‘G’ is for “Green Glass”

‘G’ is for “Green Glass” and an excerpt from this story is today’s entry for the Blogging from A to Z Challenge. This piece, written for Rose Caraway‘s forthcoming audio and ebook Rose Caraway’s Dirty 30 Vol. 1, explores the way in which our senses compensate when one of them is lost – in this case, the protagonist is blindfolded as her lover takes control of her sexual pleasure.

Rose Caraway's Dirty 30

Excerpt from “Green Glass”

She was quite clear from the start about what she expected from the evening. She needed to orgasm. He appeared ambivalent but the moment she saw the blindfold in his hands, she knew he wanted to play.

“It’s okay, isn’t it?” he said, showing her the thick band of black velvet that glistened in the lamplight like a wet pelt.

She nodded, fully aware that her answer would mean nothing to him. He did as he pleased. She closed her eyes and, as she felt the caress of the fabric across her face, her world turned black. Not just dark or obscured but deep, velvety black. The blindfold obliterated her world. Its swathe was so wide that not a glimmer or a hope of light crept in underneath. No shadows played at the periphery of her vision. Only dark. Solid, immovable, graphite black.

Immediately her other senses compensated for the loss of her sight. Blood roared through her ears to the rhythm that her heart pounded against the wall of her chest. B-dum, b-dum, b-dum, picking up pace as her excitement blossomed. Her nostrils filled with the scent of her body and then the more exotic scent of his. He stood behind her, tying the ends of the blindfold, and she felt his body heat washing over her back. The blindfold tightened across her brow, her pulse quickened further. His breath whispered across the side of her throat.

“There,” he said quietly. “Stand still for me.”

Without her sight, her balance drifted. Standing still in the absence of visual reference points took concentration. She imagined she was tilting in one direction but if she corrected it, she found herself tilting the other way. Relief came with the touch of his hands on her shoulders. He spun her slowly until they were facing one another. The floorboards creaked under their feet as they moved together in silent ritual.

He didn’t speak or ask anything of her but she nodded to give him permission to carry on. This time she would follow his lead, trusting him to bring her to the place she needed to reach. His hands left her shoulders and she sensed that his body was in motion, while remaining close. He was bending. His joints, his knees she thought, creaked and clicked and the touch of his fingers on her ankles confirmed that he’d knelt. He undid the ankle strap of her right sandal—a tiny metallic squeal as the buckle released. He held the back of her leg, raising her foot, while using his other hand to slide off her shoe. She wobbled and gripped his shoulder for balance. His skin was hot through the thin cotton of his shirt. He caught his breath, softly, but she heard it. He placed her naked foot back on the floor and turned his attention to her other shoe. His touch was firm and her other shoe was swiftly discarded. High inside her, muscles clenched in expectation, starting up an acute but welcome throb for which there was only one antidote.

As he stood, she let her hand drop from his shoulder. His breath felt warm against her chest, her cheeks, her forehead. As he moved, the rustle of his clothing painted an image of him in her mind’s eye. He started to undo her blouse. The button holes were cut a little small, making the plastic buttons squeak as he eased each one through. She held her breath for what seemed like ever, wishing that he would simply rip the garment away and send the buttons skittering across the floor.

“Breathe,” he whispered, and he bit her earlobe. She yelped, filling her lungs with the musky scent of him.

His hands slid inside her blouse and up to her shoulders. He ran them down her arms, pushing her blouse off and letting it drop to the floor behind her. The air was cool against the skin of her torso and upper arms. Her nipples pebbled within the confines of her bra. She sucked in her stomach, somehow aware of his eyes upon her—perhaps alerted by the quickening of his breath that they’d reached a new stage of the game…

The Sexy Librarian’s Dirty 30 is now available at:




Wicked Wednesday – A Study of Desire…

This week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt is ‘Desire’ and it made me instantly think of a story I wrote a while back – Pasha. It is, quite simply, a study of desire – the desire of an older gymnastics coach for a young gymnast on another team. Here’s an excerpt of it to spice up your wicked Wednesday…

Male torso


Pasha Rabinovich was being lifted up to take the rings when he caught my eye. I think at that moment, he caught the eye of every coach in the hall. Who wouldn’t want to train such a specimen of physical perfection? But I can’t even try to pretend for one minute that my obsession with him was born out of professional interest. I had physical perfection on my team already. In spades. No, with Pasha it was something different. A compulsion to watch him and look at him, and not take my eyes off him—whatever he was doing. His giant hands, bound tightly with leather grips, grabbed at the rings, sending a puff of chalk into the air. His coach let go of him and stepped back from the apparatus.  Pasha pulled himself up into the Iron Cross position and held it for, what, four or five seconds? Certainly longer than the required two. Then he started his routine and for the next forty seconds I was mesmerized. He was wearing a white, figure-skimming singlet and tight white track pants but in my mind’s eye he hung there naked.

Pale skin, made even paler in places by a flurry of chalk dust, his body hair too blond to make an impression—he looks like a Greek statue suspended in mid air. Every muscle, every sinew, taut but rock solid. Not a tremor or a twitch. He hangs motionless, white light bouncing off the planes of his shoulders and torso. His biceps and deltoids bulge as they hold him rigid. I can imagine the heat they’re generating, the burn in his upper arms and across the back of his neck. On his face, three smudges of color—two dark eyes focusing on something far away, dark lips pursed in concentration. My eyes meander down his body, taking in every hard, white contour, rippling down his abs. And then they linger. His cock, not pale like the rest of him, but graduating from rosy pink to deep maroon at the end, stands out, erect and perfectly horizontal. His magnificent cock, as still and stone-like as the rest of him.

I notice the muscles corded down his thigh. The bulge of his calves that I long to run my finger down. His sculpted feet. All absolutely motionless. The only sign of the incredible tension that holds him in position is the soft pulsing of a pale blue vein at the base of his neck. I wonder if he’s even breathing.

The rings snap against the cable and he’s swinging up in a wide arc, his body swooping like a swallow through the air, spiraling upward, motionless at the top, plunging down to where I’m waiting for him underneath…

A perfect dismount and a high score. I went to fetch coffee and talk tactics on the team bench until it was time for our next spot. But I noted Pasha’s next apparatus, too. Petersen and Bud Ayers were both waiting to make their vaults and it gave me a great view across to the high bar. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Pasha stretching while I eased my athletes into the zone. Ayers was up first, an explosion down the runway before launching onto the vault and up into the stratosphere. His landing let him down a fraction but we all sighed with relief that the first jump was done.

Petersen was good. He was a strong all rounder and he’d introduced a new degree of difficulty into his vaults for this competition. The audience let out a collective gasp at the height he achieved and he hit the ground feet together, without a wobble. I looked back over my shoulder to see Pasha dusting his hands with chalk as his bear-like coach waited to assist his jump up to the bar. Making the sign of the cross against his chest, Pasha stepped forward. The Bear stood up behind him, briefly squeezed one shoulder and then lifted him until he could reach the single horizontal bar. He adjusted the width of his grip and the crowd fell quiet.

His first move is almost imperceptible, a flexing of his alabaster shoulders, a tightening of his biceps. Then his legs swing up and he seems to defy gravity as his body, so beautiful, turns around the bar like a spoke around a wheel. He lets go with one hand and twists in flight, his movement so fluid and his muscles rippling and elastic. He bends into a pike to bring his legs through the gap between his arms and the bar, the pale orbs of his buttocks pulled tight until I can almost feel them in my hands…firm, strong, smooth. In my mind his skin is cool and dry in contrast to my own which is flushed and heated. Pale and creamy against my olive tan as he stretches his length out against me…

His dismount was nothing short of spectacular—he twisted through the air like a salmon leaping and then came down firmly, feet together, without a stutter. I exhaled and started to breathe again.

Best Sex on the Net – Elust #70

exposing 40
Photo courtesy of Exposing 40

Welcome to Elust #70

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


~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Exposed! My Mom Knows!

Flash Fiction: “A Taste”

I am a Sex Blogger & I Reject Pseudonymity

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

‘X’ is for X…
Give my guilt an erotic payoff? Tell me more.

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

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


All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7

days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!




Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

The Great Outdoors (Or Why I Trust Him)
I’m Reminded You Can’t Force an Orgasm
Yes I am Sexy
Why Choose Monogamy When You Can Choose Every
Would you? Could you?
On Being Haunted

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

A Horse Among Unicorns: Embracing my Straight
Being a Disabled Top in Kink Community
And here I thought kink was all about consent
10 Signs You Don’t Understand Submission
The Answer

Writing About Writing

Sex in Real Life vs Fiction
Terms of Use


Six Nine – A Happy Horny Haiku

Erotic Fiction

One Saturday Evening
Stolen Minutes
Haunting you
Q is for Quenched
A schoolgirl spanking story 10
Sit Here Please
My Prize

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Spanking, Brits, and what if we didn’t?
“V” is for Virgin

Erotic Non-Fiction

My first date with Lexy – Part 2
Goodnight kiss
How To Kiss Me Like You Mean It
running cold and hot
His cum came out my nose.
Going Down. Honey, Coconut Oil and Cum.



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Tea or Coffee?

When I saw that this week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt was dating, it instantly reminded me of one of my very early stories, “Tea or Coffee?” It’s a cautionary tale about being careful what you wish for, particularly when speed dating, and it features in Alison Tyler‘s Bound for Trouble anthology, published by Cleis Press.

