Merry Xmas!

Merry Christmas, everyone. I hope you receive not quite all you wish for - a life with no aspirations would be no life at all.

Best wishes to you and yours, both for Christmas and for the impending New Year.

Lots of love,

Alexandra xxxx

#free #erotica A naughty novella: Literal Fantasies

Phew.

Xmas shopping done. A bit of wrapping and it's as good as over. I don't like Christmas, to be honest. Haven't done do for many years. The excess. The gluttony. The selfishness. The disappointment. It's madness. Bloody madness. But you point it out and everyone yells, 'Scrooge!' Go on! Yell it! I can't hear you. Louder! Wow, I heard that. You really mean it, don't you?

Anyway. 

As an antidote to the saddest of celebrations, I am giving away a book. Unusually for me, It's not a collection of shorts, but rather a sleek and rather naughty little novella. Its genesis was also unusual. I received an email from an admirer (why are you laughing? I have admirers! I do!), a simple thank you, to which I replied. More emails followed. The gist of the emails - and the emails themselves, virtually word for word - provide the book with its prologue. What happens next is pure -  impure? -  fiction, but the seeds were very real. If that brings to mind 'Jack and the Beanstalk' then stop there. Though my book has 'fantasy' in the title, it has little in common with that pantomime favourite. Like 'Jack', the book is a journey, an education, a catharsis, but there are no giants, castles, golden eggs and similar fairy tale stuff. The people are very real. Sometimes too real. If that's possible. And it is.

Go on, grab a copy and have a Christmas wank on me. So to speak.

Literal fantasies on Amazon

Have a wonderful Christmas, a very happy New Year, and take very good care of yourself. Till next time,

Lots of love,

Alexandra xxx

New writing: excerpt from 'Nina', part 14 of my sexy sci-fi novel,Inversion 1

Hi

Yes, it's been ages. Fucking ages, actually. What can I say? I've been writing. That sexy sci-fi novel I've half written leapt up and grabbed my creativity by the balls and won't let go. And though I tell it I have no balls, still it refuses to let go. That's a metaphor for yer.

I'm loving it, though. The story is weaving towards some sort of climax (interspersed with the other sort of climax) and seems to have a mind of its own. For example, a new character popped up, completely unexpectedly, fully formed and sexy as fuck. I love her, though have almost killed her off twice. Anyway, here's a short section of the latest action, a meeting between Nina, a humanoid female, and an actual female, which takes place on a very large spaceship. I do hope you enjoy it.

In the new year, I will hopefully have more time for you :)

Take care,

Alexandra xxxx

Excerpt from 'Nina', part 14 of 'Inversion 1'

The kiss was unexpected; the hand on my left tit was even more so. Both were unimaginably subtle, yet simultaneously intensely powerful. The two-pronged attack saved her life. Another moment and she would have been an inanimate mess. The stark contrast between the two outcomes momentarily immobilised me and two ineluctable truths became apparent:

1.   Life and death are arbitrary;

2.   Today I am the arbiter.

It was a role I had barely considered and for which I was totally ill-prepared. The responsibility was crushing.

A hand was in my hair and a tongue was in my mouth. Though slightly less alkaline, her saliva was almost indistinguishable from my own, a minor detail that gave me major confidence in my creative abilities. My left hand fingers combed through her long, dark hair then  twisted into a clump and forced our mouths into more passionate contact. An insistent knee parted her thighs and I pressed her against the wall. As our bodies eased together, tits clashed, parted and tessellated. My right hand followed her spine, sliding beneath the waist band of her cargo pants, over her coccyx and into her knickers, separating her arse cheeks before stabbing unsuccessfully at her tight, dry sphincter. She was gasping noisily, frantically sucking air into her depths. In response, I engaged my hitherto unused respiratory simulator and pumped hot, moist breath onto her face. A thud, an accompanying clatter and her gun was on the floor. Easing me back a pace, she untied the cord at my waist, peeled the gown from my shoulders and let it fall to the ground. Tits sprung free as I peeled off my vest. The gasp of raw pleasure that passed her moist lips was indescribably stimulating.

'Oh, my god.' Her open palm clasped her forehead. 'I'm a little dizzy. You're making me...'

I kissed her nose.

'You okay?'

'Yes. I just can't believe we're going to... to...'

Arousal slurred my expletive.

'Fuck?' Open mouthed, she nodded. I raised an eyebrow. 'As much as two women can fuck, yes, we are.'

There were many ways in which this was a new experience for me and, as they were becoming increasingly wont, secondary systems enumerated them.

1.  She is human.

2.  She is female.

3.  I don't know what she is thinking.

4.  I have clothes on.

Invading one's personal space can have many motives; invading one's clothing has but one, and her hand was now inside my knickers, her alien finger parting my virgin lips, its soft, twirling tip preparing to take the plunge. She paused and whispered.

'I... I never even asked your name. I'm sorry.'

'It's Nina.'

'Nina. That's beautiful. I'm Jenna.'

'I know.'

'So tell me, Nina, what is it you... need?'

Again her fingertip twirled and stirred my copious wetness.

'Pussy juice. I'm going to eat you out, Jenna.'

Her eyes rolled and closed and she fainted into my arms.

I lifted her up and cradled her. The softness of her flesh surprised me, as did the lightness of her frame. She was so young, so incredibly vulnerable. I held her till she opened her eyes, her big, brown, trusting eyes, then gently kissed her lips. She gasped as I playfully tossed her onto the bed. Sighed as I pulled off her knee-high boots. Moaned as I tugged at her cargo pants. Squealed as my teeth tore away her flimsy panties. Meanwhile, she helped herself from her t-shirt and freed her not unimpressive tits from a cleverly cantilevered bra.

Diving straight in, I slurped on her cunt. She came almost immediately, yet begged me to continue, my fingers and tongue moving quickly, lightly and untiringly, both on and within the hot, raw gash that gaped between her deceptively muscular thighs. I loved her taste, recognised immediately the combination of chemicals required and determined to add them to my own intimate signature at the earliest opportunity.

Every contact made her eyes roll and again she came, her cries ringing around the hard, bare, cuboid space.

'Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh fuck! Oh, Nina! What in the name of heaven are you?'

Her voice was ragged, her breath torn. I slid my tongue from her anus, my fingers from her squelching cunt and told her the unlikely truth.

'I'm a Resistance robot, come to kill you all. To steal your ship then travel to Inversion 1 and slaughter the whole goddamn Executive.'

She laughed, the convulsions pumping foaming juice from her slit. I lapped it up as she verbally expressed her incredulity.

'On your own?'

'No, of course not.' I echoed her laugh. 'With my brother.'

Three further orgasms and she was bordering on insensible. One more and she was again unconscious. If this female specimen were at all representative, humans were decidedly delicate creatures.

#Free #Erotica from the pervy pen of Alexandra Amalova

Measuring up: an indispensable compendium of eclectic erotica

Buy it here!

So hot, it melted the press. So funny, it split its own sides with mirth. So insightfully human, the Bible is now redundant.

