‘R’ is for restless…

You might be forgiven for thinking that today’s post title refers to the rigours of producing a post every day for the Blogging from A to Z Challenge. But no, that’s been a pleasure so far. The ‘R’ in today’s post title refers to this:

Tamsin Flowers aviThe Restless Writer

Which is me! I’m feeling restless in my writing. I’m six months into writing Alchemy xii (my novella-a-month series running through 2015) and I’ve another six months to go…nowhere near the home straight yet and already I’m itching for new projects. Don’t get me wrong – I love Alchemy xii and I’m totally besotted with my two main characters, Harry and Olivia. Believe me, bitter tears will be shed on the day I finally write ‘The End’ on December 31 (or hopefully a little time before that so there’s time for my superb beta readers to wave their magic wands over it).

But…I’m a writer. Ideas bombard me. Some of them I shake off, but some of them manage to stick. Then they bug me, begging to be written, whining in the far distant reaches of my brain, desperate for attention and love. And I have to show them some love or they’ll wither and die (though that doesn’t really matter – they’re always quickly replaced by other clamoring, noisy little storylines!) So I jot down a few notes, the bare bones of a story or a title, or a little character study, a word, a phrase, a thought, a sentiment… Ideas brew and coalesce in my brain and on the page of my notebook (I love the thought of all that coalescing going on – sticky and sexy!) Then, before I know it, I’m desperate to start writing one of them for real.

And that’s where I am now. After months on Alchemy, there are so many projects queuing up, just ripe and ready to eat…I mean write. (Oh yes, there’s that hot story about eating figs I’m planning – juices dribbling down my chin already…)

Cowgirl

I haven’t written a hot cowgirl in a while…

So what’s coming next out of Flowers Towers? Here are just a few of the projects I want to move onto:

  • I need to go back and write about how Belladonna met Harry and recruited him to Alchemy. Okay, okay – I’m not really going to launch into another Alchemy project right away – but I do love my Harry and this story will definitely be worth telling. In a while. A standalone novel this time, though!
  • I’ve got two collections of shorts vying for attention in my mind, one of which will be dark and dangerous. And I have to say this definitely might be the project I move onto next. After completing what will be approximately 200k words on the Alchemy novellas, working on some quick bites has a certain appeal!
  • But there’s a longer work knocking on the door, too. Not as long as Alchemy and not as light, this will either be a novella or a full-length novel—and I know, even from the scant notes on it I’ve made so far, it will be one of the most challenging stories I’ve ever attempted to write.
  • My lovely friend Rose Caraway recently suggested I write another story featuring my erotic superhero, Shibari Girl! It’s one of my favourite stories and another SG! adventure would be fun. And what about some other erotic superheroes? I feel another collection coming on…
  • Then, stepping out of the role as writer, I’d like to try my hand at editing an anthology. I’ve got an idea for one that keeps coming back, even though I put it aside—but this will depend on finding the right publishing partner before I can put out a submissions call.
  • I mustn’t forget the two completed MSs on my hard drive. They need some editing and tidying before setting out onto their own journeys into the world—they’re pretty much a priority.
  • And then of course comes the siren call from other genres. Do I want to stay faithful to erotica forever or should I try my hand at something else? Erotica’s a tough market at the moment and it might be fun to play hooky elsewhere for a bit. But would that mean a whole new author identity? The thought’s pretty daunting…

What’s it going to be? I really couldn’t tell you at this point. I’ll probably only know when I sit down at my desk the day after I’ve typed ‘The End’ on Alchemy xii. Once I’ve dried my tears. But the world will be pretty much my oyster and this list just keeps growing.

Watch this space!


‘Q’ is for queer…

I write hetero erotica (could that be contracted to heterotica?) and I write queer erotica, both f/f and m/m, and naturally I sometimes write shades in between, because I believe that sexuality can be fluid. Today is ‘Q’ on the Blogging from A to Z Challenge, which meant today’s post had to be ‘Q’ is for queer…

So what have I got for you? In September, Sacchi Green and Cleis Press are releasing a new anthology called Me and My Boi. I’m delighted to have a story in this one and, to be honest, I can’t wait to get my hands on my contributor copy to read the rest of the wonderful stories in the line-up – other writers include Sinclair Sexsmith, Victoria Oldham, Jen Cross, D. Orchid, Sommer Marsden, Annabeth Leong and Kathleen Tudor.

As the title suggests, it celebrates celebrates lesbian bois, butches, and screw-the-binary free spirits – and my story is called “Loblolly.” Here’s an excerpt…

Me and My Boi cover

Excerpt from “Loblolly”

She drove a truck and I climbed up on the passenger side, feeling her eyes on the backs of my legs as I mounted the step. There were candy bar wrappers all over the seat and the ashtray was damn near overflowing with butts but the small space smelled of her—and I don’t have to tell you how much I liked that.

She got in and gunned the engine.

“Where’re we going?” I said.

“Out to the forest,” she said. “It’s too nice to be indoors.”

It was a beautiful day, though I’d hardly noticed it. The sun was sharp and Jo flipped down the sun visor against the glare.