Naked ass

Tea or Coffee?


So, hell, now I find myself hog tied, wrists bound to ankles with silky red rope, in the swanky riverside apartment of some guy that, until just over an hour ago, I’d never laid eyes on.  All I’ve got on is a pair of black lace panties and a pair of Rupert Sanderson stilettos, having left my dignity somewhere over by the door.  I’ve never been tied up before, I’ve never been spanked before, and I’ve certainly no idea what’s going to happen next. And I have to say, I think I’m enjoying myself.  But how the fuck did I get myself into this in the first place?

I think it was something I said.

Tonight was an evening that came with expectations built in.  An expectation of meeting someone, the anticipation of excitement or of disappointment, a feeling that one thing might lead to another.  Speed dating.  It wasn’t my first time but it’s definitely the first time that the one thing has actually led to another.  Previous outings on the speed dating merry-go-round had been underwhelming but, eternal optimist that I am, I couldn’t see any harm in giving it another go and – hey presto – it seems to have delivered.

This is how it went down.  The first two guys that sat in the hot seat opposite me were dull.  One was tongue-tied, while the other couldn’t stop talking.  About himself.  The third man was nice but ancient.  The fourth, good-looking but weird.  But the fifth was interesting.  Tall, I noticed as he approached my table.  Confident, authoritative, he had the air of someone used to being in control.  He sat down and gave me an appraising look—there was no trying to hide the fact that he was looking me over, checking me out.  I might not have liked a look like that in a different situation but I wasn’t gonna kid myself—this is what we were both here for, after all.

I looked him up and down, too, and he was some physical specimen.  Strong jaw, broad shoulders, beautiful hands and a luxuriant head of burnished copper hair.  His dark eyes held mine until I felt compelled to look away.

“What’s your name?”

“Vayle.  Yours?”


Our eyes met once again.  There was a certain intensity to his stare that made me want to find out more about him.  Made me want to touch him or see him without his clothes.

“What do you do?” I said.

“Tea or coffee?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Do you drink tea or coffee?”  His voice held a note of impatience.


“Whisky or gin?”


“Chanel or Prada?”


“Negligee or naked?”


There was no pause between questions, no time for me to consider the answers I was giving.  It was like a game of word association and I was happy to play along.

“Oral or anal?”

I faltered for a second and then said “Both.”

“Top or bottom?”


Lucas suddenly stood up.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” he said, holding out a hand to me.

I glanced around the room.  Everyone was busy talking as fast as they could to get in all they needed to say before their four minutes ran out.  The man at the table next to mine, my next prospect in other words, was ugly beyond ugly.  Lucas was good looking and unpredictable.

“I’m with you,” I said, pulling my coat off the back of my chair and grabbing my bag.

So that’s how it all started.  He took me to a bar and ordered me a gin and tonic.

“Drink it,” he said, already halfway through his.

He ordered us each another.  There was no doubt who was in control.  Lucas set the agenda and I was content to sit back and enjoy the ride.

“I’d like you to come back to my apartment,” he said.  “Would you consider it?”

I knew what that meant.  He wanted to have sex with me.  And after two gins and a month long sex drought, I wanted to have sex with him.  He seemed like someone who would know what he was doing.

Lucas did know what he was doing and now I’m lying on my back on his bed, tied up and virtually naked.  He walks across the room toward me, still dressed in a crisp white shirt and sharply tailored grey trousers.  He’s taken off his shoes and socks and his belt is undone, flapping round the waistband of his pants.  He has thoroughly kissed me and I have allowed him to undress me and tie me up.  I feel sexually charged, wet and ready for his pleasure and mine.

He stands over me, looking down, and I can read naked lust in his eyes.

“Safeword?” he says.

More word association?


Then he flips me over, so now I’m half kneeling on the bed, with my face in the pillows and my ass in the air.  With a rip my panties are gone.  I feel his hands slowly caress my naked buttocks and a shiver of anticipation runs through me.

“God, you have a beautiful ass,” he says.

Warm juices are pooling high in my cunt and I know that if I shift my position, they’ll flood down my leg.  I hold as still as I can, relishing the thought of how that’s going to feel.  But then Lucas trails a finger down my ass crack and round to the soft folds of flesh between my legs.  He discovers the reservoir of my desire and I hear his breath hitching in his throat.

“You’re so ready to play, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I say.  “So ready.”

And he uses his hand to spread my wetness, forward to my clit which hardens at his brief touch, and back between my buttocks, making me arch my back to push them higher in the air.

“There’s only one thing I can do to a beautiful ass like yours,” he whispers, his face close to my ear as one hand runs down my back in a long stroke.

“It’s all yours,” I say.  “Do what you need to.”

Lucas steps away from me and bends to open a drawer in the bedside cabinet.  I hear him rifling through stuff and wonder what he’s doing; looking for a condom, I hope, a little belatedly given my situation.  But when he straightens up, it’s not a condom that he has in his hand.  It’s a red leather paddle and he’s using his other hand to test its flexibility.  He slaps it against his palm a couple of times—the slapping noise has some weight behind it and deep inside me muscles clench.  Goosebumps rise and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t scared.  But at the same time I’m excited, more excited and more turned on than I can ever remember being.

I shut my eyes and bite my lip, waiting for the first slap.  A soft caress of my left buttock takes me by surprise and relaxes me a split second before the paddle makes contact with my right.  I gasp as the sting radiates through my flesh, leaving a burn on the surface and a spasm deep within.  A cool hand assuages the burning sensation but then my left buttock falls victim to the paddle’s bite.  I shriek at the shock of it as it burns a path through me, waking up feelings and desires, making me shiver as I realize I want to feel it again.

And it comes again, on the other side once more, adding another layer of pain, building on the last one, and then again, like a series of seismic waves, shaking me to the core.  I’m breathing fast as a firestorm grows between my legs—each soft caress Lucas administers between the blows becomes torture in its own right as I push back against his hand, willing it to stay there, to press harder, to slide down between my cheeks, to press his way into me, into my ass, into my cunt, to fill me up as my muscles clench around him, as I reach that perfect moment… but he doesn’t do it.  He withdraws his hand and replaces it with the sting and bite of the paddle, making me cry out again or bite my lip.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he whispers in my ear at one point.

“Yes,” I hiss.

And I realize that he’s right.  I might not have known it before—it was beyond the realms of my experience.  But this is what I’ve needed all along.  This is what’s been missing so far.  The thoughts blur as the pain builds and the longing for fulfilment sweeps over me again and again.

Then I hear the paddle drop to the floor.  In the silence that follows, I can hear Lucas breathing heavily, either with the exertion or excitement.  Both I think.  He pulls something from the drawer.  A condom this time—I hear the rip of the package.  Seconds later, the soft firm nudge of his cock.  He guides it up and down between my buttocks and then lets it slide down and lie along the folds of my labia.  I push myself against it, moaning softly with my need to feel it plunging deep inside.

“Where would you like it, babe?” he says.

He teases me with a finger, first sliding it slickly into my cunt and then, once it’s wet and slippery, easing it into my butt, making me gasp loudly.  It feels so good both times I can’t decide.

“Wherever you like,” I say.

“Good answer,” he says.  “But first I’m going to untie you.”

Seconds later my wrists are free and Lucas places my hands gently on the top of the headboard.

“Hold tight,” he instructs.

I do as I’m bid, stretching my back up. I’m still kneeling on the bed, holding the bed head, awaiting his pleasure.  He’s kneeling on the bed behind me.  He uses a hand to spread my legs wide and I feel his fingers parting my labia.  Then, ever so slowly, he pushes the tip of his cock upwards into my cunt.  He’s large and it’s a good, tight fit.  With his hands on my shoulders, he rams it home, and then his hands slide round my sides to cup my breasts.  He pulls me back against him and starts rolling his hips to draw himself in and out.  Now my body’s arching against his as his cock grazes its way up and down against the sweet spot inside.

An orgasm starts to bubble softly as he sweeps in and out.  Then suddenly he changes the game.  He pushes me forward and his hands pull my buttocks wide apart.  From somewhere he grabs lube and I feel a shock of cold down the length of my crack—his fingers getting me ready.  Without a change in the rhythm, he pushes his cock into my yielding ass.  My orgasm explodes on the first stroke, making my muscles clench hard around him.  With a cry as load as my own, he comes, his cock surging and throbbing within me.   I can feel its heat and I can feel the pulse of his climax, the sensations stoking my own.  My body spasms again and then the heat starts to dissipate.

I feel limp and wrung out, and there’s a final bite of pain as he pulls out his cock.  We slump together on the bed, our bodies slick with sweat, awash with the smell of sex.  I wait for the pulses to subside and slowly my breathing returns to normal.  Lucas, still panting, peels off the rubber and drops it over the side of the bed.  Then he flips me onto my back and straddles me.  His face is serious as he looks down on me.

“You’d never been spanked before, had you?”

I shake my head, still not trusting myself to talk.

“You’d never been tied up?”


“You’ve had no experience of Domination and submission?”


“Did you know you could have stopped me with your safeword?”

I swallow.

“I didn’t want you to stop.  I wanted it to go on.”

His eyes soften.

“When I asked you, ‘Top or bottom?’ what did you think I meant?”

“Top or bottom bunk.”

I feel stupid.

He climbs off me and off the bed, walking over to the window.  The lights of the city are spread out before him.

“Lucas?” I whisper.  “Don’t send me away.”

