The Superotica Advent Calendar 2015 Day 1

Welcome to the very first day of the 2015 Superotica Advent Calendar. Between now and the 24th, I’ve lined up a stellar selection of writers each of whom has contributed a fabulous story. I hope you’ll come back day after day to read them, because they’re all by masters of their craft. A few of the stories are Christmas stories but most of them aren’t – there’s plenty of variety and an awful lot of hot sex coming your way!

For most people, Christmas is a wonderful time of year – a time for getting together with family and friends for the ritual over-indulgence on mulled wine, mince pies and sentiment. But for some people it’s the worst time of year. Imagine being homeless at Christmas. The city becomes quiet, a ghost town almost, until it’s just you, the biting cold and a few shredded memories of when times were better. Luckily, there are some excellent charities out there who make a point of helping homeless people at this difficult time of year. Each day, at the end of the story, I’m going to put links to three of these charities’ giving pages – Crisis, which supports single homeless people in the UK, The Albert Kennedy Trust, which supports UK LGBT homeless 16-25 year olds, and Coalition for the Homeless, supporting homeless men, women and children in the US . If you enjoy reading the advent calendar, could I please ask you to click through one time and make a small donation to one or other of them? I thank you in advance and hope that you don’t mind my asking this.

Now, let’s get to the first story of the 2015 Superotica Advent Calendar. It’s my calendar, so yes, I’ve snagged the first spot…

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Tamsin Flowers


There are no Christmas lights under the flyover and the snowflakes glinting in the arcs of the streetlights are frozen daggers that scour his skin. He doesn’t dare think of other Christmases. Of times when he was warm and when his clothes didn’t stink. Before his nails and skin were black with the grit and grime of the city’s underbelly.

He picks up a newspaper that’s blown against one of the concrete pillars, looking round shiftily. He folds it hastily and tucks it inside his coat. Insulation, for what good it might do.

All of the sheltered spots are taken. He knows these men. He’s seen them here often. Older men who have tobacco and cans of lager. He won’t go near them. They’ll want to take his warmth from him and more. Things he’s not willing to give. There was a boy, a while ago, that he used to share a step with. But the boy disappeared and someone said he’d died. Probably. No one can live like this.

His feet burn with the cold. His soles are worn through and his last pair of socks disintegrated weeks ago. During the day he walks to keep warm, burning calories he can ill afford.

It’s time to rest, if he can get to sleep. And if he manages to drift out of consciousness, what’s the incentive to wake up? All that awaits are numb fingers and feet, and another eighteen hours of freezing fear. Hell, basking in the glow of Christmas fairy lights.

Sleep, however, is his refuge. In dreams, he’s warm. He can forget the intrusion of the wind into his bone marrow. The way fingers of damp claw through his clothes, wrapping him in the bitter-tasting pain of cold. His blood is slow in his veins, stiff muscles making movement labored. He finds a pillar no one else has chosen and works out which side is in the lee of the weather. He spreads tattered newspaper on the ground, selfishly guarding it against the grasping wind. He presses himself to the concrete in a fetal position, pulling his coat over his head to keep the warmth of his breath inside his own cocoon. He closes his eyes to endure the long wait for sleep…

A downdraft of cold air on his face wakes him, accompanied by a sound he doesn’t recognize. A thrumming, heavy beat that makes the air vibrate. He can smell snow, though he’s not cold. He opens his eyes but he’s dazzled by white light. Blinking, he sees sharp white dagger points coming closer. The thrum gives way to creaks and clicks, a waxy quality to the sounds.

He finds himself cradled in hard, unyielding wings. He imagines he’s being raped by a swan but these wings are far bigger and—he senses—benign in their touch. He’s lifted away from the bite of cold paving and he realizes he’s naked. Naked and clean. Not cold. Not hurting. No grinding hunger. No knife-cut of fear.

“Am I dead?” It wouldn’t be bad.


He turns towards the voice. A woman’s voice, deep and guttural, accented.

Now he understands. He’s being held by an angel. With a face so beautiful, so perfect in its symmetry, he can only squint and look again.

“You should be dead,” she says, “but I’ve fallen for you.”

