Sinful Stories 2 – Don’t Speak

This my entry for Exhibit A’s Sinful Stories 2 competition. It’s a fair bit darker than the erotica I usually write and if I’ve been a little hesitant about posting it, that’s why. Thanks go to Exhibit A for organising this competition and for taking the picture that inspired my piece.

Exhibit A

Don’t Speak

 

How well do you know me? Can you read my feelings the way I can read yours? I don’t think so. Should I tell you about the thoughts that run through my mind as I stand and stare at your unmarked back? I feel compelled to shine a light into the darker recesses of my mind. I want to make you tremble with desire and grow hard with fear.

Don’t speak.

I’ve put you on display in my window. I want you to show your big, hard cock to the world. And to your other lovers. Those boys who pine for the touch of your hand and your cock in their mouth. Now show them that your hands are bound. That you’re owned, that you’re my bitch, my cuntling. Your body belongs to me. And your mind. I’ve staked my claim and for another to touch you now would be trespassing. My stake through your heart. My cock in your ass. You’re impaled by my will to possess you.

Your ass is my dominion.

Your pain is my salvation.

I’ll dig my fingers into the back of your neck, to make you squirm. There will be five black bruises in the morning. I’ll leave teeth marks on your shoulder, biting hard until you yelp and fight me. But your cock will be hard when I put my hand round to check. Your flesh is mine to taunt in any way I please. I will hurt you and break you. When I let you down from where you’re hanging, I want to see you crawling across the floor toward me. Begging me for more. Begging me to use my whip, my cane, my hand on your flesh.

I have a need to mark you. To pepper your back with welts that sting and blossom. Marks that will be livid for days to come. Bruises that will change from black to purple and from purple to yellow, before they fade to mere shadows on your pale skin. The welts will heal. Red to begin with, fading to pink, until you’ll no longer see them when you look at your back in the mirror. I can always raise more with the flick of my wrist.

The physical marks of my ownership may vanish. But my intention has never been to scar your skin. My need is to leave a scar in your mind. A deep cut that will never heal as you relive our time together over and over. The human brain has no memory of physical pain. It’s harder, however, to banish mental anguish. And you’ll never forget the sublime moment when that agony transcends the corporeal. The white heat of ecstasy burning through your mind. That’s how I’ll scar you.

I want to come to the sound of you crying in the night. I want to grind into you until we’re one. For you, sweet boy, are my obsession. You have laid your own scars in my mind, scars that will never heal.

I take a step toward you.

Kafka quotes and needles – The Christmas Tattoo

The Christmas Tattoo was my December release last year – and I still have a soft spot for this sweet Christmas romance. When I say ‘sweet’, of course, I also mean red hot! After all, who could resist a bad-boy blond with a needle in his hand, ready to mark your skin with  a Kafka quote…? If it’s a cold night, curl up with a hot toddy and The Christmas Tattoo – it’s guaranteed to warm you up in a hurry!

9781783751853_FCBlurb

When sexy red-head Bradie Clements comes home from Washington to nurse a broken heart and build bridges with her estranged father, she’s certainly not on the lookout for romance. After catching her boyfriend Kris in bed with her best friend and boss, all she wants to do is run and hide. But a chance encounter with local tattoo artist Colton Bassett leads to an unexpected appointment with his needle. Even though it’s cold outside, the temperature rises to boiling point as the two discover an irresistible attraction. But then Kris arrives on the scene to claim her back in time for his family Christmas and Bradie starts to remember what she saw in him. Tormented by jealousy and suspicion over Colton’s pregnant business partner, Bradie starts to wonder if her new romance is over before it’s begun…

 

Excerpt

He pulled a stool round to the right side of the table and sat down on it. Before he turned on the machine, he cleaned the area he would tattoo with an antiseptic wipe. The sudden sensation of cold caused Bradie to gasp and she wondered how she would cope with a high-speed needle piercing her skin repeatedly.

When he switched on his iron and the soft whirring filled her ears, Bradie wondered if she would faint. Goosebumps broke out all over her and she put one fist to her mouth so she could bite on the knuckle.

‘Hey,’ said Colt.

He switched the iron off.

‘Open your eyes.’

Bradie did as she was told and looked up at him, gingerly letting go her knuckle with her teeth.

‘There’s nothing to be scared of. It’s going to take about ten minutes and the worst bit will be as I go over the jut of your hipbone. I’m going to position “leap” on the highest point, OK?’

Bradie nodded.

‘Are you ready?’

She nodded again and then Colt grinned.

‘I’ve got something which might help.’ He put down the iron and got up from his stool.

Bradie propped herself up on one elbow to watch him, but he disappeared through the door up to his apartment and she could hear only his footfall going up and, seconds later, coming back down the stairs.

‘Here, drink this.’

He held out a tumbler of water to her. She grabbed it from him and took a gulp, spluttering and coughing as she realised it wasn’t water after all but neat vodka.

‘Dutch courage,’ he said, leaning in for a kiss and to lick a splash of vodka off her chin.

She offered him the glass.

‘You want a spelling mistake?’

‘OK, I’ll finish it and then we’ll be good to go.’

She knocked back the rest of the vodka, pulling a face as she did. Colt took the empty glass from her.

‘Lie back and hold absolutely still,’ he said.

