Friday, 31 July 2015

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 ;-)

Wednesday, 29 July 2015

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!

Monday, 27 July 2015

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.

Buy Fairy Tale Lust at
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Google Play

Friday, 24 July 2015

How do I love PowerPoint? - let me count the ways


No seriously, I do.  It is the only thing Microsoft have ever created that is intuitive to use and does more or less exactly what you hope it's going to do when you try something new. Import a picture? - click on the picture icon. Picture's the wrong size and in the wrong place? - just drag it around until it looks right.

Why can't they do this with all their pissy software, heh?

Clearly someone had a moment of clarity where they thought, "No, heck, let's make it easy for people who aren't software engineers like us, and don't like learning new tech, and don't want to spend time and/or money on a tutorial course!"

I think I just answered my own question....

Anyway, I've been working very happily on my presentation for Eroticon 2015. I'm mostly trying to find ways of say controversial things concisely and yet without goading people to tear me a new asshole on the internet.

You didn't think "fantasy and fairy tale" could be controversial? Oh, you sweet summer child ...

 Do join us!

Wednesday, 22 July 2015

Art appreciation

If you're ever in a gallery of ancient art in some foreign city ... I'm the one wandering around taking pictures of all the scrota.

The famous Barberini Faun

He is a faun - he has a tail!

Scrota both Classical and Archaic:

But wait - I have range - I do bums too!

And here's another faun / satyr, twisting round to look at his own bum.

I'm told travel broadens the mind :-)

Monday, 20 July 2015

Blue Monday - Lisette Ashton guests

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

This week's excerpt is from Hard to Swallow, by Lisette Ashton. It is another of the stories in the wet-themed anthology Drenched,  which I'm showcasing over this month.

 There was a small reception area outside Stern’s office. Two people waited there beneath the watchful eye of Stern’s dour-faced personal receptionist. Addison recognised William Daye as one of the station’s more successful presenters. He was tall and darkly attractive in a bland-James-Bond fashion. The woman sitting away from Daye, huddled alone in a corner of Stern’s reception, was Lydia Knight.

When she first saw the woman that morning, Addison had thought Knight looked overly glamorous for a woman who was in a recording studio presenting an unseen radio show. It surprised her that Lydia wasn’t sitting closer to Daye as she had assumed the two presenters were friends as well as co-hosts on the afternoon show, Daye and Knight.

Lydia, it seemed, was sitting away from Daye because she was preoccupied.

She sat in a corner of the room. Her gaze was lowered and her ankles were crossed. She had the base of a pale green bottle of mineral water pressed between the tops of her thighs. Unconsciously, and seeming unmindful of anyone else seeing what she was doing, Lydia rocked the bottle back and forth against her crotch.

Addison held her breath. She wanted to watch the woman more closely. She wanted to see what was going on. She had never before encountered anything so-

“May I help you?”

Addison glanced up to see that Stern’s dour-faced receptionist was addressing her. The woman’s words cut through whatever thoughts she had been forming about the peculiarity of Lydia’s actions.

“Addison,” she explained. “I’m here to see Mr. Stern.”

“From main reception?”

She nodded.

“Go and sit in that corner and drink your water.”

Addison frowned and tried to think how she was supposed to respond to such an unprecedented command. She started to say something, then realised the words would likely land her in more trouble than she currently needed.

“I’m here to see Mr. Stern,” she repeated, wondering if there had been some confusion. “He just called down and-”

“Go and sit in that corner and drink your water,” the receptionist repeated, pointing. “I shall inform Mr. Stern that you’re waiting. He will see you when he has time to see you.”

The woman scowled at Addison and then turned her gaze away. Addison could see an earpiece trailing from the receptionist’s ear and when the receptionist began speaking again, Addison knew she was no longer part of the conversation.

Daye flashed her a sympathetic smile. His shrug said that he didn’t quite understand the receptionist’s rudeness. And the shifting of his gaze, and his exaggerated pretence at suddenly seeing something interesting in his magazine, said he had no intention of discussing the matter.

