Z is for zeitgeist…

Peeling paint

Zeitgeist. I love to roll that word around with my tongue. Time. Spirit. The spirit, attitude or general outlook of a particular period of history, according to the Collins English Dictionary.

Does it only apply to the age or can one apply it more personally? What for example is my own particular zeitgeist at the moment? What mood, feelings, thoughts dominate my world currently?

What do you think, you cunt?

Anger I found that text message. Anger wraps around me like a scarlet cloak, scratchy and hot, making it hard for me to breathe. It covers my face. I can’t see where I’m going as I blunder towards you with arms outstretched. I want to punch you.

Hurt. What you did, what you’re doing, cuts me to the core. Not a simple stab wound, but a serrated blade being dragged down through me. Again and again. Why is my anger so red? It’s drenched in my blood.

Fear. Where do I go from here? What happens now? ‘We’ are a thing of the past. I want nothing more to do with you, but how do I extricate myself from the ties that bind us? And then it will be ‘I’, all alone, a unit of one when I’ve spent so many years as part of two. Maybe it will be better. I’ll tell myself that. Piece. Of. Fiction.

Pain. It gnaws. Sharp teeth grinding at me with questions. Why? How could you? When? Where? Details I’m desperate for but don’t want to know. Have no right to know. Would be far better off not knowing. But rodent teeth dig deep and the pain is fierce and unrelenting.

Sorrow. It came to this. All that we invested in ourselves, and it came to this ignoble ending. Perhaps I invested more in us than you ever did. The saddest, timeworn tale. I should have known that love was finite and that we wouldn’t last forever. Salt stings my eyes. My mouth tastes of bitter gall. My heart is swollen and raw.

Despair. Desolation. Desperation. 

And how do you feel today, my darling?

Y is for yes…

Woman sitting under tree

Can I get you a coffee?

Yes, please, that would be lovely.

Can I buy you a drink?

Yes, thank you.

And another?

I shouldn’t, but…

Can I kiss you?

I thought you’d never ask.

Can I kiss you again?

Please, go ahead. You needn’t ask…

Can I touch you there?

Yes, yes.

Can I take you home?


Can I fuck you.


Dinner? Yes. And sex? Yes. Again? Yes.

(x100 or so)

Marry me?


Carry my child?


And another?


Care for my children?

Of course.

Cook my meals.


Do my laundry?


Sew on that button?


Sort out my mother’s birthday present?


Sort out the plumber?



Yes. At last.

The dry cleaner? Parents’ evening? Book my flights? Get the car serviced?

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes…

Love me?


I ran out of yeses.

The answer is NO. Not anymore.

Don’t ask me for anything else.

X is for xenopus…



Sometimes you kiss a frog and they magically become a prince.

Sometimes you kiss a prince and they magically become a frog.

I kissed a prince. At least, I thought he was a prince but I was wrong. It took a while for me to realise, but my beautiful prince was, in fact, a frog. Xenopus, the clawed frog.

This was the creature I’d taken into my heart. The creature I’d made my home with.

How long did it take me to realise? Far too long. But these frogs are clever. They cloak themselves in a layer of charm. My frog, in particular, had charisma. He wooed me and swept me off my feet. His light shone bright and it dazzled me. I didn’t see what lay beyond. I only saw what he wanted me to see.

For the longest time.

Yes, he was clever. But over the years, the veneer began to peel and crack. I got the occasional glimpse of what lay behind the mask. So fleeting that it was easy for me to close my eyes to it. To pretend I hadn’t seen at all, to keep up the pretence.

The charade of the perfectly happy couple. Happily perfect together.

Falling in love can happen fast. Falling out of love can take a lot longer. When you fall out of love, you feel like you’ve failed. You pretend it isn’t happening. At least I did. Disillusionment crowds in, clouds all thoughts of the future.

My prince, it turned out, was nothing but a frog. A big, fat old frog. Prince of his pond, nothing more than that. Unpleasant. Ugly.

But I was the fool.

I had been from the start.


W is for whetstone…


I watch as you stroke your blade across the whetstone. I listen to its metallic grate with my eyes closed. I tremble. I anticipate. I wait and I want.

Cold, biting steel. Across my skin. You tease and torment me with it.

You’re my whetstone. You make me sharp and sensitive. When I’m with you, I’m bright and keen, glinting and bold. When you’re gone, I’m blunted and dull. Tarnished.

I hone my fierce edges against your flat, steady planes, and you anchor my brittle existence.

