I thought it might be fun and illuminating to think about some of the ways in which erotic writing differs from other types – because it does, in many ways, some of them quite surprising.
Today we have naming of parts.
Of course, all writers have to think deeply about their word choices, I’m not suggesting otherwise. But for erotic writers, this can become an incredibly vexed question. There are readers who will click away from the story the moment the word ‘cunt’ shows up. There are others who will roll their eyes at anything but the bluntest descriptors.
Most readers fall between these two stools (but let’s not get into scat – definitely not my niche). Even so, everybody has their cringe-list; those words and descriptions that will take them out of the breathless moment and into mild nausea.
I have quite a few of my own, but my number one bugbear is ‘cum’ – spelled like that, rather than ‘come’, which is fine. I know that makes no sense, but I hate it. There’s something about it that reminds me of the panicky, unsettling feeling when I found sticky pages from highly-coloured porn mags in the local woods as a child of about 9. It makes me anxious.
My weird aversion illustrates something all erotic writers must struggle with – the readership’s own irrational hatred of certain words and phrases. Of course, you can’t possibly take everyone’s tastes on board. You’d never get a word written at all. But I keep an eye on these kinds of conversations, and if one word persistently crops up as being found repellent by many, I’ll avoid it. ‘Moist’ is one – many people find it sickening, which is a shame, as it’s a very serviceable word in erotic description, but I don’t want people heaving over my characters’ shenanigans, so I have – with some regret – crossed it off my ‘to use’ list. Another is ‘gusset’. Oh, how many times have I been tempted to write about a woman’s ‘moist gusset’. But you’ll only read it here – never in one of my stories. Alas!
What words do you avoid? I’d love to hear everyone’s squick list.
Next time – euphemisms!
Sex in the City: London
Posted on: June 13, 2016
In April 2010 one of my favourite anthologies, including one of my favourite self-penned stories, came out. Sex in the City: London was the first in a series of city-themed collections edited by Maxim Jakubowski and featuring stories from a wide variety of authors.
I think what I still love about my story Thames Link is how unapologetic and no-holds-barred it is. There is no softening around the edges here, and the ‘hero’ doesn’t fit the romantic mould. And why the hell should he? I find him all the hotter for his slightly sinister aspect.
I always love London as a setting too – the pace, the heat, the crowds, the infinite diversity seem made for erotica. I’d love to have seen more London books in this series – perhaps there will be one day.
The book is out of print now, but still available secondhand from Amazon. It contains stories by Matt Thorne, Francis Ann Kerr, Valerie Grey, NJ Streitberger, Kristina Lloyd, Lily Harlem, Maxim Jakubowski, Elizabeth Coldwell, Clarice Clique, Carrie Williams and Kevin Mullins & Marcelle Perks.
Here’s how it opens:
I sing the praise of the sleazy man.
The man with the shifty eyes, the man with the floppy fringe, the man with the sensual lips, the man who drinks a little too much red wine and eats a little too much cake. You might see him on the train; his eyes follow you over the top of his paper and you try not to recross your legs too often. He might be standing at the bar so you have to feign enormous levels of animation with your companions. Perhaps he works with you and there is a rota in place among your colleagues so nobody has to go into the photocopier cupboard at the same time as him.
He’s a creep, he’s a sleaze, he’s a perve. He’s my kind of guy.
I know, I sound insane. Who on earth likes men like this? I suppose it’s his honesty that appeals to me. No ‘I really like you as a person’. No discussion of mutually admired bands and comedians. No number swaps or long waits for the phone to beep. Better than the man who moves in with you before revealing his wardrobe of skintight latex. Better than the man that waits until you have his ring on your finger before asking you if you fancy a pint down the swingers’ club. This is a man who wears his cock on his sleeve, and quite rightly so.
He’ll speak fluent innuendo. He’ll sit too close to you on the bus. He’ll walk behind you in the park, watching the sway of your backside. In the ultraviolet light of the disco, he’ll try to get a hand up your skirt.
No, he isn’t a rapist, it’s not about power. It is about sex. He wants it. Not you. It.
And there’s something about that I find refreshing.
I have a sleazy man of my own, tucked away in my address book for days when I don’t feel pristine or perfumed. On days – and they come all too often now – when I feel rumpled and seedy, when my tights are clinging damply to the crack of my arse and my skin is grimy with the London summer, I call him.
I’m going to call him now, actually.
‘Morning, foxy. What can I do for you today?’
‘When are you free?’
‘Hmm…it’s looking like a late one. Could take a two hour lunch break, though.’
‘Lunch sounds perfect. Midday?’
‘Blackfriars tube. Wear the green dress. Hold ups. No knickers. Got that?’
‘No knickers,’ I repeat, my clit puffing up, my silky scanties already wet. Who cares? I will have to take them off before I leave.
‘Don’t forget your perfume, Jane,’ he says softly before hanging up.
How could I forget that? The application of scent is the precious first step in the ritual, setting the tone for all that is to follow.