She did as he instructed, and closed her eyes. The whirring started up again and then one of Colt’s hands pressed firmly on her hip to hold the skin taut. The first touch of the needle stung; Bradie hissed and her legs flinched, though Colt held her pelvis steady. She felt a sharp, burning sensation and after her initial whimper she had to bite down hard on her bottom lip to keep quiet. But at the same time it turned her on to be held down while her lover inflicted pain on her, certain that if she endured it, there would be pleasure to follow. She quickly understood how getting tattooed could become an addiction in itself, especially with a tattooist as attractive as Colt.

‘How you doing?’

‘I’m good.’

She opened her eyes to smile at Colt.

‘Just getting to the bony bit.’

As the needle skittered up over her jutting hipbone, Bradie felt its bite intensify and let out an involuntary cry. Then the burn moved on and receded, and she felt Colt’s other hand stroke her soothingly.

‘Almost there, babe,’ said Colt.

6743516_sFrom that moment, the experience became almost entirely erotic and not painful at all. Bradie lay back on the table, her eyes shut, and if Colt felt her muscles relaxing he didn’t say anything. She wanted it to go on and on, while at the same time she wanted it to stop, so she could reach up and touch Colt’s skin and feel his hands touching her. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue and all she could think about was what would happen next.

The whirring stopped and Bradie felt both relieved and disappointed.

‘All done,’ said Colt. ‘Now some ointment and a bandage to keep it clean.’

‘Let me see first,’ said Bradie, sitting up.

She glanced down at her hip and there, standing a little proud from a strip of bright red skin, were her words in solid black.

A deliberate leap in the opposite direction.

No spelling mistakes, no wobbles: perfect cursive script even though Colt had done the tattoo freehand. A couple of small globules of blood had bubbled up and Colt wiped them away with a tissue. Then he gently smeared the whole area with ointment before taping a dressing across it.

‘Wow, that was different,’ said Bradie, when he was done.

‘Not so scary?’

‘Kind of sexy.’

Bradie could hardly believe she’d just admitted that. She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the table. Colt stood in front of her and wrapped his arms around her.

‘I’d love to do more on you,’ he said, ‘but your skin’s so perfect it doesn’t need decoration.’

‘Let me see yours again,’ she said.

She knew she could stare at the beautiful, intricate tattoos adorning Colt’s body for hours.

Colt pulled his T-shirt off over his head and moved back a little so she could see them. A Japanese Hokusai wave crashed across one side of his chest and Bradie traced its outline with a fingertip. The pale crest of the wave broke into innumerable small rivulets, followed by a wall of water in the darkest blues and greens. The sense of motion had been captured brilliantly; even when he was completely still the wave seemed to move and the small boat which slid into its trough looked as if it would shatter at any moment.

As her fingers explored the water’s sinuous curves, Colt’s chest started to rise and fall faster, until a stifled groan brought Bradie’s attention back to his face.

‘Bradie …’

She let her hand slide from his chest down his torso to his flat stomach. Below his navel a dark twist of hair traced a path which disappeared into the top of his jeans. Her hand followed the line, pushing her fingers into the tight space behind the waistband. Colt slumped forward against her as her fingers brushed the top of his erection. His cock strained against the constriction of his pants and the arrival of her hand made the bulge bigger and the space tighter. Bradie needed room to manoeuvre in there; so, with her other hand, she flipped the button on his waistband and dragged down his fly. Colt’s cock pushed outwards and she had to scramble to get him unhooked from his shorts. Finally she had both garments sliding down his thighs and Colt stood up straight to finish the job and kick them off.

Then his hands went to the buttons of her blouse, deftly undoing them and pushing the shirt back over her shoulders. Her bra followed it to the floor and there they were, contemplating each other’s naked bodies in the harsh glare of the studio light.

‘Not here,’ said Colt, his voice husky with desire.

He stepped forward and picked her up with a sweep of his arms. His warm body pressed against Bradie’s as he carried her up the stairs to the apartment, warding off the chill of being suddenly naked. Bradie nestled her head into his shoulder, kissing the base of his neck and breathing in his male smell. His fingers gripped her tight at the top of one arm and around one of her hips, pressing her into him, trapping her so she couldn’t move; it turned her on like nothing before and she desperately wanted his weight on top of her, pinning her to the bed as he drove himself into her.

A sigh of need escaped her lips as Colt pushed open the bedroom door and then he laid her on the covers. Still standing at the end of the bed, he loomed above her. He bent forward and placed his hands on her knees, spreading her legs wide. Bradie became a rag doll at his touch, her hips starting to roll in anticipation of what would come next.

‘Now, Colt,’ she whimpered. ‘I need you inside me now.’

But Colt ignored her pleading. He knelt between her legs, his bright eyes fixed on what he could see.

‘So beautiful, angel,’ he said.

He reached out a finger to stroke her softly and then abruptly pushed it hard between the hot, swollen folds of her vagina. Bradie gasped and bucked under his touch, then became aware of his mouth on her clit. An explosion of sensation ripped through her; the burning pain of the tattoo on her hip receded as endorphins flooded her, while in contrast her engorged nipples buzzed with the need to be touched. She pinched one between each of her fingers and thumbs, rolling them, squeezing them hard and pulling them taut, as her back arched and she moaned for more.

Colt’s tongue worked around her clit and his teeth applied pressure. His stubble burnt her tender skin and his fingers pushed harder and deeper into the core of her. Bradie lost sense of her surroundings as her orgasm built. Even as she tried to keep it in check, tried to make the exquisite pleasure last, she knew it had gone beyond her control. As her whimpers grew louder, Colt’s lips worked their way up her body to take control of one of her breasts. She held it up to his mouth to suckle on, then slipped her other hand down between their bodies.

