Eyecandy Monday - Sallyanne Rogers guests

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

This week's excerpt is from Spring in My Step, by Sallyanne Rogers. Don't say we're not cutting edge here in Eroticaland - this novel may be the first time the erotic romance genre has ever been combined with Morris dancing!

When Cath meets Robbie for the first time, she decides to hold back on telling him she’s a Morris dancer who’s about to be featured in a TV programme about contemporary British culture. She’s not expecting more than a one night stand in the first place, so there’s no need to complicate things. However, what started out as a bit of fun looks like it could turn into something more, as the two of them find their mutual attraction too strong to resist.The documentary crew are on the hunt for juicy controversies in the run up to the May Day festival at Waterleigh Bridge, and it seems that Robbie has a secret of his own. If he and Cath find out the truth about one another, will it bring them closer or tear them apart?

---

‘It’s all right, Cath. I don’t want anything – well, not a drink, anyway. Or are you having one?’

I shook my head. It suddenly occurred to me that, after all the dancing and the excitement, I could actually do with a shower before bed, and I had a sudden mental image of us showering together, so naturally, I shared it with him.

‘Sounds good,’ he said. ‘I’ll wash your back and you can wash… any bit of me you like.’ Once again he was coming out with comments that would have sounded either cheesy or crass from anyone else, and I felt that hot, deep flexing inside my quim again.

‘Come on, then,’ I said and led him through to the bathroom.

Because my flat’s quite small and the bathroom’s very small, I only have a shower: no bathtub. But that does mean it’s quite a big shower, so there was room for both of us, without any uncomfortable bumping of knees and elbows against the door or soap dish catching anyone in the small of the back.

I got the water running before stripping off, to give the slightly moody boiler time to get going, but it didn’t seem very long before we were face to face under the spurting jets, kissing and running our hands over each other’s sleekly wet bodies. Robbie had been half-erect when he took his pants off, and it didn’t take more than a couple of kisses for his cock to be fully hard, rigid and jutting upwards, pushing against my stomach when I wrapped my arms around him. I wriggled gently to and fro, but I knew I wasn’t quite the right height for us to fuck each other standing up. Never mind, there were plenty of other things I could do.

I reached for the bottle of shower gel, hanging on its useful hook, and helped myself to a good dollop of the stuff. It was a citrus-and-something, not so flowery that it would raise eyebrows if the scent of it was still clinging to Robbie’s skin the next day.

‘Lean back,’ I whispered, gently pushing him against the wall and then licking and softly biting his nipples, which had stiffened almost as much as his cock. I rubbed the shaft of it with the shower gel, working up a little lather so my hand could slide easily up and down the length. He groaned, closing his eyes and bracing himself against the tiles. The water streamed and gently pounded over us as I wanked him, speeding up and slowing down, twisting my wrist a little, pumping up and down that hot, pulsing shaft, tense and straining upwards, the head of it bulbous and free of the foreskin.

‘Cath, oh Cath, love, you’re so good at it,’ Robbie gasped, and I worked him a little faster, leaning over to give his left nipple a firm suck, while I used one hand up and down his prick and the other to cup his balls, cradling them in their vulnerable sac of warm, wrinkled skin, feeling them tighten, listening to his ragged breathing.

‘If you don’t stop soon…I won’t be able to…’

‘That’s all right, that’s fine,’ I said, and it was. I wanted to make him come, I wanted him to lose control for me. I knew it wouldn’t be long; I looked up at his face, watched him throw his head back and cry out, and then his cock spasmed in my hand and let loose jet after jet of pearly white seed.

‘Oh, my god. Sorry, love, I just couldn’t hold it,’ he said, straightening up and pulling me against him. He kissed my temple, then put a finger under my chin and lifted my face so he could kiss my mouth, a quick, firm press of his lips to mine. ‘I’ve been thinking about it for days. Ever since last Friday. And I didn’t last two minutes.’

He glanced around for the shower control and switched it off. ‘Can we get into the bedroom and I’ll do something good for you?’