These are his rules: I must draw back the bedroom curtains and open the window, so that the block across the green is visible to me, and I to it. I must strip naked and lie down on my unmade bed. I must take my vibrator and masturbate to orgasm, plunging it deep inside, juicing it up until it gleams. While I am doing this, I must think of some of the filthy, slutty things I have done for him in the past – easy enough, for there are plenty to choose from. Once I am red-faced and spent, I must take the vibrator and rub it across my pulse points, making sure I am generously anointed before smearing any remainder on to my nipples, breasts, belly, thighs. I must dip the vibrator back in and repeat the process until there is nothing left to apply. Only when my skin is stiff and heavy with the smell of my sex am I allowed to dress.
Today, a sheer white peephole bra, some nude laced-topped hold-ups and the green dress. The dress I was wearing when we met – though that sounds grandiose, as if we have a story or a future. The day we picked each other up, perhaps.
The dress is made of very light cotton in eau-de-nil. It buttons all the way up and has a short, flippy skirt whose hem is only just beneath the lacy bit of my hold-up. The merest breath of breeze is enough to give my thighs a tickle, and on some of the windier tube platforms I have to clamp it down with my palms flat on my legs, shuffling bent double like an ancient babushka.
Then it is time to slap industrial quantities of gloss on my lips and mascara on my lashes before slipping into strappy sandals and running for my train.
Once again, it is a hot day, humid and dirty, the way it was the first time we met. The station platform is crowded – several previous trains have been delayed – so I know I will stand no chance of being able to hide my sex-drenched self in a corner seat away from the masses. I will have to force it on my carriage-mates, mingling it in with their smells of onions and cigarettes and engine oil and boiled aftershave, all with a sweaty topnote.
Am I What, Where, Who, Why?
Posted on: June 10, 2016
It’s taken me a while to come up with a plan.
Last year, I barely wrote a word. I don’t know if it was burn out, or if some vampire attacked me in my sleep and drained all the confidence out of me, but nothing was working and I had to stop even thinking about writing for a good, long time. The vampire didn’t even have the common decency to be sexy, the bastard. If it had been the Poldark one from Being Human I wouldn’t have minded so much.
This year, it’s a different story (thank god because the last one was very boring). Ideas are bursting out like the flowers that bloom in the spring, tra-la. But with the different story comes a different problem – what the hell do I do with them?
The erotica/erotic romance scene I entered eight years ago has gone through so many mutations that it’s now unrecognisable. Many of the imprints I liked to work with have shut down or changed in ways that don’t work for me.
Don’t get me wrong – there are imprints still running that I think do excellent work. Totally Bound is one of them – they have a great PR department, look lovely and publish some top-grade stuff. But with some others, there’s been a definite shift towards a softer approach, which I can cope with on some levels but not others (e.g. being asked to tone down my content so as not to scare the kink-curious post-50 Shades horses).
So I’ve decided to give self-publishing a serious go. It wasn’t something I ever really wanted to do, because I hate all the fiddle-faddle admin type stuff that goes along with it, but on the other hand, the freedom of it is something I need at the moment. A late-night Twitter conversation with Giselle Renarde and A.M. Hartnett (read their books!) gave me the final push, after much dithering.
So you can expect new material (along with some repackaged old material) in the near future – just as soon as I know what I’m doing.
Maybe not the ‘near’ future then…
Hard Bargains
Posted on: June 7, 2016
Mischief Books have just brought out this hot little anthology, which contains my story Open Minded, about a woman who flatshares with a dominatrix.
It contains a slew of other stories as well by the likes of Ashley Lister and Rose de Fer, so there’s plenty of bang for your buck.
Here’s an excerpt from mine:
The advert had asked for an ‘open-minded’ flatmate, and when I asked her what she meant by that, she replied with breathtaking frankness.
“I moonlight as a sex worker,” she said. “Specifically, kinky stuff, a dominatrix. But you don’t need to worry about weirdoes hanging around the place – I know all my clients very well and they’re 100% decent, respectful guys. Most of them pretty well-off, too. No shifty types in raincoats, I promise.”
It took me a while to reply to this. I needed to take stock of her answer. The fresh-faced thirtysomething woman sitting in front of me in sweats and a messy ponytail was a…?
“I know, it fazes most people when I tell them,” she sighed. “If it bothers you, that’s fine, I’ll readvertise…”
“Er, no, no, hang on,” I said. “So you’re saying you meet your clients here?”
“I’ll have made enough for a deposit on a serviced apartment in the West End soon,” she said. “The plan is to move operations out of here as soon as I can. It’ll just be for a few weeks, I hope, until I’ve made all the necessary start-up costs.”
“Start-up costs?”
“You know, marketing, a new web page, maybe some hush money for the concierge. That kind of thing. I’ve already got everything I need for the job itself.”
“The job itself,” I echoed. “You mean, like, whips and stuff?”
“Yeah. Thigh high boots, all that.” She grinned suddenly over the rim of her coffee mug. “I know I don’t look the type. You can’t picture it, can you?”
