Lushstories.com - well worth a long, lingering look!

Hi

This is my last full day of holiday bliss. Tomorrow, I must begin the long trudge home. No, please, don't feel sorry for me! At the end of a holiday - any holiday, be it exotic or mundane - I am always ready to get home, unpack and do the washing, then sit in my favourite chair with a cup of Yorkshire tea and simply stare out of the window. I surely live in God's own country.

Before I left home, I penned (tapped doesn't have the same romantic, creative connotations) a short story - just under 2,000 words - that I quickly posted on my favourite erotic story site, Lushstories.com. In my absence and with only the tiniest paper-and-comb fanfare, it has done rather (though not spectacularly) well, earning an RR (a blue thumbs-up recommended read award, occasionally given by the wonderfully moderate moderating team), garnered several very generous comments and votes and attracted a fair number of readers. If you'd like at look at Lush, to sample its adult-orientated delights, you could do worse, for starters, than to check out my page here:

https://www.lushstories.com/alexandra_a

In a rather sad though inescapable moment of retro-introspection, I synthesised an image of how my page would look had I not deleted my RR stories - plus around thirty others and numerous poems - for self publication (in five erotic anthologies, a rather rude novella, and a collection of naughty poetry). You would have to trawl the whole extensive site to find a more impressive page! Go on then if you don't believe me. But get a box of tissues ready...

Lush's mobile version has rather risqué adverts punctuating the text, something I understand though don't really enjoy (they are often just too incongruously graphic, whereas my stories are often not) so please excuse - or enjoy! - their stark presence.

For those disinclined to submerge themselves in the clinging mire of literary self-stimulation that is Lushstories.com (the chat section alone could keep you a gibbering captive for the whole weekend without you once coming up for air), I am publishing my recent story here. Due to its undoubtedly 'green' aspect, it has been dubbed 'environmenterotica' by one pundit; I prefer 'envirotica', though am open to suggestions. Amongst other things, I wrote it for your enjoyment. I truly hope you do enjoy it.

Ghosts of the rainforest

Gnarled roots snare my ankles; protruding rocks scrape my shins and bruise my weary toes. I struggle upwards through dense vegetation, skirting stinging trees, hacking through vines, my eyes peering ever high into the canopy, fervently following the bright swathe cut by the torch strapped to my forehead. Leeches cling in vain; insects bite for no return. I brush them away with mild disgust, dashing their swollen guts into bloody smears. I force a weary, knowing smile and clamber onwards. I seek what they seek: life.

Higher I climb, through clinging mist and intermittent rain. These Wet Tropics house much of what is left of life on this sorry sphere, these mountains a final refuge for many once-plentiful creatures, and it is my lifetime's work to count and monitor them, chart their inevitable decline.

When primitive life first evolved here, it did so in the absence of oxygen, though released that highly-reactive and toxic gas as a by-product of its respiration. In time, as the air and oceans filled with it, primitive creatures necessarily evolved that could survive its noxious presence. Later - much later - further mutations enabled a singular strain to harness the element's unequalled reactive power, and life, as we have come to understand it, gained a foothold and thrived. Billions of years later, here I stand at the pinnacle of all creation, my sole task to chart life's last bastion's inevitable decline into oblivion.

At ground level, a pair of burning orange orbs betrays a frog, though of which species I can only guess. And there, glowing green amid a sparkling, dew-soaked web, the eyes of an equally anonymous spider. I stride forward, upward, my tireless tortuous climb sadly tearing her night's work asunder. Start again, little one; spin your silk to survive.

The creature I seek has not been seen for almost half a century, is thought by many to be extinct, though its tracks have recently, reportedly, been spotted hereabouts. Incredibly, its kind once swarmed across this world like a plague, yet, like the rest of creation, it now clings to a fevered existence in this single lofty retreat, where the climate is still cool enough, and where the air is still clean enough.

It is asserted by some that we descended from it, and though there are similarities enough, there are many who scoff at the suggestion. 'How could it have made the leap into us? Where is the missing link? Where in the fossil record is the proof?' are all regularly heard rebuffs. However, I have studied them, know them better than anyone alive and am certain we somehow sprung from their seed. Tonight, for the first time, I hope to find one, to be the first for almost fifty years to share their fragile presence and test, first hand, the certainty of my beliefs.