He doesn’t gather up the implication of her words and, anyway, rational thought is swept aside when he feels her run a finger along his jaw. He raises a hand to grab at her wrist, to see if she’s real. Her skin is cold to the touch and lustrous to look at. She’s as pale as her snowy wings. Pearlescent and naked. There’s nothing but black sky all around them but she’s illuminated. Bleached by light washing over her.

“What’s your name?”

“Azria. But you won’t remember me, Joe.”

He would never forget her.

Her body is hard and boyish, her limbs long and muscular. Her small tight breasts are dusky pink at the tips. He lets his eyes traverse the flat planes of her torso to the sweet, soft gutter between her legs. Her eyes follow his and she grins. He’s never really thought that angels might grin, but he’s never imagined being seduced by one either.

Together, they tumble through the universe and the angel catches him with her arms so she can unfurl her wings. The wings creak as they stretch to their full span and then hang still in the vacuum that surrounds them. As he watches their terrible majesty extend, Joe thinks his eyes will burst at their beauty. Azria holds him tight and his cock presses up hard against her stomach.

“Take me,” she whispers.

There’s frost on her lashes and brows, and her mouth tastes of snow.

With the strength of a thousand eagles, her wings push down and they tumble no more. Now they’re flying and, without knowing how it happens, Joe realizes he’s inside her. Her heat sears him as they move in unison to the rhythm of her wing beats. Joe clings to her tightly as a warm wind rushes past him and when he looks down over her shoulder, he can see the blue planet twining far beneath them.

He hopes this is death rather than a dream.

When he comes, everything turns white. Light and sound. Sensation. Bleached by the glare of the angel’s orgasm…

“Are you there, Joe?”

He opens his eyes. A man he knows is bending over him. The flyover looms above.

“I thought you was dead for a minute.”

Joe shakes his head. He was dreaming of something but he can’t remember.

“Are you coming? The Christmas shelter opens today. Hot food, a shower, a haircut… They might find work for you.”

Joe struggles to his feet, but he’s not as stiff as usual. He picks up his precious newspapers. Underneath he finds a long white feather, far larger than a swan’s. He doesn’t say anything to the man but tucks it inside his coat.

The air smells of snow. But Joe’s not cold. Not today.

To be continued…


Please visit Crisis, The Albert Kennedy Trust or Coalition for the Homeless to find out about their work or make a donation.


Figs. Cunts. Red. Sweet. Swollen.

figsI dream of figs. And cunts. Until I can’t tell the difference.

Ripe, fecund fruit. Red and sweet, swollen. Soft and tender, I press my tongue against flesh.

Take a deep breath. Take a bite. Musk and pheromones mingle. Sugar on my lips, and salt from the sweat of her inner thigh. An addictive compote that makes me lightheaded. That makes me yearn.

Heavy in my mouth. Heaven in my mouth. A billowing cloud of taste and smell conjoined, so intense, but never enough to satisfy. I want more, always more.

Heavy on the branch, the figs fall and burst. Dark between her thighs, her febrile cunt pulses. Skin yields beneath my fingers. I immerse my tongue, pushing against seeds and secret places, filling my lungs at the same time. Juices coat my chin, which I wipe with the back of my hand to taste again.

The leaves of the fig tree rustle, softer than her sigh. Dappled shadows paint her skin, hot in the sunlight, cool in the shade. Overripe fruit, crushed in my palm. She gasps and moves beneath my touch.

I taste all of her. She tastes of figs. A rare fruit, but perfect. Take a breath. Take a bite. And leave a mark on the soft, ripe flesh.

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It’s just sex…

This week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt is The boss’s dinner…


God, this is so fucked up, she said. I can’t see you anymore.

I can’t not see you, he said. Really. I fucking can’t not see you.

But what if…?

What if I don’t see you? That would be worse.

She nodded. It was true. That would be worse.

Don’t say things like that again.

But she did, every time they met. And then she fucked him. Sadly, regretfully. Each time believing it was the last time. That she’d be strong.

You’ve messed with my head, she said when she saw him again. I’m fucking broken and it’s your fault.

He shrugged. Neither of them touched their food. She chased a scallop round her plate. The hand that held her fork was shaking.

You’re worse than cigarettes.

But I smell better, he said.

How very him. Bad jokes at bad moments. If only she could stub him out and forget about him.

She didn’t even really like him.

It’s just sex. Neither of us need this.