Knight seemed oblivious to everything around her as Addison took a chair in a facing corner. It was impossible not to watch as Knight rolled the base of her water bottle against her crotch. The woman’s eyes were closed with lurid concentration but her jaw hung half-open. She occasionally released soft, moaning sounds that were obscenely reminiscent of orgasm.

Addison didn’t know whether to be intrigued or repulsed.

The sound of Stern’s office door opening snatched her attention away. She looked up in time to see the receptionist tell William Daye, “Mr. Stern will see you now.”

As the receptionist spoke to Daye, Zoe flounced out of Stern’s office. Zoe stormed over to where Addison sat and pointed a finger down at her. Her cheeks were flushed with twin spots of matching color. Her nipples stood hard against the smooth fabric of the blouse beneath her little black Chanel jacket. There was a spreading damp stain on the crotch of her cranberry chinos.

Addison tried not to gape.

“Let me give you a word of fucking advice,” Zoe growled.

Addison flinched, expecting a tirade similar to the one Zoe had inflicted on Tony. Instead of an outpouring of bile and fury, the woman simply puckered her lips into a scowl and said, “Don’t think you’ve heard the last of this.”

Then she was gone. Addison was left alone in Stern’s reception with Stern’s receptionist, Lydia Knight, and her own bottle of mineral water.

“Jesus,” Addison muttered. “Is that scary bitch incontinent? Or does she just cream herself from stamping on everyone below her?”

“She’s not incontinent,” Lydia muttered. “She’s just humiliated.”

Addison glanced at Lydia. The woman hadn’t opened her eyes. She still sat with her legs slightly apart, the bottle of mineral water pressed firmly against her crotch, her chest rising and falling with symptoms that looked as though she was in the throes of a near-orgasmic release.

“She’s just humiliated,” Lydia repeated.

“Excuse me?”

“Drink your water,” Lydia said. “Stern will have expected you to have done that much when you’re summoned.”

“What’s going on here?” Addison asked. “What am I missing?”

“You’re not missing anything.”

Lydia’s bottle continued to rock back and forth. The motion was slow, deliberate and consistent with its rhythm. She continued until her entire body stiffened. The shock of stiffness was followed by a small, trembling shiver. Then she took a long, drawling breath that sounded lewdly similar to an orgasmic sigh. Finally, Lydia opened her eyes. She studied Addison with a solemn appraisal that was almost too intense.

Addison allowed the woman to look, still trying to work out whether this was uncommonly bizarre behavior, or if it fitted with everything else she had so far experienced at the radio station.

“Drink your water,” Lydia urged. She closed her eyes. “That’ll be for the best.”

You two aren’t talking, are you?” called the receptionist.

Lydia said nothing. She continued to rock back and forth.

Addison decided it would be best if she didn’t respond. She didn’t think she would be able to say anything constructive as a reply to such a school-mistress-type question. Unless she watched every syllable she muttered for the rest of the afternoon, Addison knew she was in serious danger of saying something irrevocable and career-killing on her first day with the radio station.

“I’m sure you both know that Mr. Stern doesn’t allow talking whilst you’re waiting,” the receptionist called.

Addison had known no such thing. The rule sounded positively draconian. She settled back in her chair and wondered if she should simply give up on the idea of becoming a radio presenter. Admittedly, the goal of becoming a radio presenter was a long-cherished ambition. But it seemed that the goal of being a radio presenter at this station came at the cost of dignity and respect.

“Yes,” Lydia sighed.

The word roused Addison from her musings. She turned and glanced at the woman. Lydia had the base of the bottle of mineral pressed so hard against her sex it looked like beads of pressured-perspiration were sliding down the sides of the plastic. Her eyes were closed but the lids fluttered as though she was in the throes of euphoria.

“Yes,” Lydia repeated.

Addison tore her gaze away. Was Lydia really getting herself off? Was that acceptable public behavior anywhere? Had no one else in the radio station noticed? And why was Lydia’s arousal so frighteningly contagious? Addison could taste the electric excitement in the air. Her entire body throbbed as though she was yearning to share some of the woman’s infectious sexual enthusiasm.
“Are you…?”