None of the above are strictly true. There was no press. It has no sides. The Bible is still useful for propping open that fire door. However, it is out there, released into the wild, hungrily eyeing up the coins in your pocket. 

But not this weekend! This weekend it is free! So what are you waiting for. Go! Go now! And then it will be yours, to take out on the train, to peruse at the traffic lights, to snigger at in the dentist's, and to hide when your beloved enters the room. Some of it will make you uncomfortable. The rest will make your underwear uncomfortable. Such are the depths of my artistic aims.

The sexy short stories it contains are, I believe, amongst the best I have ever written. And I should know: no one has read them as many times as I have.

So, go on, download it today. Your Kindle will be forever grateful. As will I.  :)

Love, as always,

Alexandra xxx

Cavegirl with a cellphone

Hi

Well, I got the book out of the way, smashed the champagne against its hollow hull and sent it sliding down the slipway. Phew. And here's where the work ought to begin, all the pushing and shoving, the hyping and triping. But you know what? I haven't the strength, haven't the energy. I know it sounds counter-intuitive, but I really don't have the interest in that side of it. Yes, I'd love people to read it, but that isn't the reason I wrote it. I wrote it for me, wrote each of the stories for me. I got an idea, started to write and off it went with a mind of its own. No planning. No sketching out. I just write and see where the people take me. Endings suggest themselves. Themes spring out of the ether. Done!

Don't get me wrong, it's hard work - not in a grave-digging way, not at all - but the stories mostly flow and write themselves. Okay, so I read them through a thousand times and make them mine. That goes without saying. However, I simply start and know they will go somewhere. They have to. It's what life does. Nobody ever got life-block, they just kept on living. And so with a story. On and on to its end.

And once the book was sailing merrily away, I wrote down a poem that had been slowly forming over a day or two. It's about... well, it's typed out below if you want to read it; if I could tell you what it's about then I wouldn't have needed to write the poem, would I? I think the answer to that is no, though I am not entirely sure. Anyway, here it is:

Cavegirl with a cellphone

Upright, naked, prowls the plain 

An alien race, self-conscious brain 

An ember born of sparking flint 

A revolution with no hint 

No light to shed where it may lead 

'Tis here I hone my guilt, my greed 

My sisters venture north, east, west 

While clasping newborns to their breast 

And ripping meat from rigid bone 

A cavegirl with a cellphone 

*

The beast collapses, breathes its last  

We fall upon it, kill the past  

Eternity of hunger, fear  

We dared, now share, grow ever nearer 

Cling together, fight and flee

We feed and fuck, I speak and see

While way beyond our understanding 

Stalks unseen a monster hand in 

Hand with demon seed unsown 

A cavegirl with a cellphone 

* 

Flickering flames dispel the night  

We huddle, cuddle, till the sunlight  

Frightens off the circling pack  

He hunts, I gather, hurry back  

To him. Yet waiting in a gloomy  

Future perfect secret room he 

Lies, a smooth, sweet-smelling creature  

Svelte sophisticated teacher 

Anthropo-scenic beauty once unknown  

To a cavegirl with a cellphone  

* 

I accept my lot, my life-long mate  

And cosy cave to decorate  

Existing in simplicity  

With fur and fire for luxury  

Yet out there in the ether  

Hides a snarling monster neither  

Of us has the genes to beat  

Clicks are all it takes to meet  

Now I'm found out, thrown out, living on my own  

A cavegirl with a cellphone 

* 

It's here! It's here! I'm so excited!

Released today!

Measuring up: an indispensable compendium of eclectic erotica

Buy it here!

So hot, it melted the press. So funny, it split its own sides with mirth. So insightfully human, the Bible is now redundant.

None of the above are strictly true. There was no press. It has no sides. The Bible is still useful for propping open that fire door. However, it is out there, released into the wild, hungrily eyeing up the coins in your pocket. But it's not overly voracious, will devour no more than a Starbuck's worth of rattling metal. And then it will be yours, to take out on the train, to peruse at the traffic lights, to snigger at in the dentist's, and to hide when your beloved enters the room. Some of it will make you uncomfortable. The rest will make your underwear uncomfortable. Such are the depths of my artistic aims.

The sexy short stories it contains are, I believe, amongst the best I have ever written. And I should know: no one has read them as many times as I have.

So, go on, download it today. Your Kindle will be forever grateful. As will I.  :)

Love, as always,

Alexandra xxx

A comically harrowing Halloween tale especially for you xxxx

I know this will sound incredible, unbelievable, but you have to believe me. I swear this is exactly as it happened.

There were lots to choose from, dozens, but this one sort of called to me. It did! Honestly, I know it sounds...

Anyway, when I got home, the wife just sneered at me.

'Bit early for Halloween isn't it?' 

So what? There was a week to go, but she knows I like to have a dummy run at everything I do. I wanted to make it the best Halloween ever, you know? For the kids? Anyway, Elaine went out soon after so I made a start.

I carved out the eyes first. Two symmetrical triangles topped with a thin upturned  'V' for eyebrows. They looked great. Another triangle for the nose. And then, as I cut a slit to start the mouth - you know, the traditional gaping jagged jaws - something stopped me.

Yes. Stopped me dead. A thought, a voice in my head. Can't describe it any other way. It spoke to me. No - she spoke to me.

'No, please,' in a little voice just like that, 'Please don't hurt me.' 

I dropped the knife, stepped back.

'Help me. Free me.'

Then she sobbed, her voice broke down. I cautiously placed my hand on the orange flesh, stroked it and she seemed to pull herself together. I was incredulous.

'Will you help me?'

'Yes, yes, of course.' I felt stupid, you know, talking to it like that. I looked round the house to make sure I was alone, to be certain someone wasn't playing tricks. But there wasn't a soul.

'Kiss me and I shall at last be free!'

'Kiss you?'

'Yes, it will break the spell. Kiss me. Please.'

'Spell? What spell?'

'On the eve of my wedding, All Hallows Eve, my evil stepmother - who was secretly a witch - turned me into a pumpkin. She hated me, was insanely jealous of my impending happiness. You see, I was to be betrothed to a very handsome prince and we would, in time, rule the neighbouring kingdom.’

That sounded a bit extreme, but I’ve heard of stuff like that before: family jealousy.

‘I’ve been trapped in here for a thousand years. I die as each pumpkin is consumed or decays, but I'm reborn in the seed. It is so painful to be carved, cooked, eaten... you can't imagine the torture. Worst of all is to slowly rot in the field, my beautiful flesh turning to putrefying mush.'

I had to admit that her flesh - for a pumpkin - was very beautiful.

‘But to be born again… Oh, the joy!’

'So I… kiss you?'

'Yes. Kiss me and I shall be free at last. Free to go home! Don't fail me, please!'

So I kissed the cold, firm skin, stood back and waited, but nothing happened.

'No. On the mouth. It must be on the mouth.'