His cock was fully erect, the skin hot and the head wet with precome as she guided it to where she needed it, but then he teased her by pulling it back and gently nudging without going in.

‘Colt …’

She opened her eyes to look up at him. His face had flushed dark with desire, his eyes bright and his mouth slack.

‘Let me get a condom …’

He reached across to the bedside table. In no time, he had unwrapped and unfurled the rubber down the length of his cock.

Then he plunged home, setting off another torrent shimmering through her. Her legs went up around his waist and her muscles gripped and pulsed in time with his ever-deepening thrusts. The orgasm she’d tried to delay came storming in and took possession of every nerve in her body; and she knew from his deep-throated moan he’d reached his climax at the same moment. He arched back and pushed deeper as her hips pressed up harder against his. He stopped thrusting and simply held her hips. She could feel his cock pulsing inside her and the responsive thrumming of her own coming, and the sheer heat like a fireball of friction where their bodies were conjoined.

Finally Colt’s orgasm diminished and his muscles relaxed. He lowered her hips back to the bed and slowly withdrew himself. He pulled off the condom, knotted it, and dropped it over the side of the bed; then he pulled her into a cradled position on his lap. She curled up with her head resting on his chest, still panting from the exertion, her body humming with pleasure.

‘Do you know what turns me on the most about you?’ Colt whispered in her ear.

Bradie shook her head.

‘How much you need me inside you.’

Available from:

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Who do Malin, Jade & Tamsin love? More Pillow Talk Secrets…

It’s time once again for another round of Pillow Talk Secrets and in this edition we’re talking about whom we love…that is, other writers that have inspired us, both within erotica and more generally. I admit to a failure to read erotica, an obsession with John Irving and a love of trash fiction, Malin appears to have learned all she knows about sex from historical (hysterical?) romances (somehow I doubt it!), while Jade shares with us her admiration for Shanna Germain and Remittance Girl…but that’s just scratching the tip of the iceberg, so read on…

Pillow Talk Secrets

Malin: Hello ladies! How are you doing today?

Jade: Hi you! Just lovely. How about the two of you?

Tamsin: Hello lovelies, I’m just fine thank you!

M: Excellent! We’ve all been so busy, I’m glad we’re getting to chat today. I’ve been looking forward to this topic since we decided on it a few weeks ago. We’re talking about our writerly, and readerly, influences. Shall we jump right in?

J: I love this topic. Let’s dive in!

T: Ah – I have to say, I’ve not been so sure…you both know but the readers might not, that I actually wrote my first published erotic story before I’d really even read any! So, I can’t claim to be well read and I think I’m playing catch up with you two!

J: To be honest, I hadn’t read all that much erotica before I started, either. In fact, I wrote my first piece when I was like 16. I’d only read a handful of stories by then.

M: Same here. While I read erotica, my real influences fall outside of the genre… So, in that case, if we’re all influenced by work outside the genre, let’s start with non-erotic fiction. Without thinking too hard, which books or authors come to mind?A Prayer for Owen Meany cover

T: I just have one go-to writer – John Irving. Well, obviously there are others, which I’ll come on to but for me, he’s a genius. The characters he creates literally stay with you for years, and they’re all totally individual and intriguing. And he’s one of the very few writers that can have you crying with laughter on one page and then sobbing your heart out on the next. His talent is extraordinary and he has a lot in common with another of my favorites, Charles Dickens. They both write long, involved, complicated stories which you can really sink your teeth into.

M: Ahhhh! John Irving is wonderful. Which of his titles is your favorite?

T: The first Irving I read, and still one of my favorites was Son of the Circus. And then of course, A Prayer for Owen Meany – the nativity scene is my favorite all time scene in any book.

 

Read more…

ICYMI – On Writing and Self-Doubt

I wrote this post on writing and self-doubt for my One Handed Writers column last week – but as I have a different audience on Superotica, I wanted to share it here too, as it seems to have struck a chord. However, if you’ve already seen it, my apologies!

Do you ever suffer self-doubt as a writer? I do. I have a feeling that this is going to be a difficult post to write, not least because a little way in I’m going to be completely honest about a not particularly attractive facet of my character. As the title makes clear, I’m going to be tackling the subject of writing and self-doubt—and yes, self-doubt is already creeping in as I type this first paragraph.

I believe that every writer on the planet is plagued with self-doubt about their writing. Or maybe there’s a tiny fraction of a percent that have no self-doubt whatsoever, but I would question whether anyone that is at all times supremely confident of the worth of their words is actually a genuine writer at all. So, yes, we all suffer self-doubt and some of us are quite open about it, possibly more so than necessary, while others hide it behind a façade of confidence and bluster.5834034_s

Self-doubt and writing have always gone hand-in-hand. Sylvia Plath said, “The
worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.” (I’ll explain why I don’t necessarily agree with her in this later.) This is what William Goldman had to say about it in Adventures in the Screen Trade: “Writing is finally about one thing: going into a room alone and doing it. Putting words on paper that have never been there in quite that way before. And although you are physically by yourself, the haunting Demon never leaves you, that Demon being the knowledge of your own terrible limitations, your hopeless inadequacy, the impossibility of ever getting it right. No matter how diamond-bright your ideas are dancing in your brain, on paper they are earthbound.”