“Should we stop and get wine?” I said.

“I got all we need, baby.”

I studied her hands on the steering wheel. Small strong fingers with clipped white nails that stood out from her dark skin. Her grip was relaxed but I loved to watch the muscles and sinews of her arms moving under the surface as she turned corners and straightened up again. On her right bicep there was a tattoo of a pigeon. Not a dove or anything symbolic. Just a common wood pigeon, strutting across her arm, drawn in sharp, fine detail. I don’t know why she had it. On our second meeting I had asked her about the fine white line that ran half an inch down her chin from her lower lip.

“This scar,” she said, fingering the mark, “is where this bird,”—she moved the tip of her finger to the tattoo—”flew into me. Right into me, here, with its beak.”

I laughed because I knew she was lying. If she had secrets she wanted to keep that was fine with me. I had things of my own that I wasn’t going to spill any time soon.

Several miles into the forest, a long way past the main parking lot where families with dogs and children were unloading, past the visitor center and nature trails, we came to the end of the road. There was a turning circle and some gravel standing for cars to park on but we were the only ones there. Jo pulled a basket out of the back of the truck and we set off into the trees.

Walking through dappled sun and shade, the only sound the buzzing and chirruping of insects, I could almost hear my heart humming. Jo was slightly ahead of me and I watched her shoulder blades slip-sliding up and down under her skin as her arms swung loose at her sides. I moistened my lips with my tongue. She turned and caught me watching her.

“Let me take the basket for a while,” she said.

We walked for half an hour and never saw another soul. We were far deeper into the woods than the day trippers went. Jo was striding forward like she had a destination in mind but I remembered, she always walked fast in the city, head down, cigarette in hand. I saw birds but I didn’t know what sort they were—I wasn’t a nature lover and I only ever came out into the forest when somebody else suggested it. But today it was nice, walking through the trees with Jo in companionable silence.

Finally, she stopped and cast about herself some before dropping the basket down at the base of a tall, thin pine. She pulled out a plaid blanket and spread it on the needle strewn ground under the tree and invited me with a gesture to sit.

“This is a loblolly pine,” she said.

“Is that rare?”

She laughed, the sun glinting on her white teeth, a string of saliva glistening between her dark lips. “Commonest tree in the forest, practically. But I just love it for its name.”

I lay back on the blanket and looked up into the branches above me and at the small chinks of azure sky I could see through them. My heart was pounding hard and fast. I wanted her pretty bad.

“Loblolly,” I said slowly, letting the word roll over my tongue. I closed my eyes.

A metallic jangle made me open them again just as Jo straddled my waist. Above me she was holding a pair of shiny steel handcuffs in one hand.

“You’ll be okay with these,” she said. It was more of a statement than a question and with her other hand she caught hold of one of my wrists.

My heart skipped a beat. No, make that several beats. I’d been hanging with Jo for maybe five or six weeks, having sex with her for the last two or three, but I had no idea she was into handcuffs. Or anything kinky like that. I’d never been handcuffed or tied up before.

“Jo?”

“Shhhh…” I felt the cold hard steel of the cuffs being pressed against my lips, crushing my unformed words of protest. I wriggled slightly but, although she wasn’t any heavier than me, she had me pinned down.

“You need this, Ava,” she said. “I could see it in you the moment I met you. You need someone strong to take you in hand.”

She wasn’t wrong about that but she was the first one to try it this way. I looked to one side, at the trees stretching away as far as I could see, and I tried to calm my breathing. Then I nodded and held up my other wrist for her to take.

“Good girl,” she said, her smoker’s rasp always more in evidence when she was turned on. And I could tell by the brightness of her eyes and the flush of her cheek, she was turned on all right.

She put the cuffs on me and the metallic click of each bracelet closing sent a flash of longing up through my bowels. My mouth was dry and suddenly my whole body felt hypersensitive, as if every nerve ending had been uncovered. Stripped bare. I wanted Jo to touch me but I didn’t know if I’d be able to bear it when she did.

 

Me and My Boi is available for pre-order from Amazon.com, Amazon UK and Barnes & Noble

 


‘P’ is for Pow!

“Pow! It’s Shibari Girl!” is one of my all time favourite stories and so it was a no brainer to include it as part of my Blogging from A to Z Challenge. I had the most fun writing it and I couldn’t have been more thrilled when Rose Caraway accepted it for The Sexy Librarian’s Big Book of Erotica - I’d written it especially for her submission call. This was my first attempt at writing a shibari scene and I’ve written several more since then – see my recent post, ‘K’ is for knots…, if you want to sample some more.

 

However, today, instead of an excerpt, I’ve got a video of Rose reading from “Pow! It’s Shibari Girl!” at Writers with Drinks in San Francisco on Valentine’s night this year. I didn’t know she was going to do this and I only found out afterward when I followed a link to You Tube – but imagine how thrilled I was to discover that Rose had chosen to read from my story that evening. This was the first time I’d heard one of my stories read aloud in front of a live audience – and thank God, they all laughed when they were supposed to. Rose brought the whole story to life in such a wonderful way – so thank you, Rose, you really rocked it!