He turns around and his eyes still have the soft expression.

“You’ll need to be trained.  I want a lover who’s willing to wear my collar.  Could you do that?”

I don’t know what he means but I want to find out.

“Yes, Lucas.  Please train me.”

So that’s how it went down on that evening of expectations.  It was all due to something I said.  I wonder what would have happened if I’d said ‘top’?


Alchemy xii – May… release day!

April flew by in a flurry of A to Z blogging challenge posts and now suddenly it’s May 1 – and that means release day for Alchemy xii – May. I have to admit to a little case of blogging exhaustion, after posting 26 times in the last 30 days but this one can be quite straightforward – a cover, a blurb, some buy links and an excerpt. If you’re already reading the series, you know the score. If you’re new to Alchemy xii, then the best thing to do is to start at the beginning with Alchemy xii – New Year’s Eve, the free prologue that kicks it all off!

Alchemy xii - May coverYou can buy Alchemy xii – May here:


Amazon UK




Having finally secured her place at Alchemy for the rest of the year, Olivia has to face the fact that Harry is by no means the only Dom with an interest in her. Belladonna has long expressed a desire to top Olivia, and when Harry grants her this wish, Olivia is given a taste of what has made Belladonna the indisputable queen of the club. The physical torment might be just what Olivia longs for but for Belladonna torture begins with the mind and she knows exactly where the inexperienced sub is vulnerable…
But Belladonna’s only the start of it. After an intense session in Harry’s dungeon with a visiting shibari master from Japan, Olivia finds herself the unwilling focus of attention in Club 60 as her relationship with Harry comes under threat…


As Harry’s footsteps receded across the floor. I heard the door slam behind him and I was, for a moment, genuinely scared. Belladonna seemed so different to how she’d been at the training session I’d had with her.

“Now you’re mine, Olivia.” Her voice was a throaty growl.

“Yes, Ma’am.”



“My God, you’re adorable.”

I wondered whether she knew that I’d used it and, if so, what for. She came closer, looking me up and down with narrowed eyes. Then she raised one hand to trace a path down the side of my hip with her finger, much as she had done on the day she’d first met me, when I was cuffed to the wall at the entrance to Club 60. Fear turned to arousal within my belly. I sucked in a sharp breath. At this, a small smile played across her lips.

“Close your eyes.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Don’t speak, unless I ask you a question.”

I nearly answered her but managed to bite my tongue.

There followed another pause but, with my eyes shut, I found it harder to assess the noises she made or where she was in relation to me. What she did next was completely unexpected. I felt something cold and moist press up against my lips. I opened my mouth slightly, allowing her to press whatever it was inside. Flavor flooded my tongue, the sweet fetid taste of overripe fig. At the same time a hand brushed me between my legs. It sent a shiver up my spine. I crushed the morsel of fruit against my palate—it tasted of sweet, sugary, sweaty sex, and juice trickled down my chin. It was delicious. A second later she held another piece to my mouth and teased me with it. I licked my lips as she gave me more, then boldly put out my tongue to taste her fingers.

They were snatched away and I waited, finishing the piece of fig still in my mouth with relish. She wiped a sticky hand across one of my breasts, sparking a flash of need deep in my cunt. My body wanted to writhe but the restraints held me completely motionless.

Then something else was pressed against my lips, with an entirely different texture. I opened my mouth to accept it. I immediately realized it was a piece of the sushi she’d been eating when we came in. I bit down on the soft raw fish and a spurt of something else flashed across my tongue. Wasabi. Hot, hot wasabi paste. An explosive burning sensation tore through my mouth to the back of my throat, sending plumes of heat up into my nose and sinuses.

I coughed and spluttered. My eyes watered until tears ran down my cheeks. I sneezed and a bit of salmon flew out of my mouth.

Belladonna laughed. “You’re too trusting, Liv. Spit.”

My eyes were open now. She was holding a hand in front of my mouth. I let the rest of the salmon and what remained of the wasabi sauce drop into her palm. Saliva dribbled down my chin. Belladonna produced a paper napkin and wiped my face, followed by her own hands. She dropped it on the floor and turned back to me with a smile.

“Harry told me you liked your food, Olivia,” she said. “So you do. He also told me about your prodigious appetite for pain—which, of course, I saw for myself at Club 60 the other day. So that, I think, is what we’ll explore next.”

She spoke slowly, deliberately, and I knew her words would fill some other subs brimful of terror. Beth, for example, would no doubt be in tears at the prospect. But for me, it was like the Hallelujah Chorus. I tried to suppress the smile that broke out across my lips. I tried to keep my breathing under control.

I watched her cross the dungeon to a large Chinese lacquer work dresser on the back wall. She opened a series of drawers and small cupboards until she found what she was looking for.

“Damn Harry! He never puts things back in the right place.”

She came back in my direction, pulling a pair of fine black suede gloves on as she walked.

“Now what shall I use on your fine white skin, Olivia?” she said. She ran her gloved hands over my body, making me squirm.

“Mmm…so delicious.” She was almost talking to herself.

She walked away, going this time to a wall rack hung with whips, crops, canes and floggers.

I closed my eyes and concentrated on breathing deeply to keep myself calm. Adrenalin was flooding my system. I was scared, excited, and horny as hell. The best combination of feelings, transporting me back for a moment to my first night at Alchemy, to the silver room where Harry had given me my initial taste of recreational pain. I sighed.


I opened my eyes as my head snapped up. Belladonna was standing in front of me, holding out both her hands, palm up, in front of her. Across them lay the most beautiful flogger I’d ever seen.

“This is the Tusker,” said Belladonna. “It belonged originally to the founder of Alchemy—and it’s more than a hundred years old.”

My breath hitched in my throat as I looked at it. The stock of its handle was a dusky white, its surface intricately patterned. It was tipped with a silver pommel at one end and sprouted a cluster of thin black tails from a silver collar at the other.

“The handle’s ivory, hand carved,” said Belladonna. “It’s weighted with sterling silver to give it perfect balance in the hand. The thirty falls, which I have replaced every year, are elk skin. It’s not the harshest of leathers for a flogger but don’t let that fool you—half of them are tipped with silver beads and those’ll bite even you, Olivia.”

She let it fall from both her hands and caught it by the handle in one. The soft rustling sound the tails made sent a frisson of excitement through my hips, making me yank against my restraints.

“You want to feel its caress, don’t you?”

“Yes, Ma’am. Very much.”

“How much?”

How much did I want to feel the sting of those thirty tails across my skin? I couldn’t begin to articulate it. But she stood in front of me, waiting for me to answer.

“More than…” I faltered.

“More than you want Harry?”

‘Z’ is for zombies…

It’s here at last – my final post for the Blogging from A to Z Challenge. Those of you who know me well might have guessed already that I took on this infernal challenge for one reason only – the chance to get my zombies out again. After all, it’s sort of obvious, isn’t it? ‘Z’ is for zombies… It couldn’t be for anything else. And to celebrate reaching the end of this epic series of 26 posts, I’m giving you a whole story today rather than an excerpt. It’s one of my favourites from my Zombie Erotoclypse collection – “I was a Teenage Zombie Virgin.” As writer Delilah Night says in her review of Zombie Erotoclypse, this story “features the sweetest end to a zombie love story” – which makes it perfect to the end of my A to Z blog challenge!


Zombie Erotoclypse cover



I was a Teenage Zombie Virgin


In the eighteen years between first infection and the discovery of the cure, the Zombie Plague claimed the lives of more than one billion people around the world.  And for a lot of those people it was a long, drawn out death.  First the infection and the descent into zombie-hood.  Then the inevitable chase, capture and transportation to one of the zombie death camps that sprung up across the country.  Infection rates were rapid and killing known zombies was the only way to get the plague under control.  But it was as inhuman as the zombies were themselves—more so, in fact.  Because inside each zombie, there was still the vestige of the man, woman or child he or she had once been.  I know that for certain and I can say it with authority.

Because for two years, before I became one of the lucky ones given the cure, I was a teenage zombie. John Marsh, dead man walking. This is a story of survival and a story of coming of age.  My survival and my coming of age.  Both were hard won.


The Zombie Plague was already a year old when I was born, so I was truly a child of the zombie era.  My parents were both croupiers and we lived in Vegas—by the time I can remember anything, humans were inside the security cordon and the zombies roamed outside.  The early years were pretty hair-raising, according to my mom and dad, but once the zombie-free zone was in place and secure, life went pretty much back to normal.  Anyway, that was normality for me and the rest of my generation: the zombie patrols, the sirens and claxons which indicated zombie on the loose, the midnight raids when a neighbor’s infected family-member would be disappeared in the back of an armored van.  Opposite my bedroom window was an advertising billboard: Call Z11 if your neighbor starts acting zombie.

Acting zombie.  That was the bogeyman from my childhood.  The playground taunt that we pretended was in jest but which frightened us witless at night after the lights were out.  Our teachers and our enemies were always acting zombie but none of us had seen a real zombie in the flesh.  Just grainy images from the television news which tried to play down the threat while keeping us ever vigilant.

The first actual zombie I saw was the one that bit me when I’d just turned sixteen.

He came at me out of the dark, lumbering onto the sidewalk from behind a parked car as I was walking home from the racquetball club one evening.  He stood in front of me in a pool of lamp light and for a split second I thought it was a friend of mine from the neighborhood.