“I can’t really,” I confessed. Shona seemed such a very typical kind of London woman – gym, office, wine bar, home. Not gym, office, wine bar, walk all over a man’s back in stilettoes. But then, perhaps there was no ‘typical London woman’. It wasn’t as if I didn’t have my own secret dark side, after all. In fact, Shona and I could almost be birds of a feather. Perhaps it was right that we should flock together. “I thought you had to be about six foot tall and built like Wonder Woman.”
“Hey, are you saying I’m not built like Wonder Woman?” she said with a fake pout and a laugh. “No, you’re right. But you can dress up to look like anything, really. And it’s all about confidence. If you can say the right things in the right way at the right time, you can look like a Cabbage Patch doll and still get clients. OK, I might be exaggerating that last bit – you do have to make an effort with your appearance. But it’s not as prescriptive as you might think.”
There was a pause.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can see this has knocked you sideways. I’ll let you get on.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head for emphasis. “No, it’s OK. Honestly. I said I was open-minded, and I am. I’m more fascinated than repelled, definitely.”
“So you might take the room?”
“Well, it’s a really nice one. And the location’s perfect, two minutes from the Tube. Price is right. I haven’t seen anything else half as good.” I muted my thoughts, to put the minus side to myself. “But it could be noisy, what with all the walloping and howling that might go on. And what if we get raided by the police?”
“It’s really a great area to live in,” Shona enthused. “The high street’s full of pubs and bars, there’s the cinema, loads of shops, leisure centre around the corner, park at the bottom of the hill…”
I made my decision. This was London. When it came to renting property here, there was always a compromise to be made. The question was only what it would be. I could cope with a few submissive blokes passing through now and then better than half an hour on top of my commute, or rising damp. Perhaps they’d even make me the odd cup of tea, or do the dishes for us.
“How often do you see clients?” I said.
“Not that often at all,” she said. “Two Saturdays a month, and one evening a week – usually a Wednesday, six till ten. I’ll always give you tons of warning. If you like, just go out for a drink on those evenings. Spend the Saturdays in town, or with mates, or whatever. It’s flexible, anyway. I’ll always take your needs on board.”
“OK, then,” I said. “I really like the room, and you seem really nice, and…and…OK then. Let’s do it.”
She clapped her hands. “Thank fuck!” she said. “Finally, somebody who knows what open-minded actually means.”
The Heart-Shaped Box
Posted on: May 10, 2016
My crawl down Memory Lane has rung out 2009 and rung in 2010, and finds me existing in a post-Black Lace wilderness. Apocalyptic times indeed. Would my work ever see print publication again? I did wonder.
As it happened, about three months after the announcement of the indefinite ‘hiatus’, my editor popped up again with a new proposition. He’d just got a job as commissioning editor with independent outfit Xcite books. They were pretty new in the market, but they saw an opening and they got in there!
With renewed hope, I submitted to the new short story calls like billy-o, and the first out of the gate was a story called The Heart-Shaped Box, which appeared in the collection Sex, Love and Valentines, published in January 2010. This tale of a couple who prefer kinky toys to flowers and chocolates appeared alongside stories by: Kat Black, Jeremy Edwards, Shanna Germain, Landon Dixon, Roger Frank Selby, Lucy Felthouse, Primula Bond, Izzy French, Amelia Thornton, J Manx, Janine Ashbless, Sue Williams, Elizabeth Cage, Charlotte Stein, Alcamia, Lilli Lace, Sophia Valenti and Lynn Lake.
One of the nice things about writing for a new outfit was the expansion of my pool of fellow writers. New faces and old joined together and ‘erotic social media’ was a very fun place to be at that time.
Another ‘first’ was the offering of the book to Amazon Vine reviewers – which was a great way to get a lot of reviews, fast, but could be funny when some of those reviewers clearly weren’t expecting anything quite so rude!
The book is no longer in print, although a few copies are still obtainable from Amazon.
Here’s how my story starts:
I tend to ignore the advance of Valentine’s Day: the steady pink-and-fluffying of the shop windows and card racks; the helium balloons and expensive chocolates and bottles of fizz everywhere; the perfume promotions and special restaurant menus and adverts for The Twenty Most Vomit-Inducing Ballads in the World, Ever, Part 38. It all leaves me a bit cold, this commercialisation of love. Not even love. Romance. Whatever that is.
So when Spiro told me he had a Valentine’s surprise for me, I was unenthusiastic. ‘I don’t do Valentine’s Day,’ I told him.
‘You will do this one,’ he told me, undaunted. ‘You will do. And you will be done to.’
Ah, now that sounded more like something I could get on board with. And I began to feel optimistic. Spiro understood me. He would not be like the last boyfriend I had over a Valentine’s Day, who gave me a fuchsia-coloured teddy bear wearing a T-shirt bearing the legend “I Wuv U”. That was doomed right from the start. The power of wuv was definitely not enough.
With Spiro though, at the age of twenty eight, I had finally started to explore aspects of my sexual identity that had long lain dormant. I had always known I had a kinky side, but I assumed it was something I ought to hide or suppress, for fear of…I don’t really know. But fear kept it in the background, at any rate, while I played at being vanilla and wondered why I couldn’t get properly involved in my relationships.
