Monday, 30 May 2016

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's excerpt is from In Real Life which has just been published in Silence is Golden (ed. Anna Sky). Which means I am now officially a Sexy Little Author :-D

If someone is unable to speak, how do they communicate with their partner? If a sub or Dom can't hear well in crowds but loves to play at parties, what mechanisms are in place to ensure everyone stays safe?

The kink-inspired stories in Silence is Golden are sexy and bold. You'll meet strong, diverse characters across the spectrum of sexuality who revel in their desires. From silent Doms and Deaf lovers to submissives who can't be silenced and those who seek out the quiet. This sizzling collection brings together the finest erotic stories from Annabeth Leong, Dale Cameron Lowry, Sienna Saint-Cyr, Leandra Vane, Anna Sky and Janine Ashbless.

 In Real Life: Ellie is out on a blind date with Bryn, who is deaf - and accompanied by his signer Hugh.

‘What’s wrong?’ Hugh demands. They’re both hovering behind me, staring.
‘I’m really sorry! I’ve got to head back to the station or I’m going to miss the last train tonight. I’m really sorry – I just forgot.’ I squeeze both their arms in turn. ‘I was having such a great time!’        
‘We’ll walk you there,’ Hugh says. He and Bryn are signalling frantically at each other as we leave the club, and I get the impression that there’s a heated discussion going on, but it’s all over my head and I shrug it off. Outside the air is crisp and smells faintly of gunpowder from the midnight fireworks. The streets are full of underdressed people making their way from club to club. The chill air bites at my legs too; I shed my patterned winter tights when we reached the bar and now there’s nothing but bare skin between the tops of my boots and the bottom of my short skirt. I figure I’ll manage.
As I get myself sorted I realise I’ve got a few more minutes than I was counting on; my printout with the train time says Ten Past, not Ten To. We all relax a bit then. Bryn holds his arm out and I link mine in his, pleased. We walk through the streets, taking turns down quieter roads to avoid the crushes outside more popular venues, and when we get to a pedestrian bridge over a canal I pause to look down into the water, charmed by the glints of reflected light.
Hugh instantly takes the opportunity to light a fresh cigarette.
 Turning to put my back to the handrail, I look at Bryn with a faint smile. Wordlessly, like a man in a dream, he moves in to kiss me again, shielding me from the night air with his body. One hand slips under my open coat to clasp the small of my back and I arch into the lean of his torso, flowing against him. My thighs feel liquid, without resistance, and he feels more solid by the second. His mouth explores mine with a growing hunger; I’d like him to eat me up. He’s half-hard already. When I moan into his mouth he feels the vibration, and I know that by the immediate flex of his erection and the tensing shift of his muscles. A hand moves up to cup my breast and a thumb drifts over my right nipple, already stiff from the chill, flicking it softly and revelling in its fullness.
Oh God, that touch sends electric messages chasing through every part of my body, lighting up my clit. I feel the tracks of my nerves flaring like strings of LEDs under my skin. I can’t help squirming against him, and I don’t want to help it. I’m wildly turned on; I have been all evening.  My pussy aches, wanting him to full it, and the cold outside is more than balanced by the heat burning inside me.
We part, gasping a little, and experiment with smaller, biting kisses. I wrap my arms about his neck and ruffle that mown turf at the back of his scalp, wondering how soft that velvet would feel between my thighs. Bryn stoops to nibble at my ear and kiss my neck, and through his careful gentleness I can feel his breath coming hard and shallow. The hand on my breast deserts its station to clasp my bum-cheek, squeezing me through my skirt.
 Stretching my throat for him, I tilt my head and let my gaze fall on Hugh. He’s leaning forward on the railing a few feet away, smoking his roll-up idly and watching us, his expression inscrutable. Lifting my right thigh around Bryn’s in an unambiguous invitation for him to nestle closer, I feel my skirt ride up, gifting Hugh with a new view. His attention zeroes in and his lips tighten. My eyelids droop and flutter as Bryn shifts his grip on my bottom, reaching round and down for the hem of my skirt, sliding it up to explore the full swell. My skin thrills to his big warm hand.  He’s looking for the edge of my panties, I realise, but it takes him a while to find that because I’m wearing a thong; a wispy, lacy little thing picked deliberately for our meeting: might-get-lucky knickers, fuck-me panties. When he tucks a thumb under the elasticated lace at my hip I gasp involuntarily, knowing he’s crossing a boundary.
That’s when Bryn’s hand makes its irrevocable move to the front, under my rucked-up skirt, his fingertips delicate on the hidden fabric; tickling my pussy, teasing the barely-concealed nub of my clit, tugging the silky gusset aside. Hugh has forgotten to inhale and his cigarette trembles in his fingers. I’m past resistance now, if I ever was capable of it. I don’t care we’re on a public footbridge and that there are people walking past every few minutes. I don’t care what a slut I must look. I just want Bryn to touch me more. I just want to welcome his fingers into my wet and I’m so grateful for their slick caress on my swollen clit that when it finally happens I whimper out loud.
Bryn lifts his head from my throat and looks at me searchingly. Withdrawing his hands, he lifts them to sign; I grab his hips in frustration and pull his pelvis harder in to me, grinding my bereft mound against him.
‘He wants to know if you mind me watching,’ Hugh asks, his voice all woolly and hoarse.
I kiss Bryn softly, eagerly, and shake my head. ‘Not in the least.’
Hands dance again. I want them to dance on my breasts, in my wet slot.
‘He wants to know if you’d like me to touch you too.’
 I swallow, my throat suddenly dry, my heart pounding. ‘I’d like that very much,’ I whisper.