Her voice trailed off. She couldn’t think how to broach the subject without sounding voyeuristic, challenging or judgemental. Lydia hadn’t bothered to open her eyes and Addison was happy to convince herself that the woman hadn’t heard her question.

“Never mind,” she said quietly.

“Drink your water,” Lydia whispered. “And let me finish what I have to do.”

 Drenched at Amazon US : Amazon UK

Lisette Ashton on Amazon US : Amazon UK : Goodreads

Saturday, 18 July 2015

Return of the mojo

My writing muse has strolled back into town - the bitch. She has been nowhere to be found for the best part of a year now (apparently having thrown a huge sulk at being set aside while I was doing publicity for my last two novels), but I rediscovered her in Munich last weekend.

She hasn't even offered an apology.

This is a Roman mosaic (200 CE) in the Glyptothek, Munich's ancient sculpture collection. It depicts the Wheel of the Year, which is also the subject of my Lover's Wheel quartet.  The woman lying down is Tellus, the Earth, whilst the standing gentleman is Aion, or Eternity. Their children are the four seasons - Spring (with flower garland), Summer (wheat). Autumn (fruit) and Winter (the one actually wearing some warm clothes). 

Since getting home I've written a powerpoint presentation for the upcoming Eroticon AND a chunk more of Falling Deep, which is part two of the LW quartet. I have a big plot-knot to unravel (that process will involve some loooooong showers and some poking about in the dark corners of Wikipedia) but once I know what's happening there I'll be in the homeward stretch.

I'm cautiously optimistic about my writing prospects in the foreseeable future, which believe me is more than I could have said in June :-)

Just as long as I don't scare that goddamn motherfucking bitch of a muse away...

Thursday, 16 July 2015

Magic Mike XXL

I've just got back out from a girly cinema night watching Magic Mike XXL.

Now let's be honest - this is the reason I went:

Although I was - embarrassingly - the only one in the audience to laugh out loud when he stomped in complaining about "Twilight ... all that vampire bullshit!"

Anyway, I just wanted to say it was a better movie than I'd expected. (I haven't seen the prequel, to be clear.)  It wasn't the dumb comedy I'd anticipated, although it certainly was funny in many parts; it's a character-driven road movie with dance set pieces. It does NOT have a standard romantic arc, even though you think it's going to. And, rather to my bemusement, it's so pro-female-sexual-agency that it has to rate as the most polemically feminist movie I've seen in years (including trans women, larger women and not-heterosexual women). In fact the nicest thing about it was that it was so much about female enjoyment, and how much the guys loved that.

Okay,  so there were other nice things about it too...  :-)

I had to look up what Mollies are, though. It's Ecstacy, in old money.

Tuesday, 14 July 2015

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

Since I've been all about the statues this last couple of weeks, I've been reminded of my short story Sacrifices, which appeared in my first collection,  Cruel Enchantment. It was the first (but not the last) story that I wrote about Medusa. In this story, as a minor goddess, she is capable of going unseen by mortals when she wishes - and she likes to spy ...

One of my poor victims can be found in a grove of cypresses by the river, not far from the royal palace of their little king, and it is often visited by the womenfolk when they come to do their laundry. I have forgotten his name, or even if he ever told it to me. He is old; his upturned face has worn away a little, blunting his nose and smoothing his hair. He kneels, knees braced apart, hands splayed on his thighs. There is a bare patch of earth about him where the women of the town have walked. His phallus rises straight as a spear, white as the moon. It too has been worn by much touching and anointing. It is slender and smooth; not ugly or massive enough to frighten a virgin, but quite virile enough to bring a flush to her cheeks.

The handmaidens of the royal entourage giggled and sighed and hid their faces in modest hands at the sight of such a shocking thing. Then without exception they came forward to touch him, and to pay their respects. Some were nervous and only stroked his shoulder, some tickled his straining member teasingly. One of the older ones, greatly daring, fondled his hard pouch and kissed his unyielding lips before swaggering away, swinging her hips for the benefit of her companions.