'But... I haven't carved your mouth yet,' and I picked up the knife in readiness, though, to be honest, I wasn’t sure if I could now even touch her with the sharp blade.

'Please, hurry. Nothing elaborate, just a hole. Hurry!'

I plunged in. It didn't take me long to cut a hole. I crouched down next to the kitchen table and peered inside, half expecting to see a tiny princess standing there, but realised that would be silly.

'Hurry! Kiss me!'

I pressed my lips to the hole, closed my eyes and wished. She didn't say anything about wishing, but I thought it might help.

Nothing.

The lifeless, hollow-eyed fruit stared at me like a skull. Alas, poor Pumpkin...

'The magic... It's too strong and I am too weak.'

'What can I do, Princess? Anything!' 

'There is only one thing now that can break the spell. It will take courage and a great sacrifice.'

'Tell me! Princess, tell me! Anything to end your suffering!'

'You alone can break the spell! And send me back to my time, my kingdom, my life... my love! But it is... it is... I’m sorry, I can't...'

'Please, Princess. Say it! Anything!' 

She was so desperate, yet so noble, kept her composure beautifully, despite her torment. She was definitely royalty. I decided to help her in any way I could.

'You are such a good man, such a pure spirit that I... I can't say it. Can't say it aloud... I'll whisper.'

And I put my ear close to the pumpkin's roughly-hewn mouth.

I was shocked, horrified by her words. I'd read lots of fairy stories, knew all the twists, but had never heard of anything like this.

'Are you... are you sure this will work?'

‘Positive. It is written.’

I turned my back on the pumpkin - not sure why - and took out the old man. I'd asked it to do some weird things in my time, but this was just about the oddest. I know what you're thinking, but I honestly could see no other way.

And no, I wasn't turned on by the thought. What do you think I am? It took me quite a while to get it up, actually, had to run through a list of well-tried scenarios before it even twitched. But I'm quite proud to say it's never let me down. And it was for a good cause.

I called over my shoulder.

'Ready when you are... Okay, Princess?'

'Please hurry! Our seed must mingle for me to be fully free. Give it to me, lover!'

Grasping the pumpkin in two hands, I positioned the tip of my manhood against the makeshift mouth and pushed. As I slid into the perfectly proportioned orifice, the cold, slimy innards surrounded me. It felt strangely pleasant. Her seeds stimulated me, titillating me with every thrust.

And yes, I know most people cut off the top and scoop the insides out before carving the features, but I don't, Okay? It's not a crime, is it! Anyway, where was I?

As I pumped the pumpkin, I envisioned the princess on her knees before me, sucking for her life. Silver tiara in her long black hair, white dress spreading out on the floor like the upturned head of a huge flower. Porcelain breasts heaving as the flesh of her cheeks were drawn in, defining her exquisite cheekbones. Blues eyes, shining, pleading, urging me on.

Closing my eyes, I imagined the soaring, elegant spires of her palace glinting in the sunlight, the broad, leafy avenues of her kingdom. Streets lined with exultant subjects, waving pennants, banners, throwing confetti. Her golden coach, drawn by four white unicorns, driven by two stately frogs in uniform. The marble steps to the cathedral and the happy throng chanting her name. And her prince - so handsome - waiting patiently, expectantly at the altar. All this brought about by me alone, with this one selfless act.

The climax approached faster than I thought possible. Suddenly, unexpectedly, I squirted my cum into the pumpkin, yelling her name as I did so, urging the magic to do its work. 

'Go Princess! Go Princess!'

There was a flash and the sound of rolling thunder. I screwed up my eyes and there she was, like in a film, standing outside the cathedral, long train of her magnificent dress snaking behind her, her prince on her arm. They looked up in unison and waved, smiling broadly. She blew me a kiss, the crowd roared... and the image faded away to nothing.'

When I opened my eyes, there stood Elaine, loaded carrier bags in hands, gawping at the pumpkin impaled on my groin. I tried to explain, but she ran upstairs and locked the door. And that’s all I can remember.

*

‘After careful consideration of all the facts, I have reached my verdict. I grant the divorce on the grounds of unreasonable behaviour. I trust you can now get on with your life, Mrs Smallwood? Right, I think we’ll take lunch now, ladies and gentlemen… (Aside to clerk:) No pumpkin soup for me today. Put me right off, this has. One of my favourites too…’

*****

#free # erotica Whatever happened to my teacher - and my self-respect...

Hi

Here I am again, throwing myself at you. Whatever must you think of me? And whatever shall become of me? 

I'm giving away more of my stories, my erotic stories, my naughty shorties, as I like to call them. A whole bookful. And before you ask why, I will tell you: it's a teaser, a taster, of a shortly forthcoming compendium of brand new erotica. It is mine, all mine, and I shall call it 'Measuring up'!

So there. Think of it thus: I am offering you a free feel of my very tasty titties, perhaps with even a little lip action thrown in, in the hope you will be so enthralled you will part with hard cash to sample my even naughtier parts. Who could resist such an offer? Most people, to be honest. But not you, dear reader. Surely not you? Go on, add a bit of sheen to my stiff little nipples and get your juices flowing in one swift shot. Click here in the next 48 hours and the 40k priceless words of 'Teacher' are yours for free. xxxxx

Here's some blurb to oil the wheels of this once in a lifetime transaction:

In 'Whatever happened to my teacher?' the beauty of Alexandra's prose once again belies the often dark and dangerous themes. Interspersed between the four chapters of the central story that lends the collection its name, are seven enlightening tales in which one or more of the characters receives shocking self-knowledge in sexually-charged epiphanic events. Follow them as they are tempted and taunted by their weaknesses, and applaud them as - more often than not - they rise above their base instincts and thus arrive at new levels of self-awareness. 

The stories:

Whatever happened to my teacher?
While enjoying a colleague's stag night, Lewis realises the cavorting foul-mouthed drunk on the dance floor is his old biology teacher, the once demure and attractive Mrs. Cheetham. 

First kiss 
Recovering from a long illness, a vulnerable and lonely man pays to bridge the lost years. 

TV Times 
Carl will be forever haunted by an extraordinary encounter in a seedy nightclub.

Symphony for the Devil 
Lydia, an insecure young music student, gratefully accepts after-school tuition from her suave teacher. As sacred music plays, he takes advantage both of his position and of her naivety, and lives are irrevocably changed. 

Miriam of Magdala 
Suffering terribly at the hands of zealous persecutors, first century Christians used every subtle subterfuge to keep their burgeoning faith alive. 

Last flight of the metapillar 
During a drive through the countryside with her pop-star uncle, Jazz confirms that creativity runs in the family 

Cleaning up 
A writer's journey is of infinite steps and starts with a single word. Typically - and usually deservedly - that word is 'Rejection'. However, we stumble onwards and, by degrees, approach our impossible destination. Please give this particular stumbling hack a chance: under the auspices of his attractive cleaner, his spelling, grammar, style and ambition improve with every paragraph. 

The treachery of images 
A chance meeting in an art gallery gives a thoughtful teenager an opportunity to explore the limits of self-expression. 