We towelled off quickly and I led him through to my bed, which was barely double-sized, but at that point I really didn’t care. I lay down, and he lay beside me, running one finger slowly over my skin, tracing circles round each of my breasts, working his way up to the tightly-crinkled peak of each nipple then outwards again. It was gorgeous, but torture as well; so tantalizing I could hardly bear it. I spread my legs, almost involuntarily, my hips beginning to push up and my pussy opening for him. He licked my nipples then, circling them with his tongue the way he had been doing with his fingers, and I dug my nails into the bed beneath me. I was so dripping wet now that I thought I must be dampening the sheet.

Robbie made his way down the bed, turning himself carefully until his face was between my thighs. He started to lick me then, his tongue flickering delicately over my clit, his breath hot on my mound. He said nothing more, just licked and licked, holding me open with his hands on my legs, tasting me, scenting me and the tip of his tongue keeping up the intensity of the stimulation. My stomach muscles were quivering, my heart beating so loud I thought the whole of the street could probably hear it, and still he kept on licking, nothing but those dainty little licks, focused entirely on the most sensitive spot, and then I grabbed the back of his head and pulled his face against my cunt and came and came and came.

---

Spring in My Step at
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Xcite Books

Sallyanne Rogers' blog

TED said

There are many wonderful TED talks, but this is one I found particularly full of ideas ready to go off Whizz Pop in the head. Enjoy :-)

Up yours, Freud!

Behold, there shall be no more penis envy! For I have bought a she-wee and no tree is safe!

I've been meaning to buy one for YEARS and finally the prospect of camping has forced my hand, as it were...

Soft plastic, emo colour. I approve.

I'll need to practise writing my name in the snow, mind...

The Chalice Well

During my trip to the West Country for Eroticon I took the opportunity to make a research visit to Glastonbury - in particular, to the Chalice Well Gardens, which features in my work-in-progress Falling Deep.

This site is a World Peace Garden (with the notable exception of when my nephew and niece are running around it ... sorry everyone....): sort of Interfaith with a tendency toward pagan, as far as I can tell.

 It's very pretty indeed!

See how the water is orangey-red? It contains a very high level of iron, which leaves a rusty deposit on the stones. Medieval Christian legend associates it with the Holy Grail that held Jesus' blood from the Crucifixion, said to have been brought here by Joseph of Arimathea.

You can drink the water, which is reputed to have healing properties:

Mind you, the water is also reputed to be warm like blood, and I can tell you from personal experience wading in bathing pool that this is SADLY NOT TRUE!

"HOOOOOLY ... springs!"

The actual Chalice Well looks like this:

What happens there in Falling Deep? You'll have to wait and see!

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

A total blast from the past this week - but keeping up with my Eroticon fantasy theme. Here's one of the least troubling scenes from Burning Bright, which is a swords 'n' sorcery fantasy with a sorta dark Bollywood vibe. I had to censor a LOT of this novel before publication - it was a bit much for Black Lace at the time...

I love the title font though

(All you need to know for this excerpt is that Veraine is suffering from serious amnesia ... and intermittent hallucinations)

---

There was a woman standing among the rocks downstream, cloaked in the shadow of the ferns.

Veraine’s irritation shifted into something else. For the briefest moment he hoped it was Teihli, because he was itching for some relief from his tension, but then he realised this was a stranger. She didn’t look startled by his presence; she looked as if she meant to be there. But she was naked from the hips up, clad only in a tight skirt of dull and mottled cloth. Her breasts were small and high and dark as if never hidden from the sun, providing a distracting backdrop to an elaborate gold collar that spread below her throat from shoulder to shoulder. She looked at him without a word, then raised one hand and beckoned.

Veraine stood, rather conscious of his wet clothes and wondering who she was. She didn’t look like one of the village women, who were inevitably modest in their dress and never wore jewellery so magnificent. He strode toward her slowly across the rocks, but when he’d closed half the distance he halted. Something within him was growing wary of her stillness and strangeness, and the knowledge that he’d left his falchion behind on a rock was preying on his mind for no reason that he could put his finger on. He sized her up. She was just a young woman, unarmed and very slight; she couldn’t possibly represent a threat – not in herself. Her skin had a glisten as if freshly oiled. Her hair was so short that on any other woman he’d have thought it ugly, but her bones were so fine that it seemed to suit her. He looked beyond her, checking for signs of an ambush. ‘What?’ he said softly. ‘What do you want?’