The lovers thought I was cold and self-absorbed, and I probably was. Until Spiro came along.
It was like a lightning flash; he did everything right, the way I fantasised. He watched me for a while first – all the eyes-meeting-and-snatching-away stuff that makes the pit of your stomach bubble and boil fit to burst. Then there were knowing looks and smirks and somehow always being in the elevator at the same time, brushing up, nudging shoulders. Then he deviated from the vanilla script and walked straight into my dreams by following me to the tube station one evening after work and saying, ‘You should come out with me. I think I’d be good for you.’
Like any self-respecting noughties woman, I played up the independent schtick and scorned his advance. ‘Yeah? Good for me? Right.’
‘Because I’ve seen the type you go for, and I think I know where you’re going wrong.’
‘Oh, pray do tell.’ Heavy on the sarcasm, but my heart was pitter-pattering like a captive bird’s.
‘You go for these sensitive guys you can walk all over. They don’t challenge you, so you get bored and move on. You need someone that challenges you. I’d challenge you.’
The crowds at the ticket barrier blurred away for a moment – I actually felt faint. I mean, it was hardly a revelation – at some level I’d always known this. But…for somebody else to see it…it felt significant. And momentous. And a bit like falling in love, not that I’d ever done that.
I went out with him, and he was right. He challenged me. He interested me. He kept me on my toes. It was weird, because he was two years younger than me, and I’d always fantasised about an older man, but he had a natural authority that went beyond youthful cockiness and self-assurance – though he had those in spades too. It didn’t hurt that he was gorgeous either, in that broad-shouldered olive-skinned Italian way, with a shock of inky hair and sumptuous lips you could kiss all day and night.
The sex got very exciting very quickly. There was none of that pussy-foot dance, shall-we-or-shan’t-we, ‘oh look, I’ve missed all the buses and I can’t afford a taxi’ type thing. No, I cooked him a meal and after we’d spooned up the last of the tiramisu, he pushed my wine glass aside and said, ‘If we’re out of food, it must be time for bed.’ A grin that could be interpreted as cheeky or wicked accompanied the words. ‘I think you must agree.’
‘You’re awful,’ I said.
‘That’s for you to find out. Though I don’t think you’ll be saying so tomorrow morning.’
He wasn’t awful. He was amazing. He did all the things I’d longed for other lovers to do – he held me down by the wrists, he talked dirty, he encouraged me to change position by slapping me on the bum, and, most of all, he made me come like the Japanese bullet train, hard and fast and over and over again. He was like a rough, bluff pirate king of sex and I couldn’t get enough of him.
So it was just as well he had plenty to give. He was still giving, six months later, in mid-February, just as the celebration of St Valentine hit the cash registers of the post-Christian world.
The Pact
Posted on: May 4, 2016
Fresh and ready for plucking is the new Mischief anthology, The Pact, which features my story Motivation, along with others by: Rose de Fer, Ashley Hind, Heather Towne, Lily Harlem, Kathleen Tudor, Giselle Renarde and Willow Sears.
Here’s the opening:
It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
The time was three months earlier, when I’d sat at the kitchen table moaning to Joe about all the extra work the evening at college would entail, and how I didn’t really have time for it.
“But if you want to get to the next level at work, you don’t really have any choice,” he’d said, quite reasonably. Annoyingly reasonably. “And they’re even paying for you to do it. You’d be mad to turn them down.”
“I know,” I whinged, “but I hate writing essays. And I’ll have to write one every fortnight. Three thousand words! It’ll kill me.”
“Of course it won’t. You can do it.” He turned around from his duties at the frying pan and pointed the spatula sternly at me. “There’s no excuse for not trying. I don’t want to be standing here in a year’s time listening to you going on and on about being passed over for promotion again.”
“OK,” I said meekly. “I’ll give it my best shot. But I really do struggle with writing essays. I’m all right once I get started – it just takes so long to get the first paragraph down. And I haven’t written one since I left college.”
“What’s the problem? Procrastination?”
“In a word. Leaving everything to the last minute, then not having enough time to think properly.”
Joe took this in quietly for a moment or two, nibbling at his lower lip in deep thought. I always found this sexy and I watched the muscles in his cheeks twitch and his eyes drift away from me before they snapped back and he spoke.
“Well, we can fix that,” he said, and my heart skipped a little, because he had That Look on his face. That Look was normally a prelude to the ribbon ties and the flogger coming out of the bottom drawer in the bedroom. I wasn’t sure how this would translate to the kitchen, but I was interested in finding out.
“Can we?”
“Yes, I think so. We’ll set aside an afternoon every weekend before your assignments are due in, for you to work. That time is non-negotiable working time, and by the end of it, you need to have your assignment finished and ready for me to look at. With me so far?”
“Yes,” I said. “Boring way to spend a Sunday afternoon, but I have to find the time somewhere, I suppose. What if it isn’t finished, though?”
“Ah,” he said, and That Look intensified to cuffs-and-riding-crop level. “If it isn’t finished – or even if it is, but I don’t think you’ve made your best effort – there will be consequences.”
