Merry thingie and a happy blah blah

Hi

No content today. No candid revelations. No opinionated nonsense (And for a girl who can't say no, that's a lot of negativity).

I've just dropped in to wish you a very merry Christmas and an extremely sssssssensual New Year. Okay.  A quick kiss if you must. An avuncular hug. Er, my uncle never did tongues. And he never squeezed my ass. That hand on my tit is bordering on incest. And the one sliding up my skirt and into my tiny knickers is little short of... of... Mmm, orgasmic. You have a lovely touch. And now your clothes are falling off, and so are mine. Funny how a quick kiss can speedily develop into naked 69. In my head, at least. 

In April, when I began this blog, I was all about writing and other everyday stuff. Now, after eight frenzied months, it's almost exclusively sexual. I have deviated; degenerated. And it's your fault! Yes, you! Observing. Measuring. Expecting. My occasional cheekiness has metamorphosed into full-on naughtiness. As I said above, I'm a girl who can't say no. No to teasing. No to showing you naughty selfies. To autobiographical erotica. And now, to masturbating on cam. Look what I have become! It is an addiction. The buzz is addictive. It is eating up my spare time, stealing my life. In the new year, I will get a grip. I must, before I go too far, before people close to me are hurt by it.

Wow. Another word-selfie. I'm so far up my own arse these days, you can see me on the tip of my own tongue.

Anyway. As I said above, merry thingie and a happy blah blah (as you may have gathered, I don't do holiday stuff, simply cannot do the heady hedonism, the galloping gluttony). I'll see you in 2015. And  I promise to be in control. Well-balanced. More civilised.

Finally:

Say sober, stay safe, while staying as sexy as you are. You don't need a drink to have fun. Certainly don't need one to get laid. Have fun, but keep your self-respect.

Lovingly and respectfully,

Alexandra :) xxx

World Gluttony Day, and a tentative celibate alternative.

Christmas,

Don't get me started on Christmas.

I don't know about you, but I'm fucking sick of it.

"Scrooge!' Some people may be shouting. 'Killjoy,' call the rest. Well, let me tell you why I dislike this celebration to end celebrations, why it really ought to stop right now.

Gluttony. That's just one reason. Greed is another. If he were alive today, Jesus would be turning in his grave. Except he's not in his grave. And he is alive today. Well, if one is a Christian, that is what one is led to believe. So, our Saviour, the chap who suffered for our sins and died in horrific agony nailed to a tree (for that is likely what happened. He would have carried his own cross-member up the hill and not the whole thing. If you've ever tried to get wooden furniture upstairs, I'm sure you have probably wondered how one man - already half-starved and badly-beaten - is supposed to have carried a quarter ton cross up Golgotha on his own. Or did you think it was balsa wood?), this terminally kind and benevolent creature, is gazing down on his billions of followers, nodding his serene head and smiling a beatific smile? Is he fuck. The guy who implored us all to live simply, to give our worldly goods away? The chap who said (in modern erotic parlance) that a rich man has more chance of shagging the eye of a needle than he has of getting into heaven? He's not smiling at all.

Let's consider that one word: rich. What would that have meant to Jesus? From his perspective, the stuff we collect about us today is the stuff of gods. For example, many people will receive a mobile phone this Christmas. Look at the power they give us. Think what they cost us. A third of the world lives on about a dollar a day, yet we wield such incredible-though-unnecessary devices as if we somehow deserve them. Humans don't need mobile phones. They don't make our lives richer. No, they don't.  Think about it. They water us down, spread us out too thinly, take away our here-and-now effectiveness, and distract us from what really matters. They are indeed the work of Satan (Satan: Santa - an anagram too funny for words), the Lord of the material. He tempts us and we follow, poisoning the planet with the process of mass production, while he laughs his demonic head off.

So, just to be clear: we are all rich. All of us who own a phone are not going to Heaven.

And gluttony? What of that once-deadly sin? On the day we celebrate the birth of Christ, we stuff our faces with all manner of food - the individual portions capable of sustaining a family of four for a couple of days - while half the world go hungry. On Christ's birthday we do this. Christ, you know, that bloke who...? Remember? That 'rich man, eye of needle' bloke? You gluttonous bastards.

But it's not just the greed and gluttony of individuals. That's not even half of it. It's the greed and gluttony of corporations. In our capitalist culture, so dependent on constant consumerism, we are bombarded by images of smiling families gathered around trees, by smiling children opening their presents, by candle-lit tables full of sumptuous food and sparkling wine. Buy, buy, buy. Consume, consume, consume. It has to stop. It has to. Stop. The world is sick. We are sick. Stop. Stop. Stop.

What is this 'Christmas' for anyway? If it is no longer a religious ceremony, let's ditch the Christ bit, ditch the mas bit too, and call it World Gluttony Day. Let's celebrate the fact that we can celebrate. That we are so well off. That we, in the West - in Britain, Europe, America, China (for no matter how East you think they are, they are West if you go far enough west) - are top dogs. The world is ours. Its resources are ours to rape, and to hell with the future. To hell with the starving, the sick, the expoited.

I warned you to not get me started. Christmas is shameful. I have felt it since I was first able to think for myself. So why can't you? Or maybe you do. Maybe you do, but turn your back on it. If so, shame, shame, shame.

Damn.

I don't even feel horny now. 24/7 horny girl has just gone 24/6. I'm not even going to masturbate today. Yes. In honour of all those who live their lives in deprivation, I am going to deny myself my lifeblood today, go without my daily staple and walk a day in their shoes. If they had shoes. Today, my fingers will travel no further south (except for necessary hygiene functions, of course) than my shoulders. It's going to be painful, uncomfortable - perhaps deliciously so - but I feel the sacrifice is worth it. And I'm doing this for all of you, nailing myself to the cross of celibacy, for your sorry sakes and for your sorry soul-less souls. Feel my pain, my frustration, and perhaps join me in my suffering. Deny yourself your daily wank. Unite with me and take a stand against the depraved pornography that is Christmas, by not stroking yourself to orgasm.

                 No more of this today for me!

It's going to be hard. Very hard. And wet. Very, very wet. But I will not dip in. Will not even nip in. I don't often make a promise, but when I do, I generally keep it.

This is torture. Thirty seconds and my fingers are twitching, my pussy is dripping. Tie me up. Tie me down. Fuck, I don't think cold turkey was such a good idea after all...

But wait! Remember that guy I told you about? The one who made me climax simply by breathing filth into my eager ear while nibbling its diamond-studded lobe? What a train journey that was. What was his address? What was his number? If it's you, if you are reading this, call me. I'm going to need you later; by this evening, I'll probably even pay you for it.

They say the Lord moves in mysterious ways and so it has proved: I didn't know where this was going till right at the end (which is how those anal sex fetishists always get me), though knew it was going somewhere. Listen! I have a dream! And it's brilliant. Let's start A World Celibacy day, a day in which neither semen nor vaginal lubrication is spilled, to remind us all not to waste the natural resources we have. A day to think of others and not just ourselves. A day to give without thrusting; be one without conjoining. All I need now is the UN on board. Leave it with me.

See you later, masturbator,

Alexandra :) xxx

Where is all this porn taking us? Will we survive it?

Hi

Hope your weekend is going well x

Grab yourself a coffee, install yourself in a comfy chair, and let's talk about porn.

There is no doubt in my mind that - as with violence - an abundance of sexual imagery and sexual content in the media has desensitised us to its effects. I wonder just where this trend is heading. Within a lifetime, we have 'progressed' from banning a book depicting - rather prosaically - the sex act, to allowing TV in which fully-naked females simulate - rather graphically - the singular act of masturbation.

Many pop videos are pornographic, depict almost-naked beautiful young people almost copulating. TV schedules are similarly strewn with nakedness and an abundance of 'adult' themes. If I wasn't enjoying it so much, I'd be worried.

