Thanks! Good advice! #erotica #spshow

A dear friend recently offered me the following advice. Though not particularly original, I still took time to reflect on its - for writers at least - universal wisdom.

My free advice of the day is to keep a document or lots of little notes on phrases, conversations, idiosyncrasies, character traits. Then use them for inspiration, and—behold!—you’ve become a writer full of gemstones. (Hint: F. Scott Fitzgerald did this.)

It's a great idea. Memory, as we all surely know, is not only fallible, but extremely selective. We have evolved to notice only things beyond the norm, unexpected changes to our immediate environment, and thus have we avoided predators and become, for our sins, the ultimate predator. Without this 'selective memory', our senses would be overloaded by our surroundings, our brains overwhelmed by information, unable to process it all and leaving us vulnerable. The upshot of that is that we don't really observe the everyday, don't see the unchanging daily detail, the detail that, when writing, is the magic touch that brings our characters alive, makes them 3-dimensional.

Short but sweet! In conclusion, I'll  proffer a short extract from my naughty novella, Literal Fantasies. It's the start of chapter 2 and Harry, a writer and the narrator, has arrived at the hotel where four female fellow writers of erotica are waiting to meet him, to allow him into their circle, and commence a day that will change the lives of all involved.

Extract from Literal Fantasies

I knocked. Laughter and cackles from within drowned me out. What was I doing here? Christian to the lions. I glanced at my watch - exactly eleven-thirty a.m. as arranged - and knocked again. There was a muffled ‘shush’, a baffled giggle, then the door clicked and opened. A pretty freckled face peered out. Blonde bunches dangled and big blue eyes looked me up and down.

‘Harry?’

‘Yes. That’s me.’ 

‘It’s him!’ she called excitedly over her shoulder. The door swung slowly open as if by itself. ‘Thought you'd stood us up! Come in!’

Turning on her plimsolled heels she skipped down the hall. The back of her green and white gingham dress was tucked into her dark blue knickers displaying her tight rounded arse cheeks. Her tanned thighs contrasted starkly with the white socks pulled up to her knees and I thought if it ended now I wouldn’t go home totally disappointed. That was hot. My heart was racing anyway but it pumped harder and louder, pulsing blood to my extremities.

I passed a bedroom - the door slightly ajar - from where a warm dark voice called.

‘Hi, Harry, won’t be a minute.’

The suite comprised of two double bedrooms, one on the left of the hall and one on the right, each with its own en suite bathroom. The hall then opened out into a large living area which was sparsely furnished, but beautifully presented. Plush, black-leather couches hugged the walls and two deep matching chairs divided the room into two sections. Palms splashed vibrant green into the corners while wide windows offered stunning second storey views across the lush green golf course. The floor was light oak; the Persian rugs thick and luxurious. White walls were punctuated by large modernist canvasses. A glass coffee table supported an open laptop and a couple of half-empty wine glasses. The facing wall's central feature was a huge plasma screen that held the attention of two seated women. They ogled stills of naked, anonymous flesh - probably their own if I believed the emails I'd received.

The two women turned from the TV, looked up at me and smiled, but stayed seated. Both wore similar clothes to the one who’d answered the door: short-sleeved gingham dresses with white collars; white socks; black plimsolls. The prettier one wore a dark green cardigan. The plainer one avoided eye contact; she hugged a cream cushion to her chest, merely crossed her legs and exposed a white thigh. Cardigan girl bit her index finger, drew one leg onto the couch and exposed her own navy gym knickers. She held the pose for what seemed an age. There was silence. I tried not to look, but couldn’t help myself and eventually surrendered to the naughty schoolboy within. My capitulation made her clap her hands and leap to her feet. Her laugh was sparkling and warm and instantly melted the ice.

‘Sorry about that, Harry. We couldn’t resist a special introduction. And what about Sue? Tucking her dress in her knickers like that! Naughty girl! I’m Cath.' She stepped towards me, all the while maintaining eye contact. 'Lovely to meet you at last.’ 

I was almost lost for words.

'And you.'

Cath was diminutive and sexily curvy. She reached up and kissed my cheek, grabbed my palm, then stepped away, still holding my hand. 

‘You look great. You’ve met Sue.’ Sue curtsied and her bunches bobbed up and down. ‘And this is Vicky.’ 

It was hard to tell how old this cushion-hugging, thin and nervous-looking woman was. Short brown hair accentuated her slightly hooked nose and thick brows crowned her dark eyes. She almost cowered. I offered her my hand.

‘Hi, Vicky.’ 

Her handshake was limp. Fathomless eyes barely flickered into mine, and she drew her hand away before I’d really taken hold of it.

‘Hi, er…’ Vicky croaked and then coughed. Half of me wanted to hug her, reassure her, while the other half had already written her off. I thought she might burst into tears, but instead she smiled weakly and apologetically. ‘Good journey?’ 

‘It was fine, thanks. Not far for me. How far have you ladies travelled?’ 

If any of the women wore make-up it was subtle enough to be invisible to the untrained eye. A man’s eye, that is.

‘Oh, a couple of hours. Not bad, really.’ Cath spoke for them with a slight Irish brogue, her young voice slightly at odds with the gentle creases around her green eyes. Her hair was a mass of dark red curls and her womanly curves strained the seams of her tight, short dress. She was open and attractive and I reckoned she was in her late thirties. ‘We came up last night. Been swimming and in the gym this morning, then had a sauna, a facial - look at these nails - couldn’t resist. Nice healthy early lunch and here we are. Drink, Harry? We’ve got lager, white wine…’

I shook my head.

‘Bit early for me, thanks. Cup of tea would be nice though?'

Cath smiled and nodded. 

‘Put the kettle on, Sue.’

Cath had been cagey from the start about where they'd come from. The accents told me nothing. They were from all over the place.

‘How do you like it, Harry?’ 

Sue lisped then pouted and giggled, her knees together, toes turned inwards. She was much closer to schoolgirl age, shape and demeanour than the others and was easily the most convincing. It disturbed me just how strongly I was drawn to her in her current persona.

‘Just as it comes… but not too strong, and no sugar. Thanks, Sue.’ 

She curtsied once more and flaunted her arse cheeks again as she turned away. They were playing with me in a nice way. It was fun.

I sat on a sofa and Cath flopped down a short distance away. Sue handed me a steaming cup perched on a slender saucer, then perched herself astride the the sofa's arm.

‘Are you single, Harry? Sorry to ask, but…yer know.’ 

Sue obviously hadn’t been fed all the information from my emails. I wondered just how in-the-know she was.

‘I was married but…’ I hung my head, ‘there was another man.’

‘Oh sorry, didn’t mean to pry…’

‘No problem.'

Sue bit her lip and looked concerned. It took her a few seconds to ask the obvious question.

'What happened?' 

My answer, like the best punchline, was perfectly delivered.

'When the wife found out about him she kicked me out.’

They all stayed stock-still for about five full seconds till my smile gave me away then they laughed long and loud. 

'What really happened?'

'Do you really want to know?'

I glanced around at the three serious faces all nodding their encouragement.

'To be honest, I'm still not really sure, but when Janice left me, I was completely devastated. I'd not the slightest inkling she was even unhappy. Being on my own after all those years was the strangest thing...'

Inventing/bastardising words. Yay or Nay? #erotica #spshow

Are we still allowed to make words up? Or will the word police inflict their renowned brutality on me, much as they did to the model above? (I recently purchased the pic from Depositphotos.com intending to use it as a short-story cover, but for some reason decided against it. There: money not wasted after all!)

I say 'still allowed' because Shakespeare did it - indeed, if he had not, our language would be poorer as a result. At least, it is thought he invented them (he could have nicked them off a bloke down the pub), a whole host of them, then used them for his own ends, to tell his story, to make his brilliant ideas even clearer. Which is somewhat of a paradox, really: if I say, 'It went groopling down the unterscape,' I am not really making myself clear. Or am I?'