She was lying, so he didn’t answer.

He paid the bill and they left the restaurant together. For another fuck that wouldn’t be the last.

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Best Sex on the Net – Elust #76

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Photo courtesy of Charlie in the Pool

Welcome to Elust #76

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 #75? Start with the rules, come back November 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!


~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Sex and the post-birth vagina

Lonely Things

Just the two of us


~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Tiny, shiny, bity snaps of steel…

I have fallen in and out of love with myself


~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

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

I had An Abortion

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!


Erotic Fiction

The End of the Run
Ladies Who Lunch
kink of the week: dirty panties
Brutal Nights
Because I Knew I Shouldn’t
Erotic Fiction: “Everything”
Look, Don’t Touch
As one night ends…
String Quartet
Unmasked: Part 1: The Gift
The Secret Rolls

Erotic Non-Fiction

The lick of love.
Tickle & Tease
Oral Sex, Don’t Forget Oral Hygiene – Whoops!
Feed my senses
Camming With A Foot Lover
Finding the Edges
Word power
The Mail Room
Doing It Herself

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

I Had An Abortion
The 7 Dimensions of Cock

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

When I Thought the Scene Was Done
Introducing the Abject Kitten, Part 2
The Joy of Fear
Talking About BDSM With Your Therapist
On Denial (and topping from the bottom)

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

I Did It My Way
Fuckin With Fuck Boys Part II
You don’t need my permission to fuck my lover

Writing About Writing

The Hunt for Adult/Sex Friendly Businesses


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Fucking virgins

When you tell me you’re a virgin, I hate you for it. Not because you sound a little smug, though you do. I just hate the idea of having to treat you gently and carefully. Because you’re bestowing this great fucking gift on me. The gift of your virginity.

I didn’t ask for that. I just want a fuck. A casual fuck. Not meaningful, or special. Not something you’ll remember all your life.

“It wasn’t that great, the first time I did it.”

Listen, love, the first time never is. Because you don’t know what you’re fucking doing and you don’t know what to expect. You learn sex. You get better at it the more you do it. You enjoy it the more you do it.

So I fucking hate that you’re a virgin. It’s not a virtue, it just means you haven’t fucked anyone yet. And the first time isn’t a rite of passage. It’s just a fuck that isn’t as good as the fucks that’ll come later.

It makes me want to shove you up against the wall, and screw you hard. Not in a nice way. Rough, brutish. Good for me. I want to make you cry. You’ll hate me for it and I won’t care. I want to bruise you in the places you’ve never been touched. I won’t make it special for you. Or romantic. I won’t make you come.

Too much like hard work to make a virgin come.

You’re not the girl for me.

At your door, I kiss you gently on the mouth and tell you I’ll call. But as soon as you’ve gone inside, I delete your number from my phone.

Fucking virgins.

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This week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt is ‘virgin’.

The Stella Gibbons Euph Off…

With absolutely no regard for the rules, here’s my Euph Off entry. (For those that don’t know, the Euph Off is a BAD erotica competition run by Behind the Chintz Curtain.) Cold Comfort Farm has long been one of my favourite books. If only Stella Gibbons wrote erotica…

Woman in forest

The sukebind was in bud. The giant hogweed spread its grasping tendrils, twisting with malevolent intent and fecund lust, strangling sad native species with more fragrant flowers. Seed pods were swelling, aching, bursting and scattering dark sticky globules of their sex across the stinking humus, the rotten evidence of death everywhere beneath the dark shadows of the twisted trees. Rubbery fronds of fungus crept up the trunks and colonised broken branches in a treacherous embrace. Mould spread like a tide across dead, wet wood, while insects teamed in and out crevices in an eternal dance of sex and death.

The black mole rutted with his mate, stopping only to suck up a juicy earth worm, who a moment before had been rubbing its distended clitellum against the papillae of its partner. It hadn’t been dreaming of its own imminent death throws, of being pierced by sharp talpid teeth and sucked down into a warm bath of acrid acid in the dark cavity of the rodent’s stomach.

Archie Breakwind’s girl wandered through the forest alone, dressed in torn white lace that barely shielded her maidenly modesty. She’d lost her shoes in the peat bog and her pale legs were spattered in mud and clinging black marl. Her cheeks flushed as her febrile mind turned to thoughts of fertility and spring rituals and to the dark secrets she shared with her uncle Harken, who would visit her room on stormy winter nights to tell her of his affection for her and show her the evidence of his regard.