And there's Babestation and its ilk. Fully grown, fully naked girls, shaking their oiled tits, slapping their glistening buttocks, writhing in orgasmic ecstasy while spouting filth into a telephone. And it's free! Have you seen the things they say? Amazing how all the rude words are so easy to lip-read. Fuck, cock, cunt, cum, tits... you don't need to be Helen Keller to get the gist. They tug their nipples, twist their nipples, stretch their tits and suck their nipples. The camera angle is such that you never actually see their sex lips. Some girls clamp their thighs together, expertly hiding their slits while still displaying neat strips of pubic hair - though more often it's a fully-shaved pudendum on display. How long before they will part those taut thighs? Spread those long legs, peel open those lips and finger themselves to orgasm before the whole nation? The day will surely come.

Soon, the above will simply not be enough. A woman's tits and bare body are now a commonplace sight, will soon barely get a cock to twitch, never mind spring erect at the promise of erotic things to cum. And isn't that what this is all about? Erect cocks? Turning flaccidity into raging tumescence? Yes, where are the naked men clasping their groins and issuing oaths into mobile phones? Is it that women are not so sexually driven? Or are we too clever to fall for that old trick? (For me - a girl for whom the term bi-curious was invented - a wanking man would not get me off half as much as those pouting pussy-hugging girls do. And that's not because I'm gay. It's because I am that girl, stripped bare before millions, shaking her tits, slapping her arse, teasing and taunting, beckoning, smouldering. Concealing that tiniest part. The bit you all want see. And listen to me! Yes! Fuck my cunt. Cum on my fucking tits! How I would love to mouth that to camera, while special offers for my graphic pics and cummy videos scroll across the bottom of the screen. What a buzz that must be! I've soaked my knickers just thinking of it.

And then, to top it all, there is the internet. A click of a mouse is all it takes to bring solo naked men, solo naked women - and every variety of naked twosomes and threesomes - directly into one's living room. There is no teasing, no subtlety; they will stroke for for you, squirt for you, insert fingers, vegetables, dildos... in fact, do any legal sexual act you care to name. Again, if I wasn't enjoying it blah, blah, blah.

I know I should be outraged. Indeed, there is a part of me, a not insubstantial part, that is. I worry for our future, fear for our children, and shake my head at the world we are creating for them, a world in which sex is shamelessly exploited for profit, where women are degraded into sex objects, a thing into which to shove a stiff cock.

And yet, it is simply because of this climate that I have been able to express myself sexually. Yes, had I been alive in the sixties, I could have written erotica, but what could I have done with it other than hide in under my bed? Nothing. So I could have, but I wouldn't have. The impetus to write springs from the ability to share my thoughts, desires and experiences, from being able to cast them out into the ether and to know they are being read by others. By you. So I can tell you how it feels, to me personally, to be fucked. Tell you how I masturbate, and what turns me on the most. I can weave love through these descriptions, along with lust, insecurity, fear, rejection, longing, hope... Indeed again, I can weave whatever the fuck I like, whatever I want. Whatever I need. It is a need. A hunger. A sensation I simply have to sate.

So, I ask you one more time: where is this going? Not sure? This is what I think:

It will run its course, go full circle. Nakedness will become tiresome. Wanking in public will become passé. And then normal service will be resumed. Decadence killed off the Romans, but surely we are better than that? Have learned something from that? Yes. Well, I have, at least.

But till that day when a glistening rigid cock entering a tight squelching pussy produces no more response than a world-weary yawn, pass me the baby oil and hand me that massive rubber cock. Oh, and while you're at it, be a darling and turn on my cam. Thanks.

Yes! Fuck my cunt. Cum on my fucking tits! 

See you later, masturbator!

Love,

Alexandra :) xxx

#Free # Erotica from the remarkably generous Alexandra Amalova

Hi

I decided to give my new book away for a couple of days. You know, the one that took me a year to write, edit and proofread, the one I poured my heart and soul into. What the hell, I thought. It's almost Xmas!

It's free now on Amazon and will remain free to download till midnight Monday PST (8am Tuesday GMT).

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00Q3HVQEI

I hope you take advantage of me. Come on! You know you want it! Take it. Take it all!

If you do download it, read it and decide you feel like leaving a review on Amazon - whatever your thoughts - then I will be eternally grateful and - should we ever meet - do something very rude to you with my extremely dexterous mouth :) xxx

All the very best,

Alexandra xxx

Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy...

Hi

Into December we go. Another twelve months, from J to D, almost over. I've looked back on my first year spent here (I actually started this blog in April, but, with the end of the calendar year growing ever nearer, it seemed like a good time to take stock) with mixed feelings. Those who read my sporadic posts will have got to know me quite well by now. Indeed, you know more than the people who imagine themselves to be closest to me. For example, if my friends knew I loved to cam in the naughty naked nude - bring myself to a breathless climax while ogling another solitary human somewhere else on this dirty little planet doing something very similar - they would be appalled. I say appalled, though, for all I know, they may all regularly (though surely not as regularly as me, I hasten to add!) do the same. As another example, no one I know in the flesh has any inkling I write erotica. I am too prim, too proper, too sickeningly nice, for them to consider something so perverse, and yet there it is. So, as I said, mixed feelings. I'd love to be the me I am on here and let everyone see it. Flirty and naughty, suggestive and foul-mouthed, open and honest and constantly gagging for it. But I can't. I just can't let myself go.

Last week, while camming (anonymously of course) on my favourite site, I actually read one of my stories out loud, hoping it might encourage someone to buy one (it actually worked: five tomes were snaffled during that short salacious spell). I was wearing my favourite pleated kilt, my most sensuous silk shirt, black lacy hold-ups and nothing else. My nipples were beautifully poky. My winking pussy was beautifully smoothe. The cam was occasionally allowed down my cleavage, given gory glimpses between my knees, and savoured sticky sojourns up my skirt. Fuck it turns me on to be so brazen. What a buzz! It feels so incredibly good, I constantly wonder why all the civilised world isn't constantly doing it. Yes, that's what I want to know. Why? After all: all the world is a virtual stage.

And this week, I hear you ask. What happened this week? Well, I got fucked this week. No, not at a distance, through some fish-eyed all-seeing lens, but in the sweaty spunky, seedy flesh. Actually prick-piercingly fucked. It was good. Not great, but good. He was a little lazy, let me suck and tease him for twenty whole minutes, then encouraged me to climb onto him, forcibly positioned me to sit astride him. After all, I am very petite and he is very strong. I was more than ready for him (so ready it appeared I had wet the bed), though would have loved him to reciprocate on the oral front, even imagined that he might at any moment roll me over and dive between my slippery thighs, eat me out till I yelped in ecstasy (please note: should we ever meet, I absolutely love being licked out). But no. He merely lay beneath me, feasted on my tiny tits, sucked my generous nipples and bounced me up and down, rather like some doll he'd just bought. Or some whore he'd just paid for. Whenever he needed me to stop, he clenched his imperfect teeth, grabbed my (lovely rounded, if I may say) buttocks, till his impending orgasm subsided, then started again. Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy. Sucky, sucky, sucky

It was nice, though a little repetitive, and a little 'distantly intimate', if that makes sense, almost as if he were imagining me being there, rather than enjoying me being there, as though he were inventing me in his head, creating me as wanking fodder. Actually, I didn't mind, was enjoying contemplating my own sexy (there were three of him, one for every hole) scenarios, but suddenly realised I needed a change of stimulation; though my pussy could have stood his cervix-battering incursions for a good while longer, my nipples were getting a little raw. Being suddenly and uncharacteristically decisive, I donned my captain's cap, grabbed the rudder and took us on a different tack.

Laying flat upon his slender-though-muscled torso, I brought my legs together, nudged my knees between his, and assumed the inverse of the classic missionary pose. He quickly accepted his new role, splayed his legs like a bitch and lay back to take it. In this position, I was squeezing him very hard and obviously causing him not a little pain, though he persevered, probably as much in curiosity as anything else. With me between his legs, pumping in and out, ownership of the cock became blurred. Who was doing the fucking? Who was the penetrator, and who the penetratee? It was him then me, then him and him, then me and me and me, me me! I wrested it from him, rammed it so hard and deep up between his body-hugging balls and into his belly that he squealed. Bitch indeed.