However, prior to the internet, perhaps writers were a little easier on themselves. Yes, they would write in solitude, doubting every word, but when they submitted their manuscript and it was accepted for publication, self-doubt could conveniently evaporate. They had proved themselves.

Now things are different. Most writers have to do their own marketing, out on the Internet, across the social platforms, day after day. And why this feeds writerly self-doubt is perfectly obvious. Comparison. As I go about my daily business of posting and tweeting, sharing things on Facebook, adding images to Pinterest and Tumblr, I can hardly help but compare myself on an ongoing basis to other writers. There are thousands of them, all working away to achieve the same goals as I am—connecting with our readers and selling books.

Naturally, there’s always someone—in fact, a lot of someones—doing it better than me and achieving more. Making it onto the bestsellers list. Being nominated for and winning awards. Signing a new multi-book contract. Winning numerous plaudits and legions of fans. While I sit and wait to hear from the next publisher on my list and count my retweets on the fingers of one hand.

And now we come to the bit I alluded to at the beginning of this post. Thing is, it’s even worse, the closer you are to a writer who’s winning the game. Gore Vidal famously said, “Every time a friend succeeds, I die a little.” I can admit to feeling that. And I really hate myself for it—but it’s entirely true.

KissyFaceTalkingDirtyLast week was a superb week for my two Pillow Talk colleagues, Malin James and Jade A Waters. Malin wrote a searing and brilliant post about women, sexuality and feminine relations on her blog, Erotica, Sex, Culture. If you haven’t read it yet, I would urge you to go and read it. It was widely disseminated and commented on, and I was thrilled for her because I absolutely believe she’s one of the best writers, anywhere, in this field today. But deep inside, a tiny voice whispered to me, “Why don’t I ever get a reaction like that to anything I write?” My own post that week, on the problems of repeatedly writing descriptions of orgasm, barely raised a comment, apart from one reader who complemented the legs on my avi and asked me to wrap them around his head. A couple of days later, Jade announced on her blog that she’s been signed by an agent. I couldn’t be more excited for her and I’ve read the manuscript that got signed—it’s superb and when it comes out, because it will be snapped up superfast by a big publisher, I’ll be first in line urging you all to buy it and read it. So why was that little voice inside me saying, “Why don’t you have an agent?” Logically, because I haven’t submitted anything to an agent—but when you’re racked with self-doubt, where does logic come into it?

Please don’t get me wrong—I really love these two girls and they know it. And they know that I want nothing but stratospheric success for both of them. And I know they’ll understand that little voice because, I’m sure, they both have similar voices of their own. But it made me feel bad. I felt bad about my own work and (my perceived) lack of success. And it also made me feel bad, because there was something disloyal about harboring such feelings even for a moment.

Self-doubt brought about by professional envy. Not pretty is it? Why not throw in some self-loathing for good measure?

What can I do about it? In the past, I have found one way of easing self-doubt and making myself feel better about my writing. For a while I kept a little notebook and jotted down, each day, my own small successes. For example, when a short story was accepted for an anthology, when I got a good review, when someone tweeted something complementary about me or when I posted a contract back to a publisher. They’re not big things—but they do add up to the story of my success, step by step. However, they’re things so easily forgotten in the onslaught of self-doubt and the tidal wave of other people’s successes being broadcast across the net. So I need to start that little notebook again and remember that, actually, I’m doing okay.

And the other point I want to make, in direct contradiction to the Sylvia Plath quote at the beginning of this article, is that self-doubt is one of the things that spurs me on. I want to succeed. I want to become a better writer. I want to snatch as many of those joyful moments of success as I can. It’s up to me to harness the doubt that threatens to pull me down and actually use it to power my way forward.

It’ll always be there but I need to remember, I can rise above it if I set my mind to it. And so can you.

 

Elust #64 – Best Sex on the Net

Cheeky minx

Photo courtesy of Cheeky Minx

Welcome to Elust #64 -

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 #65? Start with the rules, come back December1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

On a special note I want to mention that the judges voting on Elust is often very close, this month more than most. You all do such fine work that it is very hard for us to come up with the final results.

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Ownership: On Sexuality & Feminine Relations

Tool Time

Seven – A Fairytale of Sorts

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

The Love Letter of O
To My Single Submissive Friends – Be Brave

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*
What S/He Said: Pressing Stop

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!

 

Writing about Writing

How We Talk About Play

Erotic Fiction

The Warehouse
Taking Chance
The Little Mermaid
Trick or Treat
Bad Sex Turns Good
Shall We Dance?
Let’s Play a Game (Spuffy Erotica)
Firemen

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

A MakeLoveNotPorn Reality Check
Pondering Dildos as Art
Where does bdsm come from? Other species/
A Females Perspective on Extreme Feminists

Erotic Non-Fiction

Fucking on Facebook
A lot of Patience
Hands Away
Tall Dark and Handsome Pleasant Surprise
Torture His Balls. Tease His Cock.
Caning Sometime?
I Took my Pony Slave Shopping
Private Dancer
Earning Pleasure The Hard Way
At the Movies

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Finding Shelter in the Shadows.
My First Scarification
Q: “What’s stopping me from reporting owner?”
Squirting…Fact Not Fiction-Part 3

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Shiny Lesbian Syndrome
Communicate!
Losing it, asking for it
Celebration
How I Handle Being A Parent & Sex Positive
Sex as the most intimate performance
The crowded mirror
Sex Hangover

Poetry

Penisaurus – a Lusty Limerick

Blogging

Sex toys are NOT required for fantastic sex
My paint brush is empty.