The king's daughter stood watching these flirtations. Her lips were parted and her colour high; she was the only one of the maidens who was not laughing.  I watched her closely. She signalled to her entourage and gave them some order, and reluctantly they all retreated to the edge of the clearing and sat in little groups, their backs to the princess and the statue.

When she was sure that her companions had stopped looking over their shoulders, she leaned forward to the stone image, put her pink lips to his ear and whispered a heartfelt prayer. She wanted a gold-crowned hero, a king's son who would love her and make her his wife - and soon. The sincerity of her plea made my nape prickle. She was ready for bedding, this maiden; her words were only confirmed by the curves of her body showing through the transluscent folds of her peplos. Her eyes smouldered as she stepped back from him and bit her lower lip.

Then she knelt, as many had knelt before her, and laid one hand on his marble shaft. She stroked it cautiously, as if it might come to life under her touch - and I could almost believe it would, if stone were able to be tempted as flesh is. She circled the snake's head with one finger, blushed, and then leaned down and pressed her lips to it in a long, devout kiss. He looked whiter than the snows of Olympus against her living skin. I saw the very tip of her pink tongue lick his alabaster wand.

She sat back then and looked around her, silently daring any of her entourage to have been spying, but they were obediently turned away.  Hesitantly she took from the folds of her peplos a small jar. When she broke the wax seal I smelled a waft of expensive perfume, such as is used after bathing to anoint the skins of great queens. She wished to make an offering. I licked my dry lips. She slipped her fingers into the jar and drew out a scoop of white unguent, then very slowly applied it to the phallus before her. Its scent filled the grove; the handmaidens stirred and whispered. She trailed her fingers up and down the elegant shaft, spreading it from wrinkled balls to smooth prick-end.

As she  gained confidence she used both hands and found a firm, rhythmic grip. I watched entranced as she massaged the erection - gods, it was already so stiff and vertical that it could not have responded in any other way than to erupt in spurts of silver sand, so lifelike was his form and so intimate their pose.

The king's daughter paused, looked down at herself and shifted her posture. Something was causing her discomfort; she wriggled her creamy buttocks as if to accommodate and alien presence. Then, looking about her from beneath her lashes, cheeks burning with shame and some other, more imperative emotion, she rose to her feet, pulled her peplos up around her thighs, straddled the image's hips and - one hand on the back of his neck to balance herself - sank slowly down over his slippery stone member until it touched the doors of her secret underworld.

I had to admire her strength and determination. Unable to drop straight down the entire length of the rod, she had to brace herself on straining thighs and cling to her obdurate partner's neck as she introduced the bulb of his phallus to the wet lips of her virgin hole. Her eyes closed in concentration and her face creased with effort; she did not wish to hurt herself, yet her every instinct was to take the shaft as far as she could within her. She rocked back and forth, letting the cold stone stir the hot hearth of her fires, mingling the chrism with her own juices. Her peplos slipped from her shoulder and one rose-tipped breast slid into view; she did not notice, or care, that it was quivering shamelessly in full sight of the gods and anyone else who might look at her. She did not cry out, but her breath was ragged - and the faces of her handmaidens, who still did not dare look around, were growing pink.

 Buy 'Cruel Enchantment' at Amazon US
Audiobook available on
and iTunes

Friday, 10 July 2015

Socca pizza for the soul

I spent a very happy evening with Megan Kerr last night. We talked about food and gardening and bumble bees and bonobos, and she cooked the most delicious gram-flour pizzas and I admired her arts-and-crafts home decor. She is definitely a domestic goddess!

Her easy no-wheat pizza-base recipe is here. I'm determined to give it a go - if I can ever raise myself from the level of "open packet, microwave contents" ;-)

Getting together with other writers is really important. We inspire each other. We all find each other daunting, of course, and we worry that everyone else is more talented/hardworking/lucky than we are. But the really great thing is to be among those who understand what it feels like to be a writer, which is sometimes an odd and lonely state. So I'm grateful for evenings like this - and not just for the pizza!

The really weird thing is, all her family think I sound Australian...

