The Introduction

Woman biting fingers

The moment she introduced us, I knew you would be the one.

I knew from the sweet stirrings in my cunt that you’d find your way there.

I knew from the tingling in my lips that I’d come to love the taste of your tongue.

I knew from the touch of your hand as you grasped mine that your fingers would seek out more intimate places.

I knew from the way your eyes roamed my body, it would become your private domain.

I knew from the tilt of your head that you’d worm your way into my mind.

I knew from the pounding of my heart, you’d become my obsession.

I knew from the way you said my name, you were trying it on for size.

I knew from the weakness in my knees that your pursuit would be relentless.

I knew from my shortness of breath, your seduction would be merciless.

I knew from the trembling of my hand that I would always be reaching for you.

I knew from the goose bumps on my arms that you’d make me come time and time again.

I knew from the rush of saliva in my mouth that I would worship your cock with my tongue.

I knew from the shiver that ran down my spine, you had the power to hurt me or to heal me.

I knew from that very first second, I was yours.


I’m a liar.

I know none of those things.

But as you let go of my hand, I hope.

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Elust #78 – Best Sex on the Net

Malin James Elust 78 Header Image
Photo courtesy of Malin James

Welcome to Elust #78

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #79? Start with the rules, come back February 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!


~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Balance of Light
Advent Calendar 2015 – Day 24

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Why Sex Fiction?
On using him

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*

Guest blog: ‘Quite Delightful’, James Deen and me
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!


Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Make-Up Sex
Wide Open
Believe in You
I am softly athletic
Making a Short Story Long

Erotic Fiction

First Kiss
God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen
A Spicey Christmas Eve Tale…..
The Annual Christmas Party
If Only He’d Said Yes…
Very Very Necessary
Holly and Ivy…
Frothy White Stuff
God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen
30 Minutes

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Stress Makes You Blind and Your Cum Orange
On Eating Ass
Confessions of an Ambivalent Masochist
Joyous Jizz


Ode To My Favorite Sex Toy

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Lady Fapping: The Itty Bitty Kitty Committee
Does Size Matter?
A Feminist’s Guide to Sexting with Cavemen

Erotic Non-Fiction

Having Angelic Sex With The Virgin Mary
New Lingerie


The First Day of the Rest of Our Lives
40. 41. One.
ELust Site Badge

Hunger moved inside me…

We’re into the second week of 2016 and I’m already celebrating a second release day (albeit a day late, in fact)! Yesterday saw the publication of a sizzling new cuckold anthology edited by the brilliant Sexy Librarian herself, Rose Caraway. Tonight She’s Yours is a collection of the hottest, sexiest cuckolding fantasies ever. Just check out the wonderful selection of writers who have a story in it:

Tonight She's Yours TOC


My own story, written specially for the collection is called “Windfall”, and I have to admit that it’s a particular favourite of mine. Set in France, in the aftermath of World War 2, it explores the complex collision between desire, hunger and need in a relationship that’s anything but straightforward.

Here’s how the story starts:


Europe was on the move in 1946, a relentless flow of the dispossessed, surging tides of bodies passing each other with silent friction. People were searching for loved ones—husbands, brothers, fathers—or chasing lovers, old and new. They were looking for work, for a home, for comfort, for a new life.

Anton and I were no exception. Of course, we wouldn’t see our boy again. I’d known it, as my breath clouded white on the morning he’d left. We said our goodbyes on the step, an awkward embrace, a final word. He in his freshly-pressed uniform and creaking boots. Anton and I, workaday as always. I knew it when we closed the door behind him. The notification had come in the heat of a June evening, but my grieving was almost done by the time they told me. I still see Claude’s face at night, before I sleep, in those lonely moments when before I would have prayed.

The motion of the train jarred me and I felt the new life inside me turn restlessly. I wondered if the new face would obliterate Claude’s. Perhaps not at first, but later as the child grew older. I placed a hand on my belly, for the comfort it gave me. I should have been sleeping. It was after midnight and Anton was snoring softly, his face pressed against the cold glass of the window, a string of saliva glistening on his chin. But the few hours when Anton slept were precious to me. Time to commune with myself. To be able to yawn without his solicitous glances. To rub my back without having to push his hand away. To think what I liked without having to compose my face so as not to alarm him.

Solitude is a thing you take for granted until you lose it, and soon I would lose it entirely to the demands of another hungry mouth.

The train moved at a slow canter through an uneventful night. I’d raised the window blind enough to catch the rotating vista of moon-bled fields and huddling villages. Sleepy towns with a single light coming from the baker’s shop window, and blacked out stations where there was no expectation of a train until morning.

But we stopped occasionally. Place names I’d never heard of. Empty platforms lit by sulfurous bulbs, where no one waited to board our train. We would stay for less than minute, long enough for a lone man or a woman with a tired child to alight. Then the whistle would blow and the engine would strain to take up the weight of the carriages, the wheels sluggish on the cold steel.

Anton slept on but I heard the door at the end of our carriage slam shut, and, as the train inched painfully forward, the sound of footfalls approaching along the corridor. I turned my face back to the window, silently willing the new passenger to pass our compartment by. Our blinds on the corridor side were pulled down tight.

Keep out, keep moving, don’t come in here, keep out, not here…

My mantra didn’t work. The door opened and there was a rush of cold air. A man in an American army uniform backed into the compartment, our compartment, pulling a heavy pack in after him. An infantry man going to Paris, I guessed, to join the exodus of GIs on their way home to their land of peace and plenty.

He pulled the door shut behind him, leaned his pack against it, and dropped into one of the empty seats on Anton’s side of the compartment. He gave me an apologetic smile.

Anton, awake now, scowled. But I detected the smell of cured meat—ham or salami. Perhaps the man had food. Maybe he would share it. Hunger moved inside me with more frequency than the child. Saliva flooded my mouth.


