This week's guest is Kristina Lloyd with an excerpt from her brand new collection On my Knees, which presents fifteen of Kristina's best-loved tales of female submission, including 'The Bondage Pig', 'On My Knees in Barcelona' and 'All My Lovers in One Room'.
The stories in this collection feature a range of characters, settings and submissive desires. In 'Living off Lovers' a woman in a haunted apartment block becomes obsessed with a man she barely knows; while in another tale, Susanna, despite being married, can't stop thinking about her local butcher ('Cutting Out Hearts'). An army-boot fetishist meets her match in 'Boot Camp'; and when Coral's lover claims ownership of her ass, she orchestrates a threesome so she can enjoy being shared ('My Ass is Your Ass is My Ass').
"Kristina Lloyd is one of my favorite writers... Her atmospheric style sends me into orbit" - Alison Tyler
The bartender poured a large brandy then set it in front of me.
“Gratis,” he said.
Unwilling to risk offence, I accepted the drink while trying to convince myself it left me under no obligation. So bloody English of me. Why couldn’t I decline the brandy, pay for the ice conventionally and leave?
“Graçias,” I said, turning to the customer, but I didn’t smile.
He nodded, lips tilting in wry amusement. The brandy was rough, its heat scorching my throat and blazing inside my chest. The nape of my neck was wet with sweat, my hair damp. I was concerned about the ice melting in my jug and wished I could sip the ice water. The ceiling fan clicked faintly. Nobody spoke and I was relieved. It could simply be that this guy was silently extending the hand of friendship. If so, I would silently shake it then shoot off home. The brandy was difficult to drink though, fire when I wanted ice.
“Ay, qué calor,” said my new friend at length.
“Sí, qué calor,” I replied.
Hot weather. I sipped my brandy. I could feel him watching and his passive interest bugged me. After a couple more minutes, wanting to escape his gaze, I asked for the lavabos and was directed down a flight of rickety stairs. I descended towards a basement with scruffy, dark crimson walls, toilets at the far end and a swing door with a small, dirty window lined with wire mesh. Halfway down the stairs, movement below caught my eye. I paused, looking over my shoulder at the corridor behind me. Beyond an open door was a guy on a chair and a woman on her knees, her head bobbing in his lap. I clutched the banister, immobilized by fear and a sudden, pornographic lust.
My cunt swelled and swelled, blood throbbing there. Oh Christ, what a picture. The guy’s mouth was slack, his head tipped back, as the woman, her chestnut curls fanning over his thighs, dipped up and down, up and down. Had they heard me? Hell, I hoped not. I needed to watch. Until that moment, I hadn’t known how much I wanted cock; hadn’t known how much I’d missed it since dumping the guitarist; hadn’t known that stab of raging desire. Because while I could fuck myself with cock-shaped objects (cool as a cucumber), nothing could ever come close to the overwhelming sensations of a deep, dark, blinding mouthful. I stared, hardly daring to breathe.
The guy was young and lean, a tumble of ink-black curls giving him an air of flamenco passion. Transfixed, I watch him grow fiercer, pulling the woman onto him, his fingers snarled in her hair as his pelvis rocked either to meet or defeat her. In her kneeling position, the woman kicked at the floor, squealing in muffled protest, her hands flapping. My yearning for cock was knocked for six by a second wave, a shocking urge to be claimed and used in a myriad of filthy ways.
My cunt flared to a cushiony mass of need, so sensitive I fancied I could feel the warp and weft of cotton in my underwear. I wanted to be where she was, at the mercy of a wild stranger who regarded me as nothing but an object for his pleasure, insignificant and disposable. I wanted to be all body and no mind, a thing made of cunt, mouth and ass, wide open and ready to receive.
Face aflame, I turned, intending to hurry back to the bar. I would put it from my thoughts, pretend nothing had happened, pretend I hadn’t seen either the couple or the grubby depths of my desire. Was this because I hadn’t had sex for so long? Was I craving the basest sort of action as compensation for those months of lack? Feeling shaky, I clasped the banister, mouth dry as a bone.
My stomach somersaulted. To my horror, at the head of the stairs stood the big-nosed guy from the bar. He grinned, descending in slow, swaggering steps. Panicking, I glanced down to the room. The guy in the chair was looking right at me, smirking as he slammed the woman’s head between his thighs. My knees turned wobbly while blood pumped in my ears, roaring like seashells and high fever.
