Wednesday, 29 June 2016

130 Authors

Emanuelle de Maupassant has done something pretty damn amazing. She sent out a huge detailed questionnaire to writers of erotica, and 130 authors - a 50:80 male:female split in case you wondered - have replied to talk about their motivation, inspiration and their craft - including such luminaries as Patrick Califia, and "Huh ... wot?" dumbasses like me.

Emmanuelle's been writing a series of articles on her blog, sifting the responses. There are tons of thoughtful insights picked out and a few surprises (20% of erotica writers also write in the horror genre; a third have studied literature in higher education) Here's the list of posts so far:

Men writing erotic fiction
Men reading erotic fiction

130 authors of erotic fiction
First inspirations
Why write erotic fiction?
Dancing the line: fantasy and realism in erotic fiction

Monday, 27 June 2016

Blue Monday: Jennifer Denys guests

Every Monday I post a hot excerpt for you to enjoy!

My guest today is Jennifer Denys with her brand-new-just-out-this week-short Dark Captive.

Laura has been kidnapped. She is bound, gagged and cannot see, and taken to a strange building. All her other senses, smell, taste, touch and hearing, come into play in determining where she is and who has taken her.

Her captor, Todd, is a Dominant, who relishes his role. And Laura is special. He loves having submissives who challenge him and punishes Laura for trying to escape and cares for her when she stumbles—unable to see where she is going—in equal measures
As the evening progresses, Todd keeps her off balance giving her out-of-this-world experiences, always making sure she climaxes. On the one hand, he caresses her and the next he slaps her. Being into BDSM, Laura finds it very arousing, but that goes against everything her head is telling her. She shouldn’t enjoy it—should she?

As he moved to untie her feet, Laura’s mind started racing. Her freedom was intoxicating.

Her captor chuckled. “Put those thoughts out of your head, my dear. You cannot escape. The door is locked.”

Damn. But maybe if she got that far she could bang on it and raise attention. However, although her arms were unbound and her legs were free, her trousers still were around her ankles.

Not for long—the man was removing them, pulling her shoes off, caressing her calves as he did. The tingling up her legs sending electrical impulses to her pussy so surprised her she forgot to sprint to the door as soon as he finished.

Instead, he held her upper arms tightly in his grasp as he pulled her to stand and swiftly dragged her shirt off before she could stop him.

Laura hadn’t been expecting that and gasped in shock.

“That’s how I like my women—naked.” There was a salacious tone to his voice that was very unnerving.

Feeling self-conscious, Laura crossed her arms over her chest.

“Uh-uh. Drop them.”

She refused to obey.

“Laura! Do it now.”

His tone brooked no refusal, and she reluctantly did as he instructed, trembling when he stepped closer. She could feel his warm breath on her cheek. Her shivering intensified as she waited to see what he would do next. It was unsettling. His touch, when it came, was gentle—a whisper of a caress down her arm, a stroke of his hand over her stomach, the back of his fingers over her nipple.

Her calm crashed with his next statement. “These would look magnificent squeezed tightly in clamps.”

Was he really going to do that? She trembled violently and stepped back involuntarily, needing to distance herself.

The man quickly grabbed her arm, stopping her moving further. “As much as I want you flat on your back, if you go any further you’ll fall over the chair.”

She stopped rigidly. Afraid to move.

“But I’ve a better idea. Instead of you on your back, I’ll have you on your front. This way, my dear.”

What did he mean?

Laura soon found out as he pulled her forward, wrapping an arm around her waist, turning her so her back was against his chest. She could feel some furniture against her upper thighs.

“Bend forward. I want you to reach out with your hands to grip the other side of the table.”

When she failed to do as he demanded, her captor pushed firmly on her shoulder blades.

“Do it. Immediately!”

She hurriedly complied, scared by the harsh tone in his voice.

“That’s more like it. Now spread your legs.”