 

 

 

 


‘O’ is for Olivia…

Beautiful, feisty, game-on-girl Olivia Roux. There was only ever one contender for my ‘O’ post for the Blogging from A to Z Challenge, my lovely heroine from the Alchemy xii series. Always struggling under the not-so-tender mercy of Harry Lomax as her mischievous Dom takes his pleasure at her expense, Olivia is able to seduce and charm in equal measure.

Here’s an excerpt from my favourite Alchemy episode – so far – Alchemy xii – February

Woman in water

Excerpt from Alchemy xii – February

As I came down the stairs I looked around for Harry. I couldn’t see him. Something felt different, then my nipples peaked. Ouch. Despite the fire, the room felt cold. Extremely cold to someone without any clothes on. The door to the outside balcony swung open so I scurried across to close it.

“Out here.”

He had to be kidding. I stopped in the doorway.

“What are you doing?”

“Olivia, out here, now!”

I wrapped my arms around my torso and tip-toed out onto the snow-smattered decking. Harry’s clothes were strewn on the floor, so I quickly stepped onto his pants to protect my feet. At the far end of the deck, steam rose from a hot tub. Harry basked in the water like a self-satisfied otter. Oh, yes, I could make it that far.

“Stop where you are,” said Harry as I arrived within a few feet of the tub.

“What?” My teeth were already chattering, making it sound as if I said the word three times.

Nothing but Harry’s head was visible above the bubbling cauldron and I could barely make out his features through the steam.

“Did I send you a list of instructions?”

“Yes, Sir.” I answered as fast as I could. I didn’t want to be out here long.

“Instruction One—pack outdoor gear. Pass or fail?”

“Fail, Sir.”

“Instruction Two—wear red underwear. Pass or fail?”

“Fail, Sir.”

“Instruction Three—memorize a passage which speaks to you from one of the books I picked in the library. We could have done it inside but you’re owed a punishment, aren’t you?”

“Yes, S-S-Sir.”

My teeth were chattering even harder.

“What for?”

“For s-s-slapping you, Sir.”

I shivered. The cold had leached through the fabric of Harry’s pants and my feet were starting to hurt.

“Which won’t happen again?”

“Which won’t happen again, Sir”

“So, let’s hear it. Word perfect or you say it over until it is.”

When I said earlier I’d done nothing Harry instructed, I was lying. So sue me, diary. I just had a moment the night before when I’d thought I might stay. So luckily I’d done the task and learned a passage.

“Now?” I could hardly form the word with my lips.

“Yes, now,” said Harry, plunging his head momentarily under the water and re-emerging in a cloud of steam.

“That woman…” I started to say.

“Which book?”

Venus in Furs by Ritter von Leopold thingamabob…”

“Again.”

Venus in Furs by Ritter von Masoch-Sacher.”

“Again.”

“Harry, I’m freezing to fucking death.”

“Liv, we can go on all night. Again.”

I was trembling so fiercely I feared I was about to fall over onto the icy deck, from which I’d have no chance of getting up. I took a deep breath. The freezing air seared the back of my throat.

Venus in Furs by Ritter von Sacher-Masoch.”

“Better. Now go ahead.”

My teeth were chattering so violently the only way to stop them was to clamp my jaw shut. My feet had gone from burning pain to completely numb. It was a wonder I was standing at all.

“H-h-harry…”

“Get on with the quote. The sooner you perform, the sooner you’ll be in here.”

“That w-w-woman, as nature has c-c-created h-h-her…”

“I can’t understand a word you’re saying, Liv. Start again, come closer and speak more clearly.”

Did I ever tell you how much I hate Harry Lomax?

I walked without feeling below my knees and came to stand by the edge of the tub. I steadied myself with one hand, even though I could feel my fingers freezing as I touched the snowy rim.

“That woman as nature has created her, and as man is at present educating her, is his enemy. She can only be his slave or his despot, but never his companion. This she can become only when she has the same rights as he, and is his equal in education and work.”

Once my mouth had got into the swing of talking, I was able to make myself repeat the quote I’d memorized in a matter of seconds. When I finished, I waited for what seemed like hours while Harry digested. Finally, he smiled that smile.

“Only you, Olivia, could find a feminist tract in the BDSM canon.” He laughed. “You never disappoint me, darling! Now, come on, get in here with me.”

I didn’t need asking twice.

Unheeding of the risk of slipping on the icy steps, I virtually galloped up them and launched myself in.

Quite possibly my scream set off an avalanche somewhere across the valley. If my scream didn’t, Harry’s gale of laughter did.

The water was burning hot. My skin was on fire. I was like a missionary in a cartoon, tossed into the cannibals’ bubbling pot. I quite literally felt as if I’d been plunged into a kettle of boiling water. I screamed long and loud. I couldn’t get out quick enough. But the freezing cold air hardly acted as a balm.

“Harry, you bastard! You fucking bastard!”

“You fucking bastard, Sir,” he corrected, still snorting with laughter.

“You’re a sadist.”

“Nuh-uh,” he said, shaking his head. “We established that earlier. You’re a masochist, darling, and I’m just helping you to explore all its dimensions. Now, get in before you catch your death.”