But diamond acuity comes at a price. You wear me down, little by little, with each pass, just as your blade is worn away by the whetstone.

For now, I’m still sharp. But I won’t always be. What will you do then?

V is for virginity…


Virgins were her special interest. More precisely, the claiming of virginity, the corruption of the innocent, the defilement of young-ish boys. (Though she always made sure to check their id for their date of birth. She wasn’t going to risk jail time for her pleasure.) (You might ask if there were any men over 18 who were still virgins – but when it’s your special hobby, you know where to find them.)

Of course, she’d slept with more experienced men but found the whole ‘experience’ thing overrated. Just because a guy had done it 10 or 100 times, didn’t mean he got any better at it. At least not the guys in her bed. But nothing could beat the beatific expression of joy and wonder when a box-fresh cock plunged inside her for the very first time. Eyes wide with surprise, head thrown back, mouth gaping, some of them came in an instant, while some of them savoured the pleasure for, oh, perhaps a minute or three before the explosion happened.

Some, naturally, didn’t even make it inside her before they came, but she was forgiving. She knew how to get them hard again and thereafter would supervise more closely to make sure they got inside her. And they always came more than once.

Like lovesick puppies, they all wanted to see her again. But she wouldn’t. Once she’d claimed their virginity, her interest in them deflated as rapidly as their cocks. She sent them on their way with a lingering kiss and a maternal lecture about being good to the women they slept with.

So how had it come about, her fetish for virgins?

It started when she was in college. There had been plenty of virgins there, ripe for the picking. In fact, she’d been one herself when she’d arrived, though obviously not for long. The guy who took her virginity claimed he only ever slept with virgins – he was, in fact, a lying little shit, but the idea took hold in her mind before she found out he actually slept with everyone.

After that, she’d slept with a few other men, which was fine and dandy. But then she found him. Her virgin ideal. A broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped aesthete, charmingly nervous around women, with a sweep of blond hair that kept her awake at night. She wanted him. She wanted to be his first. It didn’t matter to her to be his only – she wasn’t looking for a long-term relationship. She simply wanted to be the one he’d remember, always.

He lived in a house in the woods with two other aesthetes with whom she became close friends. She suspected – and later found out – that these two were also virgins. But it was her blond Adonis she wanted most of all and so she laid her plans for seduction. The right music, the right wine, a roaring fire, candlelight…

He was putty in her hands.

She kissed him passionately and then watched his face as she guided his cock into her cunt. Surprise, delight, fear, wonder, adoration and perfect joy all wrapped in a few seconds, all caused by her. Like a class A drug, she was addicted from the first hit. She seduced his housemates on successive weekends and after that widened her search around campus. She couldn’t get enough soft virgin flesh and hard virgin cock.

Virgin flesh. Virgin cock. It made her the author of transformative experiences. The one they would all remember. Always.

She had discovered her own brand of immortality.

Capturing the Moment with Delilah Night

Today I’m thrilled to be hosting my great friend Delilah Night on Superotica. It’s release day for Delilah – Capturing the Moment is her first novella – and I’m just about as excited as she is. It’s a book I can whole-heartedly recommend, so I hope you’ll enjoy the interview and excerpt below and THEN GO AND BUY IT!!!!!

I’m so excited to be guest posting on Tamsin’s blog! She’s one of my favorite authors, and has become a dear friend. It’s especially great to be here to talk about Capturing the Moment, today—GENERAL RELEASE DAY!—because Tamsin was one of my most dedicated beta readers. Without her, my story  wouldn’t be nearly as good. I hope you enjoy the post, and don’t forget to enter my contest to win a copy of the book!

Interviewing My Main Characters: RJ

Today I’m going to do something a little different than the typical promo post—I’m going to interview my male lead, RJ, from my new novella, Capturing the Moment! Last week I interviewed my other main character, Meg, over at R.A. Padmos’s blog. (https://rapadmos.wordpress.com/2016/04/20/welcome-guest-delilah-night-and-win-free-book/


Delilah Night: What made you fall in love with Meg?

RJ : My friend Rachel introduced me to her sister, Megan. I used to be a player, but all that changed. Meg was an education major, and her eyes glowed with passion when she talked about how she wanted to help kids love learning. We were studying in the library one day, and I offered to help her find a book. We ended up making out in the stacks, and I was hooked. Her brains, her sense of humor, and our sexual connection ruined me for every other woman.

DN: Sounds intense. What happened?