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

Friday, 27 May 2016

Wednesday, 25 May 2016

Let's Smut-by-the-Sea again

... like we did last summer!

Smut by the Sea 2016 Author and Reader event (Sponsored by Godemiche) – Are you going to Scarborough Fair?

There’s never enough time to do everything you want, is there?
When I gave my talk at Eroticon 2015 on ‘Writing Fantasy and Fairytale Erotica,’ I spent so much time enthusing about why fantasy is such a good crossover with erotica that we ran out of time to do the writing exercises I’d prepared. And that’s a crying shame, isn’t it? No matter how eruditely I blather on and how stonkingly awesome my Powerpoint slides are, if writers aren’t actually getting stuck in to try the genre for themselves then it’s all a bit of a waste.

So I’m giving a workshop at Smut by the Sea THIS SATURDAY as a sort of practical spin-off from my original talk. I’m going to assume from the start that if you're there you want to write fantasy, paranormal and/or fairytale erotica. Let’s say you’ve seen a call for an anthology, say. You know what sort of sex you like writing about, that’s a given. But maybe you’re just stuck on the setting, or how to include magical creatures in a convincing manner, or how much world-building you need to fit in 5000 words. Or maybe you want to write Little Red Riding Hood but you think it’s been done a million times before and you’re looking for a way to give it your own twist.

I’m hoping in this session to help you find places to look that’ll kickstart your inspiration, your creativity, and your daring. I want to show you my fantasy plot cheat-codes. I want to get you writing!

We’ll still run out of time, of course  ;-)

Smut Events are fun, safe, inclusive days out when our community of erotica writers, sex bloggers. talented performers, readers, geeks & those that love them get together to socialize, exchange ideas and inspire one another. Smut by the Sea 2016 is the fourth event to be held at Scarborough Library and this year it is on 
Saturday 28th May from 10am -5pm. 

On the day there will be a host of fun, smutty things to enjoy including interactive workshops, reading slams, a brand new incarnation known as Dr Scribbly and much, much more. You even get your buffet lunch thrown in for free!

In the erotic marketplace you’ll be able to meet event sponsors Godemiche and get to grips with their amazing handmade silicone dildos, have a go on the world famous erotic tombola and win sex toys galore, check out and treat yourself or pick up a book from the book stall and get your copy signed by the attending authors.

Tickets are now available from just £12 (excluding paypal charges) and there are a few limited author and promo tickets left for those who want to bring their books and promotional items on the day. Pick up your ticket at Eventbrite now or if you’d like to arrange an alternative way to pay other than paypal contact Victoria Blisse at victoria @ victoriablisse. co. uk (no spaces). As Host with the most she will be able to answer all your questions too.

10:00am    DOORS OPEN
10:15am    Introduction from Victoria Blisse
Welcome to our fourth annual Smut by the Sea event!
10:20am    Reading Slam #1
Featuring: Victoria Blisse, Anna Sky, Slave Nano, Kev Blisse
11am    Morning Break
11:15am    Jennifer Denys presents “Sex in sci fi stories”
Jennifer Denys has written several sci-fi erotic romances and in the process had to research a weightless sex scene – have any astronauts ‘done it’? Come to Jen’s workshop and find out! The session will briefly cover the history of sexuality in sci-fi literature, look at modern depictions and you will get a chance to come up with your own ideas for sex scenes in the future (we want some really fun, innovative ideas!)
12noon    LUNCH!!!
1pm    Anna Sky from Sexy Little Pages presents “Shortcuts to Self-Publishing”
Anna will take you on a whistle-stop tour on how to get more out of your publishing. Find out how to reach more sales platforms with little extra effort, how to use free services to help readers find you more easily and tips and tricks for spreading your new releases further afield.
1:45pm    Check out the Erotic Market Break
2pm    Reading Slam #2
Featuring: K D Grace, Charlie J Forrest, Dylan McEwan, Jennifer Denys

2:45pm    Bing-Oh-Behave!
Eyes down on those lovely legs elevens for a game of purple prose bingo!
3pm    Janine Ashbless presents “Writing Fantasy Erotica”
So you want to write a fantasy, fairy tale, SF or paranormal erotic story … but you don’t know where to start? You’re wondering where to find fresh ideas? This interactive workshop with Janine Ashbless focuses on where to find your inspiration, and how to turn centuries-old plots into startling new stories.
3:45pm    Afternoon Tea Break
4pm    Dr. Scribbly with performer Bea Noir
You get to watch amazing performances designed to inspire you on the spot. Then you have a certain amount of time to write something about the performance. Anything you like, a poem, a flash fiction, or even simply a description of what you saw. Its totally up to you, no boxes, no cages, just your words.
There will be fun competitions to take part in and opportunities to win fabulous prizes.
5pm    So long, and thanks for all the Smut!
Another seaside adventure draws to a close, as we say our goodbyes for another year xxx
5:30pm    DOORS CLOSE

Monday, 23 May 2016

Blue Monday: Kay Jaybee guests

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for you entertainment!