 

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Why I love Chemical [se]X!

Chemical [se]X. What is that? Sex under the influence of A class drugs? Well, if you clicked through hoping to hear about my wild nights of passion fueled by the latest combination of horse tranquilizer and Peruvian mushroom, then you’re bound for disappointment!

Chemical [se]X is an amazing new anthology that has brought together an astounding group of talented writers. I have a story in it and I couldn’t be more proud to have been invited into this select little group. Head girl of our gang is none other than the delightful uber-editrix Oleander Plume. It was her idea and her amazing story, “Chemical [se]X” was the inspiration for all the stories that followed. Thirteen erotica writers all riffing on the theme of sex and chocolate – it’s deliciously tasty and decadently dirty.

But that’s not why I love it – or at least not the only reason.

I love Chemical [se]X, the enterprise. By which I mean the whole process through which Oleander approached her chosen band of writers, brought us all on board and – in what must have frequently been a cat-herding exercise for her – managed to extract stories from us, biographies, images, and our thoughts on literally 1,001 decisions. She may have been the editor in name, but Oleander ran our good ship as a co-operative and we all weighed in to share with the work – proofreading, formatting, cover design, publishing, blurb-writing, trailer-making, publicizing and sharing across Facebook, Twitter and Tumblr. I hope you’ve already seen some of the effort that’s gone into this astonishing project, whether via the dedicated Chemical [se]X website or on Tumblr, whether you’ve read some of the individual posts on writers’ blogs or seen our trailer.

I’ve got stories in nearly 30 anthologies and never have I come across such a dedicated joint effort to make a book a success. I’m seriously bowled over by the way we’ve all pulled together on this one. Thirteen writers, some of whom I knew already – very well, in the case of my two Pillow Talk colleagues, Malin James and Jade A Waters – and some of whom I’d never come across before. One thing’s for sure, I’d definitely work with any of them again in the future.

Writers working together – it’s a beautiful thing!

That’s what I love about Chemical [se]X.

Congratulations Oleander Plume, Annabeth Leong, C E Hansen, Dario Dalla Lasta, Ella Dawson, Exhibit A, F Leonora Solomon, Jacob Louder, Jade A Waters, L Maretta, Malin James and Tabitha Rayne on today’s launch! I’m honored to share pages with you all.

Chemical [se]X book jacketYou can read an excerpt from my story, “The Stranger” here.

Visit the Chemical [se]X website.

Or purchase your own copy on Amazon.com or Amazon UK.

Sex & Cupcakes – Or Why Confessional Sex Writing Matters!

Sex & Cupcakes by Rachel Kramer Bussel

Ever since I started writing erotica, I’ve been in quiet awe of several writers and editors in the genre. So when I get a story accepted by someone whom I’ve looked up to for a number of years, it makes it especially sweet. Rachel Kramer Bussel comes high up on my list of inspiring writers and editors, and I’m very proud to say that she’s said ‘Yes’ to a couple of my stories. Hers are some of the best anthologies on the market and I’m thrilled whenever I’m included in one.

Rachel’s latest offering, Sex & Cupcakes, however, is not a short story anthology but rather a collection of her own non-fiction writing—essays and articles that have appeared during the course of her career as a sex columnist and cupcake blogger. Naturally, I grabbed the first chance I could to review it and with essay titles like, “I’m Pro-Choice and I Fuck,” “What Kind of Submissive Are You?” and “Champagne Sex,” I knew I was in for a treat.

And it is a lip-smacking, tasty and satisfying confection that’s as delicious as one of the cupcakes Rachel adores or the sex she so lustily admits to having.

One of the things I really enjoyed about reading this book was the feeling that I was getting to know Rachel a little. I discovered that, like me, she’s passionately pro-choice. That, like me, her attitude to and appetite for sex changes over time and depending on who she’s with. And, like me, her erotic fiction is a mixture based on personal experience and wild fantasies.

Who knew Rachel and I would have so much in common?

But the point isn’t that we have so much in common—in fact, those similarities I picked out probably hold true for the vast majority of erotica writers. And if I’m honest, I never really eat cupcakes. The value of this book isn’t the fact that I now feel I know Rachel much better than I did before reading her book—because we all know that reading someone’s autobiography is in no way akin to knowing them, even though it might feel like it. And, of course, it’s very definitely not a two-way street – Rachel doesn’t get to know her readers any better than before.

What makes this book important is that it gives us an uncensored glimpse of somebody else’s sex life. And many of us will probably see parallels or shared themes with our own. Rachel is unflinchingly honest about her difficulties in always achieving orgasm, her penchant for being spanked, why she had the word ‘heart’ tattooed on her arm and of her passionate affair with a married  man.

Today’s media spoon feeds us a diet of celebrities, complete with salacious details of their rocket-charged sex lives and La Ronde style affairs. They look amazing and, if the stories are to be believed, have fantastic sex all the time. Never for them the indignity of failing to orgasm or breaking wind at an inopportune moment. It’s hardly surprising that so called ‘civilians’ like ourselves can feel a little inadequate.

And that’s why books like this, columns like Rachel’s and the whole diverse world of sex blogging is far more important than mainstream media would ever be prepared to admit. It shows us how people—all sorts of people in all sorts of situations—have sex and relate to sex. It’s not always perfect but it can be transcendent. It’s not always part of a happy-ever-after but it can satisfy for now. It’s certainly not always missionary position with the objective of creating a child. Though it’s fine if it is.