Big Nose was at my side, his forehead gleaming with a film of sweat. He tipped his eyebrows at me. “Cuatro miles pesetas,” he said.
Outrage spiked my fear. Four thousand pesetas! He thought I was a whore, thought I would blow him for a nasty brandy and a handful of notes!
“Déjame paso!” I snapped, attempting to sidestep him. He mirrored me, blocking my path. I grew more afraid then, trapped between these two randy cucarachas, and yet my groin was pulsing as hard as my heart.
“Cuatro miles,” he repeated, nodding towards the basement room. Then in Spanish he added, “Take it, go on. It is a good price. You know you want it.”
And I understood at once that I was to pay; that I was the punter not the whore. I didn’t know whether to be more or less insulted. I stared at him, incredulous. He actually thought I was so desperate for cock I would pay to suck off a stranger in a sleazy, backstreet bar!
“Move,” I said, no longer bothering to speak his language. Despite being on a lower step, I tried shouldering him out of the way but with swift skill, he jostled me backward. I cried out to realize I was now sandwiched between him and the wall, his chest pressing against my breasts, my arms trapped in his hands. For several seconds we stood there, our breaths shallow and tense.
“No me molestes,” I said, a Berlitz phrase I’d never had to use before.
The guy laughed and with good reason. My demand sounded so pitifully insincere I may as well have said “Molest me”. He crooked a finger, resting it in the hollow of my throat, and I turned aside, looking past him to the room below. The woman was watching us. She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and laughed, white teeth flashing. I was relieved to see she wasn’t in trouble but, more than that, I was relieved to see I wasn’t the only woman keen on skirting so close to danger.
Buy links for On My Knees
Amazon UK :: Amazon US :: Amazon Ca
Kristina Lloyd writes erotic fiction about sexually submissive women who like it on the dark, dirty and dangerous side. She is the author of five novels, including the controversial Black Lace
bestseller, Asking for Trouble, a dark, psychological thriller dubbed ‘awesome’ by top-selling crime writer Elizabeth Haynes.
Kristina’s short stories appear in numerous UK and US anthologies, including several ‘best of’ collections, and her work has been translated into German, Dutch and Japanese. Her non-fiction has been published in The Guardian, The Sunday Times Travel, Scarlet, FHM, Filament, The International Business Times and more. She has a master’s degree in twentieth century literature and lives by the sea in Brighton, UK.
Visit her at her blog or follow her on Twitter.
“Gratis,” he said.
Unwilling to risk offence, I accepted the drink while trying to convince myself it left me under no obligation. So bloody English of me. Why couldn’t I decline the brandy, pay for the ice conventionally and leave?
“Graçias,” I said, turning to the customer, but I didn’t smile.
He nodded, lips tilting in wry amusement. The brandy was rough, its heat scorching my throat and blazing inside my chest. The nape of my neck was wet with sweat, my hair damp. I was concerned about the ice melting in my jug and wished I could sip the ice water. The ceiling fan clicked faintly. Nobody spoke and I was relieved. It could simply be that this guy was silently extending the hand of friendship. If so, I would silently shake it then shoot off home. The brandy was difficult to drink though, fire when I wanted ice.
“Ay, qué calor,” said my new friend at length.
“Sí, qué calor,” I replied.
Hot weather. I sipped my brandy. I could feel him watching and his passive interest bugged me. After a couple more minutes, wanting to escape his gaze, I asked for the lavabos and was directed down a flight of rickety stairs. I descended towards a basement with scruffy, dark crimson walls, toilets at the far end and a swing door with a small, dirty window lined with wire mesh. Halfway down the stairs, movement below caught my eye. I paused, looking over my shoulder at the corridor behind me. Beyond an open door was a guy on a chair and a woman on her knees, her head bobbing in his lap. I clutched the banister, immobilized by fear and a sudden, pornographic lust.