My guest this week is Kay Jaybee, with a teasing excerpt from her very first short story set The Collector, which has just been re-released in a new edition with two extra stories!

Gathering salaciously erotic stories against an everyday backdrop of bus trips, train journeys, coffee shops, and restaurants, The Collector documents a wide variety of sexual encounters as she travels Great Britain.

The Collector’s research takes her into every arena of the erotic experience, from love, lust, submission and dominance, to voyeurism and beyond. 

Are you brave enough to see if it was your supposedly private conversation she overheard - and then wrote down?

The Scottish Fantasy

Stacie gasped as the door opened. The dark shine to the man’s slate eyes as he regarded her and her friend Kate was in danger of taking Stacie’s breath away, and he hadn’t even spoken yet.

Tall, broad, with a tanned face and short spiked hair, a hint of stubble shadowed his square chin. Obviously surprised to see two young women walking through the woods so late on a winter’s afternoon, the ranger ushered them inside his wooden hut. 

Introducing himself as Rob—Like Rob Roy! Stacie’s inner voice shouted at her. How perfect is that!—he looked at them enquiringly, ‘I dunna ken what you’re doin’ here, hens.’ 

Stacie’s brow furrowed. She’d thought that the Scottish spoke English.

Kate laughed as she saw her friend’s confused expression. ‘He means he doesn’t understand what we want, honey. “Dunna ken” means “don’t know” and “hen” is the local term for girl.’  Turning toward the ranger, Kate smiled. ‘This is Stacie, and I’m Kate. Stacie hasn’t got her ear geared into the local accent yet; she’s American.’

‘I guess that means an American accent.’ The ranger spoke so softly, Stacie felt herself melting on the spot. ‘I rather like those.’

Ignoring her friend, whose eyes were on stalks, leaving her in no doubt that Stacie was on an internal lust trip, Kate said, ‘We’re really sorry to bother you so late, but could you tell us where we are? We seem to be on a much longer trail than we intended to be, and we’ve lost the track.’

Rob’s dark eyes bored into her as she spoke. Kate couldn’t decide if their presence mildly amused him, or if he was merely tolerating the interruption to his work.

‘We’ve run out of water as well. Could we fill up our bottles here, please?’

‘It’s a good job you stopped, hen.’ The ranger pulled a map off his cluttered desk and pointed a thick finger at a red dotted line. ‘You’re here, on the all day walk. It’s called that for sound reasons.’

Lost in an erotic daydream, Stacie wasn’t listening to a word he said, just to the sound of his voice; the beautiful, gentle burr of his accent. She judged it fitted neatly half way between Ewan McGregor and Sean Connery. 

When Kate had invited her friend over from the States for a couple of weeks exploring the Grampians of Scotland, Stacie had been thrilled. Not only could she catch up with her gorgeous friend and occasional lover, she could visit an area of the world that had always held a fantasy for her. Kilts, burly men in tight white vests, cabers being tossed, heather, whiskey, and mountains topped with snow. 

The heather and mountains were a reality sure enough, as were the late night tots of warming whiskey she’d shared with Kate as they snuggled up together in the king-sized bed their Deeside hotel room provided. But until now, in this ranger’s office, hidden away in the woods near the flooded caves of Burn O’Vat, Stacie hadn’t seen anyone who even came close to the Celtic man of her late night fantasies.

Stacie felt mesmerised by the ranger. Despite the coldness of the late winter air he wore no coat, and his green sweater sleeves were rolled back to show arms honed by hard work. Forget kilts, this was as close to perfection as Stacie’s Scottish fantasy was ever going to get.

 ‘I’ll fill your bottles right enough, but if you’ll heed my advice, you’ll go back on the route you came. Far quicker and safer. It’ll be dark in about two hours.’

‘Thanks, I think we’ll do that.’ Kate watched as he took their empty water bottles over to his sink. His back view was as stunning as his front. The goldfish expression on Stacie’s face told her girlfriend that she was mentally undressing him, and Kate began to do the same.  Well aware that Stacie had serious fantasy issues where Scottish men were concerned, Kate wondered just how turned on her friend was. Did she have damp knickers? Were her nipples hard?

As Kate’s thoughts rambled, her own arousal began to tweak up a notch. Perhaps… She took a deep breath. Well, why not?

‘It must be lonely here, on your own all day.’ Kate knew the line was a bit lame, but she didn’t care. A sideways glance at Stacie showed that her lover had understood her intentions, and approved.

