunate, or fortunate, depending on one’s take on such matters: directly into a man’s arms.
He caught her easily, his grip firm. His chest solid beneath a breeched shirt and his expression equally confused and intrigued. Her buttocks were a perfect fit in the crook of his elbow as he looked at her and raised an eyebrow.
“What in God’s name…” he murmured. “You fell from the hedgerow.”
Tara blinked up at him. He looked carved from the sort of genetics that would, in 2125, cost a fortune to replicate. Wide shoulders. Dark hair. A mouth made for trouble… you know, those plump, soft yet manly lips, we all know what I am talking about here.
“I’m on holiday,” she blurted.
He stared at her attire — a futuristic jumpsuit that shimmered faintly. “From where?”
“Far away.” She offered her hand. “Tara.”
He gently released his manly grip and placed her on the ground. He shook her hand politely. “James Ashbury. And you are… not from Hampshire.”
She laughed. “Not even close.”
The next thing Tara knew, she was in an elegant 1812 mansion where candlelight played beautifully across his jawline. He fetched her warm clothes, fed her a recuperating drink named cider, and insisted she rest by the fire.
Tara tried, but James kept looking at her in that way men in her century no longer did, as though she were astonishing simply for existing.
“You’re very bold for a lady,” he said, watching her examine the fire-poker with curiosity.
“Where I’m from,” she replied, “women can own property, run companies, and delete men with a swipe.”
“Delete…?”
“Not permanently,” she said with a grin. “Just from our lives.”
His laugh was rich and slow, vibrating through her in a way no compatibility app had ever managed. This was even better than the Pleasure Pulse Machine her best friend had bought her for Christmas.
“I am grateful,” he said, stepping closer, “that you haven’t deleted me yet.”
The air hummed. Was that a choir, she wondered?
She felt his breath before she felt his mouth.
The kiss was expertly delivered, exploratory, reverent, but with a hungry undercurrent that threatened the structural integrity of her self-control. James kissed like a man on the brink of something divine.
Her hands slipped into his hair. His palms travelled the curve of her waist, gentle but firm. If Regency etiquette frowned upon such intimacy, James was wholeheartedly ignoring it.
“Tara,” he whispered, lips grazing her throat, “tell me you want this.”
“I’m on holiday,” she breathed. “I want everything.”
They spent the evening discovering exactly how compatible two people from opposite centuries could be. Tara, accustomed to a world of digital intimacy, found the rawness of him intoxicating. No haptics. No neural filters. Just touch, breath, skin, and need.
And James, dear, earnest, devastating James, explored her with the quiet awe of a man unwrapping the future.
When dawn crept across the room, Tara realised her chrono-capsule would recall her in minutes.
James dressed slowly, watching her with a softness that made her chest ache.
“You came from a world I cannot imagine,” he said. “But I hope… perhaps… you’ll return. If this is a dream, I hope to dream of you again, for I fear I have fallen under your spell, darling Tara. I want only to never dream of others, only you.”
Tara stepped close, traced his lower lip with her thumb, remembering his savage, delectable ravishing throughout the night. “Time travel isn’t supposed to form attachments.”
“So you will forget me?”
She kissed him, deep, lingering — the kind of kiss people travelled centuries for.
“No,” she whispered. “I’ll remember you in every century.”
The capsule shimmered into existence, humming impatiently.
James caught her hand as she stepped inside. “Then I shall wait. However long,” he said.
Tara smiled, knowing the sad truth about the fantasy they were both invested in.
In the capsule en route home, Tara filled in the questionnaire, giving her trip a full 10/10, James a top recommend, and a big yes, she would definitely visit this fantasy again.
©2025 Sarnia de la Maré Published by Tale Teller Club.
sarniadelamare.com
A Futuristic Mills & Swoon Short by Sarnia de la Maré
In 2125, dating had become a clinically miserable experience involving algorithms, psych-screening, and compatibility contracts so invasive they made old-fashioned marriage vows look casual.Tara Summers was sick of it.
So she booked the only holiday left that required zero algorithmic compatibility data harvesting, sort of. Look, they didn’t send you if you were likely to cause trouble. But on the surface this looked like something that might be right up her futuristic highway. Time Tourism: escape the fake, find the real. This was an undeniably tempting promise.