But it was the smell that gave it away.  Zombie sweat has its own special scent, once smelled never forgot.  It made me glance up into his face, or what was left of it.  Because he was a long way along the road, scabbed and scarred, with chunks dug out of his cheeks and half his hair missing.  There was a bit of his lip hanging off that made him look like he was gurning.  And when our eyes met, a deep, gleeful gurgling started to emit from his throat.

Have you ever experienced fear?  No, not fear.  Absolute terror.  Breath-sucking, turn-your-guts-to-water, eye-melting terror?  The certain vision of the end in sight?  When Death has you in his cross hairs? I’m not ashamed to say I pissed my pants in that moment, because you would have too.  And even as I felt the hot liquid sticking my pant-leg to my thigh, the zombie was reaching out for me.  His bony knuckles grasped and found purchase on my hoodie.  His grip was strong and though I struggled like a madman, he pulled me to him.

A patrol siren going off on a parallel street made him pause and I was able to escape.  But not before his teeth had ruptured my left wrist.  I slapped my other hand over the wound and ran as fast as I could back to the club.  In the harsh light of the locker room I inspected the damage.  It was hardly a scratch with very little blood and, for a while at least, I managed to kid myself that it meant nothing.  I hid it from the world under a sweatband, waiting for it to heal.

“You’re acting zombie.”

People say it all the time, you know, when you forget something or do something stupid.  I used to say it a lot—to my parents, to my kid sister, to my class mates.  But after the bite, I started to hear it more often than I said it.  And when I noticed that I was hearing it more frequently, I got scared and then I got angry.  I knew what was happening.  First, I couldn’t tie my shoe laces.  My fingers seemed like flaccid hot dogs, not managing a simple chore I’d been able to do since I was five years old.  Then I had trouble holding a pen and my eyes couldn’t fix their focus.  Reading was a problem.  Holding a knife and fork.  Running, or even walking, in a straight line or up a flight of stairs.

In the end, my mom found me crying in my room, great, gulping, gurgling sobs racking through me because I no longer knew how to work my cell phone.  She called my dad and all I can remember of that evening is how much they both cried.  They were supposed to turn me over to the authorities as soon as they suspected I was a zom, ostensibly to be relocated to a zombie care facility.  But everyone knew about the zombie death camps and if they’d done their duty, I wouldn’t be here now telling my story.

Instead, they hid me.  First in the house and then, when I became too aggressive for them to handle, they made me a cozy little kennel under the stoop, feeding me on ground beef and road kill, when they could get it.


You know that when you’re a teenager, every problem you have is magnified a million-fold.  What you might not realize is that when you’re a zombie, every problem you have is also magnified a million-fold.  That’s a million times a million and, as I’ve never been very good at math, I’m going to leave you to work out the answer for yourself.  It’s a fucking lot, if you can’t be bothered to work it out either.

For example, school work.  The bane of every teenager’s life.  Or so I thought before I became a zom.  But take away the ability to read and with it all likelihood of going to an Ivy League college to study law—I had big plans before the bite—and suddenly things seem a whole lot worse.  Being in the right gang?  Sure, I was in a new gang now but I didn’t exactly get to hang out with other members of my crew.  My parents were also members of a new gang: an underground organization of parents hiding and protecting their zombie children in hope of a cure.  They linked up over the internet and sometimes, I now know, they would secretly meet up for little pity parties and discussions like ‘What to feed your zombie child’ and ‘How to keep your zombie kid out of trouble’.  That one was particularly pertinent because, believe me, zombies are born hounds.  They’ll fuck anything that moves.

So there I was, a teenage zombie virgin with a raging horn, trapped under my parents’ wrap-round veranda and living on dead squirrels.  Came a time when all I could think about was breaking out to go and find me some nice, young zombie chick and all I could do to make the days pass quicker was jerk off.  And being a zombie, I wasn’t very good at that.  I could never get a really good rhythm going and the tightness of my grip on my cock seemed to vary beyond my control.  This made the whole process of achieving climax somewhat random and sometimes it would take a couple of hours of fumbling with my hand in my pants, making me howl with frustration.  Then the noise would bring my mother down to the side of the stoop, where she’d sit and whisper comforting words to me and sing lullabies and I’d have to desist in what I was trying to do for fear of shocking her senseless.

And if I wasn’t thinking about sex, I was thinking about food.  The average teenage boy’s appetite is like a newborn’s in comparison to a zombie’s.  I would have one hand wrapped ineptly round my dick while the other shoveled whatever raw meat delights my parents had left into my mouth.  But I wasn’t getting to chew on human flesh so I was never satisfied.  Hunger gnawed my stomach the way I would have gnawed my mother’s finger had she been stupid enough to push it through the slats.

Believe me, it was no barrel of laughs.

By all accounts I spent nearly a year in that subterranean hellhole with limited human contact and no zombie contact.  But eventually the time came when I needed to go and seek out members of my own tribe and I was strong enough and healthy enough—for a zombie—to break my way out.  I was mad with the full moon and I simply ripped away an area of wooden slatting until there was a gap big enough for me to squeeze through.

I didn’t give a thought about how my parents would feel when they found me missing.  The fear and panic and gnawing worry that I would get picked up by a zombie patrol and shipped off to one of the death camps.  I didn’t give a thought to that either.  I’d forgotten about familial relationships and the Zombie Laws and the genocide by then.  I was just a zombie kid who needed to find another zombie kid to have sex with.

What I do remember is the feeling of elation that swept through me as I lurched off down the road to freedom.  I was in the city of excess and for a young male zombie that meant two things—feeding and fucking—and I was off to grab my fill of both.  And I naively assumed it would all come easy.

Three months of eating rats and baby birds takes its toll on a person. My clothes were ragged and my skin was grey by the time I found salvation.  I was living rough in the neighborhood back yards, eating pets when I could and desperately trying to get a bite of human.  I can only excuse myself by saying that I’d lost touch with reality, forgotten that, on the inside, I was still a human—and when I think about that time now, it makes my stomach churn.

I had several close run-ins with the local zombie patrols and they were well aware that there was a loose zombie in the area—so everyone was keeping their doors and windows bolted and no-one ever went out after dark.  During daylight hours, I kept under cover but at night I wandered.

Until the vigilantes made the night-time streets unsafe as well.

Huge gangs of them started roaming, armed with axes, picks, crowbars and machetes.  Only in the zombie-free zone, of course, where there was just one zombie running around loose for them to hunt.  The courage it must have taken—thirty or forty men at a time chasing down one teenage boy.  Luckily, they weren’t very good at it.  But even so, I was scared shitless.

Especially the night my angel rescued me.  They so nearly caught me, it still brings me out in a cold sweat to think about it.  I was hunkered down on an overgrown front lawn, sucking the brains out of a squirrel, when they just seemed to materialize around me.  A circle of glinting blades closing in, a whisper of excitement and of blood lust as strong as my own.  I dropped the squirrel but with fear sapping the strength in my legs, I remained kneeling, as if awaiting my execution.


A woman’s voice rang clear as crystal above their muttering.

“Get gone!  You men get out of here now!  This is private property.”

She strode into the middle of the circle of men and I looked up.  I was smitten.  I fell in love in a lightning flash.  She was a thing of beauty, no older than I was, but so fierce and commanding that the grown men who had surrounded me stopped in their tracks.  Somewhere, in the foggy haze of my memory, I knew I’d seen her before but I couldn’t remember where.

“Lady,” said one of the vigilantes, a large, mean-looking guy with a pitchfork in his hand, “you got a zombie there, so we’re gonna need you to step aside so we can finish it off.”

“Shame on you, Mitchell Price.  This is a poor sick boy who used to be one of our own.  I won’t allow you to kill him on my property.  I’ll call the zombie patrol so they can take him to a treatment facility.”

“You Judge Carter’s girl, Eve?” said one of the men.

“I am.”

“You know what’ll happen to him when they get him to the center?  They’re just gonna kill him, too.  Why put him through that when we can do it right now, quickly?”

“I said, get off my goddamn property or I’ll call the police on you,” said Eve Carter.

She took a step forward and pushed one of the men in the chest and he stumbled backward onto the sidewalk.

Slowly the other men backed down.

“You know, he’ll take a bite out of you soon as look at you,” said the one she’d called Mitchell Price.

“I’m not scared,” she said.  “I know him.”

I watched the men retreat away down the street and then stared up at her.

“You’re John Marsh, aren’t you?” she said.

I nodded and grunted, searching for my voice.

“You used to play racquetball with my brother.”

I knew her then.  I’d seen her around.  I’d imagined her naked and I’d fucked her in my imagination.  And now?  God, I wanted her more badly than anything I’d ever wanted in my life—the life she’d just saved. Even in my warped zombie mind, I knew I owed her everything.

“Come on,” she said, gesturing me to follow her.

I ambled after her, up the path to the front door and, to my amazement, inside.  The house was a mess—the kitchen and the walk-through living room a paean to fast-food living.  Pizza boxes, burger containers, Chinese take-out pails and bags, cups and cartons from every fast-food joint in a five-mile radius.  I guessed Eve didn’t cook much, or anyone else who lived here for that matter.  I stood looking round, not knowing what I was meant to do with myself.  My social graces had long since slipped away.

“I was right, wasn’t I?” she said.  “You’re not going to hurt me.”

I shook my head and tried to speak. All I could articulate was a grunt.  But I knew I’d sooner die than hurt this beautiful creature who had delivered me from evil.