I have something to give you, she said. Her lips hadn’t moved: the voice was in his head, sibilant and cool. Veraine felt the water droplets on his spine turn icy. He took a step back as she came toward him, but he couldn’t retreat on ground this rough without turning and running, so he had to stand and watch her advance. His heart kicked in his chest. She did not walk across the boulders; she glided, her legs never moving though her hips undulated. Behind her something like a dress-train slipped among the rocks.

‘You’re not real,’ he whispered.

She smiled and clasped her hands at the back of her neck, weaving her torso from side to side as she closed on him, displaying her little breasts to their best effect. It was almost enough to distract him from that which, below her hips, was so terribly wrong. Almost. He finally realised that what he’d thought of as her skirt was not an item of clothing; from the hips down she was encased in mottled scaly skin, and there was no line of a human leg beneath it - neither legs nor feet. Instead she had the tail of a huge snake, as thick through as her torso and many times her body-length, its coils stirring lazily on the moss. The interlocking pattern on that snakeskin was echoed too in the arrangement of the tight, scalp-hugging knots of her short hair, and a fainter patina on her human skin. He thought he could discern a silvery etching like scales.

He grimaced and repeated louder, ‘You’re not real, are you?’

Not real? That from a man who doesn’t even know what he is?

Her words wiped the smile off his face. ‘You’re a figment from my mind,’ he said grimly. ‘The fight, the stress of battle, the heat of my blood … It’s gone and knocked something loose in my head again.’ His teeth were gritted. ‘You’re just a vision.’

Then what do you have to fear?

He couldn’t answer that. Her eyes were beautiful; huge black pupils surrounded by golden irises; eyes he felt he might fall into. There was something almost hypnotic about them. But she didn’t blink. She hadn’t blinked since he’d first seen her. ‘What do you want?’ he asked harshly. His mouth was dry. He wanted to reach out and grasp her, to prove to his hand that she was real enough to touch, but he dreaded the consequences too much.

I wish to make a bargain with you. I offer… She cocked her head. Understanding.

That sounded a little too equivocal. ‘Of what?’

Of yourself. Of the past you have lost.

His heart skipped a beat. ‘You know?’

The serpent of the mind represents wisdom, and I am nothing but a vision in your mind, am I not? What can I offer on my side but insight?

‘In exchange for…?’

For a little seed. Seed for my hatchlings. She looked pointedly down at the white cotton of his loincloth, still wringing wet; despite the folds of the loose cloth it was translucent where it clung to his thighs and crotch.

He balked. ‘Ah.’ If not truly erect he was pumped up and distended – partly the result of the fight, partly due to her proximity. Those bits of her that were not serpentine were powerfully attractive. She put her hand on his breastbone and he felt her warmth, like that of an iron blade left in the sun. She reminded him of a knife in many ways; slim and hard and deadly. Now he’d been given the proof of her solidity he’d desired, his skin shivered under her touch. ‘You want-?’ he whispered. She had no legs, no buttocks; he couldn’t even guess where her sexual opening might be located.

She smiled and slid in a circle around him, her hand trailing on his chest. He shuddered but stood still, like a horse too spooked to move, only his head turning. By the time she was behind him her hands were sliding round his waist. He felt the sinews of his legs and buttocks tighten and the skin up his bare back crawl in anticipation. She was looping his feet about with a great coil of her tail.

You fear my poison? She came back round his right shoulder; her palm was splayed across his stomach, pressing upon the hard abdominal muscle, smoothing her way down to the edge of wet cotton that was his only line of defence. She smiled, showing white teeth that seemed quite human, then stretched up to kiss his cheek briefly. You will take no harm from me.

He put his hand on her breast - just to be sure. Her skin was neither oily nor cold as he’d feared, but dry and very smooth. She isn’t real, he told himself, brushing her hard nipple, but his body believed otherwise and his penis kicked, finding instant comfort in the palm of her hand. There was a taunting glitter in her eyes. Only the twin tips of her pale, forked tongue spoiled the effect as they flickered into view across her lips. It was a narrow tongue no thicker than a finger, and entirely inhuman.

He clenched his teeth. ‘No.’ A woman could not be a snake; a snake could not be a woman. This was something from a forest legend and he did not have to believe it.