As I moved - actually more back and forth than up and down - my clit was brushing deliciously against his hairy pubis. Now I had a cock and a clit. I shoved my tongue down his throat, pressed my breasts to his chest, intensified my horizontal oscillations and began to cum. He grabbed my buttocks, clenched his teeth, but I was having none of it. My twisted grin was of the dominatrix variety; it overflowed with silent authority. I'm in charge, mister. I choose. I decide. And I'm ready. Yes, I'm ready, so fuck you.

In fairness, and if the subsequent river of cum that pulsed down my leg in the shower was anything to go by, so was he. Anyway. My orgasm was long, intense, and went on much longer than his post-orgasmic discomfort could stand, but, as I said, today I was doing the fucking. He'd softened and slipped out before I had finished, my continuing horizontal oscillations suddenly bringing to mind a Yorkshire Terrier that had shagged my outstretched leg in the park one recent unseasonally sunny day. That thought instantly stilled me. I bit my lip then flushed and raised my eyebrows at his incredulous face. 

'You done?'

He sniffed.

'Yeah, all done here.'

'Cup of tea?'

'No, thanks. Better get back. Julia will be wondering where I am.'

I wish to fuck, with his cum still swirling inside me, his sweating body still pressed to mine, and our hearts still pounding in post-coital bliss, he would not use her name like that. 

So there it is. I got fucked. Is it better than writing about it? Almost. Better than camming? Some parts, definitely. Others? No, not really. Who could possibly be better than what I can imagine? Fitter, harder, prettier, more thoughtful, dirtier? I mean, he didn't rim me then lick his spunk from my cunt before pissing on me in the shower. It was nice, but decidedly lame. You would have done all that, wouldn't you, my imaginary fuck-buddy? Mmm, come on then. Let's do it now. After writing all that down, I'm wet enough, ready enough. Whip it out and have me quickly! Or, if your intensely curvy femininity means you lack the requisite parts, climb on top and let's get sixty-nining. Hurry! Before the kettle boils. You have precisely fifty-three seconds to have me before Earl Grey seduces me away.

See you soon.

Love,

Alexandra :) xxx

For sale! The Big Bag of Sexy Allsorts: a tasty selection of treat-size erotica

Hi

I've finished all the editing, the proof-reading, the cover designing, the soul-searching, and have now uploaded it. There may be a flaw or two - even the best of the best have typos and the like - though it's as good as this single human working alone could possibly make it. It's for sale now, over on Amazon. 

See my new book here!

Even if you don't fancy it, please pop over and take a look! I'd really appreciate it.

The blurb is here:

The title of Alexandra's latest collection suggests a mixed bag, a compendium without a common theme, a lot without a lot in common, a congregation without a prayer of being unified. But, thankfully for us all, one theme runs throughout: sex. And, accordingly, the stories will both quicken your heart and animate your private parts.

However, Miss Amalova is simply not content to have you in need of clean undies. There is more to her writing than the purely erotic. Alexandra knows better than most that, to be remembered, a lover must stimulate the intellect, make suggestions and forge connections that light up all areas of the mind, and - as you will discover - she believes the same applies to writers of erotica. Hence, after reading these torrid tales, your mind may well also need clean undies.

In this crinkly and unfortunately non-recyclable bag, you will find teeth-rotting erotica with the following unwholesome ingredients: genetically modified sci-fi; hydrogenated history; high-cholesterol drama; invert introspection; an immeasurable quantity of quantum mechanics; crystallised psychosis; a sugar sprinkling of steam-less steampunk - plus an unspecified array of both natural and unnatural flavourings and colourings. Salt.

These morsels are strictly for adults only. Consume no more than one per hour, with an absolute maximum of five per day. Continual use may cause inflamed or over-active sex glands. Consult a doctor if such symptoms do not persist.

Hope you can spare a minute to look at the rest. 

All the best,

Alexandra :) xxx

Out soon! From Alexandra Amalova: A new collection of tasty erotica!

Hi

It's that time of year again. Which is any time of year. Independent of seasons, holidays, saint's days, or the weather. It's that time when I think it is time. 

It's great. No deadlines. No reminders. No one chasing me. I decide. And the time is nigh...

I'm currently in the final phases of editing and compiling a sixth collection of my erotic short stories. Most of the tales were conceived and written within the last few months, though a couple are actually six, maybe seven, years old. 

There may be some amongst you who have read my stories before, indeed, may even have bought a book before (if not, see them all here: Amazon.com/author/alexandra_amalova), so you will know what to expect. There is sex, yes. Often graphic sex. But as well as being an aid to sexual self-stimulation, there is always a point, an underlying theme to which the sex plays a lubricious (in all of the word's deliciously gaping-wide meaning) supporting role. 

I'm calling it (suitably regal and awe-inspiring trumpets and drum roll):

The Big Bag of Sexy Allsorts

With a tag line of

A tempting selection of treat-size erotica

My books usually have a secondary (after the sex, of course) unifying theme - paramormal, Sci-fi, teachers, etc -  though these stories are more of a 'mixed bag'. Did you see what I did there? 

I'll let you know once it's out there. Oh yes, I will. Over and over, forcing it, nay, ramming it down your throat till you are sick! Meanwhile, finger the flippant cover, the sweet and crinkly almost-comestible cover. Mmm. Rustle it. Hold the open neck of the bag over your nose and inhale. More mmmmmmm. Some of the prize-winning contents are sweet, yes, while others are surprisingly and rather rewardingly sweaty, spermy, fruity, earthy, bitter, salty, shadowy, and decidedly, disgustingly, dark. Inhale. Inhale and lose yourself.

Perhaps I need to point out that the man made from sweets (more precisely, from liquorice allsorts), the one with his back to us and approaching the leering naked girl while apparently contemplating which liquorice delicacy he is going to fill her up with tonight (personally, I'm hoping it's the ribbed black monster in his sweaty pink hand, though the dirty girl is definitely leaning more towards its twisted variant cradled in her welcoming lap) is not the famous trade-marked figurehead of that equally famous Sheffield sweet manufacturer, but a very distant and much darker relative (Obviously. For starters, he hasn't even got a hat on). Distant, darker and dirtier. It's as if his constituent parts were dropped on the filthy floor, kicked through the muddy gutter, then spat on and rubbed clean on a tatty sleeve, before being secretly dropped back in the bag. I mean, look at that monster in his mit! Look at the pussy-stretching size of the alternatives. And see the girl's slender frame! Her wide and innocent eyes! Her unsullied, delicate mouth! It makes my own eyes water. My own unsullied mouth water. And produces similar though rather more viscous liquids elsewhere... 

I was going to write nothing today, simply post the cover (which, perhaps I should point out, I conceived and produced all by myself... and that's why I think of my books as my children) and get back to editing. Now I have more pressing, swollen, slippery matters to put to bed. Mmm, and again, mmm. The sweet story of my life...

Amazon.com author central pages add RSS blog feeds

Look, I'm no geek. Up till yesterday, I didn't even know what that meant.

As everyone who has a book for sale on Amazon, I have an author page (two, actually: one on Amazon.com and one at Amazon.co.uk), a place where all my books, my pretentious profile, all my wonderful (and unfortunate) reviews, links to Twitter, all that stuff, are cobbled together.  Recently, they have added the ability to include links to my blog. What do you mean, what do I mean? This. This page you are reading now! It's like there, below the scrolling shelf of books, within the scrolling Twiitter updates. Quite beautiful. And all for free-ish. Okay, so they take a percentage of my sales to upkeep and housekeep all these fancy gizmos, but I could never have afforded it on my own, so good luck to them. 