“Sorry about the mess.  After my parents…went…”  She looked down at her feet and then started gathering the detritus up in her arms.

I moved to help and she laughed.

“Come on, John.  I didn’t bring you in to make you clean house.  Take a seat while I clear the mess.  Then we’ll work out what to do.”

I looked round for somewhere to sit but every couch and chair was covered in crap.  I wanted to talk to her, to ask her so many things, like what had happened to her parents and her two brothers, and if she knew how my parents were, and why she was so sure that I wouldn’t just rip her pretty head off her shoulders and suck out her brains.

All I could manage was a gruff, “Why…?”

“Did I help you?” she said, peeling a garbage bag off a roll.

I nodded.

“I was here when they came for my brothers.  My parents called in like they were supposed to when Ben and Chase came home bitten and the authorities ripped my family to pieces.  Tore us apart, stem to stern.  Took the boys before they’d even started to show any symptoms.  Took them to a ‘treatment center’ for ‘treatment’.”  She slammed the bag of trash against the wall.  “I know what happens in those places, how they fucking ‘treat’ zombies.”

She dropped to her knees, her cheeks shining with tears.  But her voice didn’t quaver.

“They’re long dead.  And my mother couldn’t bear it so she did it for herself with pills and booze.  And my father couldn’t bear that…”

Like I said, every zombie has the vestige of the human he once was flickering inside him, and at that moment, I forgot our differences.  I forgot that I was a zombie and she was a healthy girl.  I forgot that all I wanted to do was fuck her and then eat her and I caught her up in my arms and held her tight against my chest.

Great sobs pulsed through her for a couple of minutes, then she sniffed loudly.

“So you see, I couldn’t let them take another boy away from his family.”

She looked up at me, her dark hair curling in sweaty tendrils round her forehead, her liquid brown eyes full of trust.  I bent my head and I kissed her.  I kissed her in a way that I’d never kissed a girl before I was a zombie.  Our lips met, hers so soft compared with mine, rough and chaffed and scabby.  Her mouth opened and her tongue glided against my mouth, applying a gentle pressure until I let it slip inside.  I can’t say how it must have compared with her other experiences of kissing, though it was obvious she’d had some, but for me it was sublime.  Fireworks and flares went off in my gut and a burning sensation made my cock surge forward against my cut-offs.  I heard a low, guttural moaning, like an animal in pain, and took a moment to realize that it was me.  I held her close against my chest and through the thin fabric of our T-shirts, her nipples felt like rough pebbles.

Her arms slipped round behind me and started pulling up my shirt and I followed her lead, drawing her tank up to reveal the soft curve of her belly.  It made me catch my breath and I felt suddenly dizzy.

“Eve,” I managed to grunt, not knowing where to put my hands—onto the soft flesh now revealed or to carry on pulling the garment off her.

“Shhhh,” she whispered in my ear.  “Come.”

She stood up and tossed her top to one side.  Then, as I gawped, open-mouthed, at her small, perfect breasts, she grabbed my hand and led me up the stairs to her bedroom.  This room was junk food free but there were clothes all over the floor and the bed sheets were tangled and grimy.  Did I give a shit?  It was literally months, probably more than a year, since I’d been in a bed and here I was, diving into the softness with the most divine, half-naked angel.

I lay down on my back and Eve lay on top of me and started kissing me again, running her hands through the tangled mat of my hair, making little sighing noises that completely melted me inside.  I took my time to explore her mouth with my tongue—I was in no hurry for this to be over—it was the moment I’d been dreaming of for so long.  Her teeth were smooth as porcelain, hard and sharp in contrast to the soft swirl of her tongue against mine.  Her saliva tasted sweet to me and the warmth of her breath on my face was like an additional caress.

When she let her mouth drop from mine and down onto my chest, I buried my face in her hair.  Even unwashed and unkempt as she was, she smelled unbelievably good—human sweat is a million times less acrid than zombie sweat, which was all I’d caught a whiff of in months.  She sucked tantalizingly on my nipples, sparking new sensations that rippled through me like electric current, and she twisted them until I grunted with the pleasure of the pain.

Her hips were grinding against mine, building friction at the front of my pants and my cock felt like the Incredible Hulk, about to burst its way out through the threadbare fabric.  Luckily, she thrust a hand down between us and released it, eliciting a deep growl from me as her fingers grazed against it.

“Better?” she whispered, turning her attention to below my waist.

She drew off my shorts and then stood back to strip off her own.  My cock reared and bucked as I saw her emerge fully naked and my hand went instantaneously to my rod to start jerking off.  Smiling, she pulled my hand away and replaced it with her own, with a caress so soft I could hardly feel it even though it sent an intense shiver up my spine.

And as I lay there panting, hauling in great gulps of air as my hips jerked out of control, she slowly straddled me and then leant back so that I could see what lay between her legs.  Glistening folds, deep pink, and nestled in the centre, a dark bud pushing its way out between the lips of her pussy.  She traced a path down the cleft with one finger, opening herself up to my gaze, and then she slid gently forward to position herself just above my cock.

She gave me a questioning look, as if to seek my permission to go ahead with what she was about to do, and I gurgled my assent.  Her hand, which had never left my shaft, guided me into position and angled me for entry.  Then she allowed herself to plunge down, impaling herself on me with a sharp, sweet cry that will ring in my ears till the day I die.  I reached up to touch her breasts and she dropped forward so that one of them brushed against my lips.  My tongue swirled the areola and I sucked on the protruding nub till she gasped and replaced it with the other one.

She ground her hips forward and back as she worked up and down, changing the angle, building the friction and slowly working me up towards the point of no return.  It was a long climb and with each thrust she allowed herself to drop lower, for me to push up further inside her.  Her pussy was indescribably soft, slippery with her juices, but tight nevertheless, as if a hand was gripping me and pulling, tugging, milking my cock till we reached the summit and I was ready to plunge down the other side.

And how I came.  With a roar, I felt my balls pull tight and then my hot cum surged out of me and pumped into her.  She came with a cry, clamping her teeth down on her lower lip as her back arched and her muscles gripped me tighter than ever, drawing out my pleasure to match her own.

As her orgasm subsided, she dropped back down onto my chest.  She seemed oblivious to the rancid zombie sweat that was oozing out of all my pores.

“Thank you,” she said.

I shook my head—it was I who should have thanked her.  After all, no one else would have taken a zombie to their bed.

“You make me feel better about what happened to my brothers.  That they were still human up to the very end.”

She could have been right about that.  But, despite a vestige of humanity, a zombie’s still a zombie.  The rest of my sorry story is somewhat less edifying.  We slept and when I woke up in the morning, I bit a chunk out of one of her breasts.  Of course, I was contrite.  I hated myself for what I did, but she forgave me and bandaged the wound tightly and then we made love again.

We lived quietly in her house and by the time she’d started acting too zombie to fool the neighbors anymore, the cure had been announced.  I took her to my parents who pulled strings to make sure we were among the first zombies treated and, over the course of many months of drugs and injections, we gradually became our old selves.

But there were differences in our cured selves.  I’d been a virgin before I became a zombie—now I wasn’t.  And we’d both found love.  Human love that endured the treatment and the cure and endures to this day, much to the delight of our children and grandchildren.  Who never fail to let us know when we’re acting zombie.


Zombie Erotoclypse coverWant some more zombie stories? You can find the whole collection here:

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‘Y’ is for Your…

I’ve been waiting for today for a long time. Not because of my ‘Y’ is for Your Desire… post, but because I get to use one of my favourite words! Penultimate. Yup, today’s the penultimate post in the Blogging from A to Z Challenge. And that means tomorrow is the final post – and won’t I be breathing a huge sigh of relief! So what have I got for you today? A short excerpt from a short story, Your Desire…

Naked woman

Excerpt from Your Desire…


Seeing you standing on the tarmac next to a baby jet makes my pulse race.  You’re on the phone but I know the look in your eye as you watch me get out of the car.  Your tongue darts between your lips to moisten them.  And you look so damned good, tanned and relaxed.  I haven’t seen you for a couple of weeks because you were on holiday with your family.  With your wife.  With Marcia.  But I won’t think about that now.

You finish your call.

“Hey beautiful,” you say, holding out a hand to me.  “I missed you.”

“Not as much as I missed you,” I say, throwing myself into your arms.

You kiss me passionately, your tongue darting into my mouth, one hand on the back of my head to hold me steady.  You don’t care if the driver sees us as he unloads my case.  Your most trusted staff members all know you have a mistress.  They know who I am, and most of them are generous with their attention to me.  Their loyalty lies with you, not with your wife, I think.

“Come on, we can go now,” you say.

You lead me by the hand up the narrow steps and into the private aircraft that belongs to your company.  It’s a small corporate jet which only seats four passengers.  But that doesn’t matter as we’re the only two.  Just us and the pilot and a bottle of champagne.

“Where are we going?” I ask, sinking down into one the luxurious leather seats.  I always sit with my back to the open cockpit, you always sit facing me.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” you say with an enigmatic smile.

You love to tease me.  I undo two buttons of my blouse to tease you back, stroking the silky fabric away from my décolletage so you catch a glimpse of the oyster chantilly lace beneath.  You grunt approvingly and I know you want to reach out and touch it – but the pilot has just told us to fasten our seatbelts.  As we taxi down the runway I cross and uncross my legs, letting the soft crepe skirt I’m wearing ride up my thighs.  Your eyes are bright.  You know I’m wearing no panties, even though you’re not at the right angle to see.