Harken was a man, to be sure, but Elementa’s lusts were driven by another. Her loins told her of their need, and it was for her cousin Willie, Esther Breakwind’s boy. They’d been born on the same day and had grown up as playthings for each other. But now they were in the throes of secondary sexual development. Their needs from play had changed. Elementa craved for the rough touch of Willie’s strong hands on her ripening flesh. But Willie fulfilled his needs elsewhere. His black sheep, Guilda, was the love of his life, the recipient of his pleasures and his seed—and it made Elementa inexplicably sad. She nightly dreamed of Guilda on the spit roast, of tearing into the sheep’s hindquarters with her teeth, and letting the hot fat run down her chin as she devoured her sexual rival in front of the man they both loved.

However, Willie had forbade anyone from slaughtering Guilda. And Elementa knew he was petitioning Father Offa to let them wed. She wept as she stumbled among the elder saplings. She wanted to give Willie the children that Guilda never could, but he was deaf to her pleadings and stank of lanolin.

The crack of a branch behind her made Elementa turn round.

Harken leaned nonchalantly against the trunk of a twisted beech, his black eyes leering at her.

“What you doin’ out here on your ownsome, Elementa?” he said, spitting a sodden length of straw from his mouth.

“None of your beeswax, Harken. Go back to the farm and finish ’em chores.”

“I think you be out here pining for me, in’t you, Elementa?”

“You got nothin’ I want.”

But Elementa’s loins were stirring. If she couldn’t have Willie’s blistering cock burning through her, maybe she could make do with Harken’s. She looked him up and down, taking in the corded muscles of his arms and neck. Thirty years of farm work had made him strong. And forty years of drinking milk straight from the udder had nurtured his drives and urges into something spectacular. His cock, outlined in the corduroy of his britches, was almost as big as Monty’s—and Monty had won best bull in the village show seven years running.

Harken stared back at her from beneath beetling brows and Elementa felt the dark chasm between her thighs growing hot.

“Fuck me then, Harken,” she said, throwing herself down onto the wet mulch of the forest floor. “Fuck me up the arse till I scream like a pig in a slaughterhouse.”

Harken strode manfully towards her, unleashing his hot schwang from his britches. His eyes shone bright with lust and his hands trembled. He was every carnal urge inchoate, a rudimentary creature on an animalistic mission. He roughly tossed Elementa onto her front and pushed up the mud-stained white lace to reveal the quivering blancmanges that she’d begged him taste. He spat onto a stubby finger and pushed it inside her, causing a sharp cry that transformed into a deep-throated sob of desire.

“Oh Harken! Take me!”

He grunted and parted her cheeks with calloused palms. Esther had always claimed he was too much a friend of Onan. But not now in the back end of the dripping forest, not here where his niece lay proffered in the marl that squelched noisily beneath them. He plunged his cock into her throbbing nether love tunnel, relishing the tight embrace of her sphincter as he pulled in and out, back and forth. As he settled his eyes on the tumbling curls of her black hair, he imagined it was Guilda lying stretched out under him, bleating with pleasure as he gave himself to her.

Through the branches of a gnarly oak, Willie watched their coupling with grim satisfaction. And then imagined himself doing the self-same thing to Harken.

The sukebind was in bud and men’s thoughts turned to what men’s thoughts turned to. And the giant hogweed flexed and tightened its grip.



Seductive, violent, fiendish…

It’s Halloween today, which makes it the perfect release day for Rose Caraway‘s latest anthology, Libidinous Zombie.

Libidinous zombie cover

This book is erotic. This book is horrifying. This book is cunning.
This book is edgy, seductive, violent, fiendish, indecent, and unfair.
This collection is a work of fiction. Consider yourself trigger warned.

This is a nasty little collection that sits right on the cusp between erotica and horror and it’s got an amazing line-up of extraordinary writers – Remittance Girl, Rose Caraway, Malin James, Jade A Waters, Raziel Moore, Allan Dusk and Janine Ashbless have all written super scary, super sexy stories that’ll raise the hairs on the back of your neck, have your pulse hammering in your ears and turn you on madly at the same time. And then I’ve written a zombie story for the collection.