Wednesday, 8 July 2015


Wembley Stadium: bloody big
Well I failed to see the Foo Fighters this year since Dave Grohl inconsiderately broke his leg ... but last Friday I did get to see AC/DC live :-)

Given that these guys' average age is 65, they sure still know how to ROCK!

Which would happen first - Would the stage burn down? Or would Angus Young have a coronary?


And they played most of their greatest hits :-)

"Whole Lotta Rosie" of course

But sadly, not my all-time favourite ... so here it is:

Monday, 6 July 2015

Blue Monday - S J Smith guests

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment! Today's excerpt is from the brand-new erotic detective novel Peeper by SJ Smith. This is the launch book from new publisher Sinful Press, and a sign - I hope - of many good things to come!

Adam Jenks Jenkins’ carefree life as a small-time private investigator is about to get very complicated.

There’s something ‘off’ about his new client, but work is hard to come by in the Welsh town of Llanrhos, and the return is far above his usual paygrade. All he has to do is find a mystery woman and retrieve a set of sexually explicit photographs. Sounds easy. Too easy.

Jenks’ sanity is tested as the case drags him ever deeper into the dangerous world of Veronica Tailor, where blackmail, seduction and threats of violence run rife.

Even his home life is affected as his wife’s obsession with Veronica sends her libido into overdrive.

Will Jenks ever solve the case?

Will his wife become a lesbian?

Will he ever manage to get some sleep?

 “How about a nice kiss?” she offered, and puckered her lips.

“A kiss? No deal. This photograph is dynamite. I’m going to need way more than a simple kiss.”

Kate frowned. “I did let you grope my boobs just now.”

“Sorry, the boob groping doesn’t count. That was then; this is now.” He scratched his chin and looked up at the ceiling as if he were wracking his brain. “How about a golden shower? Tie me up and piss all over my face.”

“Eww, Jenks, don’t be so gross.” She screwed up her face in disgust, like he knew she would. He smiled, pretending he was only joking, but deep down inside he wasn’t joking at all ‒ it was one of those depraved fantasies that would never see the light of day. “I’ll show you my tits, and you can lick my nips for ten seconds,” Kate continued, and teasingly lifted the hem of her vest as high as the underside of her breasts.

“Anal sex,” Jenks countered.

“No way, Jose.”

“I could insist – I could cash in my anal card.” Upstairs in his bedside locker he had a handmade voucher, signed by Kate, which offered dirty anal sex upon redemption. She gave it to him for Christmas in lieu of being able to afford a present.

“Anal takes ages, we don’t have time.” Kate leaned back in her chair. “How about I show you my tits and touch your willy?” She pulled her vest higher, almost revealing her nipples.

“Your boobs are like a gift from heaven, and I love them … I truly do. But I’m thinking that, if you want to persuade me to show you this highly sensitive and compromising document, I’m going to need something more.”

“Compromising? You never said it was compromising.” She closed her eyes, leaned her head back and pulled her vest hem slightly higher.

“Oh God, yes. It’s highly compromising. And did I mention it contains a graphic depiction of a sexual act?”

She tore her vest as high as her chin and pushed her shoulders back so her puffy pink nipples stood up hard as hell. “I have to see it.”

Jenks admired her tits. “I’m afraid I’m going to need a little more.”

“What do you mean more? You don’t mean?” She put on the coy act that always drove him crazy. “You don’t mean you want to look at my …” her big blue eyes glanced down at her groin, “… at my pussy?”

“I’m afraid I do, Mrs Jenkins. I’m afraid that if you’re going to insist on seeing this photograph, then I’m going to have to insist on seeing your pussy, spread wide open for my enjoyment.”

“Why, Mr Jenkins, you’re a beast.”

“That I am, Mrs Jenkins.”

She leapt to her feet. “Okay. You have a deal. Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

He ran to the hall to grab the manila envelope from his coat pocket. By the time he got back to the kitchen she had taken off her pyjama bottoms and was lying face down over the table. Jenks pulled out a chair and positioned himself so he could admire her delicious, naked, chubby rump and the space between her legs. Her delicate pussy lips protruded from her slit like a lazy, lolling tongue, but when she peeled them apart for his pleasure, they opened like butterfly wings to reveal a soft interior the colour of candyfloss. “How’s that?”