RJ: It’s a long story. The short version is that we were together, we got engaged, and then we broke up. We were both to blame, and honestly,  I was kind of a jerk. We’re going to need to deal with our past to have a shot at moving forward. Unfortunately, once Meg agreed to spend the day with me in Siem Reap, Cambodia, one of her first rules was that she wouldn’t talk about our past. She wouldn’t even let me apologize for the ways I fucked things up.

DN: Yes, well, you weren’t exactly invited to join Meg on her vacation in Siem Reap.

RJ: Guilty as charged. But we’d planned to go to Siem Reap on our honeymoon, so it seemed like a sign that the moment was right to make a grand gesture.

DN: I hear Meg’s older sister Rachel was instrumental in helping you plan this grand gesture.

RJ: Rachel is my best friend. She’s also a master manipulator.

wedding invitation


When Rachel’s wedding invitation had arrived, RJ had assumed it was a courtesy invitation, although Rachel was hardly known for her manners. She couldn’t have actually expected him to fly to Bali for her and Paige’s wedding? Could she? RJ had known without a doubt that Meg would be there. What the hell had Rachel been thinking?

The invitation had taunted him from his kitchen table for a week. After spending his Saturday morning breakfast in a staring contest with it, he’d capitulated and picked up his phone.

“You were right,” he’d said when Rachel had answered the call.

“Of course I was. Hold on. No, Mother, I’m not trying that dress on, it’s hideous. Sorry, you were telling me I’m right?”

“I’m not over Meg.” It had been the first time he’d admitted it out loud, since burying himself in his work and an endless parade of redheads who weren’t Meg.

“Also, I hear the Pope is Catholic. Ugh, no, not that one even if you promise to never ask Paige and me for grandchildren. Look, Romeo, your professional life is all gold stars and smiley-face stickers, but your personal life is a mess. You’re not happy, so you need to either get over her or go grovel. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a million times.”

“I need your help, Rachel.”

“Yes, you do. I’ll call you tonight. Unless I’m in jail for setting fire to ugly wedding gowns instead of trying them on.” She’d hung up.


RJ: I have to give Rachel credit—without her help, I wouldn’t have ever gotten up the courage to try to win Meg back. Rachel passed me Meg’s flight and hotel info. Then it was up to me to show Meg that I’m not the same guy she dumped. I hope she’ll give us another chance.

DN: I guess we’ll have to read the book to see if you succeed!

Capturing the Moment

You never forget your first love…

Meg and RJ were passionately in love. But that was six years and a broken engagement ago.

Meg has only one day in Siem Reap, Cambodia, before she must leave for her sister’s wedding in Bali. She fulfills her dream of taking a photograph of the sun rising behind Angkor Wat, one of the oldest temples in the world. But her joy is short-lived when she turns around to see RJ standing behind her.

RJ threw himself into work after Meg ended their relationship. He’s built a successful business, but it’s a hollow victory. He’s come to Siem Reap to win back the woman he’s never stopped loving. But first he has to convince her to spend the day with him.

Meg is as physically attracted to RJ as she ever was. Maybe the secret to finally getting over him is a one day only, no strings attached fling.

Can RJ win Meg back, or will she love him and leave him?


As of today, Capturing the Moment is on sale everywhere!




After 30 years of snowy New England winters, Delilah Night moved to steamy southeast Asia. While she doesn’t miss shoveling snow, she does miss shopping for bargains at Target.

In 2014, Delilah visited Cambodia for the first time and fell in love with Siem Reap. Many of her misadventures from that vacation (including the one with the monkey) made their way into this story.

Connect with Delilah on her blog (delilahnight.com), Twitter (https://twitter.com/Delilah_Night), or Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/DelilahNight?ref=hl&ref_type=bookmark)

Contest—Win a free copy of Capturing the Moment!

Rachel is that one friend we all have who tells us the truth, even when we don’t want to hear it. Tell me about your “Rachel” (it’s okay to use pseudonyms!). Leave a comment (with email address, please) between today and Monday, May 2, 2016. I’ll contact a winner on Tuesday, May 3!


U is for undress…

By RJFerret

By RJFerret


“Undress,” he said.

Flushed from running and bespattered with rain, she was standing in front of him in the deserted vestibule of his silent office. It was past midnight, so his assistants had all gone home. She was later than she’d said, and her breath came in heavy rasps, her chest heaving.

She nodded, still too winded to speak, and pushed a hank of dark, damp hair out of her eyes.


“Yes,” she gasped.