New cover: yes, that's much sweeter!

Hi! 

When I designed the cover for 'The big bag of sexy allsorts' I decided to make it grey, so the reds, yellows and blues would show up against it. However, having recently viewed it in its natural element - on my Amazon page - it simply faded into nothing, stood out like a chameleon in a rain forest. So I took it to one side, stripped away its monochromosity and made it pink instead. It's waiting to be uploaded, isn't quite on there there yet, so I put it up here for your perusal.

Have a great weekend!

All my love,

Alexandra xxx

Almost there! Another erotic short story compilation!

Hurrah!

Another compilation of my erotic short stories is in the offing. It is entitled 'Measuring up' after one of the included tales. The strap line calls it an 'indispensable compendium', a combination of words which totally tickles my fancy.

The preparation is endless. Though the stories are all already written, that is far from the end of it. The 40k words need careful further fettling before the book will see the light of day. There's editing. Proof-reading. Cover designing. Blurb writing. More proof-reading. Refining. Another cover. More blurb. Read through again. And again. Over and over, till there is nothing, nothing that catches the eye, that snags on the tongue. Comma in or out? In? Out? Shake it all about. Does that hyphen help or hinder? Now delete all the blank lines, the paragraph and speech dividers that some story sites demand. Phew! Phew indeed!

After all that comes the Herculean task of uploading to Kindle. Give me those shit-filled stables any day! Yes, I know it's supposed to be easy, but it never turns out as it should. Page-breaks vanish. Headings become body and body becomes a heading. The contents page doesn't work. Time to read the manual once more and try again.

Almost there. And of course, there's the pasting into notepad to remove all extraneous formatting - an absolute must for a clean final document.

And - of course again - just when you think all is done, one is invited to view the new book in all the various formats - iPad Kindle, iPhone Kindle, Windows Kindle, Mac Kindle, Kindle Kindle - where inexplicable formatting errors will always appear. It's a nightmare. But a good one. For eventually it should all be okay. Eventually. Give me a week and it may well be out there. I'll keep you informed.

Attached is a preliminary cover. A 'beta' I think they call it these days. Hopefully, gamma will be as far into the Greek alphabet as I need to go.

So I'm almost there. On a recent read-through, I decided to insert a short section into my 'Love, lies and the apocalypse' story which appears about half way through the proposed book. The story needed it. And, deep down, I'd always known it. Here it is, plucked from its natural habitat, as naked and vulnerable as a lab-rat. It's a fair example of what you might expect were you to download the finished article. As always, your comments are invited.

Take care till next time,

Love,

Alexandra xxxx

Extract from 'Love, lies, and the apocalypse'.

She entered my quarters like a ghost, her gossamer gown drifting gently to the floor as she  silently floated towards me. The unmade bed mutely accepted her slender body and she smeared her nakedness across it, limbs stretching, back arching, her half-closed eyes never leaving mine. Lips moved. Air vibrated.

'It's time.'

But for the meagre angle-poise and my dimly glowing laptop, the room was in darkness. I dropped my pen onto the desk, swivelled my chair towards her and simply stared in wonder. She was toying with herself, enjoying herself in the literal meaning of the phrase. Nipping and tugging. Touching and tasting. Writhing and moaning.

'Hurry up, Jim, or you'll miss the party.'

I stood and quickly removed my teeshirt and trousers, peeled off my socks and thermals, till I too was naked. My raging erection spoke immeasurably more eloquently than my clumsy tongue.

'God, Mia, you are beautiful.'

One step and I hovered over her. She reached out then hesitated. It was the only time I ever witnessed her hesitance. In that moment, playfulness evaporated. The simmering woman solidified into the ice-cold scientist.

'I know you're married. Know the score. And I'm fine with it. I don't want love. I want cock. I need cock. And lots of it. You okay with that, Doctor?'

Her mouth needed it first. Her pussy came a close second. In the briefest of intermissions, as I poured coffee, she rolled gymnastically backwards till her knees clasped her half-ears, then drank the cum that drizzled from her innards. The wink was pure Mia.

'Waste not, want not; that's what my mum always used to say.'

The resource she craved I had in abundance. It was infinitely renewable. Unnaturally inexhaustible. I gave: she took. And fuck the consequences. I would cope with the fallout. I would gladly reap the whirlwind. 

*

Blow me! A dangerous game indeed!

Hi,

I have missed you! Where have you been? Please don't hide like that again! Now give me a cuddle and tell me all you have been up to.

But first (and please extricate your sticky fingers from my tiny knickers - I am not yet primed for such intimacy) let me tell you of a very dangerous game I have just invented. It involves interesting words and phrases. It involves everyone I encounter. And, naturally, it involves sex.

Every day, I think of a little-used word or short phrase, one that was, perhaps in earlier, more loquacious times, everyday. And I etch it into my mind. I have to be careful here. I have to be very careful. For, if anyone utters said word or phrase during the next twenty-four hours, I have to offer myself to them. On a plate. On a table. On the floor. On a bed. Or (my current favourite) in a car. Male or female, young or old (the game is neither ageist nor sexist) I have - before we part - to make it very plain that I am instantly open to their every sexual whim. Every. Even if 'synchronicity' - that was last  Saturday's mot when I had a vague notion I was going to bump into Sting at Morrison's meat counter - is your final word on this Earth, I promise to jump you before your corpse is cold. Yes, raising the dead is just within my remit.

So far, I have been spared embarrassment. So far. However, as days slip by with sex-greased ease (and, by the way, you may slip your fingers in again: I am ready now, very ready indeed), my chosen triggers are becoming more mainstream. Monday was 'cornucopia'. Tuesday was 'truculent'. Wednesday was 'pugnacious'. Yesterday was a rather apposite 'Blow me!' And today is... I am simply not telling! That would be too easy. Yes, okay, I am easy, but not that easy! But I'll give you a clue. Sherlock Holmes often exclaimed it (okay, perhaps I am that easy).

Now go expand your vocabulary. Coin a rare phrase. Impress your friends with your arcane lexicon and you never know: there may be, skulking in the shadows, a not unattractive, a not unshapely, a not sexually unproficient, me. Yes, You guessed it: 'litotes' was my Sunday word.

I love language so much, I am prepared to fuck for it, ready to offer my body on the altar of lexical diversity, with the sole aim of keeping our beautiful tongue as subtle and splendid, as candid and colourful, as it ever was.

Have a great week. Wrap your tongue around some tasty words and you never know: I may be wrapping my tongue around you.

Lots of love,

Alexandra xxx

Love and lies at the end of the world - ecologically-inspired erotica.

Love, at the atomic level, is an electron. Whether an electron shared, given, or stolen, is not an issue, for these are human descriptors and electrons are not human. The chemical reactions that magically create the illusion of love within the human brain require the mass transfer of these virtually massless particles.