Sex columnists and bloggers show us real life sex, launch discussions and answer questions that are too often shunned by the mainstream. They present people with a range of options. They show people that, whatever their issue with sex might be, they are not alone. Rachel might not have the sex life of a Hollywood A-lister (but then I doubt whether they do either). However, she writes sex brilliantly and I loved reading her book.

Available from:

Amazon.com

Amazon UK

A taste of heaven! Penthouse Variations on Oral

Okay, as Alison Tyler’s biggest fangirl, I was thrilled to find this morning that the wonderful people over at Cleis Press had sent me an excerpt from her story “Lickety-Split” for my spot on the Penthouse Variations on Oral blog tour! Now I know you’re in for a treat!

In the words of editor Barbara Pizio in her introduction to  the book:

Seductive, mind-blowing, intense—those are just a few of the words that could be used to describe sublime oral sex. Whether giving or receiving, oral sex can be an intimate interlude or a lustful bacchanal. The seemingly simple act of pleasing a lover with lips and tongue is a heady aphrodisiac, a deeply personal moment when your arousal is completely interwoven with that of another. And that perfect mix of surrender and bliss is reflected in the tales in this collection, Penthouse Variations on Oral.

I can’t think of a better selection of stories to launch the debut of this book series of erotica inspired by Penthouse Variations magazine. In its thirty-six-year history, Penthouse Variations has focused on the sensual confessions of devoted lovers who explore their lascivious introduction fantasies—whether they’re oral-only adventures, daring games of dominance and submission, or the carnal pleasures of turning duos into trios. But the one goal these men and women share is that they strive to make their thrilling dreams breathtaking realities—and lucky for us, they share every delicious detail.

Penthouse Variations on Oral serves up more than twenty tasty tales of oral delights. These sexy stories run the gamut from the unrestrained passion of brand-new lovers to the uninhibited exuberance of devoted couples. These people understand that oral sex isn’t something to be rushed through or performed out of some sort of duty. Instead, it’s an act to be savored, as arousing to the giver as it is to the receiver.

And I couldn’t agree more with that last sentiment!

Tamsin

xxx

 

Blurb

Mind-blowing oral sex can be the epitome of pleasure itself. Curated by the editors of the wildly popular Penthouse Variations magazine, this voracious volume goes deep into the throes of oral delight. Both new and well-known erotic writers satisfy the hungriest mouths while dishing up an array of below-the-belt feasts. In this collection of short stories, lovers explore the delicious ways oral sex can be an act of affection and tenderness, a testament to devotion, or an expression of pure, hot lust. Going down is an experience meant to be savored…and shared.
“Mouthwatering words drip like honey off the page. Lick your lips and savor the sweetness after you devour each sultry story.”
—Alison Tyler, editor of Afternoon Delight

 

 

 

 

 

Excerpt from Alison Tyler’s “Lickety-Split”

When we got to his apartment, Zach gave in. As soon as the door was shut behind us, he stripped and pushed me to my knees. I gave him head like a pro. I licked the tip of his cock, then slowly began to work my way down the shaft. I wondered how much teasing Zach could take. At the beginning, he simply leaned against the wall and let me work him at my own speed. I was interested to see if I could make him lose his cool. I mouthed the head of his cock and then began to suck on the knob. I indented my cheeks and really focused my attention on the first inch.

But after all that torture, Zach had reached his limits. He couldn’t wait, and in a flash I understood why he hadn’t wanted to go for it at work. Zach was unable to stay quiet. He gripped me and began to fuck my face, and as I sucked him, he moaned loudly. “Oh, baby,” he groaned. “Your mouth is so warm. I can’t believe this is happening. Finally. I’ve fantasized about this moment for so long.”

He got louder and more explicit as I sucked him. I would never have guessed how dirty he was. He described the different images he’d jacked off to over the previous two months. “I wanted to have you suck me, and then jerk off all over your body. Then I thought about putting you up on the counter at work, spreading your legs and licking you to climax right there, where anyone could see.” I rolled with the change of pace, flicking my tongue against the slit in the head of his cock before striving to deep-throat him. He never stopped talking, and I felt myself growing wetter at his words. He was turning us both on, and in seconds, I was drinking his cream, relishing every drop. He didn’t stop talking even then, praising me for how I’d made him feel, telling me that heaven had nothing on my mouth.

“I had to get that out of the way,” Zach said, “so I could take my time with you.” We headed to his bedroom, where I stripped out of my clothes as fast as I could. We seemed to have the same idea. Sixty- nine was the number on both of our minds. Zach was on the bottom, and I climbed on top, and this time I got the chance to show off my oral expertise. I moved back and forth between bobbing on his rejuvenated dick and pushing forward so I could get in there and lick his balls. Zach spread me open with his hands and twirled his tongue around my clit.

“I wanted to eat you out that very first day,” he said, when he came up for air.

“Yeah?” I was short of breath.

“You were wearing that little orange sundress, but it was so hot that day. You know, the first sweltering day of summer. The fabric stuck to you, and I wanted to peel it up and sink to my knees, wanted to see if you were wearing panties under the dress.”

“And if I was?”

“If you were, I was going to eat you through them, suck on the front part until it was wet from you and wet from my mouth. Only when you were begging would I have pulled your panties down and given you the first feel of my tongue.”

“And if I wasn’t?”

“I didn’t think you were. The panty lines would have shown, wouldn’t they? So if you weren’t, I was going to give you a spanking for being so naughty as to show up on the first day of work without knickers. And then I was going to eat your pussy until you came and then eat your asshole until you came again.”