She was wearing her winter coat, heavy and long, made from curly, black astrakhan wool. Darker than the night she’d run through and scratchy at the throat if she turned the collar up. She’d bought it in Milan. Numb fingers and shaking hands made the freezing silver buttons difficult to handle. The buttonholes were slightly too small and she struggled to get them undone.

He watched her, almost bored. He didn’t step forward to help her.

Finally the last silver disc came clear and she was able to push the coat back over her shoulders. She wriggled slightly to free her arms and let it’s black satin lining slide down her back to the floor. It landed with a heavy thud and the claggy aroma of wet wool wafted up to her.

She took a step forward.



Her chest rose and fell.

Shoes next. She was wearing white patent slingbacks, not the best for running in the rain. She’d been able to feel the cracks of the paving through their thin leather soles and the narrow kitten heels wobbled from one side to the other as her weight settled with each step. She’d scuffed the toe of one on a kerbstone as she’d crossed the road from the metro. She suspected it was ruined.

She bent her right knee to raise her foot and reached down with her right hand to flick the strap from the back of her heel. She wavered on the other leg as she pushed the shoe from her foot, and quickly anchored herself on two feet again. She did the same on the other side, pausing momentarily to assess the damage to the shoe, then shoving it aside. They’d be hard to replace, she thought with regret.

The parquet floor felt smooth and cold through the fine fishnet of her stockings.


She nodded.

She was wearing one of her favourite tops. Skintight black mesh with long sleeves and a modestly high neckline. Oh, but completely see through. When she was feeling respectable, she’d wear a black camisole underneath. But not tonight. Her nipples showed through the mesh like dark targets on her chest, pushing out against it, cold and erect.

She saw him bite his lip, for just a second.

She peeled the mesh slowly up her body and tugged the top over her head. Her arms were still in the sleeves.

“Wait,” he said.

She held her position, her arms raised with the top bunched between them.

He stepped forward and bent his head to her chest, sucking one of her nipples into his mouth. A jolt of electric current spread through her. A sharp intake of breath.

He stepped back from her.


She dropped the mesh top to the floor.


Her shorts were made of soft, buttery black leather that clung to her thighs and the curve of her arse. She’d had them made to measure for moments like this. The zip was at the back, so she reached around behind herself and drew it down slowly. It’s soft metallic song raised her heartbeat a fraction. She ground her hips from one side to the other and let the shorts find their own way down her legs.

She stepped out of the crumpled leather pooled at her feet.

“Undress,” he said.

She loved his French accent. She loved to listen to him when he spoke French, even though she didn’t understand a word.

“Everything?” she said.

He shrugged. A Gallic shrug that gave her all the answer she needed.

One leg at a time she peeled off the fishnet stockings, relishing the touch of her own hands as they ran down thighs and calves. The hose had left a faint diamond pattern on her skin that left her feeling as if she was still wearing them. Her panties were, of course, black, made of mesh similar to the top she’d been wearing. A barely-there sliver of fabric that preserved no modesty and hardly served a purpose at all.

Then they were gone. She stood naked before him.

He looked her up and down with satisfaction.

“Good,” he said. “Now, have that report on my desk by seven a.m.”

He pulled on his coat and vanished into the night.


T is for taste…

Tattoo machine

Sylvia’s mother claimed to have good taste in men. Whatever that meant.

Sylvia thought about it long and hard. She thought about the men that had punctuated her mother’s life and then she thought about the men that had careened through her life. Did she, herself, exhibit good taste in men?

Let’s see. There was the Italian with the terrible shoes. Her mother had liked him but his incessant pawing at her had put Sylvia off and she’d dumped him on Capri and taken up with one of the hotel waiters instead. That certainly hadn’t been a act of good taste, but it had left a lingering taste of Limoncello in her mouth. She poured herself a small glass for the memory and it was as if the Ischian sun was shining through her window, there and then, on that rainy afternoon in Boston Manor.

Her first love, Tony. If he’d counted as tasteful it would only have been by chance. She couldn’t believe anyone had such unerringly good taste as to pick a good ‘un first time out of the gate. She’d been thoroughly seduced by him, bowled over by his public school accent and Harris tweed. Yes, tasteful in her mother’s eyes, no doubt. But first loves never last, thank God.

Of course, it went without saying that seducing her mother’s boyfriend had been tasteless in every last detail. But her mother would insist that it at least exhibited taste in men, had she known about it. Sylvia didn’t agree. She’d only done it out of spite and had seen nothing in the jumped up little shit except a chance for revenge. Though now she couldn’t even remember what the revenge was for. A dish best eaten cold – but not as cold as that, perhaps.