The Victorians loved that sort of thing. Edward Lear, Lewis Carroll, and their heirs - A.A. Milne (whose brothers, R.A.C. and Greenflag, never got the attention their roadside manner deserved) et al - made our language so much richer with their whimsical word-play and it always makes me smile. In contrast, Microsoft Word's red underscore makes me grimace, feel so guilty, so ashamed at my momentary lexical loss, that I correct and erase it and thus remove my 'mistake' immediately, often without a second thought. 

However, one recent example had me reaching for my trusty Encyclopaedia Britannica Dictionary, a wonderfully 'actual' stocky tome with alphabetised orange-segment-shaped (what is the technical term for that?) cut from the pages to facilitate searching. And lo! A word that Word had no words for. And though I had purloined it, bastardised it for my own purposes, it made perfect sense and so I left it in. 

A short while ago, I wrote a blog about Shakespeare's use of 'functional shifts' (read the blog here) to gain a reader's undivided attention at key points in his plots, and wondered if invented words could play a similar role. So.

The word I left in is 'regradation', and was intended to perform as an opposite to 'degradation'. The word has a geological meaning, and a legal meaning too, though not, I believe (at present at least) a meaning similar to the one I had in mind. As my finger still occasionally hovers over the 'change to' button, I urge myself to be brave, to go for it, to make the buggers think! And if they think I'm stupid, then so be it. Cos I'm not. And herein is the explanation to prove it!

The piece I am writing and in which the above example occurs, is a new chapter of my Inversion 1 novel (otherwise known as 'That bloody book'), the apposite section of which I attach below. What do you think? Does it work? Or should I conform to Microsoft's all-pervading algorithms? I'll consider this a referendum (in or out?) and act accordingly.

Extract from the soon (ha!) to be published Inversion 1, a sexy sci-fi novel.

'What are you?'

Leaves had fallen. Beetles had scurried by. Worms had turned the soil beneath me, yet still I sat still, and had done so for days, barely moving a muscle. My body - my body - craved movement and nourishment, yet functioned perfectly perfectly still and I knew it would be days more before either were strictly necessary. The girl too had been still, though not so still as I, and for not nearly so long. I lifted my narrow gaze up towards the source of the sound and spoke my first words for almost a thousand years.

'I am human, just as you are.'

'Then what is he?'

As she spoke, I sensed unexpected movement before me. Almost immediately after its death, the butchered corpse had been alive with flies. Soon, maggots had squirmed within the rotting meat and given it a grotesque semblance of life. However, this new movement was entirely different and I knew something extraordinary was taking place. The girl's voice declaimed it. Anna's fading muscle memory announced it. Though my mostly alien mind was merely fascinated, my human stomach churned.

Fat blue flies dispersed in an angry swarm. Dried blood liquified and boiled. Yellow fat leeched from the soil, flowed from the bent and broken grassy stems and coalesced, forming clumps and glutinous strands. The stumps of bones grew from the sickly morass and quickly covered themselves in steaming raw muscle. The skull rode on this rolling sea of regradation, like an ivory boat on a violent bloodied sea. Maggots wiggled their last, renounced their succulent bodies and dried to dust, their last meals quickly mingling with the writhing mass below. A clump of crimson viscera crawled like a slug, reattached itself to crimson curling worms and began to pulse. Fingers of bone encaged it. The space within filled itself with nameless gaudy organs. Now the head, reshaped and repaired, reattached and swivelled sickeningly on its axis. Eyeballs swelled, blue irises blossomed. The lenses cleared, sparked, and came alive. Shattered teeth made themselves new, bit the budding lips as if to test their progress, then clenched together in intense physical effort. The monster grew as if from the soil, struggled to its club-like feet then stumbled and steadied itself till it hunched over me. Epidermal imperfections smoothed and vanished; extremities elongated and refined; limbs flexed and stretched. It looked down at me and spoke.

'Amma.'

It pointed its tongue, stretched its lips, opened and closed its jaw. Breathed deeply. Smiled and tried again.

'Anna.'

Read the first chapter of Inversion 1, as a series of extracts, here in this very blog! Then you can tell your friends, 'I read that when it was free, long before publication, long before it went global, before the films, before the world domination, before...'

Literal Fantasies: life imitating art #erotic #novella

A few years ago, I was contacted by an extraordinary woman via a site on which I was posting stories, who explained that she and her group of friends - all shop workers -  loved to read erotica to each other at their 'Literal fantasy' evenings, where they got a little tipsy, got a little naughty, but most of all simply had a good laugh. My stories were amongst their favourites, she said, and simply wanted to thank me.

I was, quite naturally, intrigued, had never imagined reading erotica to be anything more than a sordid solitary experience. I offered to write a story especially for them, including them all plus a fictional character of my own making, a male writer who would join them for one special day. The girls were very pleased with my efforts, said it brought them a lot of pleasure, but unfortunately, due mostly to time constraints on my part, our correspondence very sadly fizzled out.

If you are one of those amazing ladies who inspired me so, I'd love to hear from you, to renew our acquaintance, and maybe even - now that I am a little bolder - join you for an erotic evening of reading naughty shorties and perhaps even engage in the mutual snapping of saucy photos of which you were so enamoured.

Does anyone else reading this engage in such group behaviour? I am intrigued!

If you do, perhaps you could read this short extract from the novella inspired by those gorgeous girls and, well, you know, do naughty stuff to each other. Or something. Blush. And, if you enjoy it, perhaps you could download the whole thing and make a night of it. Dear me! I'm all hot and bothered now...

See 'Literal Fantasies' on Amazon

Extract from 'Literal Fantasies'.

I ordered a soft drink and looked around at the shining glass and chrome. The reflections were confusing, made the mirrored room look much bigger than it really was. The floor plan was a letter T, with the bar - staffed by a smart, young blonde guy - along one of the long sides, opposite the door. I found a spot in the T’s crossbar, where I could see all of the tables, and sat down. Where were the girls?

I was alone but for two blokes sitting at the junction of the T who were talking business a little louder than they needed.

After a couple of anxious minutes, Sue strode in and went straight to the bar. She looked great - blonde spiky hair contrasting beautifully with the black Lycra - and would have turned my head whether I knew her or not. The two guys looked at her very approvingly, but she blanked all three of us. She paid from the little black clutch-bag she carried and came to sit in the corner a couple of tables from me. I caught her eye and smiled but her face showed no reaction. Where were the others? From its parallel, opposite world, my reflection stared back at me and smoothed down its hair. When I refocused back on Sue, she'd placed her right boot on her left knee and I noticed her dress had ridden up. A triangle of red was peeping from between her thighs. She seemed oblivious, took out a tiny file and abstractedly started to smooth her nails.

‘Excuse me.’ She unexpectedly spoke to me. Her voice was somehow different. ‘Has there been two women in here?’ Her blue eyes dared me to look down. I shook my head. She coughed, raised her voice and addressed the two middle-aged men. Their circular table was a car crash of coffee cups, mobile phones, papers and binders. A laptop was partially buried by the carnage. ‘Boys, have you seen two women come in here?’
As they turned they flushed, tried hard not to stare at her crotch, but failed miserably. They exchanged glances and shook their heads.
‘N…n…no. Join us till they get here if you like.’
The one who spoke scraped his shiny, tubular chair back and began to stand. 'What are you drinking?’
Sue’s patronising tilt of the head and half smile knocked him back into his seat. She was playing this really well and continued as if he’d never spoken.
‘Wonder where they are?’ Her dress rode up more as she sank into the seat. Crimson silk filled my vision. Then she spoke to herself: ‘Hope I’ve got the right place.’
The men eyed her up and down, turned to each other and smirked, then settled back into their sales projections.

Sue waited about a minute then stood and pulled her knickers down to her knees. She sat back down and continued filing. My head spun. What if they look at her again? What if someone else comes over? The waiter? How can she explain what she’s done? Come on Sue, what are you playing at? The tension was unbearable. Her head nodded slightly, rhythmically, as though she were counting time. After about ten seconds, she dipped forwards. When she sat back up her knickers were around her ankles. Again she counted to ten then stepped out of them, finished her drink and got up to go, leaving the expensive-looking underwear on the white tiled floor. As she passed my table she stopped, bent over and rubbed an imaginary scuff from her boots while pushing her beautiful bare arse into my face. The ruler marks were almost gone. Then she straightened up, pulled down her tight dress and strode to the door.