“Oh fuck,” I sighed blissfully. “Oh god, Zach.”

I had my lips around his cock once more, and I ground my cunt against his mouth, not so much to stop him from talking, but to get off on his words in a literal sense. It didn’t really matter what he was saying now. He could have been reciting our special drinks: Shot in the Dark, Americano, Cappuccino, Black Eye, Black Tie, Zebra Mocha, Macchiato… The feel of those words against my most tender skin was what ultimately did me in. I came with an unexpected inten- sity, and my uncontrollable moans around his cock brought him to his own finish line. He climaxed a second after me, and I managed to drain him once more.

Available from Cleis Press and Amazon.

 

 

Wicked Wednesday: The Little Mermaid

It’s time for another Wicked Wednesday and this week’s theme is Fairytales. I’ve loved the story of the Little Mermaid ever since I was a child, despite the fact that there are some decidedly adult themes running through it. How far would you be prepared to go the spend a night with the Prince of your dreams? Naturally, it’s a story that lends itself perfectly to erotification (is that a word?) and here’s an excerpt from a version a wrote a little while ago.

We join the story after the Little Mermaid has sacrificed her tongue in exchange for a pair of human legs. Now’s her chance to experience what she’s been longing for…

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The Little Mermaid now knew that she would be able to satisfy the Prince’s human urges and she spoke so eloquently with her eyes that the Prince immediately fell in love with her.  He swept her up onto his horse and they rode back to his palace.  Immediately he had fine robes brought for her and an elegant pair of slippers fashioned from the softest leather.  A maid helped her to dress and slipped the soft shoes onto her tiny human feet; the Little Mermaid stood for the first time on her trembling new legs and at that moment realized the price she had paid for the ability to move among men.  With each step it was as if she was walking on daggers and all the while the laughter of the Sea Witch echoed in her ears.

The Prince had musicians brought to the room.

“Will you dance for me?” he said.

The Little Mermaid nodded and though she danced with such grace and elegance that all in the palace were spellbound, each step felt like a hundred deaths until she was dancing with tears streaming down her face.

That night the Prince took her to his bed chamber.

“Why did you weep when you were dancing?” he asked, as he gently peeled away the layers of her clothing until she stood naked in front of him.

The Little Mermaid could say nothing but her breath came faster as Prince’s hands skimmed across her skin.

“I have never come across a woman as beautiful as you,” said the Prince.

He threw off his own clothes and then lifted the mysterious silent girl onto his bed.  Their lips met in a passionate kiss and when the Prince slipped his tongue into her mouth and found the soft stump where her tongue used to be, he understood why she was silent.

Bewitched by her beauty, he kissed her all over and the Little Mermaid writhed and moaned under his touch.  His lips explored every inch of her, teasing her nipples until she would have cried out in pleasure if she could have, and then making her back arch as his tongue traced a winding path down her belly towards the golden triangle between her thighs.  His fingers parted her legs and stroked the honey-scented cleft, and the Little Mermaid felt a rush of sticky, clammy dampness. A shimmer of magic flitted through her body that made her realize that no price was too much to pay to enjoy the pleasure of being a human.  And when the Prince pushed his fingers up into the dark recess, the little flutter became a rolling wave which made her moan low in her throat as her feelings soared.  The Prince kissed her and licked her and sucked on the little nub of flesh that nestled amid the golden hair.  The mermaid’s human legs began to shake and her hips pushed up to meet his touch. In her mind, she was transported to another world.

And as all of this was happening, she gazed on the Prince’s naked body, noticing how very different it was from her own.  Instead of the soft breasts, his chest was hard and flat, instead of a soft round belly, his stomach was tense and ridged, and instead of the deep pocket that lay between her legs, the Prince’s cock stood out proud from his body, growing stronger and harder as she watched it.  She reached out her hand and and found that it was smooth and warm, twitching at her touch, making the Prince moan with pleasure and roll his eyes back.

The Little Mermaid was fascinated by the Prince’s manhood.  She caressed it and she had to taste it, so she bent forwards and sucked it in to her mouth, making the Prince fall back on the bed with a cry. The silent girl was able to say all she needed with her lips, running them up and down and around his beautiful cock. On the end a white pearl of liquid appeared for her to drink and in her mouth she could once again taste the sea.

The Prince pulled away and pushed her back onto the brocaded pillows.  He spread her legs, only this time it was not his mouth that settled between them, but his hard, pulsing cock, still glistening with the Little Mermaid’s saliva.  He plunged it deep between the soft fleshy lips and as he slipped inside her, the girl once again felt the building power of human pleasure.  The Prince pulled back and plunged, diving in and out of her, harder and deeper with every thrust, building up heat and friction until the soft flesh between her thighs began to burn. Pleasure billowed up through her in a great wave that all but engulfed her senses, carrying her away from all she had known before, twisting through every sinew and nerve as she experienced what it was to be human and how it felt to have her human urges fulfilled.

Above her, the Prince reached his own climax, his body stiffening as his seed poured out into the small, silent girl beneath him.  His grunts became a harsh cry as he pushed hard to reach as far into her as he could; her softness enfolded him as her muscles clasped around him.  Then he slumped, spent and exhausted, onto her breast where he slept until morning.

 

Wicked Wednesday
 

Orgasmic? How was it for you?

Orgasmic—adjective—able to achieve orgasm or able to induce orgasm.