Similarly, one may state that at a quantum level, love can spontaneously appear and disappear, pop impossibly into existence in a vacuum and then promptly and equally impossibly disappear, a phenomenon possessing a most elegant explanation that it does not actually need, for explanation is again a purely human necessity.

As we approach absolute zero, chemical reactions become less and less likely. Particles become inert. Still. Silent. And therefore, as we approach absolute zero, love inevitably dies.

However, such extremes are not in fact necessary, as love is essentially a fragile entity. It is widely believed that an increment of a mere two or three degrees will produce the same tragic outcome. If this is true, and if we carry on the way we are, we will soon witness love's demise first hand.

*

In the world I habitually inhabit, the harsh physical world where death is but a careless miscalculation away, one substance rules all. Its solid state does not cover the ground: it is the ground. It fills the air and blocks out the sky. Some days, it is the sky. Savage beyond belief, beautiful beyond words, it blinds, it burns, it scours. At its most violent, it can transmute bare flesh into bloody broken sores in a matter of minutes. At its most benign, it brings a sweet, numbing death in a handful of hours. Without a great deal of training and specialist protective clothing, one simply could not exist here. Without a particularly determined and enquiring mind, one would not wish to.

*

I saw her first.

An outline. A slight but sufficiently unnatural change to the icy landscape. My experienced eyes spotted her. My survival skills saved her. But, despite my unquestioned abilities, it was undoubtedly Chance who decided the moment. The moment our histories would collide. And that, I suppose, would normally have been the end of it and Chance would just as easily have set us on our separate ways. However, with that first glance into her frail and frightened eyes, our destinies had somehow become entangled. And the more we struggled, the more entangled we became. The ensuing knot was devilishly complex. Impossible to analyse. Inconceivably difficult to solve. In the end, I gave up. So did she. What our minds could not undo, our bodies mirrored with a jumbled skein of limbs, a muddled scramble of intertwined insatiable flesh. The first time took mere moments, yet its effects would scar us for a lifetime.

In short, I fucked her. And she fucked me. Just as we together have fucked everything.

Out here, where there is nothing, nothing but ice and cold and death, it is blindingly obvious that the world is irrevocably damaged. We are sitting on top of the evidence. Directly on top. It is moving, slithering, slowly sliding to the sea. Every month, we fire up the engines and caterpillar back to our home co-ordinates, and every second of every hour of every day, the glacier carries us away. Year on year, the ice beneath our mobile home is thinning. Year on year, replenishing inland snowstorms grow less and less frequent. One day soon the evidence will simply collapse into the ocean. And with its demise, the seas will rise. Cities will vanish between the waves and refugees will swarm inland like army ants, stripping the land, consuming everything in their path. Society will collapse as surely as the glacier will collapse, and civilisation as we know it will come to an end.

*

Like almost everyone on the station, Maria 'Mia' Sparrow was a scientist. Like her pseudo film-star-name-sake, she was blonde, short-haired, petite and waif-like, hardly the stuff of Antarctic explorers, and yet here she was, working, contributing, pulling her weight like some burly marine. Until the incident that almost claimed her, I had merely acknowledged her in passing, had stolen glances at the legendary nipples that almost poked through her too-tight tee-shirts, but that was all. She was simply one of the fifty-seven. Most of the time, I was too busy, too tired, or too distracted, to even care that she was female. 

Sitting at her bedside, waiting for her to wake, aching to once again look into those fragile eyes, I knew things would never be the same. Now I cared. In that brief, incoherent moment out on the raging ice, she had given herself over to me, entrusted her future to me. I, in turn, had accepted. And so here I was, self-appointed guardian of this damaged woman, giving all of my free time to see my mission through, to monitor her recovery, measure her progress, till she was once again back on her feet and fully independent. Doc had assured me that the loss of the ring and little fingers on her left hand would be no impediment to her career, nor would the loss of her little toes. Her face, though seared by the elements, would soon be almost like new, while her half-ears could be easily hidden by longer hair. Internally, I had laughed at that: even I, who barely knew her, understood she would never grow her hair; she would wear her imperfect ears like a badge of honour.

*

'Mia?'

She was stirring, grimacing, as if suddenly aware of acute pain, though the analgesics in her system would surely be working hard to numb it. I tried again.

'Mia? It's okay. You're in sick-bay. You were a bit banged up when we found you, though Doc says you're going to be fine.'

I gently rested a reassuring hand on her bare shoulder. She calmed. She stilled. Cracked lips moved but no sound came.

'Thank you.'

Then she opened her eyes. She opened her eyes and gazed into mine, and I instantly knew I loved her.

After trying and failing to lift her head, her eyes closed again and she drifted into sleep. Alone in the hushed semi-darkness, I sat and cried for all I had gained, for all I might lose, then sat and cried some more, till the nurse came to change her dressings.

*

'We're going to fuck, aren't we?'

It was a statement rather than a question. A week had passed and she was sitting up, her unkempt head resting on plush pristine pillows. Most of the dressings had been removed and her skin was returning to its usual lustre. Only her left hand and forearm were still wrapped. She nursed it, flexed it, turned it around in disbelief then carefully rested it back in her lap. Every time our eyes met, I glimpsed again the terrified creature clinging to the frame of death's icy door, felt again the unbreakable bond that now tied us together. A single word contained everything I needed to say.

'Yes.'

Her warm brown eyes slowly closed. Long lashes brushed her blushed cheeks. As she sank back into the bed, the momentary pain that haunted her elfin face was exorcised by the sweetest smile. Her right hand reached out for mine. I took it, but she playfully cast my hand aside and pressed on, found my knee, my thigh, my crotch, where she deftly palmed my tingling bollocks like tinkling Chinese balls.

'Is there anyone else here?'

For some reason, I glanced around the tiny room then listened intently for signs of life beyond the slightly open door. 

'No.'

A hoarse whisper trampled her usually sing-song voice.

'Then take him out for me. Let me feel what my tight pussy will soon be forced to accommodate.'

Again I glanced around. Again I strained my ears. Nothing. Nothing but my pounding blood.

My zip undid the silence. Nimble fingers undid the rest, skilfully unlocking my boxer's keyhole flies and wrapping around my hardening shaft. The smile splitting her serene features grew even wider as my throbbing cock expanded. Short jabbing thrusts soon had me fully erect. I sniffed apologetically.

'It's a been a while, Mia. I'm afraid I won't last...'

She carried on, regardless.

'Christ, Jim. This fucker's gonna hurt me.'

Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus - extremely generously, I feel - nine further stories in 'Measuring up', my latest collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.

#Free #erotica! Mop it up now while it's fresh, hot and sticky!

Hi, 

Unfortunately, the erotica market has slowed somewhat, and so, to give it a kick in its flaccid naughty bits, I'm going to give myself away again. Yes, that's right, you heard me. Give myself away. 'Cos that's how it feels. These stories are me. Contain me. And they are yours. For nothing. Eight of the devious, hot little fuckers. Go wrap your retina around them; let the saucy squiggles infiltrate your brain, stimulate your glands into releasing those heady chemicals we all - yes, all, including The Pope, at least from time to time - crave. and see if you can keep your hands from wandering, exploring the moist contents of your undergarments. And part with not a jot of your hard-earned lolly in the meantime.