‘Miss! Excuse me!’ At my words, she stopped and turned. I retrieved her knickers from the corner. The ghost of her body resided in them, decanted its warmth into my fingers. ‘You dropped these.’
I calmly walked towards her and she too stepped forwards. We met in front of the two guys and I handed over my find. Pens poised, they stopped their patter and once again became Sue’s playthings. She wedged her bag under her arm, opened up the bunched material and examined it, sniffed it.
‘Don’t think so…’ and she frowned, quizzically placed an index finger on her chin and looked down. A white pearl pierced her tongue and it rolled sensuously across her lips. She pinched the hem of her dress between the thumb and index finger of her right hand and paused. Three highly aroused males held their breath in disbelief. In time with our rising cocks, her hand inched the material up her smooth, bronzed thighs. Higher… so slowly… higher still. Oh, my. I didn’t believe what I was witnessing. One of the men gulped. My mouth suddenly watered and I swallowed as quietly as I could. When her hand reached the diamante-pierced belly button she stopped. The flesh below it was shaved bare and a silver ring pierced her labia. Aimed at her slit, in black felt-tip, was an arrow pointing down to her peeping clit. Above it she had scribed ‘LICK HERE’ in an intricately scrolled font. I looked up at her face and shook my head in wonder. Again she was silently counting: four… five…
‘So I did. Thank you!’

She pulled down and smoothed her dress, wiggled her bottom then turned and swept from the room. The heavy glass door swung closed, but our three mouths were still wide open.
Then I saw Cath at the foot of the ‘T’, noticed she was covertly holding a camera beneath the table. I’d no idea how long she’d been there; with Sue in that form, the roof could have fallen in and we wouldn’t have noticed. The men looked up at me, then at each other, incredulous grins on their ruddy features.
‘Fucking hell, Geoff. Did you see that?’
‘Jesus! Lick here… fuck me!’
Laughter erupted from their pursed lips.
‘Where were they, mate? The knickers… where did you find them?’
‘Just on the floor, over there.’
They turned to look. I shrugged and started to move towards Cath. She stood before I got to her. Her eyes motioned to the door and we left together.

Head bowed, she whispered as we walked.
‘Wow, Harry. That was great. She’ll have got a buzz from that. Well done.’ She squeezed my forearm ‘I knew you’d be right for this, soon as I read your first story.’
‘This is an extraordinary day! She’s an extraordinary girl…’
‘It’s not over yet, by any means. But I didn’t think she’d go so far, so soon. Your presence is affecting her… well, affecting us all in some way. What did she write? Well, Vicky wrote it for her - Sue's spelling is awful.’
‘Lick here, with an arrow, pointing down, you know, to her...' I wasn't sure how to describe what I had seen, 'her labia ring?’
Cath doubled up in a fit of constrained giggles and almost fell to the floor. Then she stopped, tightened her lips and screwed up her nose.

Why #spshow? What is Self-Publisher's Showcase?

I've been asked what the #spshow refers to and why I add it to many of my posts. Well, the answer is quite simple: The Self-Publisher's Showcase is an online entity set up to support and promote the independent writer and self-publisher.

For a modest annual fee - little more than a round of drinks - they offer advice, post publicising tweets, and set you up a very smart personalised page on their site, with photos, a biography, and a detailed list - with covers and blurb - of all your books. They'll include links to your other websites, to your blog, to your Twitter and Facebook pages, indeed anywhere you have an online presence. They may even conduct an interview with you (mine is here: Interview with Alexandra Amalova), which will give you front-page prominence and very valuable exposure. They'll regularly retweet promotional tweets for you and generally raise your profile on their very slick, beautifully-presented and easily explorable site.

The staff hardly ever bite (and if they do it's only gently and in fun), are a great bunch and have a wealth of publishing knowledge. Pop over and take a look! 

Self-Publisher's Showcase

My page is here. Doesn't it look lovely!

My #spshow page

They have around 50k followers on Twitter - @selfpubshowcase - which is a real leg-up to their growing catalogue of aspiring writers. They'll no doubt be re-tweeting this later, which is a bit weird, but that's the world-wide web or www, the only known entity whose abbreviation is phonetically three times as long as its actual name, so what would you expect, other than weird?

Have a great day,

Alexandra :) xxx

#Erotic #Sci-fi A book what I am ritting. #spshow

I wrote a short story about a society in which the spoken word is preserved for the bedroom, for loving intimacy, and where everyday communication involves explicit sexual contact and physical stimulation. From that story, set on a far-flung inhospitable planet somewhere in the far-future, were spawned several others, each with different characters and set at different times in that society's history.

It struck me that these stories were actually only small parts of a greater tale. All I had to do was fill in the gaps and Bam! I'd have a novel! That was four years ago. I am still on it, though with the distraction of five self-published volumes of erotic short stories, a naughty novella, and an anthology of erotic poetry, I haven't got all that far. I can see an end to it though - indeed, I have already written the epilogue - and so am preparing the way for its eventual publication. With that end in mind, I have been releasing snippets for public delectation, little treats that I hope will eventually lead a vast army of individuals to acquire said novel when it eventually sees the light of day. 

So here's another. Snippet. This snippet actually leads to a whole chapter, which, if you follow the link, you will find carefully hidden amongst my writings on Lush Stories. The chapter is entitled 'The lovers of Antipodei 3', and can be found, in two parts, on my Lush profile:

Alexandra's Lush Profile page

Simply scroll down and click on the requisite chapter amongst a list of my published stories.

This chapter is written, in the form of a series of diary entries, by Moon, the sole survivor of a resistance cell marooned on a satellite of a giant gas planet in the Antipodei system (a name I changed from the 'Inversion system' of the actual novel for a reason I can no longer recall...). We find her here recovering from the trauma of seeing all her comrades killed in battle, and realising she is probably trapped on this harsh world for the rest of her existence.

I hope you enjoy this extract and feel curious enough to take a look at the whole. The chapter can stand as a complete tale in its own right, so is, in itself, a most rewarding and satisfying exercise :)

Extract from The lovers of Antipodei 3

Rotation 277: 1252

Another day. Just like yesterday. And the day before. Don't know why I bother with this journal. Eat, sleep, exercise. Eat, sleep, exercise. After I'd shaved and showered, I looked in the mirror. Fuck, I'm ripped. Still curvy though. Long legs, great arse, small waist, great tits, square shoulders. I love my body. Always have. And I'm in better shape than I've ever been. But for what? For whom? For yourself, Moon. Keep strong, keep sane. Be ready. My mother used to say, 'If you pull hard enough, the universe will come to you.' Well, I'm pulling.

Rotation 301: 1252

I fear the Resistance is broken. We were one small cell who escaped the last major purge, though lost contact with Command in the process. We always assumed others had escaped too, but the frequencies have been quiet for too long. We may well have been the last survivors. Now there is only me.

I need to harvest some more fungus. The blacker the better, or so I have found. What a buzz. The deeper I go, the better it gets. See you tomorrow, journal.

Rotation 395: 1252

Fuck, I'm horny. For months I didn't think about it, now it's all I can think of. Maybe it's the jet-black fungus. Whatever it is, I'm dying for a shag. Literally.

The sex on this moon was fantastic. After years of hardship we were lean and fit, lived for the day. Fucking was something we did for entertainment, for comfort and release. It was simple. No loyalties, no promises… no long-term relationships to spoil the fun.

We did it to pass the time. And we all got very good at it. Girls with guys, girls with girls. Threesomes, fours, fives, sixes and sevens. Fuck: I tried every pervy permutation... I especially liked the foursome with Zak and the siblings. Zak's cock was long and fat; Joseph's was longer but thinner. l loved to feel Zak in my cunt and Joe up my arse while I tongued Hannah to orgasm. Then, with Zak's cock up her arse, she'd suck her brother off while he ate me out... and so on; on and on into the night and the next day.

Thomas was an odd one. Preferred to watch Alice and me sixty-nining while he wanked onto us. He loved to cum on my tits and sometimes my arse. Always insisted on licking his own jism off me. I don't remember him ever fucking with anyone.