“That’s pretty damned good.” He leaned in for a closer inspection. Seeing things he wasn’t supposed to see turned Jenks on like nothing else. He was a visual person and could happily do nothing but look for hours on end without ever feeling the need to touch. His view right now was bordering on gynaecological: the glossy inner flesh of his wife’s most intimate place, the nub of her clit popping its nose out from its pink nest, the tiny eye of her piss hole, the twisted structural form of her vaginal walls and the puckered mouth of her anus. And the intoxicating aroma of cunt ‒ that spicy feminine musk reaching up through his nostrils into his brain like an invisible hand, gripping him and commanding him, luring him in. Pussy was the ultimate drug. Nothing in this world could send him higher or make him feel more alive.

“Hey! Earth to Jenks. Show me that picture, you fucker. We had a deal, remember?”

Without taking his eyes off her sparkling hole, he pushed the envelope into her grasping hand. There was a rustling of paper, a brief silence, an intake of breath, and then Kate exclaimed, “fucking hell!”

Buy Peeper as e-book or paperback at
Amazon US
Amazon UK

SJ Smith is the writer of the novels Leisure and Peeper, as well as several short stories. He is happily married and lives in a small town in North Wales, and when he isn’t busy pedalling smut, he enjoys watching rugby or disappearing on a narrowboat to escape the rat race for a while.

Sunday, 5 July 2015

John Donne and dusted

"Hello Laydeeez ... Let's get poetic!"
The other day I happened to hear an entertaining and stunningly dirty poem read out on BBC Radio Four's Poetry Please. It's by John Donne ( 1572-1631) who is counted as a Metaphysical Poet (which seems to mean he was fond of tortuous and improbable metaphors involving popular science). John "No man is an island" Donne wrote about sex A LOT. Mostly whining that he deserves to get more of it:

"How happy were our sires in ancient time,
Who held plurality of loves no crime."

"Mark but this flea, and mark in this,   
How little that which thou deniest me is;   
It sucked me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be;   
Thou know’st that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead,
    Yet this enjoys before it woo,
    And pampered swells with one blood made of two,
    And this, alas, is more than we would do."

The Elegy in question (and I'm not even sure whether it was number 18 or 19, since that seems to vary depending on who you ask), is about ... vulvas. After extensive consideration I can only summarise the message of the poem as "Pussy is JUST AWESOME. In fact it's so good, that when you go down on a woman you should start at her feet instead of wasting time being distracted by her boobs and stuff."

This makes me think his foreplay was a bit shit.  Also the poem ends with a jarring couplet involving a comparison to an enema.

I may not be cut out for poetry, but for those of you on a more elevated plane, here is Elegy XVIII (or XIX). BTW, it might help a bit know that it was held at the time that bear-cubs were born as shapeless blobs and licked into shape by their mothers.