Very gingerly, I lowered myself into the warm—to me, scalding—water. My numb toes burned. My nipples felt as if they had just been released from the tightest of clamps. I moaned as I edged deeper in, scowling across the tub at Harry.

“I hate you, Sir.”

“No, you don’t. Come and sit on my lap so I can warm you up properly.”

Feeling as if my skin had been branded, I scooted through the hot water toward him. Outside I felt hot but inside I was freezing. My teeth still chattered. Harry’s hands on my body burned and his tongue brought warmth to my cold lips. His kiss, as always, melted my core. I trembled, unable to fathom whether I was hot or cold, burning or freezing. I was still furious with him. But I felt so turned on that, as always, resistance was futile.

As he took possession of my mouth, he guided my hips down over his until I felt his cock pushing up inside me. A shiver ran up my spine. Goosebumps rose. Harry worked me up and down on his lap, my nipples scraping against his chest piercings. I bit his lip as hard as I could until he raised a hand to my hair, yanking my head back.

“Witch,” he said. A trickle of blood ran down his chin.

“Bastard,” I said.

He slid off the hot tub’s bench, dislodging me from my perch. As we both stood, our torsos emerged from the warm water. The cold air pricked as sharply on my skin as the frost patterns on a window. Harry grabbed me by the waist and spun me round. A hand between my shoulder blades pushed me forward to bend over the side of the tub. My breasts were plunged into fresh snow. I yelped. Then, before the shock had subsided, Harry’s cock plunged back into me from behind. He fucked me hard and, thankfully, fast. My hips cracked against the wooden side of the tub, my knees knocked the wooden seat, though the impact was lessened by virtue of being underwater. My nipples became tight, hard nubs, rubbed into the gritty crystals of snow that had partly thawed and refrozen. The frost burned fiercely. I struggled to lift myself but Harry’s hand on the back of my neck held me down. He swung his other hand around to the front of my hips to search out my clit. His wasn’t the gentle touch of a lover—and this certainly wasn’t a moment for tenderness. As soon as he found the nub of flesh, he pinched hard, twisting as he tightened his grip.

My spine twisted as I struggled against him. My orgasm broke like an avalanche, tumbling through me and over me. I think I screamed. At one point I seemed to have a mouthful of snow. Harry thrust harder until he came as well. His hips pressed against mine and he tugged at my clit until I surrendered to another orgasm. My back arched and he relented with the hand at my neck. I pushed myself up and leaned back against him. His warm hands cupped my breasts, branding them with heat as we slid back down into the bubbling water once again.

We were both panting. Both unable to speak. Harry cradled me on his lap and kissed my cold mouth.

“Like I said, you never disappoint me, Liv.”

Alchemy xii - February coverAlchemy xxi – February is available from:

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Excitica


‘N’ is for nudity…

You might suppose that, as a writer of erotica, I’m into nudity in a big way. Or at the very least, I spend most of my days writing about it—describing naked people in beautiful, technicolor detail! Look—I’m even writing one of my Blogging from A to Z Challenge posts about it.

Naked womanBut actually, I hadn’t planned to write about nudity. It’s just what popped into my mind when I was casting about for an ‘N’ to write about. I don’t have any stories starting with ‘N’ and I couldn’t even dredge up any characters with ‘N’ names—though I’m sure I must have one or two, somewhere, in some long forgotten story. But instead, ‘N’ is for nudity… sprang, ready formed, into my head and it sounded like a post with potential.

So I gave it some thought. And it struck me that, although I like nudity very much in the flesh—my own and other people’s—I don’t really describe it that often. I know that sounds strange for an erotica writer. I worked out for a previous post that I was writing somewhere between 200 and 300 sex scenes per year and you’d be forgiven for thinking that that many fucks (or other sexual interactions) would involve a hell of a lot of nudity. Because for most of these encounters, my characters get all the way or at least partially naked.

But, no! I don’t really describe nudity, per se. I describe a lot of undressing, peeling away of layers of clothing, dropping of pants. And I put in an awful lot of mileage on what my naked characters get up to, once they’re naked, or semi-naked. But I rarely dwell on the specifics of their body—the only notable exception being Harry Lomax in Alchemy. I dwell lovingly on his piercings, describing the silver bars through his nipples and the heavy Prince Albert at the end of his cock. But that’s the little metal charms, not the nudity, anyway.

It’s not a conscious thing. I think it’s just that nudity on the page doesn’t particularly fascinate me. It’s what my naked characters do and think and feel that exercises my imagination. I don’t want to waste reams of paper and forests of trees describing deltoids and skin texture and bust size. I’ve said it before now, I’d really be perfectly happy not to even assign hair and eye colour to my characters, but I do describe them, if as briefly as possible, when they’re first introduced. (Actually, when it comes to Harry in Alchemy xii, we’ve reached April and I haven’t even decided for myself yet what colour his hair is!) And in virtually every case, by the time my people get down and dirty, the story’s beyond the point of physical description.

Naked manIt’s a good thing for my readers.