And as I've said before, there was Alice. No one made me cum like Alice.

Thankfully, there was no appetite for proper relationships. Closeness only brings pain. I've seen too many hearts broken by a stray laser, a punctured suit and a sudden decompression to give myself to anyone. Shove a stiff dick in my every orifice while I bury my fingers deep into a pair of tight pussies any day.

There you go again. Acting the hard-faced mother-fucker. You'd give everything for a simple cuddle at the moment, wouldn't you, Moon?

Yes, I would.

Rotation 397: 1252

I'm constantly distracted. Sex. I need sex.

I long to grasp the shaft of a stiff cock, lick the dew of precum from the tip, and gag on the swollen purple head till my throat fills with thick, sticky cum. Mmm, that makes me think of Ernest.

Being the oldest, at 45, you might have expected Ernest to take the lead, but he was happiest when following - and complaining about where we were going. 'If it was up to me...' was his favourite saying, yet he refused to take responsibility for anything. Having said that, he was a grafter and a good man to have on your side when the shit hit the fan. Ernest definitely preferred guys. I sucked him off a few times in group sex, but never had his cock in my arse or pussy. Which is a shame, because it was a beauty. Thick, curved and long enough to hurt. He had a thing for Zak, which caused a little friction between us. Zak accommodated both of us, never turned anyone down, so it was never really a problem. Wish I had that amazing cock in my mouth right now. Going to cum thinking about it.

Rotation 399: 1252

Today, as I worked on making my space more comfortable - less like a prison cell - I teased myself with graphic mental images. I conjured up every sexy scenario I could, all the things I've seen and done in this place. After dinner, I finally touched myself and shuddered. My pussy lips had prepared themselves for action, though there isn't a real cock for a hundred million miles. Isn't the human body amazing? I slid my index finger inside then sucked the digit clean. Men and girls always love my taste and so do I. Honey. Two fingers pressed on my clit, drew tiny circles, and I brought myself to a spectacular orgasm. Sleep will come quickly now.

Rotation 401: 1252

There’s a huge amount of 4D porn on our server that I hadn’t noticed before. The sexual appetites of some of our crew! Everything you can imagine – and more. That should keep my fingers and clit busy for a while.

I eat, wank, eat, wank and sleep. Not very productive, I know, but I have been through a lot. It’s therapy. I will exhaust the need and then turn my mind to something more productive. And if not? I’ll grow old here, playing with my titties, arse and cunt. Thinking about it, I’m not sure I’ll still fancy myself when I get old…

Rotation 407: 1252

Had another look at the Re-genr8 today. It claims to prolong life indefinitely if taken regularly. Bet there's a thousand years' worth. A thousand years living here? A thousand days will be more than I can stand. No. I should destroy it.

Rotation 415: 1252

I’ve built a machine. A fucking machine: a machine to fuck me. Something simple. I made it from the remnants of Zak's suit. That was fitting, as he was the last man to have his cock inside me. If that sounds throwaway, it's merely my way of coping. Zak was our leader and I'd have followed him naked into a reactor meltdown. He was strong, loving, and in a normal universe we would have been very good together.

As I came, I felt Zak move inside me, felt his lips sucking on my nipples and his strong hands squeezing my flesh. Just like he used to. I often watched him fucking with the others and knew he wasn’t giving his all. Not like he does when he fucks me, when he comes to my cot at night, wakes me with his tongue sliding into my hole. Feeds his rigid, fat cock into my mouth and fucks my throat. I love it when he takes me from behind, spanks my arse and fucks me to orgasm.

Fucked me to orgasm. Past tense. He won't be doing that again, will he?

I lay in the darkness with the machine still inside me and wept. I allowed myself a few moments of self-indulgent sadness then pulled myself together. It would be easy to wallow in sorrow, but that is a luxury I cannot afford.

The code was simple enough. I printed it out, a hard copy, kind of a souvenir. The machine is responsive to my heart rate, senses my impending orgasm and fucks me harder the closer I get. And doesn't cum first. Only a prototype, but it's already better than most men I've known... Sorry, guys, if you can hear me. I was joking.

Rotation 416: 1252

Slept like a fucking log. The trauma is fading; the videos of that day have stopped looping in my head. This machine has refocussed me, given me a purpose. No, that's a bit over the top... it's given me something to do.

The actual cock was the most difficult component to make. I've seen plenty, held a few, sucked a few, but it was hard to sculpt, despite the array of 3D images at my disposal. I fashioned it from the suit's lining, from that thick, protective second skin that cushions and salves, heats and cools. It's an incredibly responsive material, transmitting one's every movement to the suit's Central Nervous System. It's intelligent too. Repairs itself. Regulates itself. Like skin, but a thousand times stronger.

When you're hooked into a fully-functioning suit, the computer seems to read your mind. You can pick a flower or crush a man's head with equal ease; always confident it will make the right choice. The mechanics beneath the suit's outer skin are technologically beautiful, actually turn me on aesthetically. The servos are virtually silent. Though I've serviced and repaired them for years - can completely strip one down and rebuild it in around twenty days - I never get tired of doing it. I am still in awe of the design. The parts move as if by magic.

I stripped myself down to the skin, lay on the padded table and pressed the heart sensor to my chest. I put the soles of my feet together and let my long legs fall open. The cold gel felt fantastic on my swollen pussy lips and I almost came as I eased my slippery fingers inside. I applied more gel: in case of malfunction, I wanted to be adequately lubricated. The sensors homed in and the cock penetrated me gently, the machine sliding slowly forward on well-oiled runners. I too was well oiled, but needn't have bothered. My own lubrication oozed from me as anticipation coursed through my vulva. I was incredibly turned on.

Pumped up and throbbing with circulating coolant, the cock grew firmer with every thrust. Its temperature and pliability, both governed by the computer, perfectly matched that of living flesh. My nipples hardened as I teased them; sparks of pleasure fired from their puckered tips, igniting all my senses. I pressed two fingers to my clit, synchronised their movements to the pumping penis and felt the pleasure build.

I burned. Fuck, how I burned. Grief, tension, loneliness... all were consumed as the machine expertly serviced me. It responded to my needs, reacted to my demands quicker than any man I had ever allowed inside me.

Rotation 417: 1252

Didn't go outside today.

Made a few additions - auditory and visual sensors. I can now give it simple vocal commands. After guiding it through a variety of actions, I can lie back and let it do its stuff. The two cameras are on motorised stalks to optimise its field of view. Now I can move around on the table and the cock still finds me. 'Fuck my ass!' has it doing just that, even if I lie on my front gyrating my hips. It took some time, but it can now recognise and penetrate a moving target! Improvements took all day. Now going to eat and get some rest. Full trials tomorrow - if I can sleep!

Rotation 418: 1252

Stayed in and fucked myself till I could barely walk. A couple of teething problems, but nothing complex. I came so hard and the intensity increased every time. The machine is already very good, but there is much more I can do to increase my pleasure. Much more. This will be a good project to fill the empty days. The mental activity will keep me sane. Again, a suit saves my life! Ha!

*****

Box - my Lush competition entry #erotica

I honestly wasn't going to bother. Thought I'd let this one pass me by. I don't need the money, certainly don't need the hassle. Hassle you say? Yes, hassle. Writing is a painstaking occupation, involving punctuation paradoxes, grammatical gobbledygook, and vocabularial vortices. Nothing is what it seems. Every mark - down to the slightest smudge - on every page is examined and tested, interrogated with rubber hoses and anglepoised lamps till they pass muster. I love it, but I hate it. Like a Guinness and Marmite Martini.

Anyway. I did. And in only 2500 words. And it's here:

(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.)

Hope you can spare a moment to read it. And if you do, maybe even gift me a minute more to leave a comment. I would be so grateful, I may even contemplate that Skype sex session you're constantly bugging me for. Naughty boy! And girl! :) x

Lush short story competition! $300 in prizes!