Whoever loves, if he do not propose
The right true end of love, he's one that goes
To sea for nothing but to make him sick.
Love is a bear-whelp born : if we o'er-lick
Our love, and force it new strange shapes to take,
We err, and of a lump a monster make.
Were not a calf a monster, that were grown
Faced like a man, though better than his own ?
Perfection is in unity ; prefer
One woman first, and then one thing in her.
I, when I value gold, may think upon
The ductileness, the application,
The wholesomeness, the ingenuity,
From rust, from soil, from fire ever free ;
But if I love it, 'tis because 'tis made
By our new nature, use, the soul of trade.
All this in women we might think upon,
—If women had them—and yet love but one.
Can men more injure women than to say
They love them for that, by which they're not they ?
Makes virtue woman ? must I cool my blood
Till I both be, and find one wise and good ?
May barren angels love so.   But if we
Make love to woman, virtue is not she,
As beauty is not, nor wealth.   He that strays thus
From her to hers is more adulterous
Than if he took her maid.   Search every sphere
And firmament, our Cupid is not there.
He's an infernal God, and underground
With Pluto dwells, where gold and fire abound.
Men to such gods their sacrificing coals
Did not on altars lay, but pits and holes.
Although we see celestial bodies move
Above the earth, the earth we till and love.
So we her airs contemplate, words and heart,
And virtues, but we love the centric part.
    Nor is the soul more worthy, or more fit
For love, than this, as infinite as it.
But in attaining this desired place
How much they err, that set out at the face ?
The hair a forest is of ambushes,
Of springes, snares, fetters, and manacles ;
The brow becalms us when 'tis smooth and plain,
And when 'tis wrinkled, shipwrecks us again ;
Smooth, 'tis a paradise, where we would have
Immortal stay, but wrinkled 'tis a grave.
The nose, like to the first meridian, runs
Not 'twixt an east and west, but 'twixt two suns ;
It leaves a cheek, a rosy hemisphere,
On either side, and then directs us where
Upon the islands fortunate we fall,
Not faint Canaries, but ambrosial,
Her swelling lips, to which when we are come,
We anchor there, and think ourselves at home,
For they seem all ; there Sirens' songs and there
Wise Delphic oracles do fill the ear.
There, in a creek where chosen pearls do swell,
The remora, her cleaving tongue, doth dwell.
These and the glorious promontory, her chin,
O'erpast, and the straight Hellespont between
The Sestos and Abydos of her breasts,
Not of two lovers, but two loves, the nests,
Succeeds a boundless sea, but yet thine eye
Some island moles may scattered there descry ;
And sailing towards her India, in that way
Shall at her fair Atlantic navel stay.
Though there the current be the pilot made,
Yet, ere thou be where thou shouldst be embay'd,
Thou shalt upon another forest set,
Where many shipwreck, and no further get.
When thou art there, consider what this chase
Misspent by thy beginning at the face.
    Rather set out below ; practise thy art ;
Some symmetry the foot hath with that part
Which thou dost seek, and is thy map for that,
Lovely enough to stop, but not stay at.
Least subject to disguise and change it is ; 
Men say the devil never can change his ;
It is the emblem that hath figured
Firmness ; 'tis the first part that comes to bed.
Civility we see refined ; the kiss,
Which at the face began, transplanted is,
Since to the hand, since to the imperial knee,
Now at the papal foot delights to be.
If kings think that the nearer way, and do
Rise from the foot, lovers may do so too ;
For, as free spheres move faster far than can
Birds, whom the air resists, so may that man
Which goes this empty and ethereal way,
Than if at beauty's elements he stay.
Rich Nature in women wisely made
Two purses, and their mouths aversely laid.
They then which to the lower tribute owe,
That way which that exchequer looks must go ;
He which doth not, his error is as great,
As who by clyster gives the stomach meat.

Friday, 3 July 2015

Please let this be true

According to the Erotic Trade Only organisation, Motorhead - "the loudest band on earth" - are teaming up with Lovehoney  to release a range of sex toys!!!

Sign me up for one!
Just so long as it's not The Loudest Vibrator on Earth...

Wednesday, 1 July 2015

Pedras: spits* and taints* of Lisbon

There are distressingly few rude statues in Lisbon. Most of their statues seem to be of bold men who boldly explored strange new worlds and and boldy advanced the slaughter and enslavement of their native populations.

Look, I'm trying my best here...

But luckily there are many gargoyles...

Some of which even have bare boobies! Yay!

  So here are some of my fave gargoyles, monsters and grotesques:

It may be a bit worn, but this is supposed to be the oldest depiction of a rhinoceros in Western art 

Aw look - she is reading in bed with her dogs. It's the 13th century Ashbless!
I don't normally feed them chicken legs in bed, though.

Iron Age warrior gods
Bald, bearded and tattooed ... I swear I've seen them around
The well-known medieval legend of the sphinx, the mermaid and the giant penguins ... Um. Maybe.

The stunning cloisters of the Monastery hold many monsters...

These look like male genitals that have grown hooves and run away
I know about the Green Man - but a Green Cat?

But this is my favourite of them all - it's the Jet-Powered Angel!

He soars through the firmament scaring cherubs! He even has flamey heat-ripples!

* I'm currently reading Stoneheart