She didn’t care which era they sent her to. She just wanted two days without predictive emotional analytics shadowing her every sigh. She wanted privacy. Mystery. Maybe even sex without a contract, and with real skin, as in not an android.
The operator grinned as she sealed the chrono-capsule.
“You’re headed to 1812, Miss Summers. Regency period. Very romantic.”
“Romantic?” Tara scoffed. “They didn’t even have plumbing. But I am keeping an open mind, as I am forever hopeful and in my prime.”
“Trust me,” the operator said. “People found ways to entertain themselves.”
The capsule flashed and made a ping-pong noise, whirled a bit, and spat her into a world of rickety transport carriages, mist, and air that smelled like horse poop.
Her landing spot was unfortunate, or fortunate, depending on one’s take on such matters: directly into a man’s arms.
He caught her easily, his grip firm. His chest solid beneath a breeched shirt and his expression equally confused and intrigued. Her buttocks were a perfect fit in the crook of his elbow as he looked at her and raised an eyebrow.
“What in God’s name…” he murmured. “You fell from the hedgerow.”
Tara blinked up at him. He looked carved from the sort of genetics that would, in 2125, cost a fortune to replicate. Wide shoulders. Dark hair. A mouth made for trouble… you know, those plump, soft yet manly lips, we all know what I am talking about here.
“I’m on holiday,” she blurted.
He stared at her attire — a futuristic jumpsuit that shimmered faintly. “From where?”
“Far away.” She offered her hand. “Tara.”
He gently released his manly grip and placed her on the ground. He shook her hand politely. “James Ashbury. And you are… not from Hampshire.”
She laughed. “Not even close.”
The next thing Tara knew, she was in an elegant 1812 mansion where candlelight played beautifully across his jawline. He fetched her warm clothes, fed her a recuperating drink named cider, and insisted she rest by the fire.
Tara tried, but James kept looking at her in that way men in her century no longer did, as though she were astonishing simply for existing.
“You’re very bold for a lady,” he said, watching her examine the fire-poker with curiosity.
“Where I’m from,” she replied, “women can own property, run companies, and delete men with a swipe.”
“Delete…?”
“Not permanently,” she said with a grin. “Just from our lives.”
His laugh was rich and slow, vibrating through her in a way no compatibility app had ever managed. This was even better than the Pleasure Pulse Machine her best friend had bought her for Christmas.
“I am grateful,” he said, stepping closer, “that you haven’t deleted me yet.”
The air hummed. Was that a choir, she wondered?
She felt his breath before she felt his mouth.
The kiss was expertly delivered, exploratory, reverent, but with a hungry undercurrent that threatened the structural integrity of her self-control. James kissed like a man on the brink of something divine.
Her hands slipped into his hair. His palms travelled the curve of her waist, gentle but firm. If Regency etiquette frowned upon such intimacy, James was wholeheartedly ignoring it.
“Tara,” he whispered, lips grazing her throat, “tell me you want this.”
“I’m on holiday,” she breathed. “I want everything.”
They spent the evening discovering exactly how compatible two people from opposite centuries could be. Tara, accustomed to a world of digital intimacy, found the rawness of him intoxicating. No haptics. No neural filters. Just touch, breath, skin, and need.
And James, dear, earnest, devastating James, explored her with the quiet awe of a man unwrapping the future.
When dawn crept across the room, Tara realised her chrono-capsule would recall her in minutes.
James dressed slowly, watching her with a softness that made her chest ache.
“You came from a world I cannot imagine,” he said. “But I hope… perhaps… you’ll return. If this is a dream, I hope to dream of you again, for I fear I have fallen under your spell, darling Tara. I want only to never dream of others, only you.”
Tara stepped close, traced his lower lip with her thumb, remembering his savage, delectable ravishing throughout the night. “Time travel isn’t supposed to form attachments.”
“So you will forget me?”
She kissed him, deep, lingering — the kind of kiss people travelled centuries for.
“No,” she whispered. “I’ll remember you in every century.”
The capsule shimmered into existence, humming impatiently.
James caught her hand as she stepped inside. “Then I shall wait. However long,” he said.
Tara smiled, knowing the sad truth about the fantasy they were both invested in.
In the capsule en route home, Tara filled in the questionnaire, giving her trip a full 10/10, James a top recommend, and a big yes, she would definitely visit this fantasy again.
©2025 Sarnia de la Maré Published by Tale Teller Club.
sarniadelamare.com