Don’t be afraid, she said and slid down before him. She didn’t drop to her knees because she had no knees; she simply lowered herself on her huge muscular tail. I will not bite. She nipped the skin of his chest between her teeth: No harder than this.

The breath caught in his throat. I don’t have to accept this, he told himself as she sucked his nipple and teased it to stiffness with that bestial tongue: I can stop her. But his resolve was weakening. When she slipped the knot of his loincloth and dropped a fold to uncover his cock he noted that it was already standing, swaying a little. The stream water had done nothing to cool his blood and his flesh looked very dark jutting out against the white cloth.

Oh yes, she said with satisfaction. Her mouth, when it descended, felt like pure liquid pleasure - and with that touch he was lost. No longer capable of resistance, Veraine let his head roll back as the sensation of physical relief washed over his senses. He felt her encompass his cock not just with her lips but also the paired tips of her coiling bifurcated tongue, her grip firm and sure. He surrendered to it completely; unreal or not, it didn’t matter in that moment. Above them the stone walls of the ravine seemed to lean in to watch. When he looked down again all he could see was the back of the snake-woman’s head rising and sinking as she sucked and licked. As he put his good hand on it and pulled her closer, feeling the hard ridges of her knotted hair beneath his palm, the first memory burst in his skull like a flash of lightning: a glimpse of a sun-drenched courtyard and young men in white tunics involved in some sort of skirmish, armed with dummy wooden swords. He gasped.

Then he shut his eyes the better to see, as flash after flash exploded in his skull.

---

Buy 'Burning Bright' at Amazon US

  Buy 'Burning Bright' at Amazon UK

Buy 'Burning Bright' at Google Play

  Buy 'Burning Bright' at iTunes

More Meat, More Music

Helen J Perry is at Broadstairs Folk Week and is been running interviews with the various contributors to Who Thrilled Cock Robin?

Including me!

Herm herm

Two of my favourite subjects come together today: art and naughty bits:

Roman windchime, British museum

You have to understand, in the Classical world, penuses peni the phallus was not just a symbol of manliness and/or sexy fun, it was a potent magical protection against bad luck, the evil eye and wicked spirits. (Talk about a phallocentric worldview!)

Taking them out for exercise was very time-consuming though.

For the public good, therefore, pillars were erected by the sides of roads, at market places, and in front of temples. They were rectangular in form with a depiction of a knob on:

In the Yorkshire Museum

... though not always as elaborate as this one from the island of Delos, which has a dong-headed chicken carved on the front as well as the eye-watering topper.

"It's a COCK, geddit?"

These pillars were called Herms - and in fact, that's where the god Hermes (patron of boundaries, crossings and travellers) got his name from.

(from Wikipedia, under creative commons license)

Eventually carved portraits of the great and good came to be substituted for the god himself, in a display of civic pride. Which leads to the frankly ridiculous situation that a orator like Demosthenes here is depicted as a head and a knob, and nothing else.

In the Munich Glyptothek

You've got to wonder whether he looked at that and thought, "Yeah, good likeness."

There is by the way a fable of Aesop's in which "A dog of a pious turn of mind salutes the god's herm, a statue of the kind used to mark boundaries and stages along a road. When the animal announces its intention to anoint him, the god hastily begs it not to and says he does not need to be honoured any further."

:-D

Eroticon 2015

Love THIS :-)

So, another Eroticon has been and gone ... and I had more fun this year than ever before! Well, I gave a talk, so the gigantic tsunami of stress-hormones made for some masochistic thrills as far as I was concerned :-D

Photo by KD Grace - thanks!

And of course I spent the weekend with a whole bunch of truly wonderful people - familiar faces ...

KD Grace and Zak Jane Keir rockin' those black lanyards

Ashley Lister and Molly Moore. Apologies for blowing the highlights in this photo, Molly ;-)

... and new friends too, some of whom I was not allowed to photograph. SQUEEEEES to Girl on the Net, F Dot Leonora, Horny Geek Girl and many others! I spent a lot of Saturday night with Emily and Wendy and it was brilliant fun: thanks for hanging out with me!