In case you've never come across Lush Stories, here's a great opportunity to check it out, and, for you wank-driven writers out there, it's an even greater opportunity to flex your imaginative muscles and enter a story in their latest comp. Here's the link:

Lush short story competition

I scraped a third place in the last but one (in the category of quickie sex), snaffled $50 and gained several new friends and numerous new admirers. As many of them quickly found out, flattery goes a long way with me: once their blisters had healed and their carpel tunnel symptoms had subsided, several even stayed on first name wanking terms with me. Which is a bonus all round.

Here is an entry of mine for an earlier comp that didn't get placed, but was apparently in close contention and caused much gnashing of teeth amongst the judges. Well, I like to think so. How did it not win? Fuck knows. Anyway, here is a taster. Hope you enjoy it! :) xxx

Three minute warning

I'm plain and know it. Don't need anyone to tell me. Make-up and nice clothes are wasted on me, create a caricature, a parody of sensuality. So usually, wisely, I don't bother. However, today is a special day, a day when I have to try my best to look my best and thus open myself to ridicule.

I approached the desk with justifiable trepidation. The tweedy receptionist smiled patronisingly at my caked lashes, rouged lips, and my cheap blouse straining to subdue my over-sized tits. And I knew she'd be shaking her head at my mini-skirt, fat arse and too-high heels as I following her pointing finger and clomped lift-wards. Well, fuck you, bitch, I thought, fuck you, though behind the sneer there cowered the shy, plump little girl who'd never even been kissed.

The lift doors pinged and closed slowly behind me. Smoky mirrors taunted me. Averted eyes insulted me. Twenty floors nearer to Heaven, Hell awaited. A five-headed bespectacled and besuited Hell, wielding slashing pens and posing withering answerless questions. I tugged my knickers from the crack of my arse, adjusted my groaning bra then breathed deeply and stepped into the fray.

The monster bade me sit. Its glassy eyes devoured me; its many mouths curled in hungry incredulity.

'So...' papers rustled, 'Miss...' 

My chair's creak barely masked my stomach's growl.

'Hughes.'

'Ah, yes. Hughes.'

The greying man in the middle had a kindly smile, yet it was a smile that quite blatantly said, fuck these faceless four, I make the decisions here. Meanwhile, the faceless four somehow maintained their self-importance, despite their mainly cosmetic purpose. I babbled.

'Susan Hughes. I'm seventeen. Just finished my stage one secretarial. I've always wanted to work...'

A slowly raised palm silenced me. I deflated.

'Quite. We'll come to your qualifications shortly, er, Susan. Mr Jackson,' he coughed, turned to his left, and raised an eyebrow at one of the faceless four, 'would you like to...'

A siren. The siren. Everyone expected it. No one expected it. Open mouths and pasty faces. For long moments no one moved.

'Is that?'

'Oh,God.'

'What the fuck do we do?'

Scrabbling hands extricated phones. Shaking fingers stabbed. A host of terrified expletives followed. Were they stupid? Didn't they watch the news? Communication systems are always the first to go. I sat on my hands, rocked to and fro, my lips curled in morbid amusement. This room is the last I shall ever share, these faces the last I shall ever see. We are equals now. No amount of money or status makes a jot of difference. Death simply doesn't give a fuck.

'Fuck?'

I stood. Tore open my new blouse - its pristine presence was pointless now - and jiggled my cantilevered tits at them. Greyhair bellowed.

'Sit down!'

For the merest moment, I wavered, but it was only a moment. I had three minutes. We all had three minutes. What possible sanction could sway me from my course? It was a concept my young flexible mind grasped instantly. Their blinkered crinkly brains would take a little longer.

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.

#Erections and questions: why so incompatible? #spshow

Have you noticed that? Grab a guy's privates and they'll expand to fill your... well, to fill anything you'll let him fill; and yet, ask him a question at the same time - anything other a question directed at his pulsing organ - and his pulsing organ will begin to fail. 'Does your wife know you're here?' 'So Arsenal scored the winner in extra time?' 'What's a head gasket? Cos I think mine's gone.' 'Didn't you bring a condom? Cos, surely yer've heard of Aids and syph?' All questions to deflate a deflowering dibber.

So, when you are writing erotica - as everyone seems to be these days - make sure your heroine gets all the questions out of the way before she wets her luscious lips and gazes hungrily at the throbbing one-eyed demon. 'So, why are we doing this?' 'How come I don't know I'm really your daughter?' 'Why does Bob have to be here too?' These are all questions to tear a hand from a reader's genital stimulation in order to scratch a confused head. And we don't want that at the point of no return, do we? 

As for your female readers, for whom a lack of lube is likely to be a bigger problem than a lack of tumescence, don't worry about us. Ask away! We can suck a cock and be fucked simultaneously in both nether holes with a fourth cock wedged improbably between our heaving breasts and all the while working out what's for tea and what's likely to happen in the next episode of the four most popular soaps. Go on! Next time we do it, ask me! 'What's a monkey wrench?' 'Why was Lambert offside?' 'Who exactly is that Nigel Farage?' I'll answer and stay slicker than a roller-coaster track ratchet. Oilier than a disembowelled minky whale. Wetter than a Wimbledon finals day.

On a different-though-similar note aimed mainly at the ubiquitous porn purveyor: always give the reader a quick précis of your stories, so they know what degree of privacy they will need while reading, what state of undress they'll need to be in, and even what hand to use. For my Coffee with Cock anthology of erotica, I offered the following. Hope it helps, whatever you are about to do. Oh! But don't you need to keep a cloth handy? Damn. That went down fast! Sorry...

See Coffee with Cock on Amazon

Alexandra has once again hit the jackpot with this, her second collection of stunningly sexy naughty shorties. Incorporating the themes of trust, love, lust, infidelity, loss, loneliness and inexperience, these eight truthful and touching tales evince sexually disparate scenarios. They will make you think, make you reflect on your own existence, but most of all they will titillate and arouse you beyond measure. Tackled in order or dipped into at will, each story is an emotional and sexually explicit journey that will leave you trembling, breathless and aching for more.

Two of the included stories mention a fictional website - erotic_fiction.co.uk - and reflect Alexandra's debt to similar story sites, where her love for writing erotica was born and nurtured.

The stories:

Steve, Abigail, Andrea, Rae and me.
Jimmy's affair with his wife's twin sister - the wife of his best friend, Steve - is wild, but it pales beside his online fling with the mysterious American beauty he knows simply as Rae.

Home is the sailor.
A cruise ship steams into the night. Overwhelmed by the vast ocean and her uncertain future, a lone girl stands at the prow and casts her childhood into the vessel's churning wake.

Like mother, like daughter.
In the middle of the night, Robbie is woken by a snarling, finger-pointing woman who claims to be the mother of the girl who has just left his flat, the girl whose damp knickers still dangle from the head of his bed.

The girl next door.
In a frenzy of lust and confusion, Eliot steals the clothes of Bianca, the beautiful girl next door, and uses them to enact intimate scenes in the privacy of his bedroom. As the summer holidays progress, the teenage neighbours develop a flirty friendship which leads to even more confusion in the young man's mind.

Single again.
Separated after a brief but sordid affair, Karen decides a new start in a new home would be beneficial. Incredibly, she finds she is already intimately acquainted with the rude and arrogant owner of the cottage she has set her heart on, and decides to use this fact to her advantage.

Xia and the screenwriter.
An inexperienced but eager screenwriter has a movie script accepted and filming is quickly scheduled. After an on-set accident involving the leading man, our hero is press-ganged into a scene with Xia, the sexiest and most famous star of her generation.

Coffee with Cock.
A young man muses over the female clientele in a bustling coffee shop, with candid commentary from his willing, eager and constantly throbbing companion.

The car park.
Finding instant affinity in a late-night chat room, two daring and fortuitously local lovers are inspired to brave the drifting snow and share a stunning hour of backseat passion. 

#Erotica. Green shoots of recovery: Sensual Ghosts.

I tried an experiment. I wondered if my blog were now self-perpetuating, self-feeding, so I left it a couple of days. It withered and died. Well, almost died. There are a couple of tiny green shoots. If I cut away all the dead brown stuff, it might just survive. There. Sorted. I'll water and feed it and see what happens. Fingers crossed.