As we hit take-off speed, I slide my hips forward in my seat, as far as the seatbelt will allow, and spread my legs wide for you.  With a moan, you kick off one of your loafers and let your bare foot slide up the inside of my calf.  You rest it on the lip of my seat, pressing it against my knee, surveying me through half closed eyes.  I undo another of my buttons and cup one lacy breast with my hand.  I pinch the nipple through the fabric and throw my head back.  Your foot slips up my inner thigh and searches out my cunt, so warm and already so wet for you.  You wiggle your toes, making me gasp aloud as one of them brushes over my swollen clit.

The engines roar and I feel the g-force as the plane leaves the ground.  You keep moving your foot, making me squirm in the seat, but I deliberately hold back on the sensations coursing through me.  When the pilot gives us permission to undo the seatbelts, things will get going properly.

“Okay, we’re up now,” the pilot’s voice comes to us over the intercom, though he’s sitting only a few feet away. “You can take off your seatbelts until it’s time to land in approximately an hour and fifty minutes. I trust you’ll enjoy the flight.”

I can hear the knowing tone in his voice but you ignore it and undo your seatbelt straightaway. I snap open the buckle on mine.

“Champagne, babe?”

You withdraw your foot from my between my legs, wiping your glistening toes on the carpet. Then you go to the small fridge at the back of the cabin. At over six foot tall, you can hardly stand up in the tiny jet but a moment later you’re back in your seat with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. Watching you wrestle with the cork makes me nervous – what if it pops and smashes through a window or takes out the pilot? But you’re an old pro opening champagne bottles. You simply twist off the cork, keeping your hand over the top of it, and a second later the golden nectar is whispering into the glasses.

We drink quickly. For us two weeks apart is a long time and we’re in a hurry to get down to more than drinking champagne. As soon as my glasses empty, you take it from me and place it on a side table. Then you’re kneeling in front of me, pushing up my skirt and spreading my legs wide again.

“Oh God, look at you. I’ve been dreaming of this for a fortnight, babe.”

Somehow I doubt that. I know you still have sex with your wife. With Marcia. But I also know you prefer it with me. I’m more accommodating, more compliant to your desires than she is. After all, when was the last time she sucked you off?

I slide forward in my seat, this time much further, giving you complete and total access to the warm, dark cleft between my legs. You’re already breathing heavily – I can feel it warm and dewy on the inside of my thighs. You run a finger up and down the centre of my labia, sending a shiver of pleasure up through me, and then your mouth is on me and I gasp. The first time this happened, so many months ago, I looked round, worried at what the pilot might think. But now I don’t care. He takes no notice – he’s too busy flying the plane and it’s happened too many times before for it to be of concern to him.

You push your tongue up inside me, making my hips buck and my breath hitch. You move it slowly upward, swirling gently, licking, sucking and tasting my juices. I want to feel it on my clit so I flex my hips downwards to direct it there. But you know my tricks and you’re going to take your own sweet time. Your hands come round, underneath my buttocks, grasping them and massaging them. It’s all coming together into such a confluence of sensation there’s nothing I can do but whimper and arch my back ready for the climax coming.

At last your mouth reaches my clit and your teeth grasp it as your tongue rasps across its sensitive tip. You pull on it and suck it until I’m squirming in my seat. You manoeuvre one hand to allow your thumb to penetrate my cunt, flexing it up and down, and then I feel another finger, wet with my juices, pushing softly and slowly into my arse. This barrage of incursions finally pushes me over the edge and the first wave of pleasure rolls up through me, making me gasp. You intensify your attentions and my orgasm explodes, making me cry out sharply.

This is what you love to do – to render me helpless, trembling, sweating and crying under your touch, unable to control myself or resist even though we’re in the presence of another person. This isn’t something your wife would let you do in a thousand years. You look up, smiling at me.

“Was it worth the wait, beautiful?”

“Of course,” I say. “I’d wait forever to feel your mouth on me.”

‘X’ is for X…

‘X’ is for X marks the spot… – a new snippet of flash fiction for today’s Blogging from A to Z Challenge.

Reclining nude


X Marks the Spot


“X marks the spot.”

“What spot?” I said.

“The spot on your body that obsesses me.”

“What spot?”

“It’s here.”

He took my finger and placed on the back of my neck, on the vertebra at its base.

“Tilt your head forward.”

I did, letting my hand fall away.

“That’s it. That makes it jut out. A little sharp angle where your neck ends and your back begins. X marks the spot.”

He traced an ‘X’ with his finger on the bony protuberance and sighed.

“But then there’s Y.”

“Why what?”

“No, Y marks the spot.”

“What spot?”

“The other spot on your body that obsesses me.”

“What spot?”

“It’s here.”

He took my finger and placed it on the freckle that nestles on my rib cage, snug beneath the side of my right breast.

“This is the place. The place I dream about kissing in the night.”

I felt the small bump of the freckle with my finger.

“Go ahead,” I said.

I moved my hand to make way for his lips and his tawny head bent forward. I leaned back and sighed.

“But of course, you know there’s Z, too.”

“Z marks the spot,” I said.

“You’ve got the hang of it.”

“What spot?”

He didn’t speak. He took my finger and held it to the small concave area at the top of my inner thigh, the left one, where my skin is softest.

“That side,” I said, moving my finger across to the other thigh, “or this?”

He considered for a moment and then moved my finger back.

“Oh, that. Most definitely.”

He laid his cheek against the spot and his breath skimmed across the folds of my cunt. Lighter than a kiss, far more devastating. I fought for control but my body belonged to him, the X, Y and Z of it.

Later, when we lay side by side, arms entwined and tangled across chests, I whispered in his ear.

“I have some favourite places of my own.”

“Tell me,” he said.

“I have to start with A,” I said. “A marks the spot.”

“What spot?”

I took hold of his finger…

‘W’ is for wax…

Earlier in the month I gave you an excerpt from Alchemy xii – February  on the Blogging from A to Z Challenge. It was ‘O’ is for Olivia… – and now, because as February is my very favourite episode (so far!) I’m going to give you another – continuing with the temperature play theme, ‘W’ is for wax… Enough said.

Woman and candle

I stretched myself out on the table once more. This time the surface didn’t feel cold. Harry took one of my arms, stretching it out toward the nearest corner of the table. I felt rope being bound around my wrist. A sharp tug pulled the cord tight as Harry secured it—presumably to the table leg. He walked around and tied my other hand, then he bound my ankles. I was spread-eagled for him and immobile, unable to see—and as happy as I’d been since he’d taken me to the silver room in Alchemy.

Even though I had no idea what was coming next, what he had in store for me, I felt turned on. More than turned on. Primed. Harry had that effect on me. Being tied up magnified every sensation. Being blind put me in a new and exciting dimension. I listened for clues but Harry remained perfectly silent, biding his time. I wondered if he was watching me.



Now he would begin.

I heard a soft glugging sound. Hands being rubbed together. He touched my arm, tentatively at first, then with a long firm stroke. His warm palm glided over my skin, oiling it, and I could smell a musky, oriental fragrance. He applied his hands to my other arm, to my shoulders, breasts, abdomen, the length of my legs and between, slowly and thoroughly, stopping every couple of minutes for more oil. So simply, he affected my breathing and made my head swim. My muscles relaxed at his touch, while my nerves fizzed, transmitting little pulses of pleasure up and down my body.

God, I was in heaven. But this seemed a little tame for the Harry I knew.

His hands left my body and I stopped breathing.

I sensed him moving around the table.

He kissed one of my breasts, making me gasp, but before I’d even breathed in again his mouth was gone. Then searing, burning pain on my nipple. I choked in my rush for air, yelping as the pain intensified, making me buck against my retraints. The initial sharp burn slowed into an intense heat that brought layer after layer of boiling agony. I took deep breaths, slowly. The sensation was extraordinary and both my nipples puckered with excitement. The rest of me felt perversely cold as a shiver ran through me.

“All right?” said Harry, softly, by my ear.

I swallowed and nodded.

“Yes, Sir.”

I was breathless. Wanting and not wanting the next anointment with wax, as this was clearly what Harry was doing. He made me wait. I chewed on my lip. I flexed my fingers and tested the bonds at my ankles. I made my breathing calm down.

This time, when he kissed my other breast, I knew what to expect. But that actually made things worse. I still yelped as the molten wax landed, burning so hot it felt like a knife cutting into me. The pain multiplied, the heat penetrating deeper as the surface shock of the burn receded.  Harry placed a hand, palm down, on my breast bone and leaned in to kiss me on the lips. My head jerked back against the hard table as I opened my mouth wide. He tasted so good and the smarting pain was soon caught up in a twist of pleasure—followed by a ripple of fear as I wondered how intense this was going to get.

Harry must have sensed my skittishness, as he gently stroked my hair back from my forehead. He was still kissing me and when he started to break away, I caught his lips with my teeth. I wanted the reassurance of his mouth on mine to go on and on. He tugged away, putting a hand along my jawline.

“You can do this,” he whispered. “This is why you’re here, why you came to me.”

He was right. I wanted the pain as much as I feared it. The agony translated so easily into ecstasy.

But with no warning kiss, I was caught unaware by a trail of wax burning a path along the side of my ribs. Rivulets of pain ran down my side at intervals as I writhed in a useless attempt to get out of the way. The same treatment on the other side made me moan. A fire with two fronts, burning into me, over and across me, heat from my skin colliding with heat from my core. I braced myself against the ropes, trying to anchor myself while I struggled on the cusp between pleasure and pain.