The mystery of why things got all pink and blurry on Saturday night might be solved by these pics:

Salted caramel popcorn is the best flavour , take my word

There were as usual great presentations - and of course the famous Practical BDSM Demonstrations:

I got to try cupping, thanks to the lovely Molly and Michael:

"!!!"

Yes, I had a bruise next day!

But I did not try this:

Ah .... AHHHHHHHHHH!

I had SUCH a good time :-)
It feels like a real community of friends now, and I'm totally looking forward to next year.

Thank you Ruby for all the awesome!

Eyecandy Monday - Justine Elyot guests

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

This week's excerpt is from The Naiad, by Justine Elyot. It's the final story in this run featuring tales from the wonderful wet-themed anthology Drenched.

"How do you feel, Naiad?" he asked.

He had put down his burden and tightened the belt of his silk robe around him. He hadn't offered one of those to me. I could do with one. The breeze was becoming more evident, especially around my nipples.

"I feel vulnerable," I said, pressing my thighs together and curling my toes.

"Vulnerable, yes, good. But are you comfortable?"

"I think so."

"Not too dry? Poor little naiad is used to the water, isn't she?"

"I suppose so." The residual drops from the jacuzzi had all slid off my skin now.

He knelt down by my side and passed his hands over my upper torso, rubbing and stroking over my breasts and collarbone and down over my stomach.

"Yes, I think so," he said, bending to kiss my navel. "Very dry. This must not be comfortable for you?"

"It's…"

But before I could continue, I let out a sharp cry.

He had reached into his picnic box and brought something out, which he placed square on my belly. It was a goddamn ice cube!

"Oh my god, that's freezing!"

I tried to turn so it would slide off, but he tutted and held it in place with the tip of a finger.

"No, no, no," he said. "This is good for you."

I wriggled and shivered and whimpered while he sent the cube on a little journey, leaving cold wet tracks across my skin. He let it glide between my breasts, then climb their slopes, circling – but never quite coming into contact with – my nipples, until the damn thing melted.

I was gasping with the cold, but he showed mercy by kissing all the places the cube had chilled, warming them back up with his fulsome lips and tongue.

I wondered if he could tell that I was ready for him now…more than ready. My clit felt ready to burst with need for his attention and I didn't need any ice cube to get me wet down there. Could he scent it? Something told me that he could.

But it didn't mean he was going to go easy on me.

Another bullet of ice materialised on my nipple, making me arch my spine and howl. He was amused by this, holding my poor throbbing bud between finger and thumb and keeping the ice cube where he wanted it. He kept it there, not moving, just until my nipple went beyond pain and into numbness, then he transferred it to the other. The expression of satisfaction on his face told me how he enjoyed watching me writhe. I didn't find it frightening. I found it intensely arousing. He was using me the way he wanted and I was willing to comply, even if it did mean purple nipples.

"I know it's cold," he whispered. "But you'll warm it up, won't you? Because you aren't cold. You're on fire."

He put his free hand between my thighs and rubbed the juicy swollen clit he found there. Yes, there was his proof. I couldn't deny what I was, what I craved.

The ice shrunk and disappeared, its existence only evidenced by the rivulets trickling down my breasts into the furrow between them.

Eberhardt put his face there and lapped up the crystal droplets, then flicked the tip of his tongue over my recovering nipples. The warmth buzzed them back into painful life. I wriggled my bottom into the buttercups as he opened his lips and sucked.

He alternated between nipples, dipping lazy fingers between my pussy lips and into my cunt at the same time. I was so close to coming from the double stimulation of being fingered and sucked simultaneously that I began to squirm. Instantly, he stopped what he was doing and smiled down at me. The sun had gone in. The leaves rustled against a stronger breath of wind.

"Oh," was all I could whisper.

"Not yet," he teased. "Naiads are very sensual little creatures, aren't they? I had no idea. I think more
ice…"

"Oh no," I moaned, but he was quick and deft and before I could clamp my legs together he was holding a cube to my clit. I kicked my legs against the acuteness of the sensation, but he rubbed slowly, up and down, then in slow circles, using his free hand to stroke and brush and pinch my nipples. I cried out and he popped a finger in my mouth, silencing me, making me suck on it. Now all I could do was hump my bottom up and down in a useless quest to free myself from my freezing invader.