You don’t believe me? This is why I think it’s good. When I read a story written by someone else, I form a picture of the character in my mind and despite the vision the writer has of that character, mine will be different. I might have picked up some of the essential details the writer’s given me—hair and eye colour perhaps, age and gender more obviously—but in a good story, the characters become mine. And the fuzzier the image of them in my mind, the more easily I can fill in the gaps to make them the people I want them to be.

I often hear readers complaining that erotica favours beautiful women with perfect figures and totally ripped guys with bulging muscles. And often enough it does—which, to my mind, can be a bit of a turn off. In my stories, I rarely comment on my heroine’s figure. If you’re reading it and you want her flat chested and boyish, because that’s your ideal woman or that’s the body shape you empathise with most, then, hell, go for it. Paint her that way in your mind. Likewise, you can see her as curvaceous or deliciously plump, tall or short, soft or muscular. It’s no skin off my nose. Give the hero the cock size you want and cover his chest in hair. Or not. It’s up to you to flesh out the characters the way you want. The way that turns you on, which is, after all, what erotica is all about.

I’ll include any details I think might be important to the story but otherwise the reader’s my partner in creating their interpretation of my character. Sometimes, however, a story might call for a certain physical attribute. In Cherries on Top, the heroine hated the fact that she had small breasts, so naturally, she was written with small breasts. And in Roxanne, my story in Best Women’s Erotica 2015, the main character, as a modern version of Cyrano de Bergerac, has an exceptionally large nose. But usually things are pretty vague.

Like I said, it’s what they do once they’re naked, not the nudity, that interests me. Their characters and their actions are certainly not up for grabs in the same way. Those are elements of the story I keep much tighter control over.

So, ‘N’ is for nudity… the thing I don’t really write much about.


‘M’ is for Malin

Yesterday on the Blogging from A to Z Challenge, I featured one of my all-time favourite erotica writers, Jake Louder. Now, today we’re on to ‘M’ and so I get the chance to show off some work by another of my favourite writers – and in fact one of my very best friends – Malin James. Malin is an extraordinarily gifted writer and she’s as talented at writing fiction as she is at non-fiction. Her intellect is boundless and her analysis of erotica, sex and culture is always incisive and right on point. Additionally, she has such a tight, clean, spare way with words when she writes fiction and yet every single one of them earns its place in the sentence, resonant with meaning and emotion… In short, she amazes me and I want to be her when I grow up!

Today, I feel privileged to bring you an excerpt from her story, “The Master”, which will be released as part of the collection The Athletic Aesthetic, coming from Sweetmeats Press in June. I was lucky enough to beta this story of fencing, sporting prowess and hot m/m action, and all I can say is that it really is so f**king good! Enjoy…

Male torso with abs

Excerpt from The Master by Malin James

By the time he got to the locker room it was empty, thank fucking god. Tom unbuckled the jock strap and threw it in his locker. His balls ached and his cock was sore from pushing against the cup—he was only a bit above average as far as size went, but his dick was just that hard. It had been since the bout. The fact that losing had turned him on made him vaguely sick.

Throwing his codpiece at the locker felt so good that he almost did it again, but he didn’t allow himself. Instead, he took it out, folded it and placed it on the shelf like the civilized man he was. Then he took the hottest shower he could stand.

He cranked the water up, so the spray needled his skin. Relaxing into the punishing heat, Tom stroked his cock….

A thrill of filthy pleasure shot through him as he thought of Elle Mason, lean and feral, driving him off the strip.

“Fuck me,” he muttered, and shut the water off.

No matter how badly he needed to, he didn’t want to come—not thinking about that cold, cold blonde. The power dynamic was off. Somehow, in less than three hours, Elle Mason had fucked him up.

On the surface it was obvious. She’d played him on the strip without tipping her hand. His father would not be proud—Laszlo Graner hated a mark. The fact that there were witnesses compounded that shame. But still, Tom thought, he could have managed even that. Something simpler was fucking him up. Her prowess turned him on. He wanted her approval. He wanted to please her. That’s what pissed him off.

Tom tossed his towel in a hamper.

What he really needed, Tom reflected, was to get his equilibrium back. Ideally, he’d have wrapped Elle’s perfect ponytail around his fist and gently fucked her face. But that wasn’t going to happen, and he needed an alternative that wasn’t jacking off.

Tom walked over the heated tile floor into the adjoining dorm, looking for Bisset. It was a large, wood paneled room, lined with neat twin beds like a luxury barracks. At first Tom thought it was empty, but then he saw Cerra in the far corner of the room. His back was arched as he worked his cock with slick, fast strokes. Tom’s attention focused, like a dog scenting a fox.

“Wait.”

The word left Tom’s mouth, driven by instinct, not thought. Cerra looked at him curiously. Then, with obvious effort, he did as he was told. Tom’s shoulders relaxed. It wasn’t what he’d been looking for, but it would do for now.

“Don’t come. Not yet.”

Cerra nodded again. Tom crossed the room.

“Did the session turn you on?”

He let the smile enter his voice as he sauntered to the bed.

“Yes,” the Spaniard said.