There had been some lovers – in fact, many – during her college years that she was happy to concede had been in dubious taste. The one that sold drugs to the local sixth formers, and his friend, that he’d met on remand. She’d bounced between them for a while and none of it was pretty. She escaped from them by taking refuge in the arms of a lecturer who was a good decade older than her father. But his age wasn’t the problem. It was the fact that he wore sandals. Clarks sandals. He hadn’t lasted longer than a couple of essay grades’ worth. Her stomach curdled slightly at the memory of having sex with him. After him, some nasty chauvinist rugby players, and a studious academic snob who’d been crap in bed.

Those were not her best years, so she glossed over them quickly.

And now there was her current squeeze. The tattoo artist. They alternately made love and tattooed. He was working on her back, on a modernist interpretation of Sui-Ko-Den – The Water Margin. Her mother hated tattoos, so her activities with Joe would be counted as an epic fail. Good.

It was safe to say that her mother’s taste in men and her own never had, and never would, coincide. And that gave her huge satisfaction.

Good taste. An overrated virtue.


S is for slow love…

Still life with skull

Adriaen van Utrecht [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Yesterday we all heard the devastating news that Prince had died. I was listening to Sign O’ the Times and thinking about my post for today, when Slow Love came on. It seemed to be the obvious choice…

Their eyes met across an empty room and from that moment she knew it was inevitable. But inevitable didn’t need to be hurried, so she let her glance drift from his and turned her attention back to the artwork on the wall.

Behind her somewhere the floor creaked. He was moving, shifting his position to look at something else. She smiled to herself at the way the sound aroused her. But she didn’t look round. She continued to stare up at ecstasy of St Therese. Inside she felt soft and heavy, ripening. The look of abandonment on the saint’s upturned face spoke volumes to her.

“My favourite.”

He was a couple of feet behind her now, his tone so intimate the words seemed to caress  her neck. Goosebumps blossomed on her arms.

She turned to face him and he took a step back. Without speaking, she moved on to the next work. A slow waltz around the gallery, moving in time, in silence, in harmony.

She studied him while he studied the paintings. She liked the curl of his hair at the side of his neck. The faint smell of cologne that trailed him through the open space. The scuff marks on his well-worn shoes and slight fraying on the cuff of his jacked. When she looked away, she felt his eyes upon her, adding up her parts into a whole person.

“So beautiful,” she whispered, almost to herself, in front of a Botticelli maiden.

He came to stand next to her then, and she noticed they were breathing in time. Slow, heavy breaths that invisibly mingled in the space in front of them.

He reached out and took her hand, raised it to his mouth. Heat on the back of her knuckles, and the soft pressure his lips. Then he let it go and it dropped to her side. She felt branded, longing for more as he led the way to the next room.

She followed dreamily, touching the spot where he’d kissed her with the fingers of her other hand. The desire to taste the side of his neck suddenly overwhelmed her. The need to explore his mouth while he explored hers came on in a rush. She was unsteady on her feet, her breath failing to deliver the oxygen she needed.

He was captivated by a woman in a blue dress trimmed with ermine.

Last week she’d stood in front of that picture and he’d touched the small of her back as he passed by behind her.

Now she gazed, unseeing, at a still life. Flowers in a vase. Pearls and a pocket watch. A skull. Time stood still.

Next week their hands would brush in front of the Michelangelo at the far end.

She had known him for a year but she didn’t know his name. She didn’t need to, yet.

In a month or two, or six, or ten, they would move their meetings to somewhere more private, of that much she was sure. But she was in no hurry.

The pleasure of the slow burn. She knew a woman who’d taken more than a decade to seduce a man she wanted. She loved that story.

The tip of a finger traced the outline of her jaw. Then he was gone.

She blinked and the pocket watch came back into focus.


R is for rush…


Being with you gives me such a rush…

…like trembling at the edge of a platform as a high-speed train passes through

…like leaning into the wild wind till my hair’s whipped up and my eyes water

…like a dog pushing his head out of the car window at 90mph

…like barrelling down a water slide at a thousand miles per hour

…like riding the vertical loop of a white knuckle ride

…like clearing Becher’s Brook in the Grand National

…like bungy jumping from the highest bridge

…like free-falling from 80,000 feet

…like crossing the finish line first at Formula 1

…like chasing a particle round the Hadron Collider

…like going over Niagara in a barrel

…like reaching hyperdrive in the Millennium Falcon

But the biggest rush of all?

Just kissing you. That’s all. Just kissing you forever.