Here's an excerpt from one of my books. I forget which one. I've done so bloody many. I'll put a link somewhere if I can be bothered. Arghhh. One of those two surviving shoots just dropped off. I know what book it is and I can be bothered. It's here:

Sensual Ghosts on Amazon

An extract from Morpheus in the Underground

The alarm punches my ears. Another day. I shower, sink a black coffee, don an anonymous grey suit, and lose myself in a compacted rainbow of commuters. 

Warm ozone rushes by, wheels screech and doors fizz open. I time the swirling human wave to perfection and surf aboard. The packed carriage rattles confidently through the black maze of underground tunnels. I'm jostled, but hang onto the overhead leather strap and take a moment to look around. Morning noon and night are indistinguishable down here. Always the same artificial light. Headphones and sunglasses, newspapers, books, pulled-down hats and face-robbing hoods silently scream their meaning: don't look at me; don't talk to me; don't engage with me. Such intimate solitude in a teeming city of ten million is the modern norm. 

Perfume. I don't look around; I don't need to. In my peripheral vision, I see her unmistakable halo of blonde hair. Will she cry out? Scream? Turn me in? There is nowhere to run. I freeze, hold my breath, waiting to see if she will be predator or prey. 

Neither. The hand on my crotch is unambiguous. I breathe again before I pass out. She toys with the burgeoning bulge as though manipulating Chinese balls, occasionally pausing to test the progress of my erection. I begin to sweat and self-consciously shuffle my feet, glance around the carriage, but everyone is oblivious; they're lost in music, a paperback, The Times, daydreams, deep personal thoughts, or merely sleep.

She is facing my right shoulder, her right arm pressed into my hip as her right hand does its secret work. I am surrounded on all sides by swaying bodies whose expressions, like hers, are blank, unreadable. Though I'm now staring at the perfect beauty of her face, she never returns my gaze, appears completely detached. 

I reciprocate, best I can in this cramped spot and she lets me. Turning my right hand outwards, I find the bulge of her pubic bone, slip two fingers between her thighs and gently massage her through her dress. Fuck, I want her.

The steady rhythm of wheels on track provide the perfect soundtrack to my lowering zip. I hold my breath for fear of giving myself away with unseemly gasps. Panic starts to rise and conjures images of last night's debacle; of her surprise, surrender, submission and her cries of rape, of my terror-stricken dash to safety. I am furious but impotent, totally in her grip, both physically and metaphorically. She pops the button at my waist and her cold hand steals into my pants.

How many men does she play with? How many are under her spell? For now, I don't give a fuck, merely stand here in this crowded place with a gorgeous woman's hand tight around my dick, thanking God she chose me today.

She grasps me with her fingers and pulls down hard on the shaft, baring the tip, then proceeds to draw circles on the sensitive underside with the pad of her thumb. This is exquisite. I've had sexual encounters in some risky places, but nothing like this. Now her thumb moves quickly, insistently up and down, while her fingers apply even more downwards pressure. Again I check my breathing, carefully glance around to gauge others' awareness of what is happening, but they are too wrapped in their own reveries to care. Her hand slides further down till her fingers cup my balls and she wanks me with short, sharp up and down movements of her palm. Fuck. Here I cum.

I black out, aware only of the leather strap digging into my palm, my feet on the trembling floor, and the pulsing pleasure in my groin that pumps cum to fuck knows where. As vision returns, I become aware of my heaving breaths and throbbing head and again take stock of my surroundings.

'You cumming?'

She says it loud enough for everyone to hear. Her unexpected words make me jump. I instinctively try to pull my zip up, but it snags. The creamy jism that has spattered against my shirt is now sticking it to my belly. Cum is on my hand, my trousers and God knows where else.

'I said, are you cumming?' 

She cocks her head, speaks directly to me then sucks her thumb, licks her wrist, laughs uproariously. People are frowning, craning necks, and lowering papers.

'Oh, is this our station?' 

I stammer clumsily, trying to defuse a potentially explosive situation. There could be splashes of semen on any of the people around me. I have to get out of here and quickly.

The train shudders and squeals to a standstill. I button up my jacket, thrust one hand into a trouser pocket to hold them up and tumble out of the door after her. She's grabbed my hand and is dragging me after her. Laughter and euphoria cause her to stumble, but she keeps her feet. I push her through a stream of humanity and up against the white tiled wall, hold her to me, using her as a shield against prying eyes. My crotch feels exposed, dishevelled and disgusting. I need to sort myself out.

'What the fuck is this? After last night, the screams, the shouts of rape?' I spit the words into her ear. 'Who the fuck are you?'

'What? Didn't you enjoy that? I did. Very much so.'

'Of course I fucking enjoyed it, but last night was terrifying. Why me? Why me? Why here? What are you doing to me?'

Suddenly very serious, she looks directly into my eyes. A faint sneer twists her lovely face and she straightens, grows before me and takes control.

'There are many of you and only one of me. Be grateful I chose you and enjoy me while you can. I will never be predictable, will never be tamed, will never be owned. Isn't this what you dream of? The surprise? The passion? The excitement? I know it is. You want this, crave this...'

'The fantasy is great, yeah, and you're gorgeous and know it... but you go too far. You're out of control. I'm not fucking playing anymore.'

I shake my head, push her away, cover myself best I can and make for the toilets.

Her taunting laughter stops me in my tracks.

'You'll play. I have photos, cum samples, DNA from my pussy... your balaclava. You just wanked on me on the tube, for fuck's sake. Pervert. I own you. Where are you going to hide? How can you stop me? You can't even dream your own dreams...'

I avoid the peering eyes of curious commuters and leave her to her monologue. The toilet is my sanctuary. I clean myself up and go to work.

An extract from Morpheus in the underground, a short story from the Sensual ghosts anthology. See link above.

#erotic #poetry Soulless story: pointless poem

Sometimes I read a story - usually an erotic story - and have to applaud the language, the plot, the character development, all that stuff that, for me at least, a good story simply has to have. However, once the applause has died away, I am often left with a hollow feeling, an emptiness I didn't have - or certainly wasn't aware of - before I'd set eyes to page. And that starts me wondering. I wonder what the writer was thinking of, what the writer was intending, and I'm often left with one thought, one  inevitable conclusion. Nothing. They were thinking of nothing. It's a story and no more. Some stuff happened to some people and then they fucked off home.

I've had lovers like that. Full of skill and clever tricks, but no heart. No warmth. It's all a bit clinical. A bit... soulless. Having seen the parallel, I considered writing a story about it, but decided instead to sum it all up in a poem. The meter - iambic pentameter - suited the theme rather well, I thought. Here it is then, along with the illustration I added when, quite recently, I chucked a poetic anthology together and sneaked this one in. The rest of the book's here if you'd like a closer look.

See 'Once concealed:now revealed' on Amazon.

Right then on with the bloody poem!

Soulless story: pointless poem.

You fuck me using all your skill but it's
A soulless story. Where's the slick denouement?
Where's the clever ploy? You leave me full of
Empty joy; a salad feast replete with
Colour, crispness, salty mayonnaise
These weighty days of famine how I crave
A beast with flesh that drips with tasty tallow
Flows with primal energy for me
*
My mouth you fill with meat and drink I do
And think I don't; you're showing off, the science
And all you are is nought, an egg, un ouef
That's not... a shell that's blown and flown, the coup
De grace is absent, bird of paraplegic
Numbness, dumb and sum-less, showering me
With piss and cum lest I should see behind
The false façade and see my lover true
*
You tease me with a tongue so deft, my oozing
Cleft, bereft of feeling feels a nothing
So complete, a pointless poem without
A twist, description overflows but where's
The reason save for fleeting bliss? A kiss,
A rose, would be as sweet... a poem with purpose
Or a story with a soul your goal should
Be. You write for you and not for me
*

Bread of Heaven. #erotic short story. #spshow

This was an entry in an erotic short story competition on Lush Stories. The brief was to write a seduction story. So I did. I did the cover too. Pretty cool, eh?