"This is good," he crooned. "You are doing well." He pushed the cube inside me, where it melted almost straight away. I felt the cold fluid mingle with my own warm juices and trickle between my butt cheeks. I had never felt ruder, more ashamed or more turned on.

"Lovely," he said, shifting position and taking his finger from my mouth.

"Oh, please, not another," I pleaded, panting.

He climbed in between my knees and bent his head to my vulva, his eyes devilish as they peered up from my pubic mound.

"You don't like it?" he asked, his breath blasting my clit as he spoke.

"It's…torture," I said.

He clicked his tongue. "Awww." The expression of exaggerated sympathy ended with a little kiss on my clit. "Cold," he commented.

"Uh, yeah," I said, but sarcasm probably wasn't in order just now, when there was every chance of getting a dozen ice cubes tipped over my defenceless body.

He raised his head again, along with a finger which he wagged at me.

"You said please and asked me very nicely before, and that's the only reason I'm not reaching for another ice cube right now. But I can change my mind at any moment."

So I was to behave myself. I wanted to behave myself. This strict teacher vibe he was projecting really worked for me.

I nodded and tried to look doe-eyed.

He seemed satisfied with that, but he had more to say. "What you have to understand, Flosshilde, is that you belong to me now. I don't think any of your little water sprite friends are going to swim up to the bank to rescue you, do you?"

"I guess not."

---

Buy Drenched at Amazon US : Amazon UK

Justine Elyot says: "I love to write erotica and erotic romance. Elements you are likely to find in my work include: moustachioed melodrama villains, whips, wisecracks, knights in tarnished armour, damsels under duress, lovers, leather, aquiline features, references to popular songs. I massively overuse qualifiers like ‘really’, ‘quite’, ‘actually’ etc. and can’t resist the temptation to substitute long words for ‘said’. Reviewers either rave or cringe, with very little middle reactive ground (insert Marmite cliche here). Which will you do?"

Justine's website
Justine on Amazon US : Amazon UK

Sheep for smutwriters

Heh. There's a Shaun the Sheep trail in Bristol this summer :-D

A bad case of nerves

Ever get so keyed-up you just feel like falling asleep? ;-)

Saint George Hare: The Victory of Faith, 1890 

Saint George Hare (1857-1933, and wow what a name!) was one of those pious artists who enjoyed painting sexy ladies in chains, but NOT IN A DIRTY WAY AT ALL because it was all about history and religion and purity and was, like, totally uplifting and spiritual. Heh.

This is actually one of the slides I'll be featuring in my presentation on Sunday at Eroticon 2015. My presentation will also be uplifting and spiritually nourishing, I promise.

Trust me, I'm a smutwriter ;-)

Janine Ashbless Eroticon 2015 meet and greet

Wooohoooh! I'm off to Eroticon 2015 this weekend, and more excited even than usual because this year I'm actually on the schedule - I'm doing a presentation on Writing Fantasy and Fairy Tale Erotica on the Sunday :-D

Also I love that it takes place in Bristol, which is a beautiful city, and I love meeting up with all my comrades-in-arms, old and new. It's really interesting hearing from sex-bloggers and people who work in forms of erotica other than printed fiction (we've got visualisation therapists and photographers and everything).

This blog post is my official online meet-and-greet, and if you want to see others just pop over to Molly Moore's place because she is hosting for everyone who wants to take part.

So "Hi, everyone" :-) 

---

NAME: Janine Ashbless

(I don't do Twitter... there aren't enough hours in the day as it is.)


Is this your first time at Eroticon? If No, what is your favourite memory from a previous Eroticon and if Yes, what are you most looking forward to at Eroticon 2015?

It's not my first, as I've been to all the British events. My memories are overwhelmingly positive - I was absolutely bowled over the first time by the professionalism, amazing level of organisation and the sense of community.  (Also how exhausting it is!)

I had a particularly great time last year because I shared a room with my friend Vida Baily and we did all the sitting-up-late-eating-chocolates-and-chatting stuff . I'll miss her so much this year!


Which 3 sessions have you already earmarked as definitely going to?