Twigs crackle. Branches snap. The ground shakes. An indistinct black mass leaps from my left. Another springs from my right. I sidestep, crouch, instinctively parry the first attack then block the second with a well-timed kick. Slicing through the darkness, my headlight briefly illuminates the flashing, fleeing, black and amber rump of a big cat. Beside me, broken and breathing its last, its mate purrs and weakly whimpers. In disbelief - for I had merely swatted it aside - I examine its twisted body for signs of injury. Her beautiful head is scarred yet otherwise undamaged; her shoulders likewise. But there! Buried deep into the animal's stripy gut, a smooth wooden shaft, its protruding end starkly splintered. I twist it, tug it, twist again and slide it free. Bound to the shaft by meticulous windings, a gleaming triangle of silver metal, its tip and leading edges ground to savage sharpness. And there, along one blood-smeared edge, carved crude symbols assail me, symbols I recognise from yellowed copies of age-old documents. Their provenance is inexplicable; their presence irrefutable. They silently scream their obscene message. 'Die, fucker!'

I reverently stroke the big cat's head then, after swiftly breaking her neck and closing her grateful eyes, I carefully stow the arrow in my bag and edge carefully forwards, ever upwards, infrared now surreptitiously scanning the canopy for signs of life. An array of reptiles. A multitude of insects. Burrowing beetles; buzzing mosquitoes; processing ants carrying their improbably-large leafy fragments home.

Hack. Climb. Slip. Stumble. Up. Up. Up. For every thousand feet I rise, the temperature drops by around seven degrees, becoming ever more bearable, more hospitable, for the rare creatures I seek. Year on year, as the ice melts, the acid seas deepen, and the climate irrevocably changes, all extant species must climb to escape the rising waters and rising heat, to find environs suitable to their unique adaptations. Rather enigmatically, it is averred by some that the ape I seek - notoriously intelligent and adaptive, yet shy and elusive - climbs for altogether different reasons.

As dawn's first sickly light permeates the canopy, I break through a final wall of mist and leave the cloud forest behind. I have seen the transition countless times on aerial photographs, but this is the first time I have lived it. Up here, the mountain peaks float like verdant islands on a sea of billowing white. Momentarily, I gaze across the nebulous blanket into a dazzling rising sun, then turn and recommence my ascent. From here, the terrain will be kinder, the vegetation less dense, and my progress somewhat quicker.

Calls. I hear calls. Eerie. Other-worldly. Sounds not heard for generations. I pause, hold my breath and listen. Again. Plaintive. Longing. Yearning. My heart almost breaks with the sound. Laying down my machete and backpack, I step gingerly forwards, squinting against the unaccustomed glare, peering upwards into the blue-speckled green.

There. Up there. Oh, my god. Reclining in the crook of a branch. A male. Undoubtedly a male. Broad shoulders. Muscled buttocks and thighs. Lank, matted hair dripping from his bearded head. His flesh - not ghostly pale as legends suggest, but bronzed and gleaming - ripples with his every indolent move, the underlying muscles and tendons distinctly delineated. He is a fine specimen, a wonderfully healthy example of his kind. He calls again. Yoooohoooooooooo. Oblivious of my presence, he settles back against the rough trunk and toys with something in his lap. Binoculars snap into place. Focus. Sharp. Sharper. A squeeze then another, followed by a series of lazy tugs. He is playing with... himself. Stroking himself; readying himself.

And here comes the cause of his arousal. From his left - my right - through the now sparse canopy, a female approaches. She is slighter, lighter, and moves with incredible grace, leaping, swinging, crossing the treetops as though skipping across the earth. Long blonde hair flows behind her, while swollen mammaries swing and bounce softly together. Her lithe golden body is hairless except for a dark bush that hides her pudendum. Remarkable. Utterly remarkable. A fleeting glimpse was beyond my expectations - sparse evidence of a single specimen was surely all I ever expected to find - yet now I find myself in the presence of a pair, and almost certainly a mating pair. I am completely enthralled, aware that I could soon be the only living witness to their mythical courtship rituals. Annoyingly, a leafy branch partly blocks my view. Carefully, silently, I skirt around the undergrowth till I find the perfect spot.

The female reaches the male's tree and clambers down the thick trunk towards him. He gazes upwards, licking his lips as she presents her sexual organs for close inspection. Even at this distance, they are evidently glistening, primed with her lubrication. She pauses her descent, her pudendum pressed to his sweating face. He licks her there. Tastes her readiness. Her eyes roll and she mutters a random babble of sound. Hanging effortlessly from a gently-flexing branch and with knees clamped about his head, she enjoys the attentions of his tongue before sliding down his body and resting in his lap. He grunts, adjust his position and expertly enters her. For long, silent moments, they stare into each other's eyes. He kisses a proffered breast then licks and assiduously sucks the other. Again their eyes meet. They kiss and - despite the improbability - I sense there is love between them.