My Amazon.com page

If the link didn't work or you simply could not be arsed (I know, it's Sunday. All that food to eat and Liverpool are on the telly soon!) there's a non-functioning facsimile below. Come on you reds! 

Beautiful, isn't it!

Caroline's secret: an erotic short story in four parts. Fourth and final part.

Weeks passed. He didn't come back. At first, I thought he would. Expected him the very next day. So I applied some subtle extra make-up. Took a little more time with my hair. And though the customers got more flirty, it was otherwise all in vain. He never showed. Still, I didn't let up. I began a rigorous diet. Just in case. Joined a gym. Well, you never know. I lost eleven pounds the first week. Six pounds the next. It dropped off me. I saw my ribs again. Felt my hip bones. Lost the chins. Gained a coterie of admirers. I dyed the streaks of grey from my hair. Waxed away every bodily follicle. 

To fill the time - and everything else that mattered - I got myself a new bloke from the shop. I was filling shelves. He was emptying them. Dropping all sorts of crap in his trolley just so he could stand there and watch me bend, squat, and stretch. God, it felt so good! Though I'm naturally shy, the presence of this man turned me burlesque, created a pole-dancing shelf-stacker. Again and again, I rose and fell; up and down, like a wanking fist. Finally, I stood on tiptoe, stretched till my skirt rode all the way up my lean thighs. And hold... A cool breeze from aisle two kissed my arse cheeks. They were tight as a drum, primed for a good spanking. I could almost hear the blood pumping up his cock. He sighed. Mmm. For the merest moment, I thought of Alice and what she would do. Then I thought like Alice and spoke like her too. Confidently and care-free. Flirtily and fluently, with not a stammer in sight. It was almost better than cumming.

'Condoms are in aisle three, love.'

'Sorry?'

Like a dancer, I turned as I came back to Earth. Like a whore, I bit my bottom lip and smouldered.

'It's just that If you keep leering like that, we're going to need some.'

On our first date, I stopped the car and fucked him in the back like we were teenagers. On the second, he ate me out then shoved it up me while I did the washing-up after a takeaway. That Saturday, he invited me to suck him off while he watched the football then returned the oral favour during Strictly. And so it continued. However, despite the promising start and my best efforts, his interest eventually waned. And so did mine. At night, with him sound asleep and with my fingers gently circling my poking clit, I pictured Jack loading up my conveyor with sensuous goods: chocolate; champagne; cucumbers; and condoms. In my tightest black skirt, I'd slide off my stool, show him my stocking tops, my skimpy white knickers, then slip them off, stuff them into his bulging carrier, and whisper my sordid instructions. Wank into them and bring them back. I'll wear them. Press them to my smooth slippery quim till I squirt then hand them over to you again. Then we'll repeat it. Round and round. Cummy knickers. Spunky undies. Mmmm. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I realised too late that the bed was bouncing.

'Caz! Wake up! You're having a nightmare! Come on, wake up! For fuck's sake! I've got work in the fucking morning!'

'W w wha? Oh... S s sorry. Was I? Oh, yeah. It was a dream, that's all. Just a dream...'

One night, I called him James, the sex was so pedestrian. The next day, he walked out.

Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus eleven further stories in ' The Big Bag of Sexy Allsorts', a tooth-rotting collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.

Caroline's secret: an erotic short story in 4 parts. Part 3

Still I waited. Day followed night followed day followed night until, on the next full moon, I sensed his impossible presence. Footsteps. Breathing. Though I dared not look, dared not break the spell, I barely needed to, could picture him in all his glory standing before me. Undoing his cloak. Letting it fall. Stepping forward till he stood naked between my welcoming thighs, his manhood drawn back, its shaft straight, the shining arrowed head aimed unerringly at its target.

Weight pressed on me. Bitter breath affronted me. The burning pain in my loins was instant and unbearable. My dripping blood hissed as it hit the crystal lattice that supported us. A monster's roar ripped the air. Shock prised open my eyes. A beast rode me, rose above me, its fiery hair casting sparks into the rising wind. A gaping mouth, a neglected graveyard of yellowed stones, now filled my incredulous gaze, and issued a string of humiliating obscenities from its putrid depths.

'Oh, fuck, Caz! Fuck! You're a virgin. You really are a fucking virgin!'

Believe it or believe it not, I was grateful for James. I loved him. And for a while we were happy. Eventually, two over-sized ginger crowns stretched my once-tight pussy; two hungry mouths suckled on my once-tiny nipples. As my twenties expired, I realised I'd put on some weight - something I used to dream of as a teenager, though something that gave me nightmares as a mum -  and had settled into dour though reassuring domesticity. We talked about school sometimes, James and I, laughed about the teachers and the stuff we got up to.

*

'You fancied that Cole guy, didn't you?'

We'd just fucked, a once regular event growing rarer and rarer. As he'd hurriedly withdrawn, James' last spurt had splashed my gaping gash then dribbled across my anus; the rest would soon be leaking from me and onto the sheets, and I had to clamp my thighs together to avoid the dreaded wet patch.

'Nnnnno!' 

He licked a stiff nipple.

'Yes, yer did. Alice told me...'

Her name and our marriage were uneasy bedfellows, even at more than ten years' distance. I pushed him off me and onto my side of the bed then rolled onto his. Clenching my teeth, I twisted my face, screwed up my eyes, but even in the stupid pig-ugly darkness, the words wouldn't come. Fuck it. In frustration, I opened my thighs, pulsed my loins and baptised the bottom sheet with his congealing cum. Sleep on that, you fucker. Childish, I know, but sometimes he deserved it.

'Then she was lying.' I flung my legs out of bed, slipped on my slippers and made for the bathroom. While snatching a silk dressing gown off the back of the door, I tossed sackcloth words over my shoulder. 'She lies about lots of things.' 

Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus eleven further stories in ' The Big Bag of Sexy Allsorts', a tooth-rotting collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.

Caroline's secret: an erotic short story in 4 parts. Part 2

Alice and I were an odd couple. Though born within days of each other and under the same star sign, we were as different as sharks and sheep. She was brash, loud, petulant, and rude, whereas I was not. She was curvy, confident, soft, and sensuous. Again, I was not. She was experienced, an experimenter, a smoker and a drinker. And I was none of the above. She was wanton, womanly, wise, and wonderful. Aggressive. Fearless. Thoughtless. Shameless. I was...

I was wooden, hesitant, frightened. Skinny, spotty, sweaty. Awkward, boring, invisible. Amongst the people I wanted to impress the most, the few strengths I had were not seen as strengths at all. I was clever, diligent, bookish. Caring, thoughtful, sensitive. Forgiving and forgetting, and for my sake, mainly. 

And yes, I was jealous. Jealous of my best friend. What I wouldn't have given to be Alice 'Tits' Taylor. The girl every girl feared and admired. The girl every boy wanted to fuck.

Several of the boys - and several men besides - actually had.

Her dad would have killed them all if he'd known. He was a drunk. And violent with it. He'd been a soldier, but war had somehow fucked his head and, on coming home, he had been unemployable. Soon after his traumatic return, Alice's mum died. Cancer called and carried her away within three months. The funeral was in the same week that my lovable-but-layabout dad finally left home. Though Alice's loss was unimaginably greater than mine, it was she who consoled me. We were six. I have loved her ever since.

When our exams were done, we went camping, Alice and I. Perhaps not camping so much as we set up a tent under a tree in the park. It was, of course, Alice's idea. She said it would be a laugh. While she got drunk and filled the tent with smoke, I received her sermon, her salacious sexual sermon, some of which turned my stomach with disgust; the rest of which turned my pussy inside out with longing.

A gentle breeze swept across the sleeping moor and brushed between the flower-laden stalks. Within one nodding petalled head, the two tiny creatures huddled together. Gently swaying stamens scattered golden dust that slowly settled on the sleepy companions, intoxicating, mesmerising, and sweetening their dreams.