He’d stopped just short of calling Tom, sir. Tom could hear the little word on the other man’s tongue, ready to fall into the palm of his hand. But it didn’t, and he was he was glad. He didn’t need the responsibility. He just needed to get off.

“How badly do you want to come?”

Cerra looked at him, naked admiration softening his eyes. “Badly enough, señor.”

Tom glanced down at the cock in Cerra’s hand. Pre-cum coated its rosy tip, just beyond the reach of his thumb. His hand was trembling with the strain of not finishing the stroke. Yeah, Tom thought. Enough.

“And how much,” he asked, “is enough?”

“Enough to earn it,” Cerra said.

Tom gave him a Hollywood grin.

“Let’s see you earn it then.”

Si,” the Spaniard murmured, soft and full of promise, like the inside of a mouth.

 

Athletic Aesthetic coverAvailable now for pre-order from Amazon.

 


‘L’ is for Louder!

‘L’ is for Louder. Jacob Louder. And today’s post on the Blogging from A to Z Challenge is all about the phenomenon that is Jacob Louder. He’s one of my writing heroes! Hell, in my opinion, Jacob has one of the most original and convincing voices writing in erotica today and he really does deserve mainstream recognition. I’m particularly honoured to have been featured in a number of the same anthologies as him, including Dirty Little Numbers, Chemical [se]X, Best Women’s Erotica 2015 and The Mammoth Book of Uniform Erotica. But his real triumphs are the first two novels in his First series: First and M, published by Go Deeper Press.  You can find my review of M here. But if you want the full Jacob Louder experience, run over to Amazon now as First is free from today until Thursday! Here’s an excerpt, just in case you don’t want to take my word as to how good it is.

First cover

Excerpt from First by Jacob Louder

M liked to be on top. I was fine with this, especially when both of her hands were on my hips as she swallowed my cock deep into the back of her throat. Over and over again, her lips and tongue from the tip to the base, the heat of her all over me. She purred when she did this. She looked me in the eyes as she left trails of her red lipstick all over my dick, shiny and wet from her mouth, my thickness stretching her lips wide. She sucked and licked and sucked—my God, could she fuck me with her mouth. No one was better. I kept one of my hands in that dark hair of hers, another in my own to keep it away from my eyes so that I could take in this scene, the beauty, the ferocity of M and the way she sucked me. I let out a loud moan—how could I not—and that’s when she grabbed my dick and jerked it hard, just the way I liked, a satisfied smile on her lips, until my balls clenched and I said, “Fuck, I’m gonna come,” and I always did, and this time on her face.

She let out her soft laugh, wiping a finger along her chin. “Someone hasn’t masturbated today,” and she was right because my load was huge.

“You’re a mess,” I said, sitting up and taking her face in my hands, licking the curve of her jawline, my come from the tip of her chin.

I felt her hands grab at mine. “Hey,” she said, “save some for me.”

I brought my mouth to M’s and let her taste me on my tongue.

That’s when she moved to stretch her body over mine, my head hitting the pillow again under her weight, the intense heat of her skin, like she’d erupt in my arms. I touched the lace of her bra and panties, which were much tighter now with her arousal, but I kept my hand on her ass, grabbing those tight cheeks, running my fingers beneath the lace. M moaned and began to slowly rock her hips against my thigh, saying, “Fuck my pussy, baby.”

Words like these always made me hard again. My lips pressed to her ear, I said, “You are so fucking wet. Can you feel how hard, how deep, I am in you?” I held perfectly still. She only needed words. I absorbed every thrust of M’s hips, loving the way she felt on top of me, her softness and her hardness pressed tight against my body.

She came when I put my finger against her asshole. I didn’t even need to slip it inside. M gasped and raised her head to look me in the eyes, her hair falling against my face, tickling my cheeks. She kissed me hard as she rocked her hips harder and harder, my bed squeaking and jolting, M moaning again, but this time against my mouth.

She grew still. I could feel her wetness seeping through the delicate fabric of her briefs.

I rolled M onto her back and looked for her smile. It was there, her eyes watching me, half closed, her breath coming in quick little puffs. I gently ran my hand over the front of her panties, and with the slow up thrust of her hips, the arch in her back, she gave me permission. I said to M, “Look how much you squirted,” before I lowered my head and slowly sucked and licked the mess M made, right through the lace of her pretty pink panties.

 


‘K’ is for knots…

Shibari

By Ater Crudus (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

It’s a new week – the third, no less – on the Blogging from A to Z Challenge, and we kicking off with ‘K’ is for knots… Shibari knots in this case. Shibari is Japanese for ‘to tie’ or ‘to bind’ – and is synonymous with the art of Japanese bondage.

Shibari fascinates me – it has for as long as I’ve been aware of it. I find myself losing time like Alice down the rabbit hole, browsing shibari images on the Internet. The most intricate ties can be simply beautiful and the combination they represent of sex, bondage and art really does it for me. It’s also pretty sexy to write about, though there is the risk of tying oneself up in knots! (Sorry – that has to be the worst joke ever!) I’ve attempted a few shibari scenes over the past year or so – there’s my story, Pow! It’s Shibari Girl!, which appears in The Sexy Librarian’s Big Book of Erotica, edited by Rose Caraway, which I’ll hopefully feature further on in the A to Z challenge. Furthermore,  Alchemy xii – May features a seriously sexy shibari scene between Harry and Olivia – and you can get your hands on that on May 1st, obviously.