Now they move, or rather, she moves. Up and down. She begins slowly, gently, but builds in speed and intensity till their flesh claps together and the branches shake. Birds call out, flap and flee the scene, but the lovers are seemingly oblivious. The female arches her back. The male grabs her mane and pulls her down onto him and she cries out, shudders, cries out again, then collapses against him. For long minutes he holds her. Strokes her spine. Kisses her neck.

Suddenly reaching up, she grabs the branch and hoists herself clear. Now she hooks her legs over the self-same branch and lowers herself till her inverted head hovers above his lap, her long hair swathing his manhood. She smiles - I swear it - she smiles, then sweeps her hair aside and takes his phallus between her lips in a ritual cleansing that is probably unique in the whole animal kingdom. I am utterly rapt. She sucks. She licks. Sucks again. He strokes himself with his right hand while sampling the flesh of her breasts with his left. A sigh. A murmur. The tremors that shake his body are reminiscent of an orgasm, though surely he is spent and unable to climax again so swiftly? And then the truth hits me. He didn't ejaculate inside her. The rutting was for her pleasure alone. And now this oral stimulation is for his. I am amazed, did not expect sexual sophistication from such relatively primitive creatures.

A shout, a roar, and he is filling her up, spewing his ejaculate into her mouth. For a moment, I feel her eyes fall upon me. I freeze then glance away, momentarily ashamed of my intrusion into their intimacy. She coughs. Clears her throat. Spits his semen towards me. It splatters on the leafy carpet beside my feet. The ground erupts. Vines hum, tighten and whine. I am snatched up. Up. Up. Up.

The world swings sickeningly. Through a thick, ropey mesh, and with intense curiosity, they stare silently at me. Their eyes are impossibly intelligent. Incredibly, the female speaks. Even more incredibly, I understand every word.

'It worked!''

The male laughs.

'Of course! I know their programming inside out.'

'He's gorgeous! What is he?'

The male nods towards me and smiles knowingly.

'OMB37.' In response, the female screws up her eyes and twists her mouth in a parody of non-comprehension. He smiles widely, kisses her nose. 'Organic Monitoring Bot, version 37. Probably hundreds of years old.'

Her face contorts again, this time mimicking incredulity.

'But he looks like new.'

'I know! They are amazing... could be the last of his kind.'

Female eyes narrow; forehead furrows.

'Really?'

'Yeah. Haven't seen one of these beauties for years.'

She bites her lip in classic concern.

'Is that good?'

'Good?' A more subtle smile accompanies his words. 'That power pack is peerless... priceless! And there are parts enough to repair a thousand things around here.'

I speak.

'You... speak!'

The male shrugs. Their lexicon of unconscious gestures is unimaginably complex.

'Yes. Of course. But perhaps what's more remarkable is that you do too.'

He reaches into a hole in the tree behind him and extricates a long, glinting knife. Clasping it between his teeth he swings majestically across the space between us and slides down the rope from which my primitive prison is suspended. Clinging to the net, his face so close I can smell his bitter breath, he smiles again, but this version is regretful, apologetic. The knife inches towards me. I struggle, but to no avail. He presses it to my throat. Green blood gushes. Images crackle and fade. Sounds echo to nothing.

'Sorry, buddy, but we need your parts more than you do.'

*

Holiday vacuum - postcards from abroad.

Hi

Do you, like me, still send postcards from abroad? I actually send them to myself, as a kind of pictorial third-person travelogue, and love to get home and wait for them to arrive, one by one, conjuring daily the images, sounds, smells - and other worthy sensations - from my latest sensual sojourn. It's a good way to ensure that, as the golden tan fades, the golden memories do not.

I'm still holidaying, still filling the posting vacuum with reprises of some of my earliest blogposts, namely the ones in which I serialised chapter one of my burgeoning sexy sci-fi novel, 'Inversion 1'. Go on! Take a look! Scroll down to April 2014 - over there on the right - and give them a click. You may even get hooked.

The pool is calling, and thereafter the beach, the restaurant, and, much later, that waiter in the corner cafe who smiles daily and gives me the eye. Yes, tonight it's your turn, mister!

See you tomorrow - but not too early! ;) I may even fill you in with some titillating late-night details.