(Yes, I heard you go ‘Yuck!’)

What is it with people writing zombie sex stories? Ugh, can you imagine anything less sexy than having sex with a zombie – all green and rotten, with body parts falling off. Several people have already commented that they really don’t want to read zombie erotica, and my fellow writers have had to reassure them that, really, this isn’t a zombie collection. There’s only one poor little zombie story in there, and you can skip that.

But please don’t. And here’s why…

Zombie Erotoclypse coverIt’s not the first piece of zombie erotica I’ve written. I have my own zombie collection, Zombie Erotoclypsewhich contains five short stories, all of which feature zombies. And here’s the thing, these stories, and my new zombie story, aren’t about shedding body parts and being raped by monstrous grunting undead. They’re very much about humans, and human sexuality. In their recent podcast chat, Rose and Remittance Girl discussed the meaning of title of this collection – the libidinous zombie is something that’s inside all of us – that moment when we let raw sexuality take over, when civility is stripped away and base instinct carries us to places we might not otherwise dare go. At a societal level rather than at the level of individual sexuality, this is explored in zombie apocalypse scenarios. What represents the breakdown of society more thoroughly than great tracts of the population becoming zombies. The thin veneer of civilized behavior is stripped away, not only in the zombies but also in the uninfected humans fighting for their survival.

I’ll be the first to admit that being attacked by a mindless, soulless, inhuman zombie monster is a cliche. But when I write about zombies, they’re not mindless or soulless. Every single zombie was once a person – someone’s son or daughter, mother or father, lover, brother… And the zombie you’re most likely to be attacked by? It’s going to be a person you know or thought you knew. Or loved. Or are still in love with. When the zombie coming at you, wanting to fuck you and suck your brains out, is actually your husband or lover, how do you respond? How do you pick up your machete and sever his head? This is the dilemma that interests me. In “Bar the Door”, one of the stories in Zombie Erotoclypsea woman’s lover returns to her with a zombie bite. They both know what this means. They have one last chance to have sex and then she has to kill him. Try to imagine yourself in that situation.

And what does it feel like to be turning into a zombie, the first days after you’ve been bitten? What do you do? How do you feel? How does your family respond to you, and your neighbors? “I Was a Teenage Zombie Virgin” explores just this, as the young narrator succumbs to the first symptoms of zombie infection, and as his parents harbor him as a fugitive and treat him like a caged animal.

Red Hot Zombie Cock coverThese are not stories about squicky slime and broken body parts, and moaning, shuffling monsters. These are stories about the people you love, in extreme circumstances. In a zombie apocalypse, every moment of human life becomes more intense, more precious – including sex, the ultimate expression of being alive. My story in Libidinous Zombie, follows the fortunes of the two lovers we first met in “Red Hot Zombie Cock“, which Rose read so memorably for the KMQ’s podcast. Only now, they’re probably the last two humans left in a city of a million zombies…


Here’s an excerpt from “The Only Girl in the World” (but remember, it’s the only zombie story in Libidinous Zombie, so you can always skip it!):

When you live at the end of a pier, a tsunami is not your friend. In ten seconds of white noise and roaring spume, not only was our home destroyed, but our whole way of living was ripped away. Death came rushing in, inescapable and brutal. It took no hostages at the end of Santa Monica Pier. Tom, Shelby, Carly, Ash, even little Fin. All our rag tag band of survivors gone. All dead. At least I believe Fin’s dead. We found the others’ bodies, over several days, on the beach and up in Tongva Park, but we never found Fin. He was so small. I think the force of the water simply pulverized him into nothing.

Skylar and I witnessed the devastation as it happened from the top of the Viceroy Hotel. We were out scavenging—for food, clothing, anything useful we could find. If we hadn’t been, we would have died with the others. But instead we were simply the next in line. Our small group on the pier had been the final human survivors in Zombie City. Now we were down to two. We watched the water stampede in and trample the pier, our only safe haven. We lost our water purifier, our chickens and our little vegetable garden. The wall of sea water was relentless, deafening us as it smashed up against the Viceroy, crashing debris against the walls and through the windows. We clung to each other, hoping the building would stay upright. It did, but I don’t know how lucky that made us. After the water receded, it became apparent to us that we really were the only two uninfected humans left alive in Zombie City.