Find Tonight She’s Yours on

Amazon UK

“A giant cabochon ruby…”

Today is release day for my story Summer Pudding. It’s one of four stories which make up the Sweetmeats Press anthology Forbidden Fruit, which is also out today! As well as my story, the main anthology contains brilliant stories by Zak Jane Keir, Elizabeth Black and Vanessa de Sade.

Summer pudding cover


Sparks fly when nutritional expert Lisa Summer and revered celebrity chef Laurent Gillou meet on a TV debate show. Live on air, Laurent throws down the challenge for Lisa to resist one of his decadent dishes. If she accepts, will she be able to maintain her stoic and sensible approach to food, or will the passion of Laurent’s cooking crack her unshakable resolve?

From Publishers Weekly‘s recent review:

“The most successful story is Flowers’s, which features a starchy dietician who can’t resist a taste of the Michelin-starred chef who taunted her on TV. A summer pudding, featuring berries picked in the rain, makes an indulgent dessert.”

From Goodreads reviews:

“A gorgeous, well-written short story romance from Tamsin Flowers.
I felt immediately drawn to her characters, who display just the right amount of animosity and pomposity: Elizabeth and Darcy would be delighted.
The humour had me smiling, and very much reminded me of the enjoyment of reading Jilly Cooper’s novellas, back in my teenage years.
A joyous treat, with a deliciously erotic ending.”

“This story left me breathless and anxious for berries to be in season next summer. Lisa and Laurent have the perfect amount of tension and sweetness between them, which leads to a delicious, satisfying ending.”


“Will it be a blind tasting?” she asked.

Laurent burst out laughing. “Certainly not,” he said. “Before you even taste it, I want you to devour it with your eyes. How food looks is as important as how it tastes.” He caught hold of the looped handle of the dome. “When you take a lover, Lisa, you appreciate him as much with your eyes as with your sense of smell, taste and touch, don’t you?”

“Of course.” A blush rose to her cheeks.

He lifted the dome and Lisa gasped. The pudding had been turned out of its bowl and sat, glistening like a giant cabochon ruby in centre of a silver platter. The intensity of red, the sumptuous surface of the juice-soaked brioche, the tart smell of the fruit that she could taste at the back of her mouth… When her hands gripped the edge of the table, the pudding quivered as if it were alive. Bright juices bled from it onto the silver like blood from a beating heart.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, barely a whisper.

“Ah, but wait until you see the inside,” said Laurent softly.

He picked up a silver cake slice and plunged it into the centre of the pudding. He breached the outer layer of brioche, then Lisa heard the serrated blade rasp as it ploughed through the berries within. A quiet click as the tip of the slice touched the plate beneath. Laurent extracted the cake slice and made another cut, separating a wedge from the whole. Deep dark red, ruby, scarlet, crimson, black, white and purple, the berries tumbled out in a wash of magenta juice. Lisa’s mouth flooded with saliva. She heard Laurent’s sharp intake breath.

Seizing a deep-bowled serving spoon, Laurent lifted the slice of pudding onto one of the plain white dessert plates, piling it high with excess berries and drizzling it with a flood of juice. He reached for the crystal jug and, with a flick of his wrist, a dollop of thick white cream ran in an avalanche down the outer slope of brioche.

He put the plate down in front of Lisa.

Voila! Il est magnifique, n’est-ce pa?”


Available now from:

Amazon UK

Barnes and Noble




The Superotica Advent Calendar 2015 Day 24 – Tamsin Flowers

The final day! Another year of the Superotica Advent Calendar is drawing to a close and I want to extend a huge, huge thank you to all the writers who’ve contributed these amazing stories. Their talent and their generosity completely floors me and I think it’s safe to say that this year’s calendar has been the best so far. I hope you’ve enjoyed stories from your own favourite writers and discovered new names to look out for over the coming year.

As to the final story, it’s my privilege to claim the first and last spots, so here’s the second part of my story Fallen, which kicked off the calendar on December 1. If you missed it at the beginning of the month, you can read it here.

And finally, if you’ve enjoyed the other stories on the advent calendar over the past 24 days, please show your appreciation by visiting Crisis, The Albert Kennedy Trust or Coalition for the Homeless to find out about their work or make a small donation.

Angel wings

Fallen but not damned

 Tamsin Flowers

He comes back to the shelter every year for the three days over Christmas. It’s been ten years now since his first visit. Ten years since the help and advice he’d received here had changed the course of his life. He doesn’t forget, which is why he returns. He has a debt to repay and he does so gladly, taking the opportunity to tell his story, and show others that homeless isn’t helpless.

This year the shelter seems particularly busy, but that’s hardly a surprise. There are more people shuffling through the doors than he can ever remember seeing. Men and women. Young and old and middle-aged. But all looking older than their years. All staring through him with the same empty eyes, hollowed out by the despair that becomes your carapace when you live rough.

But they aren’t all the same. Each one is an individual inside, with his or her own story of how they came to their current situation. Which is why Joe talks to them and listens to them. That’s most important of all. Someone hearing what they have to say.

Tonight, though, there aren’t enough helpers, so he doesn’t have time to chat. He had intended to work until nightfall, but at dusk the shelter’s still busy with new arrivals pouring in. What’s the point of going home to an empty flat when he can do more here? Yes, his back aches and his feet are sore but no matter.

“It’s Joe, isn’t it?”

He glances up from the soup-spattered table he’s wiping down.

There’s a girl standing in front of him he’s never seen here before.

“Yes,” he says.

“Gabe sent me to help you.”

He smiles. She looks familiar but he can’t place her. Something about her pale skin and dark eyes. Her lithe movements as she clears dirty bowls and fills clean ones.

“We haven’t met before, have we?” he says.

“You’d remember, I think,” she says, charming, insouciant. “I’m Asha.”