A wary eye eased open. A pointy ear strained to hear. Its owner held her breath while holding her sleeping friend close to her body. Beyond their velvet enclave the night was silent. Within their hushed hidy-hole, there was likewise no sound, save her friend's deep and even breathing, and her own thudding heart. Fingertips tested her own skin, sampled the familiar flesh that pressed against them, rehearsing the journey they would soon be making. Through deep valleys, over soaring peaks, across undulating plains, to where Eden awaited, her mythical downy meadow cleaved by a forbidden river of the sweetest honey.

Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus eleven further stories in ' The Big Bag of Sexy Allsorts', a tooth-rotting collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.

Caroline's secret: an erotic short story in 4 parts. Part 1

Though her head is full of faeries and fantasy, a young girl aches to be a woman 

Caroline's secret. Part 1

'Don't start your story with dialogue, Caroline! How many more times?'

'But Sir, mmmost things I read start that way.' I bit my pen top. Teased my tongue around it. He tried not to watch me too closely. 'And sssso I'm merely d d drawing on my influences.'

Mr Cole raised his eyebrows yet immobilised everything below them and gazed right through me. No, not through. Inside. He gazed inside me, pursued my Secret as she scurried to safety. 

Through the ripening corn she sped. Past the line of trees into open ground. Pittered over the drawbridge. Pattered across the courtyard. A handle turned. Hinges creaked. She slipped through the heavy oaken door. Down the spiral stone steps into the kingdom's darkest cellars. Down into the dankest dungeons. Twisting and turning, she retraced her steps, sometimes appearing to pass through solid stone. She oozed through cracks; wafted through bars; slid under massive immovable doors. Deeper and deeper she ran. Another staircase. And another. Along a rough-hewn tunnel. Through a rough-hewn door. Till she reached the deepest, darkest, dankest stygian cell. She huddled into the corner. Buried herself under a pile of filthy, moulding rags. Held her breath. Heart thumping. Ears ringing. Blood coursing. She waited. And waited. And waited. Footsteps. Louder. Breathing. Closer. Slowly and carefully, one by one, the rags were picked away. A single flickering candle lit her pristine porcelain innocence. Shaking his head, her pursuer gently lifted her quivering chin and sighed at the guilty tears that filled her wide frightened eyes.

'It's okay, Caroline's Secret. I'll keep you safe in here. I'll lock you in. No one else need ever know.'

Secrets are quick and cunning creatures, and this one, my best and worst, was not going to fall for that old trick.

'There is nothing to know. I was simply playing, testing to see if you could follow me and find me.'

'Oh!' He feigned shock. 'A game is it? Ah! I see.'

'Yes. Of course. What else could it be?'

'I'm sure I cannot say. But you run fast and hide well for someone who does not in fact appear to exist.'

'Well, okay. Keep the dialogue in if you like. You're right; it's a technique often used these days, but it lacks class. It's for pulp, tries too hard to engage the reader, and comes across as desperate.' His breath warmed my throat as he leaned closer. 'You're a good writer, Caroline. You don't need to be that desperate. Okay?'

I was blushing. Only seconds ago, he'd silently promised he would keep it locked away, yet, for the briefest moment, my Secret had somehow escaped. Numbed buttocks subtly squirming in my seat alerted me to the fact that my cheap cotton knickers were wet. I stammered.

'O... okay. Thanks, Sir. I'll t t try not to be that...'

I couldn't even say the word.

Mr Cole rose slowly from where he squatted beside me and ambled down the aisle between the columns of battered desks. Alice's naked knee nudged mine. Her eyes sparkled. I knew what was coming before she did.

'Nice arse!'

The teacher stopped suddenly. Turned slowly. Narrowed his eyes and wrinkled his forehead, exactly as they teach them at teacher school.

'What did you say, girl?'

If quick with nothing else, Alice was always quick with her mouth.

'Can I arsk...' I shook my head at her insubordinate brilliance, 'if I can go to the toilet, please, Sir?'

He was emphatic.

'No!' After glancing at a non-existent watch on his wrist, he made do with the constantly tardy clock that hung slightly askew above the whiteboard. 'It's only just after break, girl.'

Alice whined as only a sixteen year-old girl can.

'But Sir! It's that time of the month and my nan says...'

Mr Cole clasped a hand to his eyes, while waving the other towards the half-glazed, half-open door. Some lads at the back sniggered. Some girls at the front did likewise. My best friend Alice had no shame at all. Still hasn't. The reddening young teacher spluttered.

'Yes, yes, of course. Just go. And be quick about it.' He glowered. 'And let's have some maturity in here, shall we?'

Her chair scraped. She bent and picked up her bulging handbag, a receptacle that hopelessly doubled as her schoolbag. No wonder she was always without the requisite books and folders, was always so ill-equipped. Across the aisle from me, an incessantly sleepy James Baldwin raised his ginger head from his heavily-graffitied desk. He opened his dried lips, bared his yellow twisted teeth and whispered.

'So you'll not be fucking me tonight then, eh, Alice?'

Again, Alice was quick off the mark. How I envied the sharpness of her coarse tongue. Still do. She slid her little finger between her plush lips then waggled it, glistening, in the air.

'No, but I might suck your little cock again, James, if I can find it, that is.'

Though barely more than a hissed whisper, the whole class heard it and there was uproar. At that moment, Mr Cole, perhaps because he was on the edge of laughter himself, chose deaf muteness as his momentary disability of choice. It was a good call. He was young and new to the school, yet it was evident to all that he was quickly going to become a very good teacher.

Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus eleven further stories in ' The Big Bag of Sexy Allsorts', a tooth-rotting collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.

If I can love myself...

He's gone. Though before he departed, he was kind enough to write a tender yet terse note explaining how he felt it unfair. Unfair that I could not have all of him while he had all of me. Unfair that my life was put on hold while he lived his away from me, without me. Unfair blah blah fucking blah. 

I'll tell you what's unfair, Mr Holier-than-fucking-thou: that you get to choose for me, while I have no choice at all. I'm happy to have half of you, happy to have a quarter, an eighth (and I'm certain you cam and wank with plenty and at every opportunity, know the spunk is still dribbling into your boxers even as you say your first hello of the day to me), happy to have any fraction you deem fit. For how long, I cannot say, but at this moment it feels like forever. I would have taken the teensiest slice forever.

So much for self-respect.

I cried at first. Felt sorry for myself - and why not? We never even touched, yet he made me cum like no man ever has. Never ever kissed, yet he made me feel good about myself like no man ever could. Never ever fucked, but I will carry the children of our many magnificent masturbatory unions to their fullest terms. I love him, I need him. Present tense. Future tense. Perfect tense. Past unconditional. 

*

This is later. Not later this year, this month, or this week. Later this day. Before noon. Before the cock crowed, the crow cocked, the crock cowed. Less than an hour. Forty-six minutes.

He's gone and I'm over him. Torrents of tears fell on him. Splattered. Splashed. Soaked. He began to fall apart. Skewed. Sagged. Sogged. Tore. Disintegrated. Skin dissolved and fell away. Within, there were no bones, blood or organs, only spindly twisted sticks, a loosely-tied scaffold that had given his flat photos and even flatter words three dimensions. And within that scaffold, sitting on a little stool, wearing her tattered prom dress and twisted tiara, and manipulating strings and wires, waving sticks and an embarrassed tentative hand, her cheeks flushed and eyes anxiously half-averted, was... 

Me.

I'd constructed this pathetic papier-mâché Punch, made this pornagraphic pop-up puppet, manufactured this maleficent marionette, with the subtle skills of my own dexterous hands and mind. It was all me, all from my imagination. It reflected my needs. Was made of my expectations. Built from my insecurities. My aspirations. My shame. Brilliance. Corruption. Insight. Filth (I'd once asked if he'd piss on me, for fuck sake. He'd - of course - said yes, he would). When I searched through the remnants, the wreckage, for any sign of the man behind the masquerade, there was none to be found. Again the prom queen meekly waved, knees pressed primly together, a deep blush on her porcelain cheeks. Eyelashes bashfully fluttered; mouth wryly twisted. Simultaneously, we smiled, raised eyebrows, snorted derisively, bit bottom lips. I laughed. So did she, then threw down her sticks, untangled herself from the strings and wires, left her Miss Muffet tuffet, and tore off her pristine knickers. She raised her silky dress to her waist, squatted over the squalid remains of her erstwhile virtual lover and steadily and steamily emptied her bursting bladder.