Rob didn’t look round. He didn’t need to. He could sense the two sets of eyes on his back; they were almost scorching him. Taking his time to fill the second bottle, the ranger thought the situation through.

Two of them, both hot totty. One a blonde, one a redhead. One English. One American. A tasty combination. Their bulky winter coats, sensible walking trousers and boots didn’t give much away, but he was willing to bet that once all the layers were off, they would be a sight to behold. He could be wrong, he supposed, but maybe…

Rob replied to Kate’s question. ‘I like it well enough, hen. I ken it’s quiet, but I like peace and quiet.’

‘So, you don’t get… lonely, then?’ Kate knew she was being blatant, but she didn’t care. If she could pull this off, it would be the perfect holiday present for her friend. Stacie, her mouth dry with anticipation, stepped forward. Pulling off her gloves to reveal pale hands with violently clashing purple nail-varnished tips, she took the full bottles from Rob’s hands. Making certain her fingers brushed his as she did so. 

‘Thank you,’ Stacie purred as she passed one of the bottles to her partner. The tacit standoff that followed as tension rippled through the small office room-cum-workshop was eventually broken by Rob.

‘Would you lassies like something to warm you up before you go?’  His sentence, delivered in a deadpan tone, could have been suggesting something as mundane as sharing of a mug of hot chocolate, but his sparkling eyes hinted at so much more.

Stacie’s pulse quickened as Kate casually replied, ‘Well, if it’s not too much trouble, that would be lovely.’ Another normal sentence, but packed with enough eyelash-fluttering that she might as well have screamed out ‘Fuck us now!’

‘I was about to light the fire.’ Rob knelt at a small grate, already neatly piled with kindling. ‘Perhaps you’d like to lose your jackets for a while. When this takes, this place gets pretty hot.’

The girls’ eyes were drawn to the hopping, spluttering flames. They threw their coats over their backpacks, which they’d already dumped by the front door. 

Taking his time with the fire, the ranger didn’t stir from where he crouched until it had taken to his satisfaction, and was smoking nicely up the chimney. Then, with a measured movement, he stood and faced his guests, who with unspoken agreement had divested themselves of far more than just their coats. Somehow Rob managed to keep his face passive as his eyes travelled from the top of each girl’s head down to their toes.

They stood naked. Holding hands. So, lovers in their own right, then. Nice. He smiled. It had been over fifteen years since he’d been with two women at the same time. A memory that kept him warm during the dark winter days and nights as he guarded the woodland and its wildlife. 

Deciding against comment, Rob took a silent moment to choose which girl he’d treat rough and which one he’d simply treat. Then, with a pace that neither girl would have associated with the man whose previous movements had been so controlled and steady, he stripped...

Buy The Collector at:
Amazon US
Amazon UK

For over a decade Kay Jaybee has lived a nomadic existence across the British Isles, collecting stories as she travels

She was named Best Erotica Writer of 2015 by the ETO

She received an honouree mention at the NLA Awards 2015 for excellence in BDSM writing.

Kay Jaybee wrote The Perfect Submissive Trilogy, (The Perfect Submissive, The Retreat, Knowing Her Place, Xcite 2011-14), The New Room, (Xcite, 2015), The Voyeur, (Xcite 2012), Making Him Wait (Sweetmeats, 2012), A Sticky Situation (Xcite, 2013), Digging Deep, (Xcite 2013), Take Control, (1001 NightsPress, 2014), and Not Her Type (1001 NightsPress, 2013).

Brit Babes Site

Friday, 20 May 2016

Silence is Golden

I'm delighted to announce that my short story In Real Life, which originally appeared in the Surprise anthology way back in the day, is going to see a reprint in Silence is Golden, edited by Anna Sky and published by the fab new Sexy Little Pages imprint.

Silence is Golden: If someone is unable to speak, how do they communicate with their partner? If a sub or Dom can’t hear well in crowds but loves to play at parties, what mechanisms are in place to ensure everyone stays safe?

With a bit of luck it'll be available for sale by the time Smut by the Sea happens - that's ONLY A WEEK, FOLKS!

Wednesday, 18 May 2016

Jigsaw plot

This is where I am with my WIP right now:

At 35,000 words - coming up to half way - I've finally got my characters to Ethiopia, thus totally justifying my holiday there last year. And hell yes, I'm using those thousands of photos I took for reference purposes. I WANT TO GET IT RIGHT ... not that anyone reading the novel will care. *sigh*

As a die-hard Pantser, at 35K I've also hit the point where the writing process becomes really complex - a bit like doing a jigsaw where every piece has to be hand-carved as you go along. I'll sit down to write a new scene, moving the plot an other notch forward. But inevitably I also have to go back to one or more previous scenes to add a few lines of dialogue or a single adjective, to tie that scene into the new one. I have to make sure that the characters can proceed logically from one action to the next instead of making gigantic lucky guesses, and that they can look back on past scenes and suddenly realise the significance of a event or observation. That means a LOT of infilling of details.