But the feeling persists and he finds himself drawn to her as they work together through the night.

He watches her.

She moves quietly through the dining room but the men and women respond to her with smiles. Reaching out to touch her arm. Wanting to make eye contact with her—an interaction most of them have learned to avoid. She looks at them for what they are—real people—and she listens as they tell her their stories. One or two the men even flirt with her, which she deflects with such easy charm they don’t even feel let down.

Joe forgets what he’s doing on more than one occasion. He remembers how good it felt to be seen at last on the day he arrived at the shelter.

“Oi, soup.” The man standing in front of him has been holding an empty bowl for far too long, so Joe quickly fills it. He remembers how much hunger intensifies when food is within reach.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, with a shake of his head.

“I would,” says the man, laughing as he follows Joe’s gaze to where Asha has taken a moment to sit down next to an old woman.

Desire hits Joe hard, a kick in the groin. He gives the man his bread roll without speaking, then turns to the next in line.

Eventually, they’ve done all they can. The queue waiting for food has dissipated, the kitchen has been cleared and cleaned.

Joe feels awkward but he doesn’t want to let her disappear into the night without trying.

“Where d’you need to get to?” he says. “I’ve got my car here. I could run you to the station or…”

That “or…” hangs in the air between them like a signpost to other things.

She smiles at him.

“I’m good. I’m staying here. But thanks.”

Joe’s puzzled. None of the staff sleep here.

“You’re working another shift?”

She shakes her head and shrugs. Then she looks away.

“I don’t have anywhere to go.”

“You’re homeless?”

“Plenty of people are.” There’s no shame in that says the sharp edge to her voice.

Joe’s rattled.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” What hadn’t he meant?

He pulls on his coat and gets ready to leave. She watches him, her expression inscrutable.

“Listen, Asha,” he says. “There are no beds left here. You’ll end up sleeping on a chair or the floor. I’ve got a sofa. A sofa bed, really. You know, it pulls out to become a bed…”

He feels foolish. She’d be mad to come back with him. She doesn’t know him.

“Sounds good.”

She has a beautiful voice. Like one he’s heard before, once, but he can’t place it.

They don’t talk in the car. Joe reaches out to turn on the radio but she puts a hand on his to stop him. Silence is precious. There’s communication between them even if there are no words.

When he parks the car outside his flat, she lays her hand over his on the handbrake.

“Tell me where we’ve met before,” says Joe.

“It’ll come to you.”

“So we have met?”

“In another lifetime. Sort of.”

Sort of?

The sofa bed is never folded out. Drinks are never poured. Lights not even switched on. The door closes behind them with a snap that ignites the connection between them.

He knows her mouth. It tastes of snow.

In the soft light from the street lamps outside, her skin gleams with a lustre he hadn’t noticed in the harsh light of the shelter.

Her body fits the shape of his in a way that feels like coming home.

Her breath and flesh is cool against his own, a balm.

Memories stir in his hippocampus. Unfamiliar creaking and clicking sounds. The rush of air against his skin. Memories tumbling through the black vacuum of the universe, just out of reach.

His hard cock demands his attention and the scant recollections dissolve against the curve of his skull. Here and now, with this woman, that’s his imperative. His hands slide over her skin as hers glide over his.

He pushes her back against the wall and, gasping, enters her. She wraps her legs and arms around him, impaled. They move together instinctively. They’ve done this before.

He comes with her name on his lips.


She slumps forward against him, spent, and he runs his hands up her back. Two raised ridges of scar tissue. Small scratchy protuberances of bone or cartilage.

“Your wings?”

“They were taken.”

“How can you bear it?”

“I fell for you.”

“You gave up being an angel for me?”

“I’ll always be an angel. Just a fallen one now.”

He leads her to the bedroom, hot tears pricking his eyes.

“I have something of yours.”

He takes the treasured white feather from the top drawer of his dresser and hands it to her.

She smiles and runs her finger along the quill.

“Fallen, but not damned.”

White feather




Tortured by the need to sigh…

Moth wing


Be still. Be silent. Put your hands where I can see them.

Yes, you have an unerring instinct for what I need. Clever you.

Don’t come. Don’t come until the morning.

No matter what you do to me, I think. I know your rubric.

No matter what I do to you.

I lie in our bed, my arms by side, palms facing upward, empty hands twitching with the need that your words have awoken.

Some nights, you whisper these words in my ear and then turn over and go to sleep. But, of course, once I’ve heard them, there’s no possibility of sleep for me. I’m tormented by my need to move my hands, to touch myself where you’ve forbidden it, to feel my skin on fire. Tortured by the need to sigh and then to cry out loud. I bite down hard on my lower lip and nurse the silence.

Don’t come until morning.

Rational thought is banished. I become demented with my need for release. But I have to lie as still as if I were dead while you sleep. I’ve tried to assuage my need without you knowing. So many times. But you’re acutely attuned to my body and the way I stiffen when I come. The tension in the bed as I achieve my silent orgasm. You wake up and I sense your displeasure in the silence.

When that happens, you leave me alone for weeks. I have to beg, for so long, far too long, to return to the warmth of your good graces.

I daren’t touch myself when you’ve told me not to. I must wait on your pleasure.

Be still. Be silent. Put your hands where I can see them. Don’t come. Don’t come until the morning.

On other nights, you make it harder still.

You leave the candle burning and you look at me in the flickering half-light. Your eyes roam my anatomy until I can practically feel their passage—lingering on my breasts, stroking the curve of my ribs, a firm pressure between my legs.

Be still. Be silent.

I can’t. But I can’t forget your words to me, so I must.

Open your eyes.

You won’t let me take that route of escape.

I look at you and wonder if you read love or hate in my eyes. And I wonder if I do hate you, or whether what I feel for you is really love. I don’t know. My feelings for you swirl and eddy. But as you continue your torture, I come to believe that I hate you more than I love you.