Yes, he's gone. And I've moved on. I was in love, but only with myself, a fact that gives me great solace: for if I can love myself, with all the stuff that I know about me, then anyone can.

The sound of dreams breaking.

It broke. I pushed so hard, thrust myself upon him so hard, that it broke. He hasn't written for twenty-eight hours. Not a word. He logs on, but sends me nothing. I sit and stare at the screen, refresh, refresh, and stare again. Nothing. My heart breaks.

Fingering myself is lovely. I've done it for years, can tease the most glorious orgasms from my loins, orgasms that have me gasping and yelping, and leave me sweating and breathless, turgid and tingling. However, there isn't a fingering on this digital Earth that can replace a gently lapping tongue and simultaneous vaginal and anal finger insertion. No virtual penetration compares to a pussy-stretching, cervix-battering ramrod of a broad curved shaft replete with pulsing, swollen, purple head. And no self-stimulation can replicate the pleasure of being pinned helplessly down while being repeatedly and painfully violated to the very edge of legality... nor replace the wanton straddling then joyous pogoing onto a hard, hot and slippery cock till its owner pumps you full of his jism (which I love to eject onto his still-heaving chest and lap up like some crazed and twisted feline). 

And so, with the above very clearly in my mind, and with the arousal such admissions inevitably engender still reverberating around my petite but very desirable frame, I asked him. Asked the man who says he loves me, wants me, and will one day care for and cherish me. The 'why' and the 'who' were beyond question, so I posed the only interrogatives immediately important to me, and posed them as succinctly as I was able.

'When? Where?'

He answered with a smilie approximating raised eyebrows and a quizzical grin then quickly typed.

'When what? Where what?' 

To which I hit him with my accustomed bluntness.

'When will we fuck? And where will we do it? As you well know, I can accommodate, in every sense of the word.'

He didn't type anything for ten minutes, which is not unusual in itself, as his wife is often snooping about, getting in the way of our sordid exchanges (he spends so long in the bathroom tugging, videoing and photographing his cock for me that the poor woman must think he has serious toilet issues); however, I knew tonight she was going away on business and we would soon have all the wi-fi bandwidth to ourselves. And all the time in the world too.

In the habitual and still relaxed pause, I continued.

'I am willing to drive, to set off now (it was 7pm) and meet at some prearranged spot between us, spread myself thinly on the back seat of either your or my vehicle - or even across the bonnet - and let you pork my fit, lean body into crackling, penetrate all my holes in an order of your own choosing then squirt your cream wherever the fuck you like. We don't have to make love; we don't even have to talk. I simply want you inside me. Fucking me. Having me. Using me. Would that be in any way appealing to you?'

Twenty minutes passed. In growing desperation, I lifted my skirt, pulled aside my sopping knickers and took a picture. Beautiful. Though I say it myself, my pussy is very photogenic, whether glistening, gaping, dripping or even pissing, and I knew he would not be able to resist sending a response. I posted my pic across the ether. And waited. Nothing. I tried again, peeling open my lips and zooming in on my stiff little clit. Again, no reply. In the sure knowledge that videos always get him going, I propped my phone into position and brought myself to a swift and unnecessarily noisy climax, metaphorically causing the camera's eager eye and moist mic to almost pop from their shiny case. Lovely. Send. Wait. Wait. Wait...

I'm still waiting. Twenty-eight and a half hours, now. 

I've explained in earlier posts how I rarely take risks, and often find myself regretting my hesitancy. Now here I am, sailing full steam into a bank of fog, with no way to know where I am, where I am going, where I've been, or - and this is only just exaggeration - whether I am either dead or alive. I'm in limbo. How could he be so heartless? How could he be so gutless? Yet, for some reason, I love him still and will sit here staring at the screen, waiting for Skype's banner to fly high with that unique combination of smilies that accompanies my lover's every hello. My lover. That's a laugh. My hand is my lover. My fingers are his fingers, my thumb his tongue, and my fingers pressed together are a poor facsimile of his magnificent tool. I know he is real, for I glimpse him every day, yet today as we passed he could not even look at me.

It broke. I pushed so hard that it broke. Dreams break with the sound of sobbing, and if you listen very carefully...

Elegy on watching a man wanking

Dear Friends,

That's how contrary I am. One day I say I can't stop writing and then I write nothing for two weeks. In my defence, I have been away, and whilst away, I had little connectivity. It is hard to believe, I know, but there are parts of the world not yet afflicted by wi-fi, by 3G, never mind 4G, and some of them exist on my beautiful green and sceptered isle. And so, with no prospect of feedback or adulation, the need to write deserted me.

However, one particularly lonely and horny evening, I found time and signal enough (I had to drive into the next village, furtively park, and piggy-back an unsuspecting and unsecured yokel) to log onto my favourite cam site. Those among you who know me well (which, ironically, excludes all the people who really know me well) will know I am a sucker for a shadowy, grainy cock, a low resolution pair of balls and a three-frames-per-second ejaculation, and that night's entertainment turned out to be the peak of its genre. If anyone in the surrounding cottages had access to infrared spy technology, they would have clearly seen the rocking VW contained a thirty-ish woman with her hand up her short dress, her tits rudely out, their erect nipples being vigorously tugged, while her brown eyes popped out at the delicious scene unfolding on her dimmed iPad (cleverly hot spotted to her iPhone 6). 

It was a beauty. A thick and meaty fucking beauty. And he was cute. Not some flabby sorry perv wanking himself for his own satisfaction, but a fit, sweet and sexy guy showing all for anyone who cared to watch. And he cared who watched, engaging us all by name with his intimate whispers, his witty asides and his graphic descriptions of what he wanted to do to each and every one of us. My name that night - and it summed me up perfectly - was Wet'n'wild, and he used it flagrantly, repeatedly, its every utterance causing my lubricant to gush. Soon, the heated leather seat was dripping, my thrusting fingers were squelching, and my vocal exhortations (which he could not hear, but which inestimably helped the inexorable progress towards my own climax) were becoming ever more expletive-ridden.

Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus eleven further stories in ' The Big Bag of Sexy Allsorts', a tooth-rotting collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.

The Day my Stepdad Destroyed my Beautiful Pussy

Hi

I can't stop writing at the moment. Sometimes the mind is so fertile, and usually, unsurprisingly, when it's been churned, ploughed, manured, and scattered with seeds. Seeds of doubt, of excitement, of pain, love, indecision, certainty... every multicoloured variety of every emotional species. And they have sprouted in abundance.

My latest - and it springs forth from several sources - concerns friendship, platonic love, unrequited sexual yearning, quantum mechanics, the multiverse, and a cat neither dead nor alive. As an experiment (though it was akin to dropping a stone in a pond to see if it creates ripples), I gave it an ambiguous and 'emotive' title, one likely to attract the wrong sort of people altogether, if truth be told, yet I couldn't resist it. I wanted to see what it would do to my readership figures, and now I know. Within a couple of hours it had received as many views as my last story did in a week. Bloody perverts! Don't you just love 'em?

On a serious note: I have always considered incest - both the actual act of shagging a blood relative and the fantasising about shagging a blood relative -  to be the province of the half-witted through to the criminally insane, and I now add to that the act of shagging - or fantasising about shagging - a relative by marriage. Aren't there enough people in the world that you have to do it with someone in your own household? What kind of fucking moron are you? Incest always contains an element of abuse. Sometimes that abuse is as bad as abuse can possibly be. As a society, we deny that at our peril.