Harry worked in silence. The burning touch of the molten wax was my lover this evening, exploring my body with trails of fire. Winding a path out along each arm. Twisting a sinewy track down each leg and back. The initial shock may have worn off but the fierce, hot kiss of each drip was still as vicious, the after-burn just as lingering. He took his time, working his way back up to my breasts, dripping soft globules of pain along the side of my ribs once more.

The original wax circles on my nipples had cooled now and acted as a protective shield—when Harry trickled a new stream of wax onto one of them, I felt just a mild sensation of heat. But he let it carry on until small rivers of fire trailed down every side of my breast. My breathing was coming in soft gulps as I let the burning sensation wash over me. God, I was so turned on, so ready for Harry to take me, the heat between my legs felt as intense as the burning wax on my skin. I whimpered as he turned his attention to my other breast and coated it like the first.

So far, he’d left my abdomen clear—but once my breasts were as good as encased, he moved down my body. Twists, twirls and curls settled across my stomach and torso. A pattern branded on my skin with sharp stabs of fire which dissipated slowly as another fierce curve alighted somewhere else.


He paused.

“Do you need to safeword?”

I shook my head.

“Don’t stop,” I whispered.

He continued, slowly creating his masterpiece as I writhed beneath the torrent of liquid heat. If I’d been warm enough when we started, now I was aflame. I could feel sweat prickling at the back of my neck and beading across my forehead. Moisture gathered between my buttocks and at the backs of my knees. It felt as if the whole room was on fire. If hell was anything like this, I could see myself being quite happy there.

Harry stopped. I sensed him moving away from the table.

“You’re beautiful, Liv. Don’t move a muscle. I just want to take a picture before I finish off.”

Did he just say don’t move a muscle? Ha!

I relaxed with a deep breath and settled into the warm embrace of the hot wax. A few seconds later I heard the tiny electronic click of a picture being taken, then another.

“Perfect, darling, and I’ve got something for you.”

His fingers were on my lips, then he pushed an ice cube into my mouth. Bliss. I let the icy water trickle down the back of my throat as it melted.

“And here…”

Fingers between my legs, pushing up inside me.

“Mmm…very hot and very wet, Liv. Like a monsoon.”

Before I could say anything in answer, a shock of freezing cold from a second ice cube practically made me choke on the first one. They were not such a boon as I might have thought. The ice in my mouth had already set my teeth aching, so I crunched it quickly and swallowed. But unfortunately I could do no such thing with the ice cube in my pussy. The cold burned hotter than the molten wax clinging to my skin and I could do nothing to move it, even though I rocked my hips back and forth to try.

Damn you, Harry, for killing the moment.


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

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‘V’ is for vanilla…

We’ve nearly reached the end of the Blogging from A to Z Challenge, and today it’s ‘V’ is for vanilla… Here’s a complete story to keep you entertained over the weekend.

Vanilla Dreams cover

Michelle had a fantasy she didn’t dare tell her husband about. A secret scenario that played out in her mind before she went to sleep or when she went out jogging or when she was alone in the shower, letting needles of scorching hot water play across her skin. She knew she would never tell Paul about it. It wasn’t something he’d be interested in in a million years and she didn’t want to upset him or have him think that she didn’t love him. Because she did, very much.

In many ways Paul was the perfect husband. He looked after her financially and cared for her in a multitude of other ways. Practical things, like making sure there was always petrol in her car and taking it to the shop when it needed servicing. He shared many of the household chores with her, far more than her friends’ husbands. He came to the grocery store to push the cart and he helped her choose the food they would eat. Paul always made sure that she got the correct amount of calories for her weight and that she took an appropriate amount of exercise. Once a week on Friday evening, they had a glass of wine and ate dinner in front of the TV. Paul always found a film or a game show that they would both enjoy.

And once a week on a Saturday evening, after Paul had watched the sport highlights with a beer, they had sex. First, he would bend her over his knee and spank her precisely thirty-three times. Always thirty-three times, same number, same intensity. Then, just as she was ready to beg him to stop, he would gently lift her up until she was standing and cuff her by the wrists to two steel rings that he’d set high up on bedroom wall. In this position, Paul would enter her from behind, having checked first with his fingers that she was wet enough for him to slide inside. After ten thrusts, always ten—she knew because she had to count them out loud—he would come with a strange little yelp. Then he would let her down and by the time she returned from the bathroom after cleaning up, he would be asleep.

It was at this point that sex began for Michelle. The spanking turned her on, even if Paul’s grunt-and-thrust action did little for her. But once he was snoring, she would roll over with her back to him and surreptitiously raise her nightie until she was able to finger her aching clit. And she would fantasize about the sort of sex that she would never have with Paul. Sex so hot and passionate that it would be beyond his wildest imaginings. Sex so vanilla that it would freak him out. In her fantasy, it wouldn’t be Paul who laid her gently on the bed and kissed her on the mouth before worshipping her body. It wouldn’t be Paul whose tongue drove her wild with frenzied desire until she moaned and wilted beneath him. And it wouldn’t be Paul who made love to her face-to-face until the orgasm that exploded inside her made her scream. No, in her fantasy it would be Raoul Alvarez, who worked in her office.


“Text me once you’re on the train and then again when you arrive at the hotel, please, Michelle,” said Paul, as he helped to unload her small carry-on case from the trunk of the car.

“Yes, Paul.”

They were pulled up outside the station as, for the first time in her married life, Michelle was going to spend a night away from home. She had been asked to attend a conference with three of her co-workers—Ellen Jackson, Bob Petersen and Raoul. They’d all been to conferences before but this was the first time her boss suggested that she should go to. Paul hated the idea but in the end he’d relented on the condition that she follow his exact instructions and kept him informed of exactly what she was doing at all times. It would mean only one night away and, as it wasn’t a Friday or a Saturday, he magnanimously declared he would survive the ordeal.

Michelle settled into her seat on the train and texted Paul as instructed. She would meet with the other three at Central and then they’d get the next train together, bound for the conference resort. It didn’t strike her as in any way ironic that she was going away for the night in the company of her fantasy lover. The Raoul she conjured up in her dreams was merely a physical clone of the Raoul in the office, who in reality she didn’t care for. And she knew that the real-life Raoul had a particularly pretty blond wife who was several years younger than him and even more years younger than her. No, the possibility of anything happening between them was so remote it didn’t even cross her mind.

She met with the others as scheduled and the remainder of the journey was uneventful. The afternoon’s conference program struck her as interesting but the hall was stuffy and by the third speaker she was fighting a losing battle to keep her eyes open. At the drinks reception later, she stuck to orange juice as she’d promised Paul she would but—she had some laughs with Ellen, who seemed intent on drinking enough for both of them. The food at dinner was acceptable, if not as good as Paul’s home cooking. All of this she dutifully texted back to Paul at fifteen minute intervals.

Perhaps though, fate or the universe was smiling that evening. Karma possibly kicked in. Or maybe it was due to the perfect storm of alcohol consumed by her co-workers. But whatever the cause, the turn of events, quite suddenly, took an unexpected change of direction.

“Nightcap, Ellen?” said Raoul, as the tables were cleared while they finished their coffees.

“Sure,” said Ellen, suppressing a slight giggle as she snatched her half-empty wine glass back from a waiter who was trying to take it away.

“I’ll come too,” said Michelle, surprising all of them, including herself.

“Petersen?” said Raoul.

The fourth member of the party shook his head. “I’m giving a paper in the morning, remember?”

Michelle switched off her phone and followed the other two through to the hotel bar. She didn’t know what had come over her and she certainly wasn’t ready to share it with Paul.

“I’ll have a glass of white wine, please,” she said to Raoul, squeezing into a booth opposite him, next to Ellen.

“Good,” said Raoul. “I approve of a woman who lives dangerously.”

Even though she knew he was joking, Raoul’s words conjured up an image in Michelle’s mind. An image from one of her night-time fantasies which made her catch her breath.

“Me too,” said Ellen, draining the glass she’d brought with her from the dining room.

Raoul gave their order to a waitress and then sat back in the booth, surveying both of them. Michelle could feel herself growing hot under his gaze. She licked her top lip and tasted the salty tang of sweat.

“So, Raoul,” said Ellen. “Remember the last time we were here, when Petersen got so drunk? And you had to…”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Raoul nodding.

Michelle could remember hearing something about it in the office when they came back.

“And then you and I…” Ellen plowed on, oblivious to the sudden scowl on Raoul’s face.

“Put him to bed,” said Raoul firmly.

The waitress arrived with the drinks and Ellen giggled loudly. She put a finger up to her lips.

“Say no more.”

Michelle felt an elbow being dug in her ribs and wondered if it was time to make herself scarce. But she looked at the full glass of wine in front of her. Didn’t she deserve a little fun? Once in a while?

Yes. She did.

Two drinks later, Michelle felt the warm buzz of alcohol in her veins. Ellen fell of the end of the banquette. She and Raoul each took an arm and guided her through to the lift lobby.

“Is this what happened with Petersen?” asked Michelle, as they manhandled her into the elevator.

“Sure was,” said Raoul, with a grin.

“And then what happened?”


In Raoul’s bedroom, Michelle sat down nervously on the edge of the bed while Raoul disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door. Now was her chance to escape. To go back to her room and text Paul to let him know she was safely tucked up in bed.