And if you like them, go write a review. Yes, you! Write a review. I write 40,000 words, give them you for nada... It's surely the least you can do. Isn't it? Isn't it? Are you arguing, because if... Oh, you're not. Good. Thank you. I'll look forward to reading it x

Then, if - or should I say when - you enjoy it, go and buy another one of my erotic short story compilations. There are seven more to choose from. And yes, I said 'buy'. That will be £2.99. Can you believe it? £2.99? Not even the price of a cup of Starbuck's coffee, yet infinitely darker, unquenchable steamier, and incontestably more satisfying.

Will you? Yes? Wow, thank you! Let's shake on it. Mmm, what a firm grip you have. Keep shaking. Please. Keep... Oh, God, yes, don't stop... don't stop... I'm... I'm... 

Mmmm, thank you. That was amazing.

Till next time, Lover,

Alexandra xxxx

Get 'Whatever happened to my teacher?' Here

Walt's worst nightmare - the curious incident of a mouse in a theme park

The door bangs open. Between thumping heartbeats, I catch a glimpse in the mirror. Black and white. A slash of red. Monstrous grinning head. I know I shouldn’t be here, should leave right now, but I’m frozen to the spot, dick clamped in shaking hand. So shocked am I, that, despite a bloated bladder, I simply cannot piss. The intruder adjusts his bow tie, cracks his white-gloved fingers and slowly closes in on me.

I hate this place. Fucking hate it. By comparison, the American resorts seem quite pleasantly benevolent, but here? In a country frantically - some might say hopelessly - clinging on to an idealised though outmoded notion of national identity? It is incongruous. Alien. Pointless. An American in Paris. The locals are arrogant and rude; the weather is constantly poor. The food is… well, crap. Expensive and crap. And that parade, that garish fucking mindless, tedious parade, has more than a tinge of desperation, is more than a little sinister, when set in this unlikely locale. Prancing people in cartoon animal suits. Mute. Vacuous. Fixed orgasmic expressions on their vastly over-sized heads. Why doesn’t it scare the kids to death? Why don't they scream and stampede? I'm nearly forty and it fucking freaks me out. If it wasn’t highly financially advantageous for me to develop links with this hellish place then I’d never set foot here, never even cross the English Channel.

The business trip is almost over. I’m taking one last look around. A slight drizzle drifts in on the cold wind and I suddenly realise I need a piss. There are no toilets in sight, but there’s a red-brick building and a sign that probably - though my French is very poor - says ‘Staff only’, or something similar. A keypad on the doorframe stops me in my tracks, but I notice the door is slightly ajar. Obviously, luckily - thankfully - the last employee didn’t close it properly. I’m suddenly full to bursting, so it will have to do. And it will do very nicely.

The closing door muffles the blaring, triumphant-yet-inane music that thrice-daily accompanies the mob of mawkish misfits, and suddenly I’m in a pristine world all of my own. Glaring strip lights. Brilliant white tiles on every surface. No urinal, just a toilet bowl, a sink, and a gleaming hand-drier, plus a large mirror on the facing wall. I look at myself and smile wryly. The deal is done. Soon I’ll be on my way home. The mirror smiles back: an attractive, successful guy of indeterminate age. Lean. Muscular. Stubbly chin, but shaved head. Cool blue eyes. The suit is dark and beautifully tailored; a slender blue tie dissects the white cotton shirt. I unzip my flies, take out the old man and prepare to release my bladder, but at that moment the door bursts open. Too late do I spy the internal lock.

Oh, fuck! Not him. Not fucking him! I can’t piss while he’s watching. Anybody but him. I look back down at my cock and shake it, plead with it to start but it’s inert, either blocked or empty. Suddenly, magically, I don’t need a piss at all. Shuffling my feet, I glance apologetically over my shoulder. He shrugs his shoulders and raises his palms in an exaggerated ‘Who’d have believed it?’ sort of way, then scratches his famous head. He is the epitome of silence, a mere mime, but in my head I hear him whine every word. That voice! That annoying fucking ridiculous voice!

Raising a white finger, he tilts his head, as though an idea has just hit him. With a gloved hand conspiratorially pressed to his mouth, he skips across the tiles, oversize yellow shoes clomping. Again, it's all in that twee, sickening, over-the-top manner that enjoins every well-adjusted individual to summarily dispatch anyone who ever pressed a palm to an imaginary wall. Shockingly, a cotton-covered hand grabs my limp dick. I pull away, but he isn’t letting go. I pull again. No release. I half-heartedly hit him on the head, but it’s rock hard, some sort of plastic, and it’s pointless.

It strikes me that I’ve never before had my cock in the three-fingered hand of a six-foot mouse. Though obviously horrified, I’m also somewhat intrigued, and so surrender to his cartoon shenanigans. I simply stand and wait to see what transpires. Surely, old Walt never dreamed up this scenario?

Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus - extremely generously, I feel - nine further stories in 'Measuring up', my latest collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.

The sound of one hand wanking

'I hungrily ogled the brazen bollocks bouncing on the edge of the black leather sofa.'

The above quote displays many elements that I love to bring to a story and is possibly the perfect example of my style - if I do indeed have a style...

First of all, it's in first person. Who wants to hear about 'he' and 'she', they and them, when you can hear about me!

Then there's a sensuous adverb. I do lots of things hungrily, from ogling to listening - especially cool jazz - and from reading to fucking. Yes, fucking. I fuck hungrily, like I'm starving, like I haven't had it for weeks. Which I haven't. Which is probably why I have written the following story quickly, demoniacally, with a real, visceral hunger.

An interesting, somewhat archaic verb for an everyday act follows; ogle is half of goggle, and thus - in my constantly Scrabbling brain - implies an incredulous wide-eyed-ness that is somewhat emphasised by the initial 'o'. And it is worth 5 points, I believe.

Brazen: Unrestrained by a sense of shame; rudely bold. What a wonderful adjective! A perfect word to describe anything overtly sexual, and one that, in this instance, adds great weight to its accompanying noun...

Bollocks is a wonderful word. In the UK, a bullock - not the same word, yet surely one with similar etymology - is any castrated male bovine; in the US, it means one that is uncastrated. Either way, bollock is an animalistic word, brash and blunt, with rounded syllables and plosive consonants to wrap your lips and tongue around. The word itself has a roundedness, a dangling solidity, that perfectly describes the external male gonads.

'...on the edge' is an expression with a multiplex of connotations, sexual and otherwise, though all with an explicit tension.

'Black leather' speaks for itself. It squeaks and squeals. It is cold and hot. Soft and supple. It also speaks of death and rebirth.

And 'sofa'? Well, who hasn't had sex on a sofa, either after a meal or before a fire, semi-clad or buck-naked, both in an empty house and with your parents in the next room? I, for one, have done all those things, though not recently, unfortunately. Oh, happy days!