I flew thousands of miles to take this photo, I'll have you know.
Three times now I've had to go back and insert entire new scenes that round out character motivation, or that will have the desired plot effect eight chapters down the line. And more embarrassingly, I've also had to backtrack to remove stuff. But just once.

Every scene must pull its weight. There's no padding.

I go to bed every night thinking about plot and wake up every morning thinking about plot. I've grown increasingly non-verbal around Mr Ashbless, as I'm constantly trying to keep every story detail in mind until I can get them written down.

Don't marry a writer, folks. Or maybe check if they are a Plotter or a Panster first!

Monday, 16 May 2016

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

Hmph. Today marks a milestone in my lifespan because I am now in the age category that gets called in for a routine mammogram. Therefore I thought I'd pick a particularly boobilicious excerpt from a story to share. This is from Three Legs in the Evening, which appeared in the acclaimed anthology The Sexy Librarian's Big Book of Erotica.

Oedipus is recounting his history with the Sphinx ... to an unnamed female interrogator.

He sighed. “She was beautiful. Terrifying, of course—huge—but beautiful. The body of a lioness, the wings of an eagle, the head and breasts of a woman. I’ve seen statues and paintings that make her look Greek, but that’s wrong. Have you ever seen a woman of Upper Egypt?—she looked like that. Dense, long black ringlets of hair, and great dark eyes lined with kohl, and golden earrings that hung almost to her neck. I wondered—later—how she went about adorning herself, but it turned out she had thumbs that were almost human, on those great big paws.

    “It wasn’t her paws I was thinking about as she stood right over my helpless body, though. It was her canine teeth, and her breasts. Oh gods, her breasts…She was bigger than any human woman of course, and those orbs of hers hung over me like the mountains of the gods. The cleft between them was as dark and deep and rich as the Nile Valley, and her black nipples were bigger than the tops of my thumbs.

    “Oh how I wanted those tits. Death seemed an irrelevance in comparison. Don’t get me wrong—I was afraid. But my cock filled and lifted too.

    “‘Now answer my riddle,’ she growled. ‘What is it that walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, and three in the evening?’
 “I can understand why no one had answered her correctly before. Imminent death is not conducive to clear thought. But I couldn’t stop looking at those incredible breasts. My mouth should have been dry with terror, but it was watering at the sight. As she crouched over me, not quite touching but mantling me with her wings like a feeding hawk, I realized I could smell her sex. Spice and musk and female lust: it went to my head just like the fumes of the Underworld filling the Pythia’s skull, and drove me nearly as mad.

    “‘Well, I have a third leg right now,’ I said hoarsely. ‘And I am a man.’

    “‘Are you?’ she boomed. ‘Are you?’ She looked down my body, at the rigid cockstand pointing right up at her. ‘Maybe you are,’ she said: ‘at last.’ With the razor-edge of her claw she slashed through my bonds. ‘What will you do now, clever little man?’

    “This,’ I said, grabbing her nibbles and pulling them—together and down, and toward my lifted mouth. I got my lips around the tips of those ambrosial breasts and I chewed and sucked and nuzzled my face between them and kneaded with my fingers…and I damn near spent my load there and then, I tell you.” Oedipus’ hands were crossed over his groin now, in an attempt to hide the obvious. “The Sphinx seemed no less pleased,” he added, clearing his throat. “She yowled like a cat in heat and arched her back, and lifted her rump in the air while she lashed her tail from side to side. But I couldn’t reach any of that. I just had her wonderful tits in my face. That was all I could do…until she snatched me up and rolled over onto her back, taking me with her. I’m very glad she kept her claws velveted. Wings spread in the sand, legs open, she pushed me down her body.

    “Her front was human—two breasts and no more, a hairless belly, and between her lion’s legs a sex that looked entirely human to me, pink-hearted and wet and open like a blown rose. The smell of her was intoxicating.

    “‘Fill me!’ she ordered, showing teeth like bronze daggers. And it was clear what she wanted, what was driving her mad with frustration—but how was any man supposed to satisfy her? I was sporting an erection of heroic proportions, but she was bigger than any woman, bigger even than a lioness, and I doubted she’d even feel my shaft.”

    Oedipus paused, breathing deeply. “She was the kind of challenge that made my blood sing.”

    I shifted my weight from one thigh to the other, feeling the impatient slickness between them. “Go on!”

    He turned his face to me, a habit left over from his sighted life. “Do you really want to hear?”


   “You want to know how I fucked the Sphinx?”

   “Yes,” I repeated, my voice all twisted up.

    “Then come closer.”

 Buy The Sexy Librarian's Big Book of Erotica at:
Amazon US 
Amazon UK
Google Play

Sunday, 15 May 2016

Buns of Evil

I've been going through my old photos from Ethiopia for research on this current novel ... And I would just like to point out what a fine fine butt the Devil has.