The schedule is always the hardest part of the weekend - what to see when you want to go to everything?  The mixture of inspiration and good solid practical advice can't be beat. But I'm keen to attend the sessions on Writing Jouissance: Pleasure Pain and Madness,  Cover me - a guide to cover art, and Self-Publishing. 


What drink will you be ordering at the bar on the Saturday night?

It's going to be gin-and tonic. I don't want it to stain if/when I drop it all over my nice dress ;-)

If you wrote an autobiography what would it be called?

"It Has to Have to a Human Head!"
(That's what my first editor told me, in despair at some of my wilder imaginings. He was so so WRONG.).

Where are you writing this post and what 5 things can you see around you (not including the device you are writing on)?

I am sitting at my desk in my study. Amidst all the mess I can see...

• One of those weird head-massager thingies
• My writer award from Jade magazine
• A sleeping greyhound
• A plushie of Great Cthulhu
• A Leonidas 300 action figure

 If you could go out to dinner with any 5 sex bloggers or erotic writers, regardless of whether they are coming to Eroticon or not who would they be?

Jeez, are you trying to get me in trouble with everyone else at the conference? I'm happy to go out to dinner with any five erotica writers because YOU ARE ALL WONDERFUL!

(... Okay, I'd like to sit and listen to any group that had Remittance Girl and/or Saranna DeWylde and/or Cameryn Moore in it, because they are all kick-ass take-no-prisoners scary in their different ways, and I LOVE that.)

---

Okay, it's time to go and get packed for the weekend - I hope to see lots and lots of you in a few days' time!

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

Since I've been thinking hard about fairy tales for next weekend's Eroticon, this week's excerpt is from Sleep Tight, my take on the Sleeping Beauty story. It appeared in the anthology Fairy Tale Lust.

And on the bed there’s a body.

    In a split second my own body goes from too hot to so cold I’m frozen in place. I feel the gather of sweat at the small of my back form a slow trickle that slides down under the waistband of my jeans like a chilled fingertip.

    It’s a body. I can make that out clearly; it’s pale against the dark bedding. Slim. A woman or a kid. My head swims. All I can think, bizarrely, is that I’ve been drinking out of a tap in a room with a corpse. Why the hell didn’t I notice it? How come I didn’t smell the thing?

    Because there is no smell. There’s no hint of an odour, except the faintest smell of wild roses and wet stone. I look back to the kitchen door and the hall beyond. My mobile is locked up in the van. I’m going to have to call the police. And then tell them why I was in here to find the corpse. The day’s just turned to shite.

    I need to be sure. I’m having problems believing even my own eyes in this light. Inch by inch I shuffle across the flagstones, holding my breath, until I’m close enough to get a proper look.

    It’s a young woman. She looks perfect. Her hands are resting neatly on her torso about at the level of her diaphragm. Her bare toes point at the ceiling. Her head floats in a sea of long dark hair and she has dark brows. I can’t begin to guess what she’s doing laid out in the kitchen of a deserted house. How long has she been left here?

    Then I see the soft rise and fall of her breastbone, and I realise she’s not dead after all, and the relief is so immense I feel drunk.

    ‘Ah – Hello?’ My voice is hoarse. And I wonder: what’s she doing sleeping in this place? If she’s a squatter, how on earth did she get in? The only means of entrance I can imagine involves a helicopter and a skylight. ‘Hello?’

    She doesn’t stir. I edge closer. Before I reach out I make very very sure that I can see her breathing, that it wasn’t just a trick of my eyes. She’s wearing a long dress of grey lace which doesn’t really hide that much of the pale body beneath. I can see the peaceful expression on her pointed little face. I can see the curves of her waist and hips and thighs. I can see her breasts, flattened a little by gravity but embarrassingly distracting still. They rise and fall slowly and for a moment I’m mesmerised. Black and sticky thoughts crawl in my skull before I shrug them off.

    Gingerly I touch her shoulder. ‘Hey?’

    No response. Her flesh feels cool but not cold.

    Stoned, I think. Or drunk. She’d have heard me otherwise. Grasping the curve of her shoulder more firmly, I give her a little shake. ‘You okay?’