He raised his eyebrows. I squirmed. I’d heard that word often enough to know what it led to. We’d only role-played this kind of dynamic before, but making it real was certainly an interesting idea.
“What kind of consequences?” I asked, but he knew I knew, and he shook his head at me.
“I’m surprised you have to ask, Claudia.” He only called me by my full name when he had me over his lap, as a rule. The use of it sped me straight into my most submissive headspace. “What’s the one thing guaranteed to improve your behaviour?”
I looked down at my lap. “Oh, that,” I said quietly.
“Yes, Claudia. That.” He tapped the spatula end lightly into his palm. “I can demonstrate if you like.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I said hurriedly. It wasn’t that I disliked being spanked, but that thing had been pushing eggs around the pan.
“So, do we have an agreement?”
“Well…” I twisted my fingers, exquisitely embarrassed by the thought that I was going to have to admit that only the threat of a spanking would suffice to get me out of my lazy habits. But, looking at Joe and that attractively determined cast of brow he got when the subject came up, I couldn’t fight it. “Yes. I guess so.”
“Good. Can you get the chips out of the oven, love? These eggs are just about done.”
If you’d like to read on, the book is available from Amazon and all good e-book outlets now!
Sophie Pulls It Off
Posted on: April 28, 2016
For your reading pleasure, here is an extended excerpt from On Demand.
Welcome to the Hotel.
All baggage is to be left at the door.
Please sign in, under whichever name you have chosen, at Reception.
You are now free to explore. Enjoy your stay!
I have always been drawn to hotels.
Call me commitment-phobic, but I love their eternal temporariness, their anonymity, their fluidity and flux. They seduce you without expecting your heart and soul; your home expects time and attention, but your hotel only wants your money, and only for as long as you care to give it. You can walk up the steps as plain Jane Smith and enter the lobby as Lady Furcoat-Noknickers; the hotel does not care what you do, or with whom.
A luxuriously-appointed building full of people escaping reality can brew a heady atmosphere – I should know; I’ve worked here for four years now. Few of the comings and goings here pass me by. Especially the comings.
It all started so innocently.
A delayed train, an hour to kill. I was halfway to the queue for styrofoam flavour sludge before I stopped myself and the idea sparked. I could spend my dead minutes on a spit-drenched platform staring at time ticking by on the ‘Next Arrival’ screen. Or I could spend them in the hotel across the road, drinking half decent coffee and reading a complimentary magazine.
It was almost one o’clock, so I wouldn’t stand out too much amidst the lunchtime rush – if I could find a comfortable chair in a quiet corner, I could pretend to be a bona fide businesswoman meeting a client or something. It would be fun; a tiny masquerade to enliven a dull wait.
This particular hotel was of the swankier variety; a row of international flags flapped above the plate glass and uniformed doormen stood on sentry duty either side of the revolving entrance. I wondered if they had to remain impassive and still, like beefeaters, but one of them unbent and smiled at me when I trotted past, intent on getting through the revolving door without a pratfall of some kind.
Sophie Martin, bored office drone and unsuccessful photographer, pushed her hand against the glass.
Sophie Martin, supercharged business bitch, stepped out on the other side.
Not that there was any telephone-box-whirlwind style action going on in the revolving doors – all it took to turn from drab to diva was exposure to the seductive particles of the hotel lobby air, all weighted with possibility and chance and choice and an undertone of wickedness.
My heels click-click-clicked on the marble lobby floor, passing the curved Reception desk, catching a haughty lip-curl from its pointy nosed custodian. She wouldn’t be looking askance at me once she knew exactly who I was, I told myself grandly. I would have her lilac-rinsed head on a platter.
I strutted into the bar, carpeted now so that my heels were muffled, found a corner with an armchair and a copy of some style glossy and sashayed straight over.
Within seconds, a waistcoated waiter was taking my order, hovering and fawning in a manner I could imagine myself getting quite used to. The prices were steep, but when you considered that a morale-boost came with your cappuccino, perhaps they were worth paying.
He was a few years younger than me, maybe twenty or so; the rude whiff of barely post-adolescent testosterone clung to his white shirtsleeves and poorly-shaved chin. I wondered what he would do if I flirted with him.
“Do I get anything extra with my cappuccino?” I asked him, dropping the level of my voice a notch or two and hoping it would make me sound like Lauren Bacall. I raised one eyebrow, a forefinger tapping my lower lip to pull it down to a pout.
He coughed slightly. “A biscotti, Madam,” he said, the tips of his ears reddening. “And chocolate or cinnamon sprinkles.”
“Oh, cinnamon, I think,” I drawled, striving to keep my voice on the sexy side of forty-fags-a-day. “I always prefer spicy to sweet, don’t you?”
I almost laughed at my own cartoon vampishness, but it seemed to be doing the trick for him. He flushed beautifully and scurried away, leaving me to terrorise him with my eyes over the rim of my magazine until the coffee was ready.
The room was filling up with conference attendees on a lunch break; lots of men in suits talking loudly into mobile phones and gesturing over to whoever was getting the round in at the bar. Mmm, I thought, stretching a leg beneath my table and rotating my ankle slowly. I do like a good suit. Some of these were very well-cut indeed; I wondered what the conference was about. Were they bankers? IT consultants? Estate agents even?