Friday, 13 May 2016

Truth Lies at the Bottom of a Well

I was delighted to come across this awesome example of Academic art the other day, which sent me scrabbling across the Internet:

It's called Truth Coming Out of Her Well to Shame Mankind, by our old favourite Jean-Leon Gerome (1824-1904). Truth is not just going to shame Mankind - she's going to give us all hell with the scourge in her right hand there.

And I thought ... what the heck? Why is Truth living down a well?

It seems to originate with a quote from Democritus:

ἐτεῇ δὲ οὐδὲν ἴσμεν, ἐν βυθῷ γάρ ἡ ἀλήθεια: "We know nothing certainly, for truth lies in the deep."

or in fuller form:

"By convention hot, by convention cold, but in reality only atoms and void, and also in reality we know nothing, since the truth lies in the deep."

"In the deep" suggests under water, somewhere completely inaccessible, and is sometimes glossed as "beneath the sea":  But by the looks of things it was commonly quoted by Victorian times as "at the bottom of a well" and had gained the connotation that it is something you have to dig down a long way for. When used in specific cases - "The truth of the matter is something we'll probably never know."

Édouard Debat-Ponsan: Truth Leaving the Well (1898)
Frances MacDonald McNair: Truth Lies at the Bottom of a Well (1912)

We don't quote Greek philosophers in public much these days, which is possibly a great loss to art.

Wednesday, 11 May 2016

Kinked Ink

BDSM writer L N Bey invited me over to take part in the Kinked Ink: eroticists' favorite erotica series. Talk about my favourite erotic novels, I was told!

So naturally I refused, because I am an awkward bitch.

I have a problem with erotic novels.

You can read why - and all about the books I did pick to praise - RIGHT HERE. (And you can read F Leonora Solomon's much more cooperative response to the call too)


Monday, 9 May 2016

Blue Monday: K D Grace guests

Every Monday I post a wicked excerpt for your entertainment!

My guest this week is the indefatigable K D Grace, in best supernatural form! Her latest book Demon: Interrupted (part 4 of the Lakeland Witches series) is out right now.

What secrets does a man have that would cause him to chooses to live under a spell that magically erased his past? When that spell is broken Ferris Ryder must choose to remember all that he was, all that he has done and all that drove him to willingly forget. If he chooses not to remember, the consequences will be dire for himself and the Elemental Coven, who are now his family.

Is the mysterious Elaine, who both fears and desires Ferris, a ghost with a past all her own, or merely a figment of his fevered dreams as he struggles against time to remember the past he fears or destroy the very people for whom he chose to forget?

In a room full of people Ferris could remain totally unnoticed. He heard things that way, saw things that others missed. Fiori suspected that was part of his magic. However, at the moment, he was completely and totally the centre of her attention as his warm, wet tongue teased its way down and around the puckered peaks and the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. One splayed hand cupped and fondled her tight pubic curls while the other worried open his fly. What he was doing to her body was also a part of his magic and way more of a surprise, considering the man’s unassuming nature, than his ability to blend in.

She writhed beneath him totally naked, just as she had been when he entered her room, gently easing her out of a bad dream, back into the Waking World, and into his arms.

How had he known she was having the dream again? How had he known about the dream at all? And yet he did, and she was glad that he came to her. ‘Sh! sh. It’s only a dream, Fiori,’ he whispered. ‘Only a dream.’ He’d brought her a glass of water from the bathroom and had returned with a soft white towel. While she drank as though she had just traversed the desert, he gently wiped the perspiration from her face and her shoulders. Then he took the glass away and moved the soft terrycloth knap in slow lazy circles down her back and her ribs as she slid into his arms, laying her head against his shoulder. ‘Do you want me to stay with you?’ he asked.

She only nodded, tightening her arms around his neck.

His black shirt was open and untucked and his nipples hardened as she slid her arms inside and up his back. ‘Do you want me to make love to you?’ He asked it as simply as a parent would ask a child if she would like a bedtime story. He asked it because he knew in a house where sex magic was practiced, healing came in the form of passion, and she nodded again. His cock was already hard, but then she had noticed that it often was. In those times when he allowed attention to be drawn to himself, in those times when he made his presence known he neither attempted to hide his erection nor did he attempt to flaunt it. It was the ease and the comfort with which he wore his own masculinity that made him seem like a much larger man than he really was. In spite of his chameleon nature, he was not shy by any means, and his stamina and his finesse made him a welcome edition to the beds of all of the Elemental witches and their consorts.

Impatient for the feel of him freed, she shoved at his trousers, the scrape of the zipper seeming unusually loud in the quiet room. He ran his hand down to aid her as she worried his cock free. He was neither large nor small. Even his cock was nothing unusual to draw attention to itself, and yet there was no one at Elemental Cottage who didn’t relish the thought of Ferris between their legs, of Ferris shifting and grinding as though his unassuming penis had a secret magic all its own once properly sheathed in an appreciative pussy or mouth or arsehole.