You touch me. Hardly. I barely feel it. But it’s enough to make me shiver and that makes you frown.

One small sigh and the game will be over.

You touch me again, smiling at the tightening of my jaw as the tip of your finger traces the crease beneath my left breast.

I bite the inside of my cheek. A flush of pain blots out your touch. For a moment.

Don’t cheat, you say, pushing a finger into my mouth to force my teeth apart.

My brown crinkles with a frown.

I can’t do this. I can’t pretend. I can’t be a statue while your hands traverse my primed flesh. Your fingers on my trigger.

And don’t you damn know it?

I come suddenly with only the slightest provocation.

You’ve provoked me with your tongue. Velvety and rough. Just a small sweep across my clit. Nothing really. No pressure, no intensity. No repetition. The downbeat of a moth’s wing.

That’s all. But the release is cataclysmic.

I move. I say your name. You pretend to be angry.

It’s not morning yet. Is it morning yet? Is it time?

I shake my head, still trembling, still shuddering. You push me from the bed and expel me from the room. I spend the rest of the night shivering on the landing.

You’ve made you’re point. You’re in control.

But in my mind, I’m the winner every time we play this game. And that’s something you’ll never know.

Be still. Be silent.

I can. If and when I choose to be.


This was written in response to Exhibit A‘s Christmas erotica prompt for today, Stille Nacht. Check out the other entries for his music-themed meme here.


The Superotica Advent Calendar 2015 Day 23 – Remittance Girl

The penultimate (yes, for some reason I do find that word incredibly sexy…) day of the Superotica Advent Calendar, and I’m hugely honoured to be featuring a piece by Remittance Girl. RG writes stories about people and their desires, and the strange ways in which those desires twist them into new beings. But not only that – she’s also an intelligent and incisive writer of nonfiction, covering sex, relationships, politics and literature. If you’re interested in the inner world or the world at large, her blog is a rich seam to mine.



Remittance Girl

Immanence hissed in her skull. Damaris had overfilled the afternoon with tasks, determined not spend it in a state of anticipation. Now her mascara was clumping lashes that were suddenly too thin. Her lipstick bled into the fine crevices at the edge of her lips. Had they been there yesterday? Her bra felt too tight, her heels too high. Why was she putting herself through this shit?

On the dresser, her mobile buzzed and danced sideways: not a call, just a message. “In a taxi. On my way.” That put an end to the pissing about. There would be no backing out, no out-of-the-blue emergency, no apologetic cancellation. Damaris slipped the phone into her purse, but fatalism pushed her out the door of the flat.

The street was alive. People strolling in the twilight. The old buildings losing the heat of the day to the shadows. Damaris forced herself to slow down as she reached the Alameda and slid into the crowd waiting at the cross-walk. Someone was wearing too much cologne; the kind mothers used to slather on their kids after bath time. To her left, an old man in a pale linen suit rummaged in his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and blew his nose noisily. To her right, a twenty-something woman with a bad dye job was jabbering away at an impassive looking boyfriend.

“I told her. Cook your own dinner, bitch! That’s what…” The light changed, the crowd convulsed and Damaris crossed over the four lanes of heat-rippled asphalt.

To Damaris, this city had always been about cycles. Of light and dark, of winds and still air, of noisy morning bustle and sweltering afternoon silences. Heat and reprieve. Heat and reprieve.

It had been scorching the day her train had pulled out of the station and, from the open window of the carriage, she had watched Lena on the platform, waving, growing smaller. For Damaris, youth had been all about leaving. She had not even missed her lover; the world beyond this city had been so big and so distracting. Now she could not comprehend how her heart hadn’t shattered at that parting. Lena, pulling strands of red hair from the corner of her mouth, pale lips pursing at the tartness of wine, skin that smelled like new milk and a cunt that tasted of oranges – those tender morsels of love had followed Damaris to so many cities through the years, survived the pyre of so many subsequent lovers. Keepsakes lodged in the marrow of her bones, remembrances brined in time.

Twilight stole colour from the broad and gaudy shop windows on Calle Larios. The street was crowded with shoppers and people out looking for an evening meal. Of course, the Bar Central had closed years ago – now it was a chain store selling hair accessories. But through the flurry of emails, that’s where they’d agreed to meet, refusing time its due.

She stood just outside the door of the shop, cursing herself now for not choosing a less crowded spot, peering through the pedestrians in both directions, looking for that coppery hair.

“Hi, hi!”

Damaris swiveled at the sing-song Scandinavian voice to face a tall woman with deep creases in her tanned and freckled face and an impossibly broad smile.

“Jesus. Where’s… where’s your hair?”

“It went grey so I got rid of it.” The woman passed a hand over her cap of silver brush. “What? You can’t love me without it?”

“Fuck, of course I can.” Damaris wrapped her arms around Lena and, grinning like a lunatic, pressed her face into the crook of her neck. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

Lena pulled out of the embrace and pointedly gazed down into Damaris’ eyes. “Then kiss me, properly. Just to prove it.”


If you’ve enjoyed today’s or any of the other stories on the advent calendar, please visit Crisis, The Albert Kennedy Trust or Coalition for the Homeless to find out about their work or make a donation.

The Superotica Advent Calendar 2015 Day 22 – Malin James

Day 22 already – who would have thought it? Naturally, (apart from the fact that I feature on the 24th), I’ve been saving the best until last with today’s and tomorrow’s posts. Luckily one of my favourite writers is also one of my very best friends – and the wonderful Malin James has written this exquisite story especially for the advent calendar. Malin writes effortlessly and incandescently, and you’ll find more of her work – fiction and nonfiction – at Malin James.

Green Lady

Percy Anderson

 The Green Lady

Malin James


At least this one is handsome, she thinks as she slides the robe over her naked shoulders. They very often aren’t. Handsome knights are rare. A fantasy for girls.