But she didn’t.

When Raoul returned to discover Michelle still sitting as he’d left her on the edge of his bed, he didn’t seem the least bit surprised. She, however, was a little surprised to see that he was now completely naked but she took a deep breath and willed herself to stay put. His body was so incredibly different from Paul’s—he had a rich, deep tan and his sinews and muscles rippled as he moved, reminding her of a beautiful animal in peak condition. He sat down next to her and reached out to cup one of her breasts through the fine silk of her blouse. Michelle started at his touch and then relaxed, pressing forward slightly into his hand.

Raoul sighed. “I knew this was going to happen as soon I found out you were coming to the conference.”

“You knew?” said Michelle.

She wondered if he could feel how hard her heart was pounding in her chest. Of course he could.

“Michelle, you’re a beautiful woman but you’re married to an asshole.”

“You’ve never even met Paul.” She drew imperceptibly back from Raoul’s touch.

“No, that’s true,” said Raoul. “But every day I see you in the office. I can see your need in the way that you sit and the way you move. And in the pall of disappointment on your face whenever you send one of your million text messages.”

Michelle turned to face Raoul more fully. She saw that he now had an erection and his cock was very much larger than her husband’s.

“I never knew you…”

“I see,” he said. “I see you, Michelle.”

She reached up with her hands and slowly touched his chest with the tips of her fingers, before letting her palm fall flat against the warm skin. Their eyes met and Michelle noticed how dilated his pupils were. It was a sign of arousal and she guessed hers must look the same. It was a gaze she’d never experienced from Paul’s eyes.

“Will you stay?” said Raoul.

Michelle nodded, hardly trusting herself to speak. But she leaned forward to kiss him and it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Raoul’s tongue slipped inside her mouth and she pressed hers into his. Dirty kissing was what Paul called it. He wouldn’t do it. But the burst of pleasure that shot through her like an electric current made her realize exactly what she’d been missing. For years. Her chest started to heave and suddenly the present was everything and her past ceased to exist. Raoul’s mouth was working against hers and his fingers were undoing the buttons of her blouse. She wanted to help, wanted to tear her clothes off in a couple of seconds, but she placed her palms flat on the mattress at her sides. Don’t rush it—savor the experience, said the voice inside her head.

Raoul tasted pleasantly of alcohol and smelled of an exotic cologne under-layered with male sweat. He smelled so sexy that Michelle broke the kiss to press her cheek against his neck and inhale his scent properly. He ran his hands through her hair and breathed in just as deeply. Then he pulled her blouse out from her skirt and tenderly slid it back off her shoulders and down her arms.

Michelle glanced down. She’d always been embarrassed by her small breasts but Raoul immediately pressed them together with his hands and buried his face between them.

“Beautiful, Michelle,” he said, his voice muffled.

He reached around her back to undo her bra and quickly freed them. Michelle gasped as he sucked one of her nipples into his mouth, thrilled by the way in which it puckered against his tongue. Pulses of pleasure burst up from between her legs like corn popping in a pan and she whimpered as he gently pushed her back on the bed. He felt around the waistband of her skirt and quickly rolled her onto her front. As he pulled down the zipper, Michelle could feel the press of his hand down the centre line of her ass—and, God, it felt good. And it felt even better as he rolled her skirt down over her hips and pulled it away, slipping off her shoes at the same time.

Her stockings and panties followed and, when she was completely naked, he ran his hands down her back and up over the sweeping curve of her ass. She waited, holding her breath, for the first spank. But this wasn’t Paul and he rolled her over onto her back.

She smiled up at him shyly and he smiled back.

“I’ve wanted to make love to you for so long,” he said. “You have no idea.”

Michelle took a deep breath. “Please do, Raoul,” she said.

His smile became a grin and he moved on top of her, his arms snaking around the back of her neck.

“First, you need to be thoroughly kissed.”

Michelle wasn’t going to argue as his mouth claimed possession of hers and, as their tongues swirled, she felt the heft of his erection pushing against her stomach. It felt so good, her hips pressed up against him and deep inside a dull but persistent ache began to grow. When his mouth broke away from hers, she was gasping for air.

“Kissed all over your body,” he said.

His tongue traced a line down her throat and across her collar bone. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up and a tremor ran through her. Without conscious thought she bit his shoulder until he moaned and pulled away, sliding down her body to take her breast once more in his mouth. Michelle cried out as he bit her in return and with a finger and thumb pinched her other nipple until the pain matched. She arched her back and spread her legs wide to invite him in but it still wasn’t the moment.

No one had ever kissed her belly before but Raoul left a trail of them in a sweeping curve from her chest down towards her abdomen. No one had ever kissed her between the legs before and instinctively she clapped her knees together as she suddenly realized what he was about to do. She could feel Raoul’s warm breath on the soft V of flesh between her thighs and she closed her eyes. Was this about to happen?

His hands were strong and firm on the insides of her thighs.

“Relax, Michelle,” he whispered. “This is what every woman deserves, every night.”

He stroked the soft flesh at the top her legs without applying any pressure for her to part them. With a moan, she let her muscles relax and her legs fell open. Gentle fingers explored the crevices of her pussy.

“You’re so wet,” he said. “So turned on and ready for this.”

With Raoul’s body out of reach, Michelle’s hands went to her breasts, cupping them and rolling her nipples in the way that Raoul has just moments before. Her hips tilted up, offering herself to Raoul now and his hands grasped her buttocks to anchor her in position.

If the first sweep of his tongue across her pussy was a shock to Michelle, it was the best shock she’d ever had. Air expelled from her lungs in a gasp and the room spun as the most intensely sexual sensation swept through her. After a second sweep of his tongue that had her writhing, Raoul’s mouth latched onto the soft pink bud of her clit and he started to suck and swirl his tongue around it. It took Michelle so close to the edge that she practically screamed, pushing herself forward against his mouth, losing all sense of where she was or who she was with. Pure sexual energy exploded through her and as she rode out the waves of her orgasm, Raoul raised her hips higher and plunged two fingers deep inside her.

Drenched in sweat and panting loudly, Michelle allowed herself to be lowered gently back down to the mattress. She opened her eyes to see Raoul’s face above her, glistening with her own juices. She dropped her glance to see that his erection now pressed up along the ridges of his abdomen, the head of his cock deep purple and engorged.

She nodded to him and once again allowed her legs to fall wide apart, while he rolled a condom down his shaft.

He plunged forward and straight into her with a loud grunt and his girth stretched her wide as he pushed up inside her. She gasped again as her pussy started to respond. His mouth found one of her breasts and her body started moving in rhythm with his thrusts. She swung her legs up around his waist and he went even deeper, sweeping the face of her g-spot with every plunge and every withdrawal. Her breath came in noisy rasps and she grabbed a handful of his black hair to press his body harder against her.

When he came, she could have sworn she felt the pulse of his come, like a hot jet inside her, even though he was wearing a condom. His final deep thrusts brought her to orgasm once again and her muscles clenched around him as if they never wanted to let him go…


She awoke to the familiar sound of the alarm going off and Paul’s scrabbling to switch it off.

“Good morning, Michelle. It’s seven o’clock. Time to get up.”

He told her the time every morning. And every morning the alarm was set for seven. Paul would get out of bed first and use the toilet and then, when he’d gone across to the bathroom, she would get out of bed to use the toilet.

“Paul,” she said, as he went towards the door.

“Yes?” he said, turning back to face her.

“I’ve decided I will go to that conference next week after all.”

Paul looked shocked. This wasn’t the time when they discussed ‘issues’.

“Michelle, I really don’t think…”

“Paul, I’m going. I’ve decided.”

She got out of bed and pushed past him to go to the bathroom.



‘U’ is for urban…

I could have picked a few things for my ‘U’ post on the Blogging from A to Z Challenge – undone, undress, underwear, uh… Or I could have given you an excerpt from my tube sex story, Underground Encounter. But no, ‘U’ is for Urban Dictionary – the online dictionary of things slang and sweary! It’s quite literally my favourite website – whatever that says about me and my intellect. (I’m thinking it’s not good!)


urban dictionary


I use Urban Dictionary on an almost daily basis – to look up new slang I stumble across, to check the spelling of old favourites and, as often as not, to double check the meaning of some arcane sexual phrasing that I want to use in a story. I have to make sure it really means what I think it means, as there’s nothing more embarrassing than being pulled up for using a sex word, or any word, in the wrong context. (Truth be known, I fairly frequently find myself looking up the most obvious of words just because I’m having a crisis of writer confidence!)

Once I’m in, however, I can get lost for hours. There’s always a word of the day – as I write this it’s ‘sansplants’, which means breasts without silicone implants. By the time you read this, it’ll be something different, but probably no less useful!

So, to illustrate how much fun it is, here’s a little challenge.

Red lips

Do you talk dirty?

If you know what all these words mean, the answer’s ‘yes’. If you don’t know what they mean, then it’s a ‘no’ and you’d better head over to the dick dictionary and extend your vocabulary! And if you don’t know what they mean, please leave a guess in the comments – I might even come up with a prize for the most creative answer! (And, yes, there is an Alchemy in joke in there…)






donkey punch

zombie crush


You get the picture! And if you need a writing challenge for the weekend, pick one of the above words or you own favourite from Urban Dictionary and incorporate into a piece of flash fiction! (I particularly now want to write a story featuring brokencyde…)