His breath caught with a grunt as she fisted the length of him, and she could almost feel the ripples of lust rising up the vertebrae of his spine. For a second he wrapped his hand around hers and shifted his hips. Then he pulled her fingers free, kissing each one of them, running his tongue in ticklish strokes over the tips, making her hips rock in empathy against the mattress. ‘I’m going to taste you now. I can already smell how good you’ll be.’ With a wriggle of his arse and a shove with his feet he shed his trousers as he crawled down between her thighs, nudging her open with the smoothly shaven wedge of his jaw, clearing the way with nose and lips, teeth and tongue. The humidity of his breath blew across her clit, which rose up in anticipation.

‘There,’ he said, his fingers parting her as agilely and exactingly as if he were a pianist and she were his instrument. For an age he studied her, fingered her, arranged her as though there were only one way, the best way to approach her dark, heavy folds, and he would not partake until he knew exactly what would bring all of her focus, all of her energy, all of her arousal to the very centre of his attention. ‘And now,’ his words were little more than a rush of breath, ‘I’ll give you what you need.’ He took her with his whole mouth, hunched over her like a lion at his prey, the muscles of his shoulders bunched tight, dusted and gilded in moonlight. And she felt the bloom of her arousal like a bud swelling, bursting, opening. Then the bloom became an explosion rising up from someplace suspended above the base of her spine. He held her hips, held her steady with strength his body belied as she bucked against his mouth, as she convulsed, as the moon moved in and out amid the undulation of slate clouds.

In the hazy vision of heat he seemed larger than himself, much larger than himself as though his arousal, their arousal together had released something broader of shoulder, deeper of chest, darker of memory and, as the moon disappeared, the power of him rose like a shadow thick and all-consuming and, somehow, other than himself. The hair on the back of her neck rose. Gooseflesh prickled over her breasts, even as she rocked out her orgasm against his mouth. But before the tingle of uncertainty and the edge of fear could take hold, the moon reappeared and unassuming Ferris gave her clit on last hard tug with his lips and then rose over her, positioning himself, easing her open with his knees and his hips.

Buy Demon: Interrupted at:
Amazon UK
Amazon US
Amazon AU
Amazon CA
Amazon DE

Books 1 though 3 of the Lakeland Witches trilogy (Body Temperature and Rising, Riding the Ether, and Elemental Fire, are also available.)

K D Grace was voted ETO Best Erotic Author of 2014, and a proud member of The Brit Babes. K D Grace believes Freud was right. In the end, it really IS all about sex, well sex and love. And nobody’s happier about that than she is, otherwise, what would she write about? 

When she’s not writing, K D is veg gardening. When she’s not gardening, she’s walking. She walks her stories, and she’s serious about it. She and her husband have walked Coast to Coast across England, along with several other long-distance routes. For her, inspiration is directly proportionate to how quickly she wears out a pair of walking boots. She also enjoys martial arts, reading, watching the birds and anything that gets her outdoors.

K D Grace also writes hot romance as Grace Marshall

K D's website
Brit Babes

Sunday, 8 May 2016

Fall of Day

There's some discussion as to this picture by William Rimmer (1816-1879). Titled Evening (Fall of Day) it would seem to be a metaphorical depiction so literal as to make little sense. Day does not actually die in our Western mythology/symbolism, despite the common turn of phrase. And why is the figure haloed and lacking in genitals?

It makes more sense if you see the figure in relation to the fallen angel Lucifer - "Morning Star" or "Daystar" of Christian mythology  - which is loosely based on Biblical references, but mostly fleshed out in Milton's Paradise Lost. Rimmer would have been familiar with that work.

Here's a statue of Lucifer on the Fountain of the Fallen Angel in the Buen Retiro Park in Madrid, situated at 666 metres above sea level and very similar in realisation.

Ricardo Beliver 1877
Rimmer's picture was the basis for Led Zeppelin's Swan Song record logo, btw.

 You can read about the occult hoo-hah surrounding their album Led Zeppelin IV, here.

Friday, 6 May 2016

Library porn: now with added demons

Last week I went looking, with authors Charlotte Courtney-Bond and David Tallerman, for demons in the John Rylands Library, Manchester:

Spooky, huh?
It was built in 1900 by Cuban-born Enriqueta Rylands in memory of her late husband. She then gifted it to the people of the city.

That has to be the basis of a horror story, surely?
It is currently hosting a small exhibition on Magic, Witches and Devils in the Early Modern World - basically a collection of grimoires and early prints. Unfortunately you're not allowed to take pictures of the exhibits themselves (Tthere are only about seven cabinets, but they're fascinating stuff. I was amused to see that Dr John Dee had doodled a lady with bare boobs in the margins of his spellbook, for example).

But if I couldn't take pictures of ancient tomes groaning with diabolic power, or even the Shakespearean first folio, at least I could photograph the building itself for all you library fans.

Because it is the most amazingly Hogwartian place!

It bristles with arches, groins, unnecessary pillars, and grotesque carvings of monkeys, green men and dragons - more that anyone could ever count.

And we did find one demon:

It's a good job we had fortified ourselves with Holy Water...

The breakfast of champions. And exorcists. 