Dawn is cold in December. She shivers despite her heavy, velvet robe. It is a rich, forest green—green for the Green Lady. Her husband killed the ermine that lines the cuffs with his own loving hands. Wearing it reminds her of when those hands were not so rough. Those memories, and the soft, white fur on her naked skin, are the only pleasures she takes in their annual game.

Her maids know to stay in bed on Midwinter’s Eve, whether or not they truly sleep. Her husband, likewise, left before dawn to hunt the boar that will crown the Midwinter feast. So much feasting this time of year. Eat, drink, hunt, make merry. Her mouth curls as she unbraids her hair. Make merry. Such a civilized way to say fuck. They are all just animals wearing armor and pretty gowns.

She sighs and leaves her chambers. The corridors are icy, but she does not rush. The cold makes her cheeks bloom like petals under snow, and she knows the effect is becoming. Even if it weren’t, she enjoys the cold. She is ignored for most of the year. Like fur against her naked skin, tight, aching nipples are a rare pleasure for her—a pale reward for her role in the game.

The first knight, years ago, had lost his head. The second and third did too. Nearly all of them end their lives that way—the cost of losing the game. Those who don’t are honored by serving her husband, their new, sovereign lord. Her body proves their loyalty, and buys it too. She receives little in return—the shame of being spurned by virtuous knights, or the indignity of being fucked by coarse, unworthy men. And all for a husband who no longer loves her, if he ever did. At least he keeps her in furs….

And yet, for all her distaste, she scents potential in the air. Perhaps this knight will be different.

He is well made for one thing, with shining arms, despite wandering for weeks in the snow. He should have looked like a vagabond when he’d arrived at their door seeking an opponent that does not exist; but he is beautiful in the way of stained glass—flawless and pure. Magnificent if purity interested her. But purity, on it’s own, does not. Beneath his chivalry lies the potential to fall—a corruptibility she knows. He is goodness and light surrounded by shadow, just as she once was.

At the knight’s door, she pauses and listens. The chamber doors are thick—oak surrounded by stone—but her ears are keen. She can hear him all the same. He is praying to the Virgin. For salvation? Strength? How lovely, she thinks. And bittersweet. There are no virgins here.

The Lady licks two fingers and slides them between her legs in preparation for her task. But she draws back, surprised to find herself slick. Perhaps it was his praying….

She enters without knocking, very quietly, so that he might pretend to be asleep. They often do, and so does he, but she knows his sleep is feigned. She can see his eyes flickering beneath pale lids fringed by lashes as thick as a girl’s. The effect is so sweet that she smiles. His pretense of sleep and pretty face defy the scars that mark his hands. He has hands like her husband’s, and a face like hers used to be.

She knows her role so well that she could play it in her sleep. And yet, as she bends over the bed, she feels a swell of arousal that she hasn’t felt in years. She kisses his cheeks, relishing the brush of his beard against her lips before moving to his brows and mouth. He stirs unconvincingly, like a boy caught in a dream. She chuckles in spite of herself. The tension coming off him shatters any illusion of sleep.

Normally, she would have roused him with every appearance of virtue. But her arousal makes her impatient. Watching him carefully, she draws the covers back and climbs up on the bed. He shifts as she straddles him, but does not open his eyes, so she moves aside the folds of her robe so her skin touches his.

How long can he pretend, she wonders, rolling her hips. His cock is hard against her softness. How good it would feel to fuck this stone carved saint…. He shivers, bringing her back. The room is cold, but she is warm—too warm for fur-lined robes. Tilting her head, she undoes the clasps. Normally, she would give him a chance to resist, but the ache in her is so novel and new. She can’t bear the thought of him passing the test.

She cups her breasts, teasing, as she slides her silky cunt over his straining length. He moans and shudders, eyes still shut, as she rolls her hips again. Sweet, she thinks, stroking his cheek. Sweet and so very hard. She bends and kisses him, all soft lips and gentle need, like she used to kiss her man. Finally, he opens his eyes.

There is goodness there, and kindness too. But beneath his virtue lies the vile humanity that keeps him away from God. She can see it. She knows, even before his hips push up against his will. Her heart beats heavy in her chest as she shrugs off her robe.

She is naked beneath it, except for a golden belt—the girdle her husband gave her the first time they played the game.

“Please me, knight,” she says, draping the golden length across his chest, “and you shall have it for a prize. Its magic will keep you safe.”

The lie falls easily from her lips, and she almost takes pleasure in the taste of it…almost. Though less so with him than with other men.

He opens his mouth to speak and she prepares herself for prayers, but he fills his mouth with her breast instead, sucking and tonguing her nipples until it is she who cries out for God.

She rises up on her knees and pulls the hangings closed, cocooning them in the bed. Then he rolls her onto her back and hovers above her on strong, hardened arms. His cock is slick with her juices but he holds himself still, nudging at her slit like a starving man afraid to eat at a feast. She tilts her hips but still he withholds, watching her eyes as if sensing the bait but unable to see the snare.

Virtue bleeds through hunger, and he begins to withdraw. Something in her shifts. She is neither a pawn nor a wife as she spreads her legs wide; she is primal motivation. It has been so long since she needed to be filled…. His cockhead slides in, just slightly, a thick, promising hint of how it will feel when he fills her. It’s enough, that inch of slick warmth. Rapt, she watches his virtue fall away, groaning as he buries himself in her tight, lonely flesh.

The girdle her husband gave her digs into her hips as she clamps her legs around his waist. He thrusts, accommodating, feeling her need. Every thrust pushes resentment deep into her core where it burns, like coal, with a heat stoked by years. So many, so many years. Nothing to do with him, but burning all the same, fueled by his weight and the thrust of his cock.