We were walking past the Viceroy when the quake hit. We’d known it was serious as soon as we’d felt the tremor and heard the zombie wail of fear cut across the city. We guessed there would be a wave in its wake. Skylar didn’t speak but simply grabbed my hand and started running. We stumbled and fell at the second tremor, but by the time the big one hit, we were in the stairwell of the Viceroy.

A posse of twenty or so zombies in an advanced state of decay tumbled down on us as we fell up the stairs, but Skylar sliced through them with his machete before they were closer than arm’s length. Stinking body parts rained onto me, making me thankful I was still wearing the mask I always wore for scavenging. Ten seconds later we burst out onto the roof in a screaming adrenalin high. Skylar hooked an arm around my waist, pulling me hard against his chest for a kiss.

“It’s okay, babe,” he whispered. “It wasn’t that big.”

But we both knew it was. We waited in silence, wondering where the epicenter had been and how long it would take for the wave to hit. We didn’t dare ask the one question that played most heavily on our minds. Had the others felt the tremor or had the soft sand under the pier acted as a shock absorber? Would they have heard the zombies shrieking at the far end of sixteen hundred feet of boardwalk? Did they even wake up?

We didn’t have to wait long and that was bad. Out in the far distance, the pattern of the moonlight on the water changed.

“Oh, Skylar.”

I wanted to close my eyes and bury my face against Skylar’s shoulder, but I couldn’t. We both stood, silent mouths gaping, eyes just as wide, as we watched the water slowly rising in the west like a vengeful marine behemoth roused from slumber. The baby waves close to the shore took their leave as their giant parent called them back, growing angrier and more powerful the closer it came to the shore. I could hear its roar and the blood in my veins became part of its bitter flow.

“It’s big,” said Skylar, in a voice unlike his own.

We were eight stories up and it seemed to be snarling at us at eye level.

“Will it hold? Or will it be smashed?” I was talking about the building.

“It’ll hold.”

I looked over the edge to the street below. There were zombies and zom-dogs running everywhere. They all sensed something was up, something was coming, but they didn’t have the wherewithal to get out of its way. I looked back out toward the pier. Our home. Our people. There was no water around its base, all the way out, and I could see dark silhouettes running up the pier toward the barricade. It was high and it was strong. For ten years it had kept the zombies off the pier. It had kept us safe, if trapped, in a tiny world of our own invention. Now it stood in the way of their escape.

“Fuck!” I said, pointing to draw Skylar’s attention to it.

But it would have made no difference if the barrier hadn’t existed. The wave was coming in fast and there was no shelter for at least a hundred yards. I watched the wall of water devour my world, then rush on towards where Skylar and I stood waiting for it. The Viceroy shuddered and I clutched Skylar, believing I had only seconds left. But the water rushed past, leaving us stranded on a concrete island, above a roiling, churning whirlpool of debris and screaming zombie annihilation.

“We’re okay, Marsha. Really, we’re okay.”

We’d cheated death but that didn’t make us okay. We were the only uninfected humans in the silent city. Without shelter, without water, without food. With a million zombies for company.

It used to be called the City of Angels.


Libidinous Zombie is available now

Amazon UK

Zombie Erotoclypse is available now

Amazon UK

Giselle Renarde, be my guest…

I’ve handed Superotica over to Giselle Renarde today, with a post on realism in romance. Take it away, Giselle…

The Other Side of Ruth

“Realistic Romance? Don’t Even Send It To Me!”

A while back, I spotted a blog post by a popular romance reviewer.  The post was about how much she disliked books that hinted at realism. If a book blurb suggested the story dealt with real characters, real life drama, real anything, she really wasn’t interested in reading it.

I’m the total opposite.  I gravitate toward literary fiction for the same reason this reviewer gravitates away from it: I like gritty stories that deal with real characters in realistic ways. My dirtiest of dirty secrets is that I prefer to write that way, too.

My latest lesbian novel, The Other Side of Ruth, is not a warm-and-fuzzy romance.  In fact, I don’t consider it a romance novel at all.  I’d call it queer fiction with a taste of erotica, a taste of angsty love, a taste of friendship… a taste of a lot of things.