Add to that a smattering of alliteration, a sprinkling of assonance, plus an almost musical flow, a lilting cadence reminiscent of the rising and falling of two intertwined copulating bodies, and you may have a sense of what I try to achieve when I write. Or maybe not. I try though. I try really hard. Please read on and let me know what you think.

Love, as always,

Alexandra xxx

The sound of one hand wanking.

'I want you to fuck my shaved cunt till it bleeds.'

The words had flowed like poetry in my head, but in Comic Sans-Serif they appeared dangerously unstable. Thankfully, he didn't seem to mind, which made me wonder if he were using a different font.

'First, I'm going to eat you out then fuck your throat so deep you'll gag.'

'I'll swallow it all then bite the base of your shaft till you squeal.'

'Fuck, I love that. Yeah, bite the fucker.'

'I hope a finger in your arse doesn't have you shooting. I have plans for that big boy!'

'You are a dirty fucking bitch.'

'But, I'm not.'

'Yes, you fucking are.'

I hungrily ogled the bollocks bouncing on the edge of the black leather sofa. 

'No. Well, not usually, anyway. Anything but. I'm just a woman. A daughter. A wife. A mother. A teacher, for fuck's sake. It's you. You are making me say these things.'

'So you're married?'

The dearth of men who go there left me considering what particular fetish this was leading to.

'Yes. Plus all the above. Why would I lie? Are you?'

The pause was indicative of a subsequent untruth, so his candidness caught me unawares.

'Yes. She's a teacher too.'

Dripping, tripping fingers threw me headlong.

'Have you thought that I could be your wife?'

The free-standing cock oscillated in accordance with his obvious mirth.

'No. Definitely not. She doesn't talk dirty like you.'

'Maybe not to you, no...'

'Listen, that shaved pussy is a dead giveaway. She wouldn't do that.'

'Sure? When did you last look?'

His cock wilted till it seemed to be resting against the black frame of my iPad.

'Can we just get back to wanking? This isn't... helping, yer know?'

I eased a finger inside then slowly withdrew, stretching a thick string of mucus to breaking point and then beyond. A blurry fist telegraphed intense approval.

'Does she get as wet as this for you?'

He took so long to answer, I thought he was ignoring me, but I didn't mind: his faraway fumblings were doing amazing things to my insides.

'Fuck, no. I have to go down on her for ages just so I can get it in. I can barely be bothered these days, to be honest. She used to be...'

The sentence dried up. In the silence, he thoughtfully stroked himself. I broke the drought with a gushing truth.

'You have the most beautiful cock I have ever seen. Not that I've seen that many.'

Despite the qualifying clause, his penis was all ears, grew even firmer, while the eye became a mouth became an eye became a mouth, and all were continually smiling.

'Really?'

'Really. It's so wonderfully proportioned, so thick and long, so shapely. Those veins! And the head, so rounded, so blunt, so... dangerous. I bet that fucker gives pleasure and pain in barely equal measure.'

Typing fucker made my head spin. As though moisture were a rare resource, my mouth gave up all of its wetness to the thirsty gash between my thighs. The left hand tickling the tip of his dick signalled it was his turn to tap.

'I have to be careful with it, yeah. It can hurt.'

'I want it to hurt me.'

Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus - extremely generously, I feel - nine further stories in 'Measuring up', my latest collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.

Please, call me Bob.

Hi. 

Here again! And bearing gifts. I'm not Greek, so go on, take 'em! Read away. These words are free and are far from throwaway; how often can you say that these days? 

Elsewhere, I have tag-lined this tale, 'A psychiatric consultation proffers an unexpected diagnosis'. And indeed it does. Even I don't know what's going to happen. Someone said, 'It's a bit Twilight Zone,' which flattered me greatly. I love that programme. 

Right. Here goes. Lush rejected this story, said it was more disturbing than erotic, which is a shame. In my opinion, the best erotica is always a little disturbing, a little dark. Don't you think? A little shameful? A dirty secret? A troubling, dangerous compulsion? Perhaps that's why I don't have a boyfriend...

Please, call me Bob

Session 3

'How have you been this week, Robert?'

Patient looks agitated. Increase meds?

'Please, please call me Bob.'

Biting nails, sitting on the edge of his chair.

'Okay. How's this week been?'

'Good.'

Good? Could you expand on that? Anything unusual?'

He's withdrawn. Inside himself. Perhaps meds are too high?

'Quite good.'

'Quite good? In what way quite...'

'Listen. And please don't look at me like that...'

'Like what?'

'Like I'm fucking crazy!'

'I don't think you're crazy, Robert.'

Patient appears very disturbed. 

'Bob. Please. It's Bob.'

'Just tell me, in your own words, what happened.'

Pupils dilated. Rapid eye movements. Shaking.

'I came home early from work and caught myself - I know this sounds fucking ludicrous - I caught myself, naked in bed and fucking my wife.'

'Did you...'

'And if that wasn't unusual enough, I was being, shall we say, exceptionally scatological, while she - not typically one for being adventurous in any field, let alone the sexual arena - was enjoying it, and I mean really fucking enjoying it, arse in the air, spine almost dislocated, bent so far back on itself.'

He is ranting, narrating, as though for an unseen larger audience.

'Did you...'

'And though her face was pushed into the pillow, her moans filled the fucking house; animalistic gasps, cries, screams, for fuck's sake, like when she was giving birth.'

Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus - extremely generously, I feel - nine further stories in 'Measuring up', my latest collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.

Baby, you can buy my car - erotic fiction for the temporally challenged

Hi

Can one be erotic in fewer than a thousand words? Not being one to use a single word where a thousand will do, I wasn't entirely sure. So I sat down and tried it, tried to be erotic and in a way that complied with Lush Stories' definition of 'Flash Fiction': a story of between one hundred and one thousand words.

I love The Beatles. I love cars. I love to daydream. And I love sex. So what better combination? Did I succeed? It is surely not for me to judge, though - and this is surely the major criteria in all one's exploits - I had fun trying. I sincerely hope you have fun (and anything else you feel appropriate to have) while reading it. 

Take care till next time,

Love,

Alexandra xxx

Baby, you can buy my car

As his front wheel grazed the kerb and came to a halt, I was kissing him. Upon opening the door and sliding from his seat, I was stripping him. By the time he had pulled himself fully upright, I was fucking him, riding him, bouncing up and down on his writhing body, his phallus embedded deep in my clenching innards, the thick, stiff shaft splitting my dripping lips.

'Hi,' the voice so deep my slender chest resonated with it, my tiny tits vibrated with it. Tingling nipples grated gently against my crisp white cotton blouse. Could he tell I was braless? Could he see the shadowy areolae and their ripe rising teats? I sincerely hoped so.

'Hi. You've come about the car?'