Alexandra xxx

Ghosts of the rainforest: an erotic short story

Hi

Me again. Annoying, aren't I? 

I wrote a story yesterday, which is rare for me. Not the writing a story bit - that isn't so rare - but the fact I did it in a day is almost unique. Writing takes me ages. I'm never satisfied. There's always a better word, a smoother phrase, a need for either more or less detail. But yesterday, I got it in one! (Okay so it will change, evolve, over the coming weeks, but only slightly. I think.)

I was reading an article in my beloved New Scientist magazine, about rare primates and their plight, how global warming is forcing them ever higher up their mountains,  and how - some day soon - they will run out of mountain. It got me thinking. I generally write erotica, so it had to have an erotic section somewhere, and that's where the whole thing fell into place. It's here, if you'd like a read:

(The link has been removed. This torrid tale plus eleven further stories are now published in ' The Big Bag of Sexy Allsorts', a tooth-rotting collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.

Let me know what you think - not that I'll take any notice, but I just loooove feedback. See you later,
Alexandra :) xxx

Grassing myself up III: where it all took me

Once I got going, sex began to rule my life. I was either doing it, writing about it, or mastubating while reading about it. It was a mental, emotional and physical whirlwind from which I have still not entirely escaped nor recovered. The intensity of those heady times was very productive. I wrote story after story, poem after poem, posting them excitedly and waiting eagerly for feedback. I made lots of 'friends' - some of whom I simply chatted with, others (both male and female) with whom I cybered, cammed, or - on a couple of very memorable and passionate occasions - fucked. As I said, it was intense, frantic, bordering on obsessive.

One day, out of the blue, I was contacted by some guy who said he would love to publish some of my stories, adding that he'd seen them on Literotica, a well-used though rather impersonal and clunky sex-story site. He flattered me, suckered me, and completely took me in. He promised me 50% of all income and I was more than happy with that, having heard tales of much worse deals.

For my part, I collected together an anthology of paranormal erotica - I had been actively exploring the oft-interwoven themes of sex and death in short stories since my writing muse was first awakened - carefully, assiduously, edited it and sent him the manuscript. Between us, we decided to call it Sensual Ghosts. He said he loved it, designed a cover for it (for which I chose and paid for the photograph: perhaps that should have alerted me) formatted it, and published it on Amazon. Wow! My own book! After gazing at it for hours and reading it on my Kindle from front to back, I sat back and waited for the cheques to pour through my door. 

The guy had an aristocratic-sounding French double-barrelled name, a French forename (if you're reading this, Henri, there really are no hard feelings at all) wrote quite beautiful error-free emails and I had no reason to doubt his honesty. And, to be honest, I think he tried to be honest. He'd had an idea to collect a stable of raw writing talent and give them a platform, an outlet, and imagined it could earn him a few quid too. Needless to say, it failed. 

After several months, the book - despite his best though rather limited efforts at publicity - had sold around a hundred and fifty copies. Not great, he admitted, though he said more books would promote more interest and eventually my readership would mushroom. I'd compiled a further three anthologies which I was about to send him when he suddenly stopped answering my emails. Then the emails were returned undelivered and I knew the game was up. Our last exchange had me insisting he delete my book from Amazon, which, quite remarkably, he did, though the £150 or so he owed me was never forthcoming.

They say a good lesson is never a free lesson and so it turned out. I took another look at Sensual Ghosts, designed a new cover, edited the contents carefully once again, and published the book myself. Having mastered the intricacies of Amazon's KDP submission system - headings, spacings, active contents page, et al - I went on to release a further six books (four erotic anthologies, a naughty novella, plus a collection of erotic poetry for which I also supplied illustrations) in quick succession. And there they sit, on my Amazon bookshelf, ready for all-comers to lift them down, look inside, and hopefully like what they see enough to part with their hard-earned $2.99. The links to all my internet presences are over there, top right. No, not there. Down a bit. Where it says, rather teasingly, 'See more of me here'. Yes. There. And no, there are no naked pics. Not yet, anyway...

As I submerged myself in the publishing process, so my appetites waned. I became less and less needy, less and less sexually-active, till I returned to something like normality. Whatever that is. So here I sit, fully clad, toying with my hem though not really having the urge to lift it and toy with whatever I find beneath it. Whatever I find beneath it. Now, therein lies the rub. There indeed lies the rub...