Oh God. She wanted to pee. Laura intuitively knew he was about to push himself into her vagina—or worse.

However, when he touched her again, it was to fondle her backside, soothingly. It lulled her into a false sense of security as he followed it up with a very sharp slap to her butt making her jump.

“Don’t let go of the table, whatever I do.”

Her heart got faster at that statement, the blood pounding in her ears almost deafening her to other sounds, like the faint traffic coming from what she guessed was a window in front of her.

Instead, her body was attuned to the sense of touch as she then felt something tickling her—a stem from a flower display, maybe. Her innate response, to try to recognize the smell, was cut short when he trailed the leaf up her leg, through the crease between her buttocks and she clenched her bottom. 

He stopped, and she waited for the next assault.

It was preceded by a whoosh of air.


She yelped as he hit her with something, the belt he had been promising, maybe. Whatever it was, it stung madly! Laura gritted her teeth, clinging onto the table as hard as she could as she felt herself squirting in reaction, as often happened during her experiences with sadomasochism. Her body relished it so much.

His fingers on her back passage made her nearly let go into shock as he probed, pressing a finger in.

Oh dear Lord!

She considered if she could struggle away but that idea was too late as he moved in close behind her, pushing his cock into the place his finger had just been. He was hard and slick—she guessed he had used lube from somewhere.

Whatever, it didn’t hurt as he went slowly—at first. When he pulled out and plunged in again fast, it did hurt, and she cried out.

He stopped, stroking her back. “Relax and breathe slowly or you’ll hurt yourself.”

Laura laughed inwardly in hysteria. Who is hurting whom here?

But the pain quickly diminished and his next thrusts were softer, but deeper. At that point, he hit her 
sensitive nerve endings, and she moaned out loud, before biting her lip. She didn’t want him to know she adored what he was doing.

It was too late. He chuckled wickedly. “I know you really like that, so it’s no good hiding it.”

She groaned as he plunged into her again. Each time he thrust she cried out, panting, her mouth dry, taste buds dulled. She clenched her fingers tightly around the edge of the table as he pulled her hair, but it wasn’t the reason. In fact, she hardly felt the tug on her scalp—it was in reaction to what he was doing to her backside, to her insides.

The noisy sounds of the city diminished. Even the smell of his scent dissipated. Every nerve ending, every sensation in her body coalesced on the inside of her ass as he plundered her over and over without surcease.

It was bliss.

Sheer and utter ecstasy.

Spine-tinglingly wonderful.

When he thrust again, harder, faster, and possibly deeper, she teetered on the brink. It was almost too much. The sensations were beginning to overwhelm her. She knew she shouldn't have another 
orgasm. It wasn’t necessary, she was already in heaven.

Death would almost be preferable. Too late, she was over the top.

Buy Dark Captive at

Jennifer Denys is a bestselling author in various genre (BDSM, contemporary, sci-fi, paranormal, with historical and fantasy in her works in progress) with several different publishers.

An Englishwoman through and through, she lives in a beautiful historical city and is game to try most things once. She’s had a tattoo done on her calf, flew down zip wires 100 feet up in the trees, and was photographed nude by a professional photographer. All of which have taken place since she turned 50!

Many of her experiences end up in her books… but you will have to read them to find out what!

Sunday, 26 June 2016

The Failure of Sir Lancelot

by Edward Burne-Jones (1833-1898)
I've been feeling like this since the Brexit Referendum.

I don't have a lot of drive to write, I'm afraid.

Friday, 24 June 2016

Shut Out

Illustration by by Florence Harrison, 1910
Poem by Christina Rossetti:

The door was shut. I looked between
Its iron bars; and saw it lie,
My garden, mine, beneath the sky,
Pied with all flowers bedewed and green:

From bough to bough the song-birds crossed,
From flower to flower the moths and bees;
With all its nests and stately trees
It had been mine, and it was lost.

A shadowless spirit kept the gate,
Blank and unchanging like the grave.
I peering through said: 'Let me have
Some buds to cheer my outcast state.'