The main difference between romantic fiction and a book like The Other Side of Ruth is that *SPOILER ALERT* Ruth doesn’t end while our lovers are blissfully happy together.  To me, that’s only half the story… and not even the interesting half!

The Other Side of Ruth follows Ruth and Agnes (the young woman with whom she falls in love/lust) from their first meeting as adults through their first surprising kiss and first tentative fumbles.  For a woman in her fifties, Ruth gets a lot of firsts over the course of this novel.

When things get difficult, does Ruth do the right thing?  No.  She makes a mess of her life.  Can she fix it?  Umm… she can try, but some of her actions are so misguided you’ve got to wonder how she’s been so successful in her career as a guidance counsellor.  She can’t even handle her own life.

This is a novel that deals with Ruth realizing she’s a lesbian when she’s been married to a man for twenty-five years.  It deals with mental illness.  It deals with shattered impressions of loved ones and shocking surprises from friends and enemies alike.  It deals with people muddling through life instead of knowing exactly what to do.

It deals with the mess of life.  It deals with reality.

Not everybody’s cup of tea.

The Other Side of Ruth is available as an ebook published by eXcessica, and also in print.

Get the paperback at

Or buy from and use Coupon Code AN5EWZTX for $5.00 off!

Get the ebook at…


Amazon UK:


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Tiny, shiny, bity snaps of steel…

Flash fiction for this week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt, Two, and for the new Kink of the Week, Nipple Play.


She’s wed to them.

Two tiny, shiny, bity snaps of steel.

And they certainly love her as much as she loves them. Their touch is constant, firm. The vice-like grip of adoration. They’re generous to a fault in what they give her. Asking nothing in return but the yielding tug of soft flesh. The dry catch of breath in her throat as they embrace her.

Just thinking about them makes her sigh.

Her breasts ache. Her nipples clamour for the caress of their teeth.

When he applies them—slowly, slowly letting them bite—sometimes she gasps. But usually she smiles or laughs, and kisses him appreciatively, mouth ripe with need as the steel-trap sting makes its presence felt. Pain blossoms, sharp and hot, intensifying every other sensation he bestows upon her body. When he tugs on the heavy chain between them while he fucks her, she lets loose the sound of her pleasure.

She comes too quickly. But that’s what they do to her.

When she’s alone, she puts them on herself. Every bit as reverentially, every bit as deliberately as he does. First one, making her blink as it catches, then the other. She leans back against the pillow. She lets herself sink into the pain. It blossoms. It burns. She presses her body up against it. It washes through her, cleansing her of stress. Damping the low grind of anxiety in her gut. Bringing her comfort, but more than that.

It feels so good. So perfect. A seam running through her, from breast end to cunt. A torrent. A charge.

She breathes deeply, allowing it free rein. The sweet, sharp fire skitters along her nerves.

Of course, she understands the biology of it. Pain and endorphins. But that takes nothing away from its magic. Their magic. The two of them, glinting on her chest in the half light of the silent room.

She touches herself and comes too fast. But that’s what they do to her.

The two tiny, shiny bity snaps of steel salvation.


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Best Sex on the Net: Elust 75

Kilted Wookie
Photo courtesy of Kilted Wookie

Welcome to Elust #75

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 #75? Start with the rules, come back November 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!


~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Is it hate? Am I a fraud?
On Rape Fantasy
Just Breathe


~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

sex, surgery, celibacy

Sex, Death, and Squirting

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

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

On Filth

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!


Erotic Non-Fiction

How I Became an Escort
I’m 2 and 0 for the season
He fights back
Hands On
The foodslut and the semifreddo…
The Photographer
Ex-Nazi girl: my hand on the back of her head
I Belong To You

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Disciplinary Drives
On Filth
On sex positivity in public play
Cock Rings 101
A New Scene

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

The Fuck Feast Sexual Literacy Test
Sex Toys in Relationships — Yes, it’s OK.
Negotiating Power
Out of Touch
Don’t catfish: Be you.

Writing About Writing

On Jackie
Trigger Warnings (revisited)

Erotic Fiction

This would be fun
The Fucking Machine.
Erotic Fiction…With Aura
A Little Romance
Domination Dreams
My Pretty Dead Ones

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

5 Hilarious Pieces of Anti-Sex Propaganda
19 Reasons to Cheat on Your Boyfriend


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