Take care and (in the words of the late, great Dave Allen) may your god go with you,

Alexandra x

Grassing myself up II: how I took it further than I ever dreamed

Over the next couple of years, whenever I felt horny, rather than reaching out for the nearest guy - I was, after all, no great beauty and painfully shy - I reached for paper and pen. The pent-up pleasure burst as soon as the story was finished, often spectacularly so, and I busied myself rereading and rewriting, honing and refining to further intensify my responses. Though I found the writing arduous, I painstakingly wrote several intricately woven tales - again all sadly lost - in which I violently, passionately, lovingly, lost my virginity. I rarely wrote anything in which I didn't get laid, being somehow unable to find the enthusiasm for everyday prose. I'm the same now. It takes that unmistakeable tingle in my gut to cause me to flip open my iPad and tap merrily away with my right hand - while the left assiduously plays out the action on my usually naked body; hence I do prefer to write erotica in the nude.

Then, understandably, the urge to write left me: I was getting fucked for real. The sexual frustration that inspired my imagination was being sated in the real world of sweaty, spunky flesh and blood. Stories had no fertile ground to grow in. I forgot I ever wrote at all.

One day I found my adolescent scribblings and, afraid someone would find them and believe they were reading a factual actual diary, I burnt them. And here's a lesson to all of you: never destroy something you have created; it will leave an irreparable hole in your heart.

When one particularly rare relationship turned sour, I was inconsolable. Unable to sleep, I sat up night after night, the facts, the uncertainties, and the unthinkable possibilities, whirling around inside my throbbing head. In desperation, I picked up a pen and began to write it all down, in the hope it would quell the voices, exorcise the torment. And it worked. Over the following nights, I read the sheaf of papers over and over, constantly adding notes, details, sketches, jokes, hopes, fears - in fact, whatever came to mind - in an unstoppable raging stream of consciousness. With sex again absent, I wrote a little story, a semi-autobiographical tale in which I described what was to be the final fuck of my unravelling relationship and, as the sun came up and I dotted the final i and crossed the final tee, I wanked myself silly. And then I slept. Bliss.

Over the following weeks, I honed, I refined, then typed it up, burnt the sheaf of papers and stored my deliciously candid and squalid history in a secure vault on my iPad. 

I joined a dating site. Really. No shame in that, apparently, though it still vaguely shames me somehow. A pleasant chap I was exchanging emails with commented on my turn of phrase and asked if I'd ever considered writing - 'you know, stories and stuff?' - and said I ought to try. He sheepishly added that he had joined a story site and had a few pieces posted there. A what? I asked. A story site, he said again, and gave me the URL. I went there. Spent the night there. I joined. Wrote a brief-yet-intimate bio. Incredibly, the site had an adult section. I had had never imagined the like. Having read a selection, I posted my story in all its 5,000 word intimate anonymity then navigated to my page and read it, as though eavesdropping on someone else. I wanked. While doing so, I got a message from a guy who said he'd read it and wanked. Then another wrote saying something similar. And another. And another. And a girl. And another. And so on. By the time I climaxed, of the two hundred people who'd read it, around ten had taken the time to write and say it had made them cum. What a buzz! Close my eyes. Pinch that nipple. Slide in those eager fingers. Rub that glistening clit. Oh, fuck... Yes, yes, fucking yes! I came again too.

A while later, after many heady cyber sessions and not a little candid camming, I met one of the guys for sex. We fucked in his car. It was the most thrilling thing I've ever done. When I got home, I posted carefully edited photos of his cock slipping between my tits, my lips, and into my you-know on a sex story site we were both members of and - yes, you've guessed it - I wanked again even though I was still a little sore from the wonderful sucking and fucking I'd just received. Yes, this is the same plain and shy girl who, after being stimulated by an invasive stalk of grass, picked up a pen to explore and express her budding sexuality. What a story or two can do.

Over the next few days, and using the photos and a secretly-snapped video as eye-popping research material, I wrote it all down, and this time, for his sake and for his pleasure, I wrote from the male perspective. Several more days later, after much editing and soul-searching, I posted it. He loved it and wrote his own, from my perspective. It was weird, but somehow very hot. We met a couple of times more, and though it was still sexually very pleasurable (I still have the photos and short video of me sucking him off for souvenirs) the magic required for an actual relationship - and we both agreed on this - just wasn't there. Oh, well.

Since then, I've written lots of stories from the male POV and had some very good feedback. Perhaps around two-thirds of everything I've written is seen through a man's eyes. Go on. Take a look. Nip over to Amazon, click on one of my books and take a 'Look inside'.