    She doesn’t answer. All that happens is that her breathing deepens audibly, and the lace catches on my callused hand and shreds as I lift it. The lace is actually rotten: the threads fall almost into dust. I blink stupidly. Then I reach over to take her by both shoulders and I shake her harder, lifting her an inch from her bed. She falls back upon the dark velvet coverlet with a sigh, and as I withdraw I somehow manage to snag the garment across her breast and tear it open; it offers no more resistance than cobweb.

    Fuck, I think witlessly. And I see that where the fabric has pulled and torn across the sweet pale curve of her right breast, her nipple has responded to the stimulus. As I watch, it hardens visibly, rising like a pale pink bud from its areola. I watch as my fingers steal back to brush that  swelling mound and it stiffens to dimples.

    My head is spinning. This is all like a dream. It can’t be real. There can’t be a young woman asleep in a house that’s been locked up for ten years. She can’t be impossible to wake. I can’t be watching my fingertips touch her - softly, so softly - so that the cushion of her breast is topped by a flushed pearl. I can’t be hearing a gentle moan in her throat.

    For a moment I think she’s woken, and I withdraw my hand an inch. She arches a little as if in pursuit of my touch, her breasts rising. Then she relaxes with a ghostly whimper of loss.

    It’s like a dream, or a story. An old, familiar story. I moisten my dry lips, knowing what I need to do. Gently I sit on the bed and I lean forward to kiss her. She has full, provocative lips for such otherwise delicate features. They feel cool under mine.

    But all she does is smile in her sleep, faintly.

    A second time I bend to kiss her, and this time I cup both her breasts, feeling their soft mounds yield beneath my hot hands. She’s as cool as earth and as velvety as a flower petal and she tastes of rosewater. I tug at her nipples until they’re both stiff like beads. I hear her whimper.

    Then I sit back. Nothing has changed: her eyes are still shut, their dark lashes etched on her pale cheeks. I’m awash with confusion and shame and arousal. Under my jeans my cock is kicking angrily at its confines, swollen with selfish need. Her pale breasts shine through the shreds of her garment like moons rising through cloud. Without letting myself think I run a fingertip down the length of her body, tearing a furrow through the old grey lace. If it’s so fragile, a part of my mind asks, how did she put it on? - but I ignore the question. She’s just too much of a temptation. I reach the slight swell of her pubic mound and slid my fingers under and through the lace, cupping her.

    She’s hairless, peachy, as soft and cool as mounded flour. No stubble. Just velvet petals of flesh hiding a liquid heart, and as I squeeze softly her hips tilt, pushing her sex up against my fingers. Her head tilts back a little and her lips part as she breathes a hungry moan. I nod as if answering a question and curve my fingers in, searching deeper. She’s wet, though surprisingly cool still. I can smell the intoxicating sharp musk of her sex now. It’s on my fingers. My fingers are stroking up and down that furrow, finding the source of the wet, finding the stud of her clit.

 This girl’s body, the stretch of her throat as she tilts her head back and the sharp rise of her breasts, the satin slipperiness under my hand – they’re all that count in this twilit dream. She’s extraordinarily responsive to my touch, as if she’s waited a hundred years for this. Maybe she has. I can see the shudder of her hips, the tautness of her flat belly as I stroke her, a single finger making her dance. I can see her fingers flex and pull at her own flesh. But she doesn’t open her eyes, her questing is blind. She needs me. She needs the hand that’s working between her thighs.

    She’s close to coming.

    And my other hand goes to uncinch my belt buckle, to unzip, to reach into my jeans. My cock bounces free, scorching hot against my palm. I’m aching for release. I swear I only mean to touch myself, to jack off as I watch her climax. But without thinking I find myself climbing on the bed, kneeling over her, parting those slim thighs without regard to the tearing of the lace, slipping into that wet furrow like into a pool of clear water, quenching my burning cock in her cool grip. She’s exquisite. My thrusts are deep but slow as, dream-dizzy, I savour each moment and each move.

    I feel her arch beneath me, and I hear her plaintive little moans turn to gasps. I feel the shift of her hips as she lifts her legs and digs her heels into my ass, pulling me in deeper. Her arms furl about my neck. And then I start to ride her faster as the lead in my balls turns molten and starts to rise, as that tight grip clenches and I hear the unmistakable quivering cry of her orgasm.

    She opens her eyes and smiles at me.

---

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