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...
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