Please let me know what you think. Oh, and clear your car out. You never know - you might just get lucky. 

Take care till next time,

Alexandra xxx

Grassing myself up: how I began writing erotica

How did I ever arrive at this place? It's a question I'm never asked, yet the answer is intriguing. For me, at least. And so, in that self-indulgent way of all bloggers, I'm going to tell you.

I've been writing erotica for a few years now. How did I start? Is that what you whispered? Sorry - the lips nibbling my lobe and the hand inching beneath my hem were a little distracting. No, please, don't stop. Nibble away. Inch away. I like it. Indeed, allow me to reciprocate, that we may entwine ourselves - both emotionally and intellectually - ever closer.

Ah, the question. Yes, well, there's a thing. I actually wrote down my first sexual experience straight after the event, from the first glance to the first touch. It was cathartic. I needed to see it in black and white (more blue and yellow, to be honest), to try to make sense of it. Afterwards, I read it over and over, always adding details, adjectives, adverbs, changing a word here and there. Honing, I believe they call it. Refining. Well, I refined it till my heart raced, till my blood pumped, till my skin ached for another, similar touch. The original document is sadly lost. It only remains - up here - in grainy fragments, and - down there - in barely discernible connections: grass; pink; bees; sun.

I was lying on my back, eyes closed, limbs relaxed, simply soaking up the summer sun. My denim skirt was short, my cotton shirt sheer enough to show the world my new pink bra. I loved that bra. The grass was cool; the breeze, such as it was, was heavy with pollen and the slow buzzing of lazy insects. I was not alone, and yet somehow I was; he never spoke, yet I knew who he was. The stalk of grass he wielded had barely any substance, yet it cut away all propriety, despatched all resistance. It tickled my cheek one moment, lightly brushed my tight teenage belly the next, absently - surely accidentally - flicked a nipple on its journey north to explore my chin, nose and eyelids. Then, for long painful seconds, there was no touch, and I almost opened my eyes, though somehow resisted, knowing the spell would be irreparably broken. I could hear him breathing, could smell, could almost taste, his need. A need to strip me, mount me, penetrate and break me. And, though I feared it with all my being, I needed it too.

The seeded stem returned to its travels, became bolder, more insistent. I wished it were his fingers, his tongue, his his his... cock, but I knew it could never be so. Throughout his playful teasing, I longed to touch myself, ached for release, and still the stalk stalked my gentle curves. It crossed my collar bone, ambled through the shallow valley between my tiny tits, pausing on every rib before delving deftly into my belly button. I giggled. He sighed. The grass brushed my naked thighs. I drew up my knees, rested my soles on the earth and felt it move. Tilt. Spin. The stem tickled. Knees parted. Another tickle. I tensed. Relaxed. Tensed again. He was up my skirt now, inching ever closer. My fingers clawed the ground. My toes curled. I held my breath.

A touch. The touch. Within the moist pinkness of my tiny cotton knickers, my slippery clit cried out in disbelief. I echoed its cries with a breathy whisper. Oh, fuck.

My sister's voice.

'So that's where...'

Shock stole her words. Disbelief took her breath. I screwed up my eyes, unable to meet her undoubtedly incredulous gaze. She giggled. She ran. My grassy-green lover did the same. Their departing footsteps thudded against my head in contrary stereophonic motion and quickly faded to nothing. Indolent insects buzzed. The breeze rustled the trees. I sat up. Opened my eyes. Squinted around. No one. I plucked a stalk and attempted to reconstruct his ministrations, but the subtlety was somehow absent. It prickled. Scraped. Annoyed. I stood, smoothed down my skirt and slowly wandered home.

Fuck. I've never told anyone that before. Innocent, yes, in many ways, but it's just made me wetter than many a porn movie ever did. How strange...

Of course, I masturbated when I got home. And then wrote it all down. Afterwards, that pink knickers and bra combo always got me going. Pink still has that effect on me today. In fact, if you lift that hem a little higher, you may even see just how much...

Back to the reason for this post. I was going to tell you how I started writing erotica. Well, that singular event was undoubtedly the catalyst, but there's much more to it than that. So much more so that, to be honest, it will have to wait for another day. I suddenly have things to do. Maybe you do too. Till next time. Oh, I'll be the one in pink knickers and bra and you'll be the one in... whatever turns you on. Turn up turned on. We'll have so much more fun.

Take care,

Alexandra x