But today, I’m running with an excerpt from a very short story called Seven Knots, which will be in Alison Tyler‘s forthcoming Bondage Bites.

Excerpt from Seven Knots

When I look up, he’s standing in front of me, gazing down at me with a passive expression on his face. He doesn’t speak. In his hands is a skein of coarse blue rope, not thick, but rough and fibrous. He hasn’t tied me with rope before; he’s only used leather cuffs and belts to restrain me so far.

I hold out my wrists to him, supposing this is what he wants, but he shakes his head. Instead he simply points towards the heavy mahogany table that dominates in the center of the room. I climb up and kneel at the center of the table as I’ve done so many times before, leaning forward to rest my head on my folded arms. He moves almost silently across the room but I sense his shadow falling on the polished surface of the table.

“Do you know what Shibari is?” he says.

I look up and shake my head.

“It’s an ancient Japanese bondage technique. Release through restraint.”

He starts to unravel the rope. It smells like garden twine and there is a pleasing slapping sound as he lets one end drop to the floor. A small whisper of desire starts to unfurl inside me.

“Each of the seven knots I’ll tie will represent both reward and punishment,” he says. “Kneel up.”

He gathers my wrists together behind my back and winds the rope around them several times. Then he pulls the end of the rope up through the narrow space between them. The friction of the rope burns the fragile skin. He knots the rope.

“This first knot is punishment for the times you have touched me without my permission.”

He yanks it tight, pulling my arms back hard until I can feel a searing tightness across the front of my chest. And a sharp twist of desire, hot and high in my vagina. He brings the two ends of the rope around to my front, winding them twice around my waist before he ties the second knot.  It’s more complicated than the first but this time he doesn’t rip the rope across my skin as he tightens it.

“This knot is reward for the beauty you bring to my life; for your white skin and red hair, the soft curve of your belly.”

His hands brush my skin as he threads the ends behind the knot; he lets his fingers linger where the flesh rises from my stomach to my mound.  My legs tremble.  A whispered sigh escapes my lips.

He lifts my body so I am kneeling up and uses one hand to spread my knees.  Then he draws the two lengths between my legs, allowing each to settle in the creases at the top of my thighs.  He pulls the ropes tight, up between my buttocks, and I feel him securing them where my wrists are tied at the back of my waist.  The pressure cuts deep, almost bisecting me.  I’d never realized it was a feeling I needed, this tight, sawing friction.

“The third knot is to remind you that certain parts of your body are in my possession.”

It’s not something I could forget.

 

bondage bites coverBondage Bites will be published on August 11.


‘J’ is for Jade…

In fact, ‘J’ is for Jade A Waters, my beautiful Pillow Talk colleague and dear friend – and today, as we reach ‘J’ in the Blogging from A to Z Challenge, she’s taking up the slack for me and letting me have an easy day. *Waves* Thank you, Jade – you’re a star. As it happens, Jade is also a wonderfully gifted poet and she’s very generously allowing me to post one her works here – the amazing “Owned.” Her verse is incandescent and she captures emotions in a moving and magical way. Read it and enjoy it, and then visit her site for some more!

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OWNED

by

Jade A. Waters

 

I tell you I own you
Then watch
The corners of your lips
Turn up in an eager smile.
You tremble slightly,
Breasts heaving
Belly fluttering,
And between your thighs is the sweetest sight,
Slick, silky moisture
Pooling
Waiting
Ensconcing my fingers as I slide them inside you.
Now you shudder,
Whimper,
Whisper cries of
More
Yes
Please.

You quiver around me as I follow the curves of your body
Inside
Until you moan for me.
Then and only then
Do I come to you,
Press every craving inch of me
To the heat
Pooling
Waiting
Embracing my cock as I push inside you.
I watch you shudder again.
You grip me
Tight
And now your cries
Are mine—
More
Yes
Please.

Teeth bared against the perfect flesh
Of your breast
Until I tremble
And fill you.
Because in truth,
My love
It is you who owns me.

*

‘I’ is for ice…

Venture with me into the Ice Palace…’I’ is for ice! Today’s post for the Blogging from A to Z Challenge is an excerpt from The Return of the Snow Queen, a sequel I wrote to the traditional Snow Queen fairytale. When the original children in the story, Kaye and Gerda, are all grown up and married, the Snow Queen once again returns and tempts Kaye away once more to keep him prisoner in the Ice Palace. Naturally, though this version is a whole lot different to the original! The entire story has yet to be published – I’m sitting on it until the right opportunity comes along – but here’s a little taste to make you shiver…

Woman with whipExcerpt from The Return of the Snow Queen

Through vast, glassy halls Kay followed the Snow Queen, recalling as he did a distant dream of a time long ago, of time spent here in the cavernous Ice Palace.  Everything glowed blue and green in the shimmering Northern Lights, making it seem as if they were walking under water until finally they came to the Queen’s own chamber.  The icy structures and luxurious furnishings glimmered in the light of a hundred golden candles positioned in alcoves in the walls.  But even the heat of a hundred flames was not enough to make the room warm and Kay shivered as he looked around.