This is mine, she thinks. This body is mine and this man filling it, he is mine too. He is mine. Not my husband’s. Mine. This is mine.

She comes, ugly and unexpected, as years of longing rage like glory in her veins. The reclamation shatters, even as it heals, and she is as breathless, nearly panicked, by the freedom she feels. She is no longer a pawn or her husband’s wife. She belongs to herself. And he belongs to her.

Sensing the shift in her sovereignty, the man fucking her comes, bucking and biting, accepting her claim. When they stop, she fingers the golden belt that she has gifted countless times, only to receive it again soaked in red. The knight, still panting, lays his head on her breast.

“Have I pleased you, my lady,” he asks.

By the rules he should have the belt so that her husband might see. By the rules this man should die. But the rules have never been hers. She will begin a different game.

“Yes,” she says, playing with the golden cloth. “You have pleased me, my knight. But I shall reward you in other ways.”



If you’ve enjoyed today’s or any of the other stories on the advent calendar, please visit Crisis, The Albert Kennedy Trust or Coalition for the Homeless to find out about their work or make a donation.

The Superotica Advent Calendar 2015 Day 21- Xan West

For Day 21, I’m welcoming Xan West to the Superotica Advent Calendar. 2015 has definitely been Xan’s year, with the publication of the much acclaimed Show Yourself to Me – from which the following story is taken.

Leather jacket

Baxter’s Boy

Xan West


He was a legend. Baxter. The first to transition in my college town. (At least, the first anyone knew about.) In 1994. Before the generation of trans guys that started T the instant they finished their degrees in women’s studies. Before the genderqueers and the transgressively gendered. Before bois spelled it with an “i” and anyone talked about cisgender. Before the trans revolution hit my dykey college town, there was Baxter. Anti-social. Determined to enjoy his faggotry, in a time when it was frowned upon for trans men to name their desire for cis men…or each other.

Baxter had been a softball butch, dated high femmes, fucked other butches in secret. Then he left town. When he came back, he was a fag. He brought out trans men and butch boys, teaching them to celebrate their faggotry, to own their desire for pain. He was so good with a cane that he had experienced cis leathermen begging to submit to him.

Robert had been his boy for over two years now. They were a happy pair, rarely going out, except to cruise fresh meat. Boys that were full of need and bravado, that needed to be shown their place. These boys would emerge from that house with their heads high, their leather immaculate, and a pride of fresh marks on their backs.

He mesmerized me. I ached to be boy enough for him. Except I wasn’t a boy. I wasn’t even butch. This high femme dyke ached to play with queer boys. I jacked off to gay porn. I knelt to suck butch cock, dreaming of alleys and piers, glory holes and bathrooms. I had fantasies about Baxter, because he was a fag…and had dated femmes. Might there still be desire in there for a femme in seamed stockings, her deep red lips on his cock?

I cruised Baxter and his boy at leather events long before we were introduced. Then one night, after we had been introduced and exchanged pleasantries at the New Year’s Eve play party, his boy busy blacking boots, Baxter’s eyes traversed my body. His lips parted slightly as he took me in.

When it hit midnight, I found myself next to Baxter somehow. He reached toward me and gently touched my neck, watching my eyes as I trembled. Seconds later, his hand was fisted in my hair, his tongue thrusting into my mouth, the other hand cupping my ass as he dipped me low. I opened to him, putting everything into that moment, all my submission, all my desire.

He gently placed me back on my feet and smiled into my eyes, lightly chuckling. “I like to keep them guessing,” he said, indicating the crowd of shocked spectators. I smiled, heart pounding, and watched him walk back to his boy, his strut clearly showing he had done what he had come to do and was proud of himself. He backed Robert into the wall and began to devour him.

I hadn’t seen him since. I spotted Robert watching me bottom a couple weeks later as I fell in love with the rawhide cane. I’m not a masochist, but there are some toys that reach into me. That kind of pain is a joy to submit to in its relentless invasion. I loved that cane so much I ached to kiss it afterward. When I opened my eyes to beg for that privilege, Robert was gone.

I went home that night with Robert and Baxter in my head, a fresh set of cane marks on my thighs. I lay in bed playing with the marks, taking off my combat boots and grinding the soles into them. I imagined Robert’s eyes watching me, Baxter’s boots on my sore thighs. I wanted them both so much. Wanted them inside my head, filling up all my holes, giving me pain. Wanted to be between them, a conduit for their pleasure in each other. I got so turned on thinking about it my whole body felt electric.

I pulled out what I needed to sink deeper into it, let myself feel it. First, the plug. I lubed it up and slowly sank onto it. I arched my head back as I imagined Robert under me, the familiar ache as it entered my ass, the twisting feel of it reaching up into my stomach. It belonged there. I belonged on his cock, his hands gripping my sore thighs. I trembled. It felt so good to hold myself right there, aching, full of Baxter’s boy.

I pulled out my clovers, imagining Baxter placing the clamps on my nipples, holding me with his gaze. I gasped as he put them on, trembling more intensely. I wanted to cry in that way that makes me come. No, wait. Not yet, I told myself. He said you couldn’t come until he was inside you. You need to wait so he can feel you come around his cock.

My hands trembled so much that I fumbled with his cock as I tried to slide it in. I needed them to both be inside me, to be the holes that they fucked each other through. Finally I got his cock all the way in. I clamped down on it, staring into his eyes as he told me to wait. I had to beg for it. Tears began as I begged him to let me come. I had been waiting so long to be used by them. It was exactly what I needed and I was so grateful, but could he please, please, please, let me come. He listened to me beg with a small smile. Then he picked up the chain, placed it in my mouth, ordered me to bite down onto it as I came.

The orgasm moved through me in bursts of electricity, jolting as I sobbed, trying to hold on to it, never wanting to let it go. I clamped down onto their cocks, so full, so precisely used, as I saw them lock gazes over my shoulder and lean in to a kiss. I kept coming, imagining their beards rubbing against my shoulder as they devoured each other.