More municipal library porn in my earlier post

Wednesday, 4 May 2016

My First Time

Pommes by Chéri Herouard (1881-1961)

Today I'm over at Kay Jaybee's blog telling her all about My First Time. You will discover there the truly shameful secret of what I did when I was 18 years old...


Monday, 2 May 2016

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a filthy excerpt for your entertainment!

Since I've been deep in some gruesome territory for the last few weeks writing a horror story, I think today I'll get it all out of my system and post an excerpt from my story "Montague's Last Ride". It appeared in my very first story collection, Cruel Enchantment, way WAY before zombie erotica was ever a Thing, and it is really horror-erotica. I even read it out loud at the World Horror Convention some years back. 

Bored, masochistic gentlewoman Cecilia has sort-of-inadvertently tempted family ancestor the rakish Lord Montague back from his grave...

Lord Montague stood near the foot of her bed. Cecilia forgot to breathe.

She could see that he had once been more than handsome; he wore the rags of his beauty as he wore the torn trousers and the loose, yellowed linen shirt. His hair was dark and fell to his shoulders like a gleaming shadow, his cheekbones were high, his shoulders broad over a lithe body and narrow hips. But his burial clothes did little to hide the terrible wiry thinness of his limbs, or the discoloured skin stretched tight as parchment over jutting collarbones, or the long narrow hands with their yellowed nails. and  - he had no eyes. Blackened pits gaped at her turning his face into a mask.

For a moment that could not be measured - for both breath and heartbeat seemed to have deserted Cecilia - they faced each other down the length of the bed, both perfectly motionless. Then she opened her mouth and gave a terrible choking gasp. But at that he began to walk round towards her, and the cry she might have uttered died in her throat. A clutch of cold gripped her entire body like a straitjacket and she could not stir from where she knelt. The action of walking transformed Lord Montague from a simple corpse, an object of disgust, to something much worse. The horror of it hit her like glory; he was beyond mere revulsion.

He did not move like a living man - he was too stiff, unused to the motion. His bare feet clicked on the polished floorboards. Cecilia shut her eyes briefly, but opened them when he stopped before her. Her next shuddering breath brought the sweet carrion stink of him to her nostrils. She noted without thought that beneath the stained cravat knotted about his throat, the bruises of his hanging could still be glimpsed, torn and livid.

He inclined his head towards her.

Slowly she reached out with one hand and touched his chest, just where skin and cloth met at the deep neckline of his shirt. He was cold, and his skin slightly damp to the touch., like old leather left out in the rain.  There was no rise and fall to his ribs. Cecilia whimpered deep in her throat and very gently Lord Montague raised one hand to brush and then cup her cheek. She shut her eyes, leaning into the chill of his brittle fingers. Her own hand slid down the front of his shirt, felt the tightness of the abdominal skin and the suggestion of writhing movement beneath it. A dark wave of dizziness threatened to drown her. Struggling above it like a woman fighting a rough sea, she opened her eyes wide, raised her head, and did not flinch even when his face descended upon hers and their lips met.

He stank of death. He tasted of death. Breathing deeply, she found she could not support herself any longer; all the strength seemed to have ebbed from her. She sank helpless down from her kneeling position, back against the pillows, and watched dreamily as his hands traced the outline of her breasts. One by one he undid the the little white bows down the front of her nightdress, exposing her plump breasts. His hands were so cold; her nipples leaped at once under their icy caress and became hard as pebbles. He cupped her in his skeletal grasp and bent to tug one stiff pink nipple lightly in his teeth. She moaned and writhed under the horror and the pleasure. Her hips moved in blind circles. She brushed his dark hair with one hand, felt something wriggle away from her palm, and did not care. His touch was torment.

"Oh God," she whispered as he pulled and rolled her flesh between the leathery bones of his fingers. The coldness within her was giving way to a terrible, melting heat; her sex was all liquid fire and desperate need. When he released her she began to sob.

His hand  went then to her nightdress and the fabric tore like wet paper beneath them. He bared her down the entire length of her body, seemed to contemplate the sight, and then traced that path across her skin with his fingertips, cracked nails scoring pink lines upon her. His touch reached her pubic mound, the rough hair of her secret flesh. Cecilia swallowed her last gasp, froze, and then opened her thighs to him. his fingers slipped into wetness.

Her eyes pleaded. She lifted her arms to her ancient lover.

He stooped to her. The rotted cloth of his trousers ripped under his nails. She felt the cold, hard length of his embrace, the push of his thighs parting hers, the icy length of his slippery member sliding between her hot inner lips. She wrapped her legs around his thrusting hips and groaned aloud with pleasure, clawing at his back. His flesh disintegrated under her nails and she felt the bare bones of his spine against her fingertips, but it did not slow him or give him pause in his terrible quest. The appetite that had brought him back from the grave overmastered everything. Not death, not damnation, not the collapse of his earthly flesh could hold him back.

Sunday, 1 May 2016


(No, not the "Freak Like Me" you know. Different song)

I heard this on the radio and thought it was lots of fun :-)