He answered not. 'Or give me, then,
But one small twig from shrub or tree;
And bid my home remember me
Until I come to it again.'

The spirit was silent; but he took
Mortar and stone to build a wall;
He left no loophole great or small
Through which my straining eyes might look:

So now I sit here quite alone
Blinded with tears; nor grieve for that,
For nought is left worth looking at
Since my delightful land is gone.

A violet bed is budding near,
Wherein a lark has made her nest:
And good they are, but not the best;
And dear they are, but not so dear.

Wednesday, 22 June 2016

The Machines de L'île

"Ooh-la-la. Vous est un Big Boy, aren't vous?"

A week ago I was off the blog/radar in Brittany, France. It's a region famous for its neolithic monuments (of which more later, I don't doubt) - but here's something it should be at least as famous for because it is TOTALLY F*CKING WONDERFUL: Les Machines de L'île in the city of Nantes.

The Machines is a gigantic ongoing steampunk art project inspired by Jules Verne. They build HUGE mobile creatures that are part vehicle, part puppet, and all awesome.

BEHOLD THE ELEPHANT: it's 12m tall and can take 50 passengers on a 45 minute walk!

(When the drivers aren't on strike, of course...)
 Here's a little something they built for China:

Their current project is the Heron Tree, a 45m steel structure with a self-sustaining plant ecosystem, in which visitors and robots interact among the branches. 

They are busy building working prototypes:

It crawls!

It scampers!


It looks really weird!

No, hold on, this is way weirder...

OMG I'm going to have nightmares
Already functioning on-site is the gigantic three-storey Marine Worlds Carousel


... which we got free rides on because of the strike :-D

A hysterically happy Ashbless
So, if you ever go to France, I wholeheartedly recommend a visit to Les Machines de L'île :-)

Monday, 20 June 2016

Troy: September 2001 - June 2016

I said goodbye to Troy yesterday. He was 14 and his legs had finally given out. He went off to sleep with a stomach full of roast chicken and a happy sigh.

He started life as Gortkelly Rusty, an Irish racing greyhound. He even won a couple of races. Then someone shipped him to England (at which point, in 2003, he falls off the official records) and he turned up dumped on the streets in June 2005. It's a story common to many ex-racers.

He was taken in by the wonderful Tia Greyhound and Lurcher Rescue, and we had him for ten lucky years. He was a big, dignified, gentle dog who loved food and cuddles. He always assumed that everyone he met was his friend, and I am glad he had such a long and happy life, and such an easy death.

Being a pet owner hurts.

Friday, 10 June 2016

Out of Office

I'm away from my blog for a week or so, but I thought I''d leave you with this picture of Azazel: angel of sacrifices. I don't often link to living artists but Peter Mohrbacker is GREAT - he's been painting a whole series of angels and fallen angels on his Angelarium site. Most of them are a whole lot less human looking than Azazel there - in fact he's positively cuddly in comparison to his brethren.
Do go take a look!

You can also buy his first angel book from
Amazon UK
Amazon US

Wednesday, 8 June 2016

We Need to be Wicked

Lucrezia Borgia, by Bartolomeo Veneto (1502-1546)

There's been some spirited discussion on my Facebook wall recent of this article and this one, so I thought I'd re-post my take on the subject. It originally appeared on the Sinful Press blog back in April. I've made some minor corrections for clarification.

 We Need to be Wicked 
Recently I bought an anthology of female-written fiction whose subtitle was “women up to no good”. Now this is not a book review, but I want to make it clear that these stories were well-written and well-edited and almost all really interesting, taken as individual pieces. Nevertheless I read the collection with a growing sense of frustration and finished up feeling thoroughly cheated.

You’d have thought with a title like that you’d be in for tales of villains, wouldn’t you? Criminals, wild girls, cheats, roisterers, spies, revolutionaries, murderers, rioters, conspirators, cunning manipulators, selfish bitches, fighters and rebels?