It didn't win. Didn't even come second. I know what you're thinking! Who won then? Hemingway? Miller? Umberto bleedin' Eco? I don't know. I can't remember. It's probably still posted there; go have a look if you like. Anyway.

Here is a tempting taster, a naughty nibble. Maybe it didn't win, but it's the best thing since sliced bread :)

Bread of Heaven

Auto-cue 1

The mass-production of our daily staple (waggle the limp, blanched slice till my tits jiggle) has debased it, devalued it, ripped it (dramatically tear it in half) from the core of our diet to lie curled and pasty on the periphery (toss it over shoulder; pick up wine glass and toy with it).

I have barely (steal a glance at understated Rolex) twenty-five minutes to eradicate that image and restore bread to its rightful place as King of Foods (sip wine; lick lips and exhale).

So, I need all of its erstwhile subjects (appeal to the S&M in everyone: jab finger at camera) to rise up (raise brows and form patented pursed-lipped smile) and help me perform a miraculous make-over, adding lascivious allure (widen eyes at intentional hyperbole) to tempt your tired senses, till you want it (flare nostrils, sniff newly-baked sample and roll eyes heavenwards), need it (enhance intentional play on words by slowly and precisely manipulating left hip with perfectly manicured hand) with all your being.

Seduction, like baking, is alchemy, a mere mixing of chemicals in the correct proportions accompanied by apposite incantations. It is art, science and religion combined. For these particular dark arts, I have the skill, the recipes and the requisite words. What's that you say? So have I? Otherwise how would I ever get laid? Listen to me: seduction isn't about sex, any more than baking is simply about the finished loaf. It's about controlling another's expectations, deceiving their senses, and secretly shaping their perceptions. 

I acquired this recipe many years ago during a long weekend with a very nice chap who turned out to be the last of a very long line of master bakers (totally deadpan). 

My bread is like any other bread, but I have you dying to buy my book and aching to make it. I have a cunt much like any other cunt and tits that are more or less as stretched and saggy as most, and yet I have you aching to sample mine. So why does every straight male, many a bent male, and apparently half the women who weekly watch me, want me and mine above all others? More exactly: how does this recipe work?

As with so much in life, the ingredients are nothing special, but the results are simply ammmmm (close eyes; buzz that m) mazing.

1 kg strong bread flour

625 ml tepid water

30 g fresh yeast

2 tablespoons sugar

1 level teapoon fine sea salt

Flour, for dusting

Method.

Take one upper-class, thirty-seven year-old, slightly overweight, slightly slutty, rather outspoken, plummy wench. Marinate overnight in Chateau Margaux. Carefully coiffeur; dress in couture. Decorate with perfect make-up then ever so slightly dishevel her. Place her on a pre-heated telly for about thirty minutes every week till half the country is on its knees masturbating and masticating before her.

Is he here? I glance around the dimly-lit periphery for his distinctive clothing. Fuck. Inside, I deflate, yet the monitor is filled with me, almost bursts with me.

Auto-cue 2

I'm crazy about bread (roll eyes, coy smile). 

I adore it (bite bottom lip).

'The bread is my body.'

Of course, I don't say that; at least, not in so many words. The meaning is encoded in a multiplex of subtle gestures, carefully chosen words, and sensual manipulations. No, the switchboard would be in meltdown if I issued those words, but the religious symbolism is there for all to see. 

The height of the camera is vitally important. Dave knows that, understands the fine balance between enclosure and disclosure, ensures the viewer's eye is constantly perfectly titillated. He's seen my mammaries naked, has sucked and kneaded them, fucked and squirted on them, knows they're just like his wife's, his lover's, and much like his poor old mother's, and so fully comprehends the craft and subtlety required.

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.

Coffee with Cock. An explanation. #free #erotica #spshow

Sitting in a well-known coffee shop, the one that sounds very much like the title of an infamous Rolling Stones song, I became aware of a guy staring at me. Not so much staring, more surreptitiously glancing, while frowning, struggling internally with some personal dilemma. I caught his eye a couple of times and we exchanged subdued smiles of sorts. He was cute in a dishevelled sort of way and I began to play to him, cracked open the door on the tangled mystery he imagined me to be and focussed its light on him, let it illuminate him, blind him. 

I absently sipped my steaming drink, flipped the pages on my glossy mag, crossed and uncrossed my legs, toyed with my hair. Sipped again. Licked my lips. Smiled at an imaginary funny editorial, drew my perfectly manicured nail across it and bit my lip, shook my head. 

He shifted uncomfortably a couple of times, took out his phone and tapped his long fingers on the glass, yet he was distracted from his task. Distracted by me. By me! It was wonderful. 

I turned slightly in my seat, the magazine's movement sliding a serviette from the table and onto the floor. He spoke.

'Excuse me, you've...'

I looked up at him and smiled. Nodded. Bent and picked it up. Held the pose long enough so he could peer right down my blouse and see my quivering tits. Hoped he could. Bet he did.

I wondered what he was thinking. What conversation he was having with himself. What states of undress he was imagining me in, and what sexual positions he was having me in. 

His phone rang and he quickly, rather disappointingly left, gathered up his shopping and strode to the door. And though I never looked up, I knew he was watching me, all the while hoping to catch my eye one final time.

When I got home, I wrote it down. No, not what happened. Not exactly. And not what I was thinking. I wrote what he was thinking, what conversation had played out between his intellectual self and his sexual counterpart, the organ that really does the thinking in those situations. And then I read it and masturbated. And so, I hope, will you.

I called the story 'Coffee with Cock. The anthology containing this titular tale is available here:

'Coffee with Cock' from Amazon

and is Free for today  (Monday 12th of May) only. 

Extract from 'Coffee with Cock'.

Rich, hot, creamy. The welcome liquid wets my lips, the milky froth nestling momentarily in my stubble. A swish of a tongue and it is gone. I swallow. An acceptable sensual act in a public place, but not sexual, so I am surprised how my groin tightens in response. I feel the familiar pulsing ache inside my faded jeans and glance around, feeling a little embarrassed. My cock rat-a-tats again, waking my senses, prodding my curiosity, diverting resources away from unnecessary - from his perspective - bodily functions.

Starbucks is busy. Crockery clatters, people chatter, steam fizzes, and meaningless piped music drifts over my head. Cock knocks again.

'Hey, give me something to think about. Anything. I'm bored stiff.'

'Fuck, Cock, you're insatiable! Only ten hours ago, we were between female legs. Remember?' 

'No, but run it by me - it might ring a bell. And give me all the details. I love details.' 

He does love a good description.

'I took Amy out for a meal and she got a little tipsy. As soon as I got her home, she flopped down on the sofa and let her dress ride up. I sank to the floor between her thighs, licked her through her tiny black panties then pulled them down and tongued her. She slurred a moan, grabbed my head and steered it home. I eased the index finger of both hands up her - one rubbing the G spot, the other massaging the back wall of her vagina. She fucking loved it. Surely you remember?'

Cock nods half-heartedly.

'Sort of. But then what?' 

I continue my attempt to placate him.

''She slid the slender straps from her shoulders and tugged her titties. Her pupils floated upwards; her mouth twisted like a beautiful idiot. When she came, she moaned some more, squealed long and loud, then bucked so hard I bit my tongue.'

'Yes, I remember,' Cock exclaims, 'but then she fell asleep and you carried her up to bed and just left her there. I saw no action at all. You could have slid my fat head up that tight, dark tunnel and jiggled me till I threw up, but no! Selfishly satisfied your sick emotional side, while never thinking about your own flesh and blood. Tucked her in, kissed her hair... Even after you'd closed her front door behind you, I was still expecting to be pleasured. Thought you were nipping out for beer or something. But no! You drove home! And didn't even have the decency to wank me off when you got there!'

'Oh, yes, sorry, Cock. Wondered why the coffee was waking you up.'

'Not the coffee! That girl by the till. I saw her while you looked right through her. Black mini-dress, black tights, high heels. Slim waist, rounded buttocks, nice legs. I was thinking you might sidle over, roll down those tights, bend her over the counter and shove me up her tight bottom. You might need to smear some cream off that cheesecake on her bum hole first. Come on! You can see her now. And she's hot. Do it, please! Not much to ask...'