Sermon over. My latest story is here. If you are one of the 'shag a relative brigade' and you got so far, you might as well read it now. You probably won't understand it, but hey-ho, there you go... :)

The Day my Stepdad Destroyed my Beautiful Pussy

Pit. Pat.

More tears fell, splashed against the cardboard between my feet like dirt onto a coffin. In many ways, it was a coffin. As I reached down to open it, Ian grabbed my hand, his pretty face ashen, his wide blue eyes glistening with tears.

'No, don't...' I shook my head and tried to pull my hand away, but his grip was insistent. 'If you don't look then it might still...'

I shook my head in exasperation.

'Jesus Christ, not fucking Schrödinger's cat again! What a fucking heartless time to bring that up!'

Though my voice was hushed, somehow the expletives were amplified and rang around the hard-walled waiting area. As one creature, the room shuffled its feet, shifted in chairs, averted its eyes. Ian was instantly apologetic.

'Sorry, Alex. I didn't mean...'

I ignored him, hissed a cutting repost.

'So if I'd never asked if you were gay, you still might not be?'

Ian, along with the rest of the room, cringed at that, but unlike the rest of the room, he instantly forgave me, spoke quietly yet clearly, as though we were the only ones present.

'No, I'd still be gay. That will never change,' he smiled, 'much like Schrödinger's cat will always be a cat.'

The silence was punctuated by a fluttering of feathers from the covered cage that sat in the chair to my right. 

'Why will it?'

My beautiful young friend clasped his long fingers about his knees, and turned his searching face towards me.

'Because that's not the thing in question. Listen: in his thought experiment, Schrödinger had a cat in a box. That's the one thing he was sure of. The uncertainty lay in whether the cat were alive...' After glancing around and seeing that all eyes were on him, he coloured slightly, leaned closer and lowered his voice, 'whether the cat were alive or dead. Till he opened the box he couldn't be sure, so the cat was effectively in both states simultaneously. Alex, I've explained all this before...'

Again I was dismissive.

'Yeah, I know. Too many fucking times.' He again looked hurt, but what did he expect? I was upset, about to be distraught, and his unfortunate scientific metaphor was too close to the bone. 'But what's the relevance of the fucking cat?'

He breathed deeply, clearly losing patience with my inappropriately colourful vocabulary.

'The relevance, my darling Alex, is that in the quantum world, in the province of the unimaginably small, a particle's properties - it's spin, say, or its position - can be many different values at once. It's only when a measurement is taken that we get a single reading.'

'So?'

'So the cat in Schrödinger's box is both dead and alive until someone opens it to check.'

From the ether, I somehow spontaneously formulated a bawdy scientific joke.

'Well then, I'm Schödinger's cake - you can have me and eat me at the same time.'

Ian didn't laugh at that, but nodded and smiled broadly, a look of curious admiration shading his face, the like of which I had never seen. He growled.

'I fucking love you, Alex.'

He leaned back in his rickety chair, rested his head against the sickly green wall and slid down in his seat. His ripped blue jeans rode up, making his bulging crotch even more impressive than usual. The tight white T-shirt also rode up, exposing a tanned crescent of his taut abs. Females old and young were staring. Men were staring too. And it was no secret as to why: from the top of his spiky platinum head to the tips of his turquoise toenails, he was gorgeous. Not only that, but he was a fucking genius too. Maths, physics, English, drama, music, football, nothing seemed too difficult for him, no skill was beyond him. I loved him, and it was plain to all that he loved me too. But not like that. Not in a boy-loves-girl way. He fucked men. He sucked men. He was regularly fucked and sucked by men, and habitually told me all about it in lurid graphic detail. And though I giggled and rolled my eyes, gasped extravagantly and punched his arm playfully, it broke my heart.

Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus eleven further stories in ' The Big Bag of Sexy Allsorts', a tooth-rotting collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.

An extraordinarily illuminating and extremely candid diary entry

Hi

On Saturday and Sunday, while my future co-adulterator was otherwise engaged (what could be more important to him than me? And no, we have not yet progressed beyond intensely sordid mutually masturbatory camming sessions), I found time to do some reading. While researching into the Industrial Revolution, I happened upon a cunningly cyphered diary entry from 1784, a period in which great engineering advancements were being made. The remarkable thing is, it is written by a woman, and a woman hitherto unknown to us. Of course, as history is written by men, it records only the men who invented, experimented, and created, while the women - and there surely were women - have slowly been erased from the collective consciousness. The entry - entitled 'Parallel lives' by the original author - is incredibly personal, intensely touching, and extremely candid. I attach it below for your perusal, along with a helpful explanatory diagram and brief introductory note. However, before you proceed, please bear in mind the adult nature of much of the text; as I hinted above, it is remarkably candid for its time.

Parallel lives

History records that a certain celebrated eighteenth century inventor and engineer was an only child. However, recent cataloging of previously unseen family documents has unearthed a hitherto unknown diary of one who appears to be his younger sister. Though written in a complex secret cypher, I have successfully de-coded several tracts, the most illuminating of which appears below.

January 14th, 1784

After turning down the oil lamps, I trod carefully across my makeshift workshop, eager anticipation beating in my breast, brass turnings skitterIng across the bare blackened boards. The wait had been torturous, yet the moment fast approached. Though my attic room is sufficiently distant from the house's busy centre, I had postponed the trial till now, held back testing my apparatus till I could be certain I had total solitude. The coldness, dankness, and darkness of a midwinter's Sunday evening should form no deterrent for a devout household such as this, and so it transpired: without exception, and as usual, the entire household - family and servants alike - were attending the kirk. Unexceptionally, and as usual, I was left alone.

By the flickering light, the mechanism gleamed a pale ghostly yellow. Though simple enough in its construction and design, each part was painstakingly wrought, accurate beyond measure, an apposite reflection of my family's scientific and engineering renown. If only my brother could have seen it! I fancied I could hear the excitement fizzing, bubbling in his throat, threatening to burst through his famous hushed brogue even as he gazed in wonder. 'Oh, Jane! What a marvel you have created!' Yet he would surely never utter those words and thus must never see it. Never even know of it. The shame would be more than I could stand, more than he could possibly bear, outstripping even the shame I already bring to our lineage. 

James is a genius. His work with steam engines has brought him great fame and even greater fortune. Taking an inefficient, barely serviceable contraption as a starting point, he has revolutionised the mining industry, created a pumping engine of greater efficiency than anyone would have believed. They are instruments of incredible beauty, of almost God-like power. Meanwhile, he has reinvented himself, become refined and upright, a man who can step into the loftiest social circles and be amongst equals. The love I feel for him is barely believable; a passion almost beyond decency.

I, on the other hand, though blessed with a mind as quick, insightful and malleable as his, am disfigured, twisted, a creature unfit to be seen. Though shown a degree of kindness and patience by my God-fearing parents, I have been locked away from humanity, hidden in this cold corner of their otherwise welcoming home, an oddity, an embarrassment. Invisible. Unwanted. Unloved. To keep me quiet, unobtrusively occupied, they allow me books, tools, materials, indeed almost all I desire, though the thing I desire the most they would never allow me. A man. I want a man. A man to love me, care for me, to come to me in the night and bare me, enter me, and make me his. Make me whole. My heart aches for it. My broken body yearns for it.

Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus eleven further stories in ' The Big Bag of Sexy Allsorts', a tooth-rotting collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.

I might be having an affair...

Hi

Yes, I know the title in tantalising. 'How can you not know?' you may well be asking. Yes, it's a tough one. I really ought to, didn't I? It should be obvious. Another person's flesh should occasionally come into intimate contact with mine, perhaps even ravish my internal organs, and things like that don't happen without nerves somewhere shouting out in either delight or discomfort. 