What we actually got, out of 35 stories, were 13 about women in sexual relationships with men who treated them badly (anywhere from ignoring them as they grew apart, way up to severe abuse), and the women reacting in various ways (from having a bit of a cry, up to revenge murder). Of the remaining stories, 12 featured women who did absolutely nothing ethically dodgy at all, and 4 had female protagonists who were miserably coerced into wrongdoing by some sort of external compulsion (usually family pressure).

These weren’t stories of Women Up To No Good, these were stories of Poor Downtrodden Wives and their Nasty Menz. These were stories of passive, conformist, characterless doormats pushed into a corner.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m most certainly not someone who thinks that all fiction should be socially improving or be about supplying good role models. I have zero truck with activists who think that misfortune happening to a female character automatically makes a Bad Story and its fans misogynists, or those who call on authors to be “punished” for killing off any gay character. A progressive take in fiction is a good thing, IMO, but the moment it becomes the only criterion then storytelling is dead.

So yeah, if you’re a writer – write what you like.

But hell, I do think there is a hole in feminist fiction, and a terrible distortion in the image women writers present our gender: selfless, sexless creatures victimized by nasty men with all the personality of sharks.

Clytemnestra, by John Collier (1882)
Because that’s JUST NOT TRUE, ffs! In real life, women do really bad things from selfish motives (and gosh, men have complex inner lives and are often altruistic!). Girls are bullies just as much as boys are. Women inflict verbal, mental, sexual and physical abuse on partners and children (the rate of domestic violence among lesbian couples is actually higher than male-to-female violence in heterosexual couples). They neglect their responsibilities and desert their families for sex and excitement. THEY WANT SEX WITH PEOPLE THEY ARE NOT MARRIED TO. They’re greedy, materialistic, cruel, and driven by status and power and money – because those are all human traits, not just male ones.

Yes, I get that women writers don’t want to shore up the old-school clichés of manipulative bitches and sultry temptresses – but putting 'our' people on a pedestal (and “we are all blameless victims” – such a low, dreary, shitty pedestal!) is not the solution either.

And good grief, what is this authors’ conspiracy that women characters don’t think much about sex? If that were the case, the multi-billion dollar Romance industry would drop dead overnight. They might be cautious for very good practical reasons about expressing it, but women in real life dream about, lust over and objectify men they don’t know. 

All. The. Time.

I’m a feminist. I don’t wish to finish yet another book of female-focused fiction thinking, “Well shit, I never want to read another woman writer again, pass me some Robert E Howard for fuckssake.” What I do want is to read about women doing thrilling things, about women driven by their unruly impulses, about women who make terrible life choices with heroic, ferocious passion. I want them to go on rash missions and shoot for the stars and stop being the eternal goddamn voice of dull respectability and caution. I want women to be heroes and villains, not just protagonists. I want women’s fiction – and women in fiction – to be as exciting and scary and dramatic and shocking as any written.

Women characters in fiction need more ego. It’s the fundamental basis of being an individual after all.
I want us to reclaim our lust, our agency – and hell yes, our wickedness.

Monday, 6 June 2016

Blue Monday: Annabeth Leong guests

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

We're back for a second taste of the anthology Silence is Golden, because it's NOW OUT IN PAPERBACK TOO, yay! And my guest excerpt is from Annabeth Leong's A Change of Perspective.

I had stepped into someone else’s life. Everything I had on was new or rented—the tuxedo, the shining black leather shoes, the binder that concealed my breasts, the cock stuffed into the front of my pants.

The woman on the other end of the leash I was holding didn’t belong to me either. Kristina, my best friend, had begged me to put on this show for just one night, for just this party, and I had agreed.