I smile to myself, cross my legs and, resting my phone on my knee, begin to compose an email, but it's very difficult; he keeps interrupting.

'Hey, don't ignore me! Don't forget who is boss here. You do what I say!'

Up to a few years ago, I did do whatever he said. These days - as you can judge from last night's gallant behaviour - it's a more even contest. Hard and screaming for satisfaction, he was once impossible to ignore, but I can shut him out now if I choose.

'Those two there, next table. A latte and a muffin each. Dykes. Fucking dykes. Imagine watching them at it, standing by their bed, naked, wanking onto them. The small fat one - dark hair, with the big tits - she's the man. Her strap on is sliding up skinny redhead's cunt. From behind. Fat bird's dangling titties resting on the other's freckly lower back. Redhead arches it now, pushes back onto the plastic cock till it hurts. As she cries out and shudders, I spray my juice into their surprised but ecstatic faces. Come on, we could ask if they'd let us watch, at least. Fucking ask them! Please?

'And there! That blonde, the one with the pushchair. Tight grey woollen dress. Look at those bulging arse cheeks as she shifts her weight. Bra strap digging in, causing very sensual ripples in her soft torso - bet she's still breast feeding, that one. Mmm, you love that. I know you do, so don't look so disgusted.

'OK, so if not her... tall, slim. One, two, three back in the queue. Black leather jacket, tight jeans tucked into black boots. Blonde hair halfway down her back. Look at her arse! Fuck!' And those piercing blue eyes, straight, narrow nose. Wide mouth. Mmm, look at her, licking her plush red lips, dying for me to enter. Oh, God, come on! Let's have her!'

The coffee, the blue eyes, my aching erection, all join with the heady sensation of pre-cum leaking inside my pants. Memories surface. Skeletal memories. Deeply buried memories. Cock grabs at the bleached bones, piles them together like a xylophone and begins to compose a brittle sexual fantasia. He then realises he's merely playing an old familiar song.

'Hey - we've had one like her before. You remember? She took over, took charge. Dominant. Sucked me, wanked me, swallowed me. Bit me...'

'She has a name and you know it. Don't compare that girl to Claire.'

'Name? I don't do names. Claire, Carol, Caroline... all the same to me. I just remember the coursing blood pumping me up, the sonorous thuds of Heart reverberating through Body. Stomach fluttering, Mouth-watering. Skin tingling. And something else, somewhere... suspended between us, woven through all of us. Can't put my finger on it. What is that thing called?'

He always feigns ignorance of that singular emotion and I never let him get away with it.

'Love. It's called Love, Cock, not that you'd know anything about it.' 

The girl in the leather jacket is ordering now. She's very cute. I force myself to look away before anyone notices I am staring at her, then sip my cooling coffee and tap absently on the cold glass screen of my phone. Cock throbs again.

Read more by clicking on the link above. The book is free to download today (Monday 12th May) only. Happy reading!

'Coffee with Cock' at Amazon

#Free #Erotica! Coffee with Cock, an erotic anthology. #spshow

I'm giving away my erotic short story anthology, 'Coffee with Cock', today (11th May) and tomorrow (12th May) and hope you take advantage of me by snaffling a copy for your entertainment/stimulation/gratification.

Get your free copy here on 11th and 12th of May 2014

Please let me know if you do, and, if you have the time and inclination, let me know what you thought. I would really love to hear from you!

Here's an excerpt from one of the stories, 'Home is the sailor', in which a young and insecure woman finds she has an important decision to make: to jump, or not to jump. For those amongst you who may be curious, I took the story's title from the excellent nautical book by Jorge Armado.

Excerpt from 'Home is the sailor'.

Moonlight reflected in smiling ripples that formed a silver pathway stretching to the horizon. The night turned her telescope around on me, belittled me, shrank me into inconsequentiality. Out here, on an endless ocean beneath an infinite sky, I was no longer an I, was not even a dot on an i. I was nothing. No matter how hard I tried, I was still nothing. And yet, somehow, I could be anything. The vastness freed me, liberated me. My young heart pounded with the primal thrill of it. My possibilities were endless.

At the bow of the massive vessel, with the sharp sea breeze in my face, I felt totally alone; a carved figurehead on an abandoned ship, chin raised defiantly, long hair flapping like a black pennant. My silk dress clung to my teenage curves and trailed behind me like a milky slipstream. The warm wind isolated me from the music, the chatter, the clinking and clattering. It swept up the wash of sound and bailed it over the stern into the ship’s swirling wake. 

An albatross mewled and hovered like a ghost above me, while to the north a bank of fog, hundreds of feet high and miles across, stole silently upon us. I was reminded of a line from Coleridge’s most famous poem:

'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay that bring the fog and mist.’

Praying for clement weather, I raised an imaginary bow and pierced the bird's heart with a speeding arrow. Its beady eyes simply stared at me then it wheeled away into the blackness.

That was when I noticed the stars. I'd never seen so many. The Milky Way swirled, casting me to its furthest rim. My head spun, vertigo tripped me and I clung to the cold steel rail for support. A firm hand on my hip steadied me. Warm breath turned my head from the baffling breeze and spilled words into my ear.

‘Are you okay, Miss?’

‘Yes, thank you. I...’

‘I thought you’d decided to leave us!’

I turned towards my would-be saviour, a young officer in his pressed white uniform, peaked badged hat on his tilted head. Two gold bands gleamed on his epaulets and amusement flashed in his dark eyes. He was tall, tanned, clean-shaven and had the most beautiful smile. 

My hip was still in his right hand and I raised my eyebrows, gave him what I considered a clear message, but his hand remained. I tilted my head and pursed my lips. He smiled again and quickly took his hand away. We stood silently for a few moments, the buffeting wind now a constant accompaniment. I shouted over it.

‘It’s the vastness. The emptiness. It takes my breath away.’

He nodded.

‘One can lose oneself out here. Be careful, Miss. The sea can change you forever.’

He saluted, turned away and strode back towards the lights and the partying crowd. He was right. I felt changed; lost and afraid, as though standing on the edge of a great unknown. Though my past was with the bustling raucous throng, my future was with the powerful silent sea. I jumped.

‘Cabin two-two-three.’

He stopped, half turned, and cocked his head again in that distinctive way of his.

‘Sorry, Miss?’

‘Two-two-three.’ I looked at my watch. ‘Shall we say ten minutes?’

He seemed to look through me, beyond me, so much so that I turned to see what he was looking at. On the horizon, a watery moon waved her last goodbye. I stared at her till she sank and drowned, not daring to look back at the young sailor. Was he still there? My heart thudded. What must he think of me? What was I thinking? When I turned again, he was gone. I strutted swiftly across the deck, avoiding the laughing, revelling travellers, and went below, straight to my cabin.

It was tiny. There was no porthole, no romantic view of the sea. Just a bed, a wardrobe, a desk and chair, and a tiny en-suite. I sat on the bed, ran my fingers through my wind-swept hair and stared into the mirror. The dress looked suddenly too old for me; the shoes too high; my make-up too heavy. When I was nine, I used to dress up like this. Now, at nineteen, I was still the little girl in the grown-up clothes. Learning to walk before learning to run. So inexperienced. So shallow. What if he comes? What will this girl do? I pressed my knees together, pressed my palms to my face and breathed deeply.

Rat-tat-tat. The knock machine-gunned my senses. Rat-tat-tat. The second volley tore out my guts. 

‘Miss?’

The muffled voice pulled me to my feet. I tiptoed to the door, placed my palms and ear against it.

Rat-tat-tat.

I jumped backwards and fell onto the bed. The handle turned. The door inched open. An eye. A nose. A face. A smile. He took off his hat, placed it under his arm and stepped inside.

‘Sorry, Miss. You just seemed to vanish. I even wondered if you… you… you know? Jumped!’

My dress, seductively split to the thigh, had opened up. My legs were bare. He tried not to look, but failed. I stood quickly, smoothed down the white silk and swept hair behind my ear. In a way he was right. I had jumped. And I was still falling.