I am confused. I'm confused at what point an affair actually starts. It's not likely to take the form of a race, with a gunshot (though many affairs have ended with one). Nor is the shaking of a six an obligatory opener. Is it with the first penile penetration? The first finger insertion, or fumbling crotch-shake? Is it a kiss? And does the kiss have to be accompanied by a groped tit, a squeezed arse, a gently titillated inner thigh? If any of the above are mandatory, then my affair is not yet underway. And yet I am almost sure it has begun.

My affair is akin to a train journey and, more exactly, a journey from the great age of steam. The track is already precisely laid. The panting train sits upon it, its meticulously machined components either oiled, greased or perfectly painted. A fire is burning in its belly, steam is hissing from its shining valves, and yet - although movement is now almost inevitable - it is not yet moving. However, the horizon beckons. Pressure is building. The steam box is full to bursting. Coal is being shovelled into the raging firebox and all it takes is a signal - perhaps a nod of a head - and a lever's gentle release for the beast to ease into action.

It's a wonderful feeling. The anticipation. The longing. Though the timetable is painfully vague, the knowledge of the train's ultimate destination leaves me in a constant state of arousal, feeling my own heat, my own pressure building, and the longing of the starting lever's lascivious activation.

And so, I wrote a poem about it (Yes, another bloody poem! I'm in love! So fucking sue me!). I heard a song recently. Indeed my future lover - the one who will, by the time we get to Paddington Station, have fucked my brains into mush - played me this song, probably in an attempt to explain his own precarious domestic position. Can you believe he wants to stick his cock into me while still shagging his wife? Not actually at the same time, you understand, but in the spaces between? Well I don't give a fuck. Bring it on, I say. The sooner the better. Now! Do it fucking now! And if you too had seen those emailed photos of his beautiful organ, I'm sure you would agree. Anyway. The song he played me is called 'Borrowed', is written from the mistress's point of view, and is very beautifully poignant. So I shamelessly nicked the title (to parallel the way I am stealing him from his wife) and wrote a reply, from the male viewpoint, of where this relationship might go and what it all means. There is no sex in it and no explicit language. And that, for me, makes it all the better. It's here, in all its naked, cock-straining, pussy pulsing glory: I do hope you enjoy xxx

(Please excuse much of the above: I find myself in a state of constant arousal and thus the command of my emotions - and hence my vocabulary - is really not what it ought to be xxx)

A scratchy old 78 pithily portends the poignant resolution of a passionate affair

Borrowed

You say I'm merely borrowed

Like in some old cliché

Of a song recording sorrow

In some other place, on some other day

Well let me tell you, Miss

I have no more time, no more love than this

Please take the half I have to give

Though sad, this is the life I live

*

I'm not a book off some old shelf

Pen, sweater or a coat

I'm a person, something like yourself

Just trying to stay afloat

So listen to me, Dear

Though selfish sometimes I appear

Embrace, enjoy our fantasy

While it still thrives, for I can see

*

A day when you will turn around

Like in some old cliché

Of a song recalling happiness

Where girl meets boy in the well-worn way

For the last time you will take my hand

See that all my words were true

At that moment understand

You were borrowed too...

*

As you walk away you'll realise

That all my words were true

It was always in your sad, brown eyes

So I guessed you always knew -

That you were borrowed too

*

#free #erotica #poetica The stunning, 'Once concealed, now revealed'. A sample from this major work.

Hi

I went to the doctors the other day. He said, 'Hi, Alexandra! I haven't seen you in a while,' to which I replied, 'No, Doctor - I've been ill'. And there is truth in that mind-bending medicinary moment. I'm not yet at an age - and perhaps I have been extremely fortunate - where an ache, a sneeze, a repugnant rash, requires expert intervention. I simply heal. Eat well, exercise well, sleep well, neither drink nor smoke, take a couple of ibuprofen, apply a little Canestan, and at my time of life, most things spontaneously clear up (but please, if after seven days they have not then definitely do seek medical attention! I don't want you dying on me, now, do I?)

The point of this? Well, this week - as you may have guessed by my increased literary output - I have been ill (why every time I type ill the computer insists on I'll, ill never know). I wrote a story, composed a few poems, spent several hours fondly gazing at stuff I shouldn't really have gazed at (I will go blind one day, I definitely will). And, I decided to give away a book of my poetry.

I don't write poetry much, prefer instead the relative weight and depth of a short story. However, it's surprising how much weight and depth you can fit into 186 words (or fewer, if you are extremely clever). Every word has to be at its very best. There are no passengers in a poem. One meaning is simply not enough! There has to be layers, surface metaphors, shallow metaphors, buried metaphors. And a punchline. Yes, a bloody punchline. Like a joke. It's no good rambling on about roses, or wandering around a bunch of daffodils, if there isn't a hidden thorn or a concealed stinging insect amongst its beautificent petals.

I like a joke. The one at the top of this post is, I believe, of the late, great, and very much-missed, Tommy Cooper. The poem below is mine. It's taken from an illustrated collection of similar verse entitled, 'Once concealed, now revealed' which is free on Amazon until tomorrow night. Yes! Free! What are you waiting for? What have you to lose, but the most valuable commodity of all, time itself! That's why I didn't go into marketing.

This fiendishly-clever and intriguingly-illustrated little book can be downloaded here:

'Once concealed, now revealed' on Amazon

I'm going to be blunt now. While shagging or being shagged, have you ever closed your eyes and imagined you were with someone else? In a frantic effort to stay lubricated or to keep it up, have you thought about an occasion when you were shagging someone else? Quickly flicked through all the salacious memories, searching for the most dirty, the most inspiring, the most apposite, till sudden necessary chemicals are injected into the bloodstream and you are once again wholly turned on? Feel your heart quicken, the blood pulse, the juice flow! Oh, yes, remember when Gordon slipped it up my arse for the first time, just as I was dying for him to do it... fuck, it hurt, but god it was good! Or that time Mary simply whipped it out in the lift between floors and took my whole load before we got to women's lingerie? Well, those two just worked for me. Blood pounded. Juices flowed.

I stitched together a few similar examples in 'Frankenstein's lover' and paced the bloody floor waiting for that promised storm to strike. Ah! Distant rumbles. Heavy drops spattering the smeary glass. Here it comes! Egor! Get me my rubber gloves!

Artwork for the poem, Frankenstein's Lover © Alexandra Amalova

Frankenstein's lover

Break the sod and shovel through the wormy loam

Crack the casket lid and take my lover home

Cut away the flesh and sinew, hack the bone

Slap the slab and pierce the jigsaw till it's sewn

Search the hallowed ground, a stone, a memory

Then dig for death, a corpse of one once dear to me 

Fill the barrow, wheel away by raven night 

Hobble down the cobbled road towards the light

Vaulted dank laboratory, black with bloody

Stains and pale remains of loved ones I shall study

Piece by bitter piece. Regret I hose away

Then labour long to resurrect a bygone day

Jane's green orbs once danced upon my firm young skin

Silvia's tongue and flashing teeth I stitch within

Amanda's sweet lips - fit to raise the dead; Anne's hair

Completes the pillowed head; I leave it sleeping there

Such alabaster breasts were May's; whose suckled teats

Were these? And here, so taut, the belly of my teacher

Reaching for me, Judith's skilful teasing hands

Dear Lorna's lissome legs await my harsh demands

Wait! This bungled bag of bones entails the beat

Of organs... Becky's brain and Martha's heart replete

With lights and larynx; Stella's stomach for affairs,

Eschewing spleen and brewing bile oft biding there

A spark! A flash! Beneath the sheet the monster wakes

'Alive! God, It's alive!' I cry. The body shakes

And rises, bares its perfect torso. Scars are healed!

In heaven's name! I made an angel, now revealed

In all her naked glory; now she bids me lie

And taste her perfect flesh. Such wonders I espy!

My loves, compounded into one immortal creature

Each donating but a single perfect feature

Break the silence, chase the shade across the wastes

Crack my eyes and see the icy truth and taste

Her lips squeezed dry by tired familiarity

Thank God, tonight my lovers lived inside of me

*