I had stripped her naked, buckled her into a leather collar so thick she couldn’t bend her neck, locked it with the padlock she had given me, and led her into the main party room by a leash handle that could double as a spanking implement. The temptation was to clutch it because I wasn’t sure I knew what I was doing, but I forced myself to hold it loosely instead. Max, the character I was playing tonight, wasn’t the type to over-grip. He was the definition of cool and smooth, because I’d made him up to be that way, and I focused on walking and moving like I’d imagined he would.

Because of nerves, we’d arrived a little late. Kristina hadn’t been to any kinky events since she’d broken up with her ex, and we’d had a long talk about that before getting dressed. I went out like this most weekends, but not usually as a top, and never presenting as a man. I’d spent forever in the bathroom adjusting the package I’d purchased for the occasion, half-worried I hadn’t put it on right and half-overwhelmed by how turned on I got seeing its bulge.

The party was already in full swing. The seemingly required soundtrack of Massive Attack and Hybrid pumped steadily through high-quality speakers, ordinary household objects were hidden under black cloths, and kink furniture had been brought out and set up throughout the space. The carpet must have been steam cleaned earlier that day—a slightly damp, soapy smell wafted through the air-conditioned room.

I’d been going to private kinky parties for years, but the first moment inside I always felt like I was in the wrong place. I never could sort out the details of the press of bodies, and the sounds of gasps, moans, grunts, and screams hit me with a sense of danger that took a few minutes to transform into a vicarious thrill. Usually, that was when I would lean toward the person I came with, wrap myself in their toppy energy, and let our power dynamic settle my nerves.

Tonight, I was the top. The chain that linked me to Kristina stirred. She shifted from foot to foot like a nervous animal, and I knew what she needed because it was what I would have needed in her position.

I picked up the slack in the chain until it stretched taut. Choking up to keep her on a short leash, I steered us toward a spot deeper in the party as if I knew exactly where we were going. I didn’t, but she didn’t have to know that.

I could feel her calming with every step. She followed me like a dancer, up on her tiptoes because I had a few inches on her, her bare feet landing precisely, the movements making the muscles in her thick calves and thighs flex and ripple. I thought it was a beautiful effect, so I shifted my grip to urge her higher onto her toes.

Her posture changed even more. Her straight neck translated to a straight back. We’d decided not to use any restraints besides the collar and lead, but she moved her hands into position behind her as if I’d cuffed them there, and the gesture emphasized the curves of her breasts, stomach, and hips.

Her thick, curly hair cascaded down her back, tendrils brushing the tops of her thumbs. She kept her eyes lowered, which made the beauty of her long lashes more noticeable and made me feel safe watching her face.

I wasn’t used to looking at my best friend this way. Of course, I knew she was pretty, but I didn’t usually admire the sensual fullness of her cheeks. I’d never before stared at the spot below her ear and thought about putting my tongue there. I’d certainly never mentally compared the coppery brown of her lips and her nipples, had never wondered if the latter were hardening because of me.

I’ll admit, I’d forgotten the role I was supposed to be playing. A bottom might get to go la-la in subspace, but a top can’t give in to the temptation to neglect the rest of the world.

I was so focused on Kristina that I walked into a tall someone’s chest. In my surprise, I jerked the leash to an odd angle, making her stumble.

I opened my mouth to apologize to both of them, then remembered who I was tonight and closed it. I didn’t know how well I passed to other people, but I passed great to myself as long as I didn’t say anything. I felt like Max, felt like a handsome, sexy, well-put-together, dominant man—right up until the soprano tones of my voice hit my eardrums. I’d experimented with lowering it, but that just made me feel ridiculous. Instead, Kristina and I had agreed that Max would be the strong, silent type. We’d even worked out signals I could use to check in with her, so I wouldn’t have to break the spell while we were in front of other people at the party.

We hadn’t anticipated a situation where I’d need to communicate with anyone but her.

Buy Silence is Golden on
Amazon (this is a geo-link)
Barnes and Noble

Annabeth Leong is frequently confused about her sexuality but enjoys searching for answers.