My cunt swelled and swelled, blood throbbing there. Oh Christ, what a picture. The guy’s mouth was slack, his head tipped back, as the woman, her chestnut curls fanning over his thighs, dipped up and down, up and down. Had they heard me? Hell, I hoped not. I needed to watch. Until that moment, I hadn’t known how much I wanted cock; hadn’t known how much I’d missed it since dumping the guitarist; hadn’t known that stab of raging desire. Because while I could fuck myself with cock-shaped objects (cool as a cucumber), nothing could ever come close to the overwhelming sensations of a deep, dark, blinding mouthful. I stared, hardly daring to breathe.
The guy was young and lean, a tumble of ink-black curls giving him an air of flamenco passion. Transfixed, I watch him grow fiercer, pulling the woman onto him, his fingers snarled in her hair as his pelvis rocked either to meet or defeat her. In her kneeling position, the woman kicked at the floor, squealing in muffled protest, her hands flapping. My yearning for cock was knocked for six by a second wave, a shocking urge to be claimed and used in a myriad of filthy ways.
My cunt flared to a cushiony mass of need, so sensitive I fancied I could feel the warp and weft of cotton in my underwear. I wanted to be where she was, at the mercy of a wild stranger who regarded me as nothing but an object for his pleasure, insignificant and disposable. I wanted to be all body and no mind, a thing made of cunt, mouth and ass, wide open and ready to receive.
Face aflame, I turned, intending to hurry back to the bar. I would put it from my thoughts, pretend nothing had happened, pretend I hadn’t seen either the couple or the grubby depths of my desire. Was this because I hadn’t had sex for so long? Was I craving the basest sort of action as compensation for those months of lack? Feeling shaky, I clasped the banister, mouth dry as a bone.
My stomach somersaulted. To my horror, at the head of the stairs stood the big-nosed guy from the bar. He grinned, descending in slow, swaggering steps. Panicking, I glanced down to the room. The guy in the chair was looking right at me, smirking as he slammed the woman’s head between his thighs. My knees turned wobbly while blood pumped in my ears, roaring like seashells and high fever.
Big Nose was at my side, his forehead gleaming with a film of sweat. He tipped his eyebrows at me. “Cuatro miles pesetas,” he said.
Outrage spiked my fear. Four thousand pesetas! He thought I was a whore, thought I would blow him for a nasty brandy and a handful of notes!
“Déjame paso!” I snapped, attempting to sidestep him. He mirrored me, blocking my path. I grew more afraid then, trapped between these two randy cucarachas, and yet my groin was pulsing as hard as my heart.
“Cuatro miles,” he repeated, nodding towards the basement room. Then in Spanish he added, “Take it, go on. It is a good price. You know you want it.”
And I understood at once that I was to pay; that I was the punter not the whore. I didn’t know whether to be more or less insulted. I stared at him, incredulous. He actually thought I was so desperate for cock I would pay to suck off a stranger in a sleazy, backstreet bar!
“Move,” I said, no longer bothering to speak his language. Despite being on a lower step, I tried shouldering him out of the way but with swift skill, he jostled me backward. I cried out to realize I was now sandwiched between him and the wall, his chest pressing against my breasts, my arms trapped in his hands. For several seconds we stood there, our breaths shallow and tense.
“No me molestes,” I said, a Berlitz phrase I’d never had to use before.
The guy laughed and with good reason. My demand sounded so pitifully insincere I may as well have said “Molest me”. He crooked a finger, resting it in the hollow of my throat, and I turned aside, looking past him to the room below. The woman was watching us. She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and laughed, white teeth flashing. I was relieved to see she wasn’t in trouble but, more than that, I was relieved to see I wasn’t the only woman keen on skirting so close to danger.
Buy links for On My Knees
Amazon UK :: Amazon US :: Amazon Ca
Kristina Lloyd writes erotic fiction about sexually submissive women who like it on the dark, dirty and dangerous side. She is the author of five novels, including the controversial Black Lace
bestseller, Asking for Trouble, a dark, psychological thriller dubbed ‘awesome’ by top-selling crime writer Elizabeth Haynes.
Kristina’s short stories appear in numerous UK and US anthologies, including several ‘best of’ collections, and her work has been translated into German, Dutch and Japanese. Her non-fiction has been published in The Guardian, The Sunday Times Travel, Scarlet, FHM, Filament, The International Business Times and more. She has a master’s degree in twentieth century literature and lives by the sea in Brighton, UK.
Visit her at her blog or follow her on Twitter.
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