My question was met with a question.
“What did you think of that session? Not enough statistical evidence I thought; bit too much reliance on the anecdotal.”
A man slid into the armchair opposite mine, placing a plastic wallet of papers on the table between us. Through the green shade of the cover, I could just about make out the words ‘Probate Law’. Ooh, a lawyer, I thought; I’ve never met one of those before. Though if this one is anything to judge by, I should get myself arrested more often.
Everything about him was top-of-the-range, from the haircut down to the polished Italian leather that peeked from the crossed trouser-leg. The voice was warm and smooth; an asset if he was a barrister. Even as I looked up and smiled back, I tried to picture him in one of those horsehair wigs and a black cloak; it proved to be a surprisingly sexy image.
‘Oh, I’m not here for the conference,’ I said, flicking the page of my magazine.
‘Really? Meeting someone? Am I intruding?’
‘No, no.’ I waved him back down to his sitting position. ‘Just taking a breather,’ I told him.
‘Right. I thought I hadn’t seen you in the meeting room. My attention was wandering a bit from the flipchart, and I’m sure it would have rested on you.’
Wow! He was flirting with me. A man who knows how to wash and earns a wage flirting with me! Unheard of in the annals of my experience. I had to wonder what all that pure new wool would smell like. Not to mention that subtly-tanned skin, from which a hint of expensive aftershave was drifting over, activating my saliva glands.
He had beautiful hands as well; I could picture them gesturing in court. I could also picture them on my hip, my belly, my thigh. All in all, the effect he had on me was instant and acute. I found myself leaning forward, crossing my legs so that my skirt rode a little higher, just to the point where the elasticated part of my hold-up stocking might be a teensy bit visible.
‘What’s the conference?’ I asked. ‘Charm school headmasters?’
He laughed, throwing his head back, oh, adam’s apple, oh, deep, rich laugh, oh. I took advantage of his moment’s lapse in eye contact to slip open my top button and put aside my magazine. I wanted him in the most sudden and violent way. I wanted to touch the fine cotton of his shirt, open it wide and see if what lay within was as luxurious as its cladding.
‘No,’ he said eventually, his bright blue eyes damp with mirth and…something else. ‘Solicitors. I specialise in soliciting.’
Now it was my turn to laugh. ‘Clearly,’ I purred.
Some form of conversation followed, of the kind you might hear between Mae West and Sid James, predicated entirely on smutty innuendo. I don’t remember what we said, but I do remember the feeling of being involved in a dirty-minded game of verbal tennis: serve, volley, lob, smash, grunt, new balls please. Just like our more athletic fellows, we were getting sweatier and hotter with each point scored.
Much as we pretended to wit and sophistication, the real gist of what was said was:
Him: Get your kit off.
Me: Work for it.
Him: Look at me like that and I’ll have you up against the wall before you can say ‘No win no fee’.
Me: Sounds good; prove it.
Before the cinnamon sprinkles of my cappuccino had melted into the froth, he had a proposition for me.
‘Listen,’ he said, eyes now piercing blue laserbeams of seduction, body wide open in a pose at once relaxed and predatory. ‘How long do you have? Do you have to rush back to work?’
I bit my lip and smiled inscrutably.
‘Come on, help me out,’ he said. ‘Do I have to issue a summons?’
This made me laugh again. I can’t resist a man with a sense of humour. I also can’t resist a man who looks as if he could be in the running for the next James Bond.
‘What do you have in mind?’ I asked. If he was James Bond, I was pretty close to Pussy Galore at this stage. ‘Does it involve handcuffs?’
‘Would you like it to?’
My mouth watered.
‘You’ve got me on a technicality,’ I told him, standing and taking his proffered pinstriped arm. The warmth and scent of him tripped my switches; I wanted that, just that, just for now.
‘What’s your room number?’ he murmured, sweeping me past the potted plants into the lobby.
Ah.
‘Can’t we go to yours?’
He stopped smartly, frowning down at me. ‘I’m afraid not; the conference finishes today.’ He shook his head. ‘You aren’t staying here?’
I chewed the inside of my cheek, blushing. ‘Well, no. Just came in for a coffee.’
‘Just a coffee? You aren’t another kind of solicitor, are you?’
I breathed in sharply. ‘Fuck, no!’
He breathed out for me. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think you… OK. “Fuck, no”, you say, but I’m still thinking, “Fuck? Yes!” If you’re with me. Still with me?’
I giggled, a little bit hysterically. It wasn’t the first time I’d been taken for a member of the oldest profession, but certainly the least opportune.
‘We don’t have a room,’ I pointed out.
He manouevred me behind one of the substantial palms, pulling me against him and patting a hand on the seat of my skirt. ‘I do have a car,’ he growled.
The feel of him, hard chest, taut shoulder, large crotch-bulge, was enough to chase away my doubts. I wanted that, on me, above me, in me.
‘Reclining seats?’ I asked.
‘Of course.’
‘Good.’