Her work appears in dozens of anthologies, including the 20th anniversary edition of Best Lesbian Erotica and Heiresses of Russ 2015: the Year's Best Lesbian Speculative Fiction. She is the author of Untouched: A Sensory Voyage of Voyeurism and Discovery, and the editor of MakerSex: Erotic Stories of Geeks, Hackers, and DIY Projects.



Sunday, 5 June 2016

I am in blood stepped in so far

Magazine illustration by Fritz Hegenbart 1864–1943
I've hit 41K on my wordcount for The Valleys of the Earth, which means that notionally I am halfway through!

Plotwise, the excrement is about to hit the rotating blades in great quantity.

(Also I just wrote "wordcunt" so I think I should stop and eat)

Friday, 3 June 2016

Vegetable Love

Winter, by Guiseppe Arcimboldo, 1573
My bad poetry posted earlier this week reminded me of an absolute gem of erotic poetry I came across recently:  Robert Herrick's The Vine.

Herrick (1591-1674) was a contemporary of the Metaphysical Poets. I believe the definition of metaphysical poetry boils down to an intense interest in
1) getting laid,
2) forcing metaphors through the hymen of credulity and right up the long and winding vagina of embarrassing crassness (see what I did there?).
Not many modern smutwriters, for example, would stoop to arousing their characters or readers by reminding them that their putrescent vulvas will one day be eaten out by maggots, like Marvell:

Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserv’d virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust

Or by remarking that they are crawling with fleas, like Donne:

It sucked me first, and now sucks thee, 
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be

Anyway, here's Herrick's The Vine, in all its hortiphallic glory:

"I dream'd this mortal part of mine
Was metamorphos’d to a vine;
Which crawling one and every way,
Enthrall’d my dainty Lucia.
Me thought, her long small legs and thighs
I with my tendrils did surprise;
Her belly, buttocks, and her waist
By my soft nerv’lits were embrac’d:
About her head I writhing hung,
And with rich clusters (hid among
The leaves) her temples I behung:
So that my Lucia seem’d to me
Young Bacchus ravisht by his tree.
My curles about her neck did crawl,
And arms and hands they did enthrall:
So that she could not freely stir,
(All parts there made one prisoner).
But when I crept with leaves to hide
Those parts, which maids keep unespy’d,
Such fleeting pleasures there I took,
That with the fancy I awoke;
And found (ah me!) this flesh of mine
More like a stock, then like a vine."

He's got wood, as they say...

Of course, if you like flora-themed sex, there's always this fine collection of suspicious-looking vegetables ;-)

Thursday, 2 June 2016

Smut by the Sea 2016

I might have missed Eroticon this year, but I got to Scarborough for Smut by the Sea 2016!

I even got to frolic on the *ahem* beautiful golden sands this time, yay!

Jennifer Denys took this pic
There were of course fabulously smutty readings from fave authors:

Nano Vaslen , Richard V Raiment and Victoria Blisse

Dylan McEwan and K D Grace
And there were workshops on self-publishing (from Anna Sky) and writing Sci Fi (from Jennifer Denys).

Oh, yeah ... and one from me on Writing Fantasy:

Another photo from Jennifer :-)
Then the dapper Jay Coates and the fabulous Bea Noir treated us to the first-ever Dr Scribbly workshop, wherein we were inspired to write things based on Bea's sexy and slightly terrifying burlesque.

And then Hermione ate a lightbulb and hammered a 6-inch nail up her nose...

Here is wot I wrote in response as I came out of shock. I blame Ashley Lister for infecting me with bad poetry:

MetASSmorphosis Spell

I wish my ass was glass
So that Bea would eat it;
I wish my ass was a nose
So that Bea would nail it;
I wish my ass was a chair
So that SuperBea would give a flying fuck

Photo by Nano Vaslen

 I won a prize for that!

You have a filthy mind
Thank you Victoria Blisse for another lovely Smut event :-)