“Sit,” said the Snow Queen, “and drink.”

On a small table stood a beaker of steaming hot liquid, white and frothy.  Kay picked it up and warmed his hands on the outside of the cup.

“Drink it,” commanded the Queen, “and you won’t feel the cold.”

Kay raised the beaker to his lips and tasted the most delicious drink he’d ever come across, like hot buttered rum with chocolate and coffee and honey.  And as he gulped it down a glow of warmth radiated through him and he was no longer troubled by the frigidity of the air or the ice crystals forming in his hair.

When he’d drained it, the Queen took the beaker from his hands and placed it back on the table.

“Now you’re mine, Kay,” she said.  “When I first met you, you were on the cusp between being a child and a man.  For seven long years I tried to forget you.  But I couldn’t.  Then for seven long months I tried to find you, until the blizzard finally blew me to you.  And now you’ll be mine for the rest of time.”

Kay fell under the spell of the silvery music of her voice and found himself dropping to his knees.

“All I want is to be yours and to serve you in any way I can,” he said, head bowed, no longer daring to look her in the eye.

“Come,” said the Queen.  “First you must be punished for running away from me.”

In his heart Kay felt fear and excitement at the same time.  He couldn’t imagine why he would have run away from so beautiful a creature.  He followed her across the room to where three steps led up to a small platform in one corner.  Set in the sculpted walls of ice were chains and shackles for wrists, ankles and waist.

“Take off your clothes, Kay,” said the Queen.

Kay did as he was bid and, even though he stood on a floor of ice and he could see the cloud of his own breath in front of his face, he didn’t feel cold at all.  The Queen looked him up and down and Kay heard her sharp intake of breath.  Heat rose from his groin and travelled up through his body, making his cheeks flush and his eyes bright.

“Turn and face the wall,” said the Queen with a slight rasp in her voice.

Kay turned and the Ice Queen took him by first one wrist and then the other and snapped the manacles into place.  She fastened a chain around his waist and shackled his ankles.  Kay’s chest and the front of his thighs were pressed against the ice wall and though he felt the bite of the cold, it felt more like a caress.  He closed his eyes and waited on the Queen’s pleasure.

“You were wrong to run away from me all those years ago, weren’t you?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

“Are you ready to take your punishment?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

Just the sound of her voice made Kay swell and harden.

He heard her walk away momentarily and then she returned.  A swooshing sound through the cold air coincided with a ferocious sting across his buttocks.  Kay gasped as pain radiated through him.  But pain was only part of it; his hips jerked forward and his balls became heavy with expectation.  He bit his lip and waited for the next blow to fall and he wasn’t disappointed.  The Snow Queen had a strong arm and a heavy crop and soon Kay’s buttocks were streaked with crimson welts.  His gasps turned to cries as his hips pushed back to meet each fresh assault; the Queen laughed at her handiwork, tossing aside her fur wraps as the physical exertion made her hot.

After seven rounds of seven blows the Snow Queen laid down her crop and stepped in close to Kay.  She laid a hand on the red welts and her cold skin felt like a balm, making Kay whimper.

“Will you run from me again?” she whispered in his ear.

“Never,” he replied, his breath coming hard and fast.

“Will you be mine?” she whispered.

“Always.”

The Queen unshackled him and took him to her bed.  When he saw her lying naked in front of him, Kay thought he’d never seen anything so beautiful.  Her skin was as white as porcelain, the curve of her breast surmounted by dark scarlet nipples which called out to his mouth to suckle on them.  Her belly was smooth and flat, soft and cool to his touch, curving down to the velvety red lips between her legs which held the promise of pleasures to come.  He caressed her cool skin and took her breasts into his mouth.  She writhed under his touch and her nipples stood out even darker against her pale skin.  She kissed him and let him kiss her in her secret places and even when his tongue searched deep inside her, he found no warmth.  Then he slipped his tongue upwards toward the small bud which jutted like an icicle between her dark lips and she groaned with pleasure as he massaged it and caressed it with his warm tongue.

Finally she took him in her hand and guided him into the cool recess which was his heart’s desire.  Kay plunged into her and an icy shiver shot through him, up his spine to his sternum, making him gasp as the cold wave reached his brain.  The Snow Queen’s lips numbed his neck and her cool hands spread a pattern of frost across his shoulders.  Her legs splayed wide, her back arched and with a deep, guttural cry, she gave herself up to Kay.  He felt her muscles spasm and clench around him in a frigid embrace.  A wave built within him and burst out of him in a hot gush which made the Queen scream as if she were being burned.

Gulping down cold air that seared his lungs, while sweat froze on his body into tiny crystals, Kay rolled off the Queen with a smile on his face.  How could he ever think of leaving such pleasures?  The Queen returned his smile.

“You have taken your punishment well,” she said.