In the underground car park, he bent me backwards over the bonnet and mashed his lips into mine. That well-cut cloth was covering my feeble manmade fibres, rubbing them up and down, sparking them into static cling. My nylon stockings nudged at his trousers, slinking up beneath his jacket and around his hips, wrapping around his back and clamping that central hardness right into the open maw of my skirt.
I ground my mound around it, enjoying the sensation of the fabrics pressing into me, while his tongue plunged downward and his hand excavated the hidden depths behind my blouse. His fingers plucked and sneaked under the lacy cups; there was pressing and kneading and hot breath and jammed pelvises and mock-thrusting, and all beneath the spotlit concrete ceiling of the public car park.
‘Do you want it then?’ he asked, holding my wrists pinned to the cool shiny paintwork.
‘Maybe in the car?’ I whispered, moving my head sideways to check for CCTV cameras and irate attendants.
‘My command is your wish,’ he said, pulling me up as if preparing for an energetic jitterbug and spinning me around to the side of the vehicle. He ducked inside the door, pressed the button to recline the passenger seat and bundled me on to it. I was a little confused when he shut the door, leaving me supine on the chilled leather, but he soon reappeared on the driver’s side, kneeling on the chair and looking ravenously down at me.
‘Get your knickers off then,’ he prompted.
Thrilled at his excellent grasp of the command tone, I wriggled them down my thighs, past my knees, bringing my still-shod feet up in the air to release them from the legholes.
My escort put a steadying hand on one of the legs, indicating that he wanted them kept up in that position, moving his other arm down for a good feel of my newly-exposed parts.
‘Now that’s wet,’ he said, impressed. ‘A good fuck is what you need.’
I couldn’t argue with him. The speed, the suddenness, the rudeness, the wrongness of it all was the turn-on of my life. It was dirty and slutty, but I like dirty and slutty, and so, it seems, did he.
In his haste to mount me, he lost a button from the placket of his trousers, swearing as it pinged into the distance, then he slipped swiftly and efficiently between my knees, levering me up by the bum in order to skewer my dripping centre in one move.
We groaned in chorus as it stole inside so easily, so satisfyingly, filling the hole in perfect proportion.
‘Do you do this often?’ he wondered, beginning to thrust.
‘Mmm?’ I replied absently, lifting my hips towards his, grabbing his bottom to push him greedily as far in as I could.
‘Pick up strange men in hotels for dirty sex? I bet you do it all the time.’
It was on the tip of my tongue to protest, to say no, that I’m not that kind of girl, but before I did, my imagination stepped in front of my indignation and I realised that I liked this idea. I imagined him as one of a string of anonymous men, using my body, day after day, week after week, in the hotel bedrooms, the toilets, the carpark. I’m not a whore, but I felt like one, letting this man whose name I didn’t even know slam his cock up me within quarter of an hour of meeting.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I do.’
‘Thought so.’
The windows had steamed up now and I had to spare a thought for the expensive upholstery, which was getting the pounding of all time. I pushed my hands down, clutching at his belt, the buckle end of which slapped lightly against my bottom with each forward motion. These were becoming more frantic now, the jingling urgent, his loosened tie flapping over my face until I sank my teeth into it, irritated by the tickling effect. I could feel the quake, shuddering seconds away, and I accidentally kicked the dashboard quite hard, so that he stopped for a second and turned around to assess any damage. Luckily there was none.
All the same, ‘I’ll make you pay for that,’ he vowed, ratcheting up the force of his thrusts, body-slamming me into a new realm of fierce sensation. The more I pretended to be a hooker, concentrating on servicing my client and avoiding orgasm, the more orgasmic I felt, until the wave crashed and I yelled until I was hoarse.
For a while, it was as if our bodies had melted together; the sweet glue of our exertions filled the air and stuck us to each other. The car seat was slippery now and my thin summer blouse drenched. He unpeeled himself shortly before I had to pass out, crouching between my sore thighs, chafed to bits by that pure new wool I had so admired in his trousers. Thank God they hadn’t been made of cheap stuff; I would have been skinned alive.
‘Nothing like a mid-conference knee trembler,’ he opined, taking a wallet from the glove compartment and stuffing a wad of twenty pound notes into my cleavage. ‘Get yourself something pretty. Off you trot then.’
Eyes on stalks, I removed the money – a hundred pounds – and tried to give it back, but he simply unlocked the car door and opened it, gesturing me away impatiently.
I straightened myself up in the car park, snapping the elastic tops of my hold-ups back in place, pulling my skirt down and re-buttoning my blouse. I would have to sort out my face and hair in the toilets.
Before leaving, I threw the money back inside the car. Much as I could have used a hundred quid, it seemed important that I did not accept it. To do so would have been to concede control of the encounter to him, and I did not want that. If I behave like a trollop, it’s because I want to; the pretence is an essential part of the excitement.
Of course, I missed the train.
What happens next? Get the book and find out!
On Demand
Posted on: April 26, 2016
In December 2009, the big day finally arrived. After all the anxiety about the demise of Black Lace and the uncertainties of the future, On Demand was released.