Orgasmic—something that makes you feel as good as or better than when you have an orgasm.

 

The point of no return!

The point of no return!

Above are two dictionary definitions of the word ‘orgasmic’ and I’m sure there are plenty more to be found… We all know what we mean when we say something’s orgasmic, don’t we? It’s fucking good! So good, we crave it, want it again, want more of it, sometimes can’t think of anything else. But what interests me as an erotica writer is:

Is your ‘orgasmic’ the same as my ‘orgasmic’?

By which I don’t mean do you find eating a certain brand of chocolate in the bath orgasmic, or a certain cocktail in a certain bar with a certain person orgasmic? We all have our own individual triggers that cause us to feel something is as good as or better than an orgasm. But what I wonder is whether it’s conjuring up the same tingling feelings inside you as it is inside me or him or her or them?

Do all orgasms feel the same?

The answer to that, at a very base level, is obviously no. Male and female orgasms are substantially different for the most obvious reasons. And we all experience orgasms of different intensities, set off by different activities focusing on different parts of our body. If you read descriptions written by women of what it feels like to orgasm, you might be forgiven for thinking you’re reading about a completely diverse series of experiences.

Where am I going with this?

As you know, I write erotica. This means I write, on a daily basis, explicit descriptions of individuals having sex. I write about sex of all types—vanilla and kinky, m/f, m/m, f/f, vaginal, anal, oral, masturbation—the list could go on, but I think I’ve given you the picture.

And that means, I end up describing an awful lot of orgasms. Orgasms that are by necessity based upon my own experience of sexual climax. That’s all I’ve got to go on because obviously I haven’t experienced (internally, at least!) anybody else’s climax.

I try to write most days but I don’t always manage it. But say I write five days a week, I might be describing, in detail, three or four orgasms a week—obviously some days I’m writing the scenes leading up to the sexual encounter and the orgasm won’t have happened yet, other days I might be penning a multiple! But let’s guesstimate three or four per week. (Yes, there will be plenty of you out there writing more sex than me but, look, it’s not a competition—I’m perfectly satisfied with three or four a week!)

About 200 orgasms a year. Described in detail.

In some cases, it’ll just be a physical description of one of my characters having an orgasm—if I’m not in their point of view, it’s easier to describe—literally, just what their body does as they come. But in point of view, the writer has to describe not only the physical sensations as they pass through the character’s body but also the feelings, thoughts, emotions or temporary absence of them as the person comes.

It’s somewhat easier for me, as a woman, to describe an orgasm from the female perspective. If I’m writing from a male point of view, my imagination has to work that much harder, while drawing more on men’s descriptions of how they feel when they come. I’ve written a few m/f stories from the male viewpoint and several m/m stories and a novella, and so far nobody’s called me out on my descriptions of male orgasm (wonders if any men have read them…).

But approximately 200—that’s a lot of climaxing to keep fresh and different. I try to do this without using clichés—crashing waves, fireworks exploding—and I try to do it without being repetitive. But truth be told, if you lined up my annual tally in a row next to each other you’d probably find both clichés and repetition. After all, 200 orgasms! How unique can they all be?

Here are a couple of examples. In the first one, it’s easy-her orgasm from his point of view, so just the purely physical. In the second one, we’re inside the character’s mind.

But a spanking wasn’t what Harry had in mind. As she lay gasping for breath on the bed, he gently spread her legs and crouched down behind her. The deep red folds of flesh between her legs glistened with her juices. He easily slipped two fingers inside her. She whimpered at his incursion, raising her hips so he could push deeper into her. Harry knelt up and, by reaching round to the front of her, he located her clit with his other hand. It was already swollen, a hard nub of flesh nestling in a velvet cocoon. Inside her, his fingers located the yielding softness of her G-spot. He flexed and pulsed against both her trigger points at once. In a few seconds her body went rigid, as a deep moan bubbled up from the back of her throat. She clenched around his fingers, her hips pressing forward to grind against his other hand. He tugged on her clit, dropping his head to kiss the welts on her back. She came again almost instantly, her body melting as she emitted a soft sigh.

***

A tug with her hand guided him in and then – deep inhale – she had what she needed: Colt’s fierce thrust stretching her open, pushing its way into her and sending a sharp-edged thrill from her cunt to her brain.

He started working in and out, backward and forward, and Bradie raised her legs to encircle his waist, pushing him in further by pressing his back down with her calves.  Colt moaned as his mouth found one of her breasts and when his teeth anchored on her nipple, Bradie matched his moan and arched her back underneath him.

Fast and deep was what Bradie needed and it was what Colt gave her.  It didn’t take long for both of them to reach the brink; slow, languorous love making would be for another time.  This was born out of need on both their parts; fierce, intense desire which had to be sated quickly.  With a shout, Colt came.  His mouth let go of her breast and he arched up high above her, pushing harder with his final thrust.  Inside, despite the condom, Bradie felt a hot surge at the end of his cock and the pulses along its shaft.  His climax brought her to her own nirvana and she allowed herself to be swept away by the sensation; powerful spasms radiated from her cunt throughout her body, making her cry out loud as she anchored her hands in Colt’s hair.

To a certain extent it’s describing the indescribable, the incomparable, the orgasmic…

Man, it’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it!

(The first excerpt was taking from Alchemy xii – New Year’s Eve, out on December 31, and the second was from The Christmas Tattoo.)

This post was first published on One Handed Writers, where I post every other Friday on my progress as a writer.