Baxter reached down and took off one of the clamps. I screamed as the burning began, cutting into my nipple, wrapping around my throat. Tears mixed with the orgasm in this deliciously painful ache in my chest. I held on tight, throbbing around their cocks, their arms wrapped around me. The sobbing subsided. They were still so hard.

Baxter grinned wickedly at me and pulled off the other clamp, ordering me to come. I responded without thinking, slid right into a heart-wrenching orgasm so quickly that I stopped breathing. My chest felt like it was going to burst open, and my head went all dark and sparkly. I felt my eyes go wide as it hit me. Finally I let the air out, and a new wave of tears hit. I rolled onto my side and wrapped my arms around myself, his cock slipping out of me, my ass still stuffed so full. I cried for a good long time. It was exactly the orgasm I really needed, one that was washed away with tears.



If you’ve enjoyed today’s or any of the other stories on the advent calendar, please visit Crisis, The Albert Kennedy Trust or Coalition for the Homeless to find out about their work or make a donation.

The Superotica Advent Calendar 2015 Day 20 – Sacha Lasalle

We’re up to Day 20 and, now we’ve turned 20, I feel like we’re on the home stretch. Today, I’ve got a story from a writer who’s new to me this year, Sacha Lasalle. I loved Under Snow the moment I read it, and I hope you will too.

woman in snow

Under Snow

Sacha Lasalle

There wasn’t a time I’d ever thought it’d come to this. The patina that settles over the once unbridled passion for anything: careers, hobbies, relationships. It wasn’t that I thought, “Oh, me? Never.” It was probably more that I’d never thought of it at all. It’s easy to take yourself for granted. That intrinsic part that you never question, but like most things—including yourself—that too, can be lost.

The slow grind of the shutter echoes in the cubicle, but it’s only Max standing there with his arms crossed.

“You could have just come round the back.”

He shrugs and the plastic bag crinkles across his plaid clad body as he drops his arms. “Just checking in. You and your OCD.” He looks around the booth and shakes his head, mouth pinching his mustache at corners, channeling a late 60s George Harrison. “You must attract ‘em. Who the hell cleans up afterward?”

“It still smells.”

“What do you expect?”

I shrug.

Max’s face softens. “You want a break? Lily can handle them.”

“It’s okay. I’ll let you know if I want one.”

“Suit yourself.”

Max looks past me into the cubicle. “We have tinsel…” Although he knows I’m not interested.


It’s only a few minutes after Max leaving that the familiar grind begins again.

“Nancy…” Joe’s weather-worn rasp is quieter than usual, but it’s understandable. Sitting in his Sunday best, he looks smaller.

“Joe.” I slide closer to the glass and prop my chin in my palm. “You look handsome, as always.”

“And you, Nancy… So radiant…”

“Oh, Joe. No, but thank you.”

Easing up off the floor, my gown is fisted at my décolletage and my thighs, ensuring nothing shows. I slowly turn to the sound of withdrawing tissue. Silk whispers over of the top of my feet. I inch up the hem, exposing a subtle pedicure, glancing at Joe’s pristine comb over. A line in the snow. His modestly placed hat moves against his forearm as he stares at my toes. The silk slides back down to the slightest whimper. Joe is fixed on the black river edge against the linoleum. Again I inch it up, ebbing it over the dorsal. Time slows between the metatarsals and the ankle in this vacuum, marked only by the insistent graze of fabric.

His whimper is an echo in purgatory. Pleasure, drowned in conscience.

“I’m sorry.” Barely audible, his voice could have been telepathic.

“Nothing to be sorry for, Joe.”

Dropping the hem, I turn to give him a semblance of privacy.


Surprisingly, Joe is standing when I turn around. Glancing down, he fiddles with the brim of his camel hat.

“It’s colder outside today.”

“So I hear.”

“The snow…”

“Soft and powdery, they say. Just beautiful.”

He looks at me, a Vermeer glint in the shadows, his mouth slowly upturning.

“Rita,” he says.

I nod.

He clears his throat. “I think she would have liked you very much.”

“I’m sure the feeling would have been mutual.”

“I’ve been invited to lunch… Jason…”

The smile eases onto my face. “That’s lovely to hear.”

Our hands come up simultaneously, a half adieu.

Joe opens his mouth, but changes his mind, instead nodding and leaving quietly.


And then I’m Claire, Louise, Charlotte, Victoria. It’s my ankles, my neck, the inside of my wrist. Jared asks me to slowly trace my tongue over my teeth, and then my lips. Charlie watches me braid my hair. Kent guides me as I draw imaginary pictures with my big toe on the thick glass. Brad likes kneeling backbends. And Olivier just wants to stare at my gluteal sulcus, or the groove between my bottom and thigh.

Afterward, I lose count. It seems as though it were only a few minutes ago that Max double tapped on the rear door to remind me to have a break, but I’m flowing through the current of longing, so warm, so thick, it’s possible it could have been hours ago.

Eventually the shutter stays closed for more than just a few minutes and I stretch slowly. First prayer, then cat. Turning supine, I stare at the dim light of the stark ceiling.

Max taps again. “You didn’t have a break.” His voice is muffled through the door.

“I’ll take one now.”

“No need. Time’s just about up.”

I stifle a yawn. “Thanks, Max.”

My eyes water and I feel as if I’m regaining consciousness: the soft buzz of electricity, the rise and fall of my diaphragm, and a faint hunger. I resign myself to the end of the shift when the familiar slow grind takes me by surprise. Remaining on my back, I turn my head to watch the reveal.

It’s a stranger.

My slow coming around snaps into alertness. I notice the fitted dress pants, the vest, the rolled up shirt sleeves. He’s leaning against the wall, hands in pockets, completely at ease.