I held my shiny author copies, with their beautiful covers (still one of my all-time favourites) and wondered if this meant I was really An Author.
I still can’t answer that question, to be honest.
On Demand was a mad book that came straight out of some weird corner of my brain without stopping to ask whether I really wanted it to. The brief was a book of short stories, but I struggle without a narrative thread to hang on to, so I linked them all up with a common setting, a number of recurring characters and one central tale-teller, the protagonist, Sophie.
I wanted to try something that wasn’t really done much in erotic romance – to have a female protagonist who was absolutely at one with her strong sex drive and didn’t see having an exclusive partner as essential to that. This was a risky idea, as even readers of dirty books will sometimes be moved to ‘slut shame’, but it paid off – six months later, On Demand was number one in erotica at Amazon UK, and the reception has always been broadly positive.
I love it still; love Sophie, love Lloyd (who was never ‘meant’ to get together with Sophie but somehow just made me do it) and love the whole crowd of hedonistic hotel gang-bangers. Long may they love and lust. Here they are, if you want to join them.
Sex And The Stranger 2
Posted on: April 25, 2016
A couple of years ago, I had a story in a Mischief anthology called Sex and the Stranger. But don’t ask me what the story was, because I can’t for the life of me remember. Eventually I expect I’ll get round to it in one of my ‘oldie but goldie’ posts.
But never mind, because now there’s a second volume, due out on Thursday, and I definitely can remember the title of my story in that one. It’s called In With The New, and it’s set at the same time it was written – on New Year’s Eve.
Here’s a taster:
“You’re doing that wrong.”
I put down my bags and waited for the guy in the lumberjack shirt to set aside the axe and acknowledge me.
Before I go too much further, you must understand that this wasn’t a typical scene from my day to day life. Conversations with random red-haired Adonises bearing axes are not routine for me.
I’d come here to get away from routine, though, so this was good. And so was arriving at my rented cottage on New Year’s Eve to find a rather attractive man chopping logs for my festive open fire. No complaints there.
He put down the axe and wiped a hand across his brow, narrowing his eyes at me.
“Doing it wrong, am I?” he said. “Would you care to demonstrate, then?”
He took the axe’s wooden handle and held it out to me. Oh dear. I hadn’t meant to offend him.
“No, I don’t mean that. Your chopping technique looks good to me, not that I’m an expert. I just meant…you’re meant to take your shirt off.”
“I’m meant to what now?”
Gawd, I should probably just stop digging. And start chopping, before he chopped me in half for sexual harassment.
“No, I mean, when men do it on TV, you know. They’re always topless. Never mind, forget it. I was joking. I’m not great at jokes.”
“Perhaps you’re doing them wrong,” said my chopper friend, poker-faced.
He made me endure a few seconds of tension, then let out a broad grin.
“Yeah, normally I’d strip right down and rub baby oil all over my chest before lifting the axe,” he said. “But this weather.” He shook his head, gesturing at the still-frosty ground. “I guess I’m just not up to your high macho standards. I apologise.” He held out a hand. “Declan Ross, your personal axeman, at your service.”
“Oh, don’t apologise,” I said, putting my gloved hand into his. “I’m Abi. I’m renting this place for a few days over the New Year. You work for the rental company, I take it?”
“I am the rental company,” he said, and now we were closer together, I could take him in properly. He was tall, rangy and red-topped as I’d already seen, but he also had the palest skin I’d ever seen, the flush brought on by his wood-cutting activities glowing bright red about his high cheekbones. He was almost like a doll, if dolls could ever be sexy, which he definitely was.
“You run the business?”
“Well, no, not really,” he conceded, his hand still holding on to mine. “My uncle does. I help him out a bit here and there. Maintenance and stuff. Just during the university holidays.”
“You’re a student?” I said, a little confused. He was about my age, and I was here to take stock of my life before my thirtieth birthday hit me in spring.
“Lecturer,” he said with a self-deprecating laugh. “Sometimes I prefer woodwork to paper work. Clears out the old head, you know.”
“Oh wow. What’s your subject?”
“Theoretical physics. Are you a fan?”
“Um, I might be if I knew anything at all about it. But I’m thinking of retraining for a new career. If you can recommend it, I might give it a whirl.”
I laughed, a little giddy in the wicked beam of his eyes and his smile.
“I could give you a few pointers,” he said, and I positively crackled. Despite both our hands being wrapped in leather, there were sparks running from my fingers up my wrist and beyond.
“Why don’t you come in and I’ll put the kettle on,” I offered. “You’re more or less done with the wood now, aren’t you?”
“I’ve got plenty of wood, yeah,” he said. His full lips curved deliciously. “Do you want me to light your fire?”
“Best offer I’ve had all day,” I said, trying not to squeal like a little girl being given a pony.
God, I’d missed flirting. Why had I stopped doing it?
And where will it lead???? All will be revealed on April 28th, when the book releases.
You will also find stories by Rose de Fer, Senta Holland, Kathleen Tudor, Ludivine Bonneur, Tabitha Rayne, Heather Towne, Giselle Renarde and Olivia London.
The House of Elyot