Rolling onto my side, I prop my head in my palm. “Hello.”


I wait. Explicit is not what I do here. It’s barely even softcore, much to the disgust of some customers. I don’t smack my lips and say, Hey there, big boy.

“Would you mind getting on your knees?”

Maneuvering onto my knees, I sit back on my heels, resting my palms on my thighs.

“Can you come closer?”

I edge closer as he comes to the middle to face me.

“Closer, please.” It’s not quite a request, or a command.

My breath is shallow, and I realize my chest is tight. I’m wary, but intrigued as I inch even closer. If I puff, I’ll fog the glass. He’s groomed, clean-shaven, and I find myself wondering about the scent of his skin when the grind of the shutter cuts into the silence. We look at each other until it slides into place. It doesn’t reopen. After a moment I take a deep breath, peel myself away from the floor and leave the cubicle.


A quick swap of my gown for a long wrap-around dress, I pin my hair, grab my bag and coat and head toward the front of the store.


It’s empty. Most of the lights have been turned off, but it’s not unusual at the end of the night. I dump my bag and jacket on the counter and head back to the booth to say goodbye.

“Hey Max, I’m going—”

Again there’s no Max, but the shutter is open, and in my place is the stranger. The hair on my neck stands up as a shiver ripples over my shoulder blades. It’s a peculiar mixture of fear and beguile, and I’m rooted with fascination.


I swallow. “Hi.” Somehow I continue before registering what I’m saying. “Kneel for me.”

He tugs gently at his dress pants and I notice he’s taken his shoes off. Kneeling, he slides toward the glass, and I find myself meeting him in the middle. Something inside me splinters, that old, almost long-forgotten vicious desire, so sharp I can feel it under my nails.

I trace the glass where his lips would be, trailing along his jaw and over his collarbone to his sternum. As I get lower, he presses closer to the glass, erect. Stepping back from the glass, I look at his face. There’s no hint of desperation, or expectation. He’s almost unreadable. Just watching, waiting. The sudden reversal strikes me.

“Again,” my voice is pinched. I clutch the dress at my thighs.

His clothed cock presses against the glass. I dig half-moons into my palms bunched fabric and nod. He repeats the movement, evenly, deliberately. There’s no sense of urgency in his movements, as I tug my dress down, straining the material at my breasts and squeeze my inner thighs hard. I’m mesmerized. Slick. Suddenly, I balk and drop my dress. I’m shaking as I force myself out of the booth and make a bee line for the counter, only to be intercepted.


I shake my head.

Max appears out of nowhere. “Is everything okay?”

I don’t want him to see me like this. “Yes,” I reply without looking. Grabbing my stuff, I mumble, “Merry Christmas.”, fumble the front door lock and quickly escape.


The snow is falling. Even in the dark it’s beautiful. Desire has left me raw, and suddenly I desperately miss walking down Kaisaniemenkatu to town, even if the nordic wind feels like a blade. I pull my hood on and tug my coat tighter.


I ignore the stranger, but he grabs my wrist tightly, drags me back inside, and presses me up against the door with his body. The security bars dig into my back.

“Look at me.”

I look up into his face.

“Say the word, and I’ll let you go.”

“I—” Need clogs my throat. I open my mouth, but he covers it with his. Rough. Hard. Uncontrolled. I swallow his moan. Somewhere between the counter and the door, I lose my coat, and my mind. Dress up around my waist, he gloves up and pauses, crown between my legs, and I take a moment to realize we’re surrounded by dildos, buttplugs and other sexual paraphenalia. He inches in. My breath catches.

“Does it turn you on?”

I frown. “Does what turn me on?”

He pushes. My tongue lolls.

“Christ. All those men?”

I grab at his shirt, ensuring I dig my nails into his chest a little. He winces.

“This is why you want to fuck?”

“No,” he gasps, going deeper.

My head drops back. “Oh god. We’re talking about this now?”

He hits home, and my legs are shaking uncontrollably.

“Maybe it gets you off.” I hiss.

Withdrawing, he slides back in without stopping. “Yes, I mean, no. Fuck!”

“Jea-lous?” I stutter as he thrusts.

He pinches my nipple. “Fuck. I don’t know.”

“I think you do,” I fire back, squeezing around his cock.

His fingertips pin to my hip. The pain throbs deliciously. And then I’m lost in the heat and the deliberate rhythm of his stroke. We’re talking, but I no longer know what it’s about. I’m probably saying yes to things I shouldn’t be. I’m simply flesh and feeling, relishing his palms over my ribcage, collarbone, against the side of my neck, his lips against my skin…

Reality rips me from my reverie as he yanks me upright.

“Need. Deeper,” he muffles against my neck.

All I have is a low moan as I slide down his cock that little bit more. The counter digs into my back. That’s all it takes. I come wet, and hard. He fucks against my quivering cunt, following me into sweet oblivion.


I shiver, and make an awkward move to get off the counter. Something I’m sure I’ll be paying for later. He moves without a word. I find my underwear on the floor, stuff it into my bag and pull my coat on. It’s still snowing outside.

“Merry Christmas.”

“My name is Stefan.”

“Well, Merry Christmas, Ste—”

He pulls me back, his mouth once again on mine. I close my eyes and try to ignore the greedy lust.

“We’re not finished. Not by a long shot, but Merry Christmas Cara.”

I take him in. Stefan the stranger. Now dishevelled. Eyes bright. I vaguely wonder what happened to Max.

We’ll see, I think, but the expression on his face shows that he’s reading me like a book.

“Merry Christmas, Stefan.”

And once again, I’m under the falling snow.


If you’ve enjoyed today’s or any of the other stories on the advent calendar, please visit Crisis, The Albert Kennedy Trust or Coalition for the Homeless to find out about their work or make a donation.