I batted heavy lashes towards the little red Fiat, a hint of an incredulous smile on my similarly tinted lips: his impressive frame could surely destroy my tiny machine. A sudden smile dazzled me, momentarily eclipsed the personalised porn movie spooling behind my eyes, in which I was sitting on his face, his tongue lapping at my clitoris, while I shaved his well-gelled groin with a gleaming cut-throat razor.

'It's not for me. It's for my...'

Frames flickered and froze the blade's glinting edge to his dangling scrotum. His next word was fatal to my fantasy, poison to the probable possibilities. I simply could not allow it. Whetted words cut him off in his prime.

'Hope you're not another time-waster! Look, she's perfect for you. For anyone...'

He was already beside her, testing her cute waxed curves with a huge hand. I was jealous as fuck. Again the voice; again my quivering tits.

'A few scratches... Nothing major though.'

On buttocks and between shoulder-blades, the scabbed-over evidence of my most recent sexual seeing-to were a single body scrub away from total erasure. I objected.

'Nah. Bodywork's virtually perfect.'

He kicked a tyre.

'Plenty of tread.'

A hand on my hip eased a pound of flesh back under my denim skirt's waistband.

'Exactly as advertised.'

'Serviced regularly?'

The film rolled on. I towelled off his gleaming privates then took his full length down my throat. Writhing beneath my sleek, throbbing, well-tuned bodywork, a skilled mechanic groaned his intense approval. In total contrast, my response was calm and detached.

Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus - extremely generously, I feel - nine further stories in 'Measuring up', my latest collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.

Searing heat and dexterous feet

Hi

I went on holiday. I came back. Whilst there, in my mini self-contained resort, I took an early-morning dip in the pool and followed it up with a soothing session in the sauna. A man joined me there. He was silver-haired, bearded and very refined. We began talking, he at ground level and I one step higher where the heat can tend to go to one's head. The story I wrote later, while sunning myself on the sparse though splendid beach, contains both truth and fiction in around equal measures. I leave it to you, dear reader who knows me so well, to decide where one ends and the next begins.

One factor is definitely not fiction: I really do have the most beautiful sexually-expressive feet.

Searing heat and dexterous feet

The wooden ladle felt rough between my swim-softened fingers, its grain swollen by the constant claustrophobic heat. I scooped water then drizzled it in sparkling dancing droplets that momentarily blackened the sizzling coals. A hot wave, a sensual sirocco, descended on me, taking my breath, melting my tingling skin into salty rivulets. I climbed. Hot wooden boards pressed into my buttocks. Feet eschewed the seat below to dangle in the hellish air, while trembling palms rested on smooth naked thighs. I hung my head and dared myself to breathe. Deep. Deeper.

I watched my breasts stretch the skimpy bikini top till the twin areolic rings were clearly delineated, though my nipples had somehow softened and sunk without trace into their tight, tanned orbs, leaving not a hint of their normally pert presence on the glistening crimson cloth. I rocked on my sitting bones, allowed my spine to relax, align and straighten, till my head floated atop the resulting delicately-swaying jenga of cartilage and bone. Closing my eyes, I breathed out, encouraged my tired, knotted muscles to lengthen and release, my grating, aching joints to open and separate. While my young though exhausted body bathed in the bliss of the blistering heat, my typically lively mind gently approached an unlikely euphoric quietude.

A rush of cool air accompanied the clicking of the door catch. The catch clicked again; feet padded softly. One, two, three. Directly opposite me and beneath me, boards creaked to accommodate the newcomer's rear. The laboured breath hinted at both the sex and age of the intruder. The voice's timbre confirmed my twin conjectures, the refined accent adding colourful overtones all of its own.

'Young lady, may I add a ladle?'

With lips alone, I smiled; the accompanying affirmative nod caused sweat to drip from my shuttered lashes. I heard him fumble wood against wood, heard the water's sizzling transformation into steam, and felt the resultant cloak of almost unbearable heat descend upon me, scorching my nostrils and burning my throat. Sweat prickled, trickled, rose from the roots of my short spiky hair and meandered across my tingling scalp. With the back of a slick hand, I swept a sticky fringe from my forehead. Sparks danced behind my eyelids; the world rocked then righted. I breathed again, gingerly drawing fiery air into my depths. A sudden wave of nausea swept through me. Inexplicably, I shivered and almost painfully, my nipples puckered up. With claw-like fingers, I quickly reached across my body and absently massaged my left shoulder, thus hiding my embarrassingly poking teats from the stranger's gaze. However, with my every minute movement, they chafed uncomfortably, the tight Lycra stimulating the habitually-sensitive tips and thus prolonging my unfortunate predicament.

Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus - extremely generously, I feel - nine further stories in 'Measuring up', my latest collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.

Two-player foreplay

Hi.

Yes, I know. It's been months this time! What can I say? Nothing. There are no excuses. I just haven't felt like it. So there.

Today, I read through some old stuff, changed a few words, tidied up the punctuation (how I used to love the ellipsis. I mean really love it...) and thought I'd share one of the shorter ones with you. There's no story as such, simply a graphic (sometimes painfully so) description of an extremely intimate act.

But then, on the other hand, it's all story in a way: everything we do in the present has a history, a springboard for its leap into existence. Today, this is where you do the work, where you become the writer. Project this sweet present back far enough and you may find a bitter past. Or maybe not. The prologue and preceding twenty-seven chapters are all yours. I merely provide chapter twenty-eight. Now write the rest and give me - or, if you prefer, merely act out - the epilogue. Have lots of fun getting there. And tell me how it went. I mean it. Tell me. Be as graphic as you like. As you can probably tell, I looooove graphic.

Love till next time,
Alexandra xxx

Two-player foreplay

I close my eyes and I'm there, standing naked before you. I was hard in the car as I drove here alone, hard before we got to the room, and it's painful now - I'm dying for you to touch me, dying to be inside you. Yet we stand still, looking at each other's ready vulnerability, taking in the reality and savouring the thought that we will soon be making love.

My eyes fall closed again and I smile at the knowledge of what is surely to follow. You, meanwhile, sink to your knees, and I instantly feel your hot mouth around my cock, your hands on my balls.

'Oh, God... oh God...'

You squeeze my buttocks and pull me into your throat, looking up into my eyes as you do so. The sheer unexpected bliss of the moment causes cum to well up and I feel the orgasm immediately begin to blossom. I let it move upward with each pulsing cycle, from stage to stage, closer and closer to the point of no return with every tight-lipped, teeth-grazing thrust into you. One more and I'll be there. One more... Impossibly, I pull away at the last moment and tighten my muscles - hold on, hold on - stopping the flow of semen while not stopping the wash of orgasmic sensations that reverberate through me. That was good, but I know the next will be more intense; then the next and the next. Patience my love.

I bend and kiss you now, take you in my arms and we lay back on the soft rug that hugs this part of the wooden floor. My fingers move from your hair to your neck and shoulders, then circle your nipples in turn, making them erect. Curious, playful digits then leave the soft orbs and explore your belly; circling, dancing. I have tasted you before (the memory of our one previous time together, of tearing off your jeans and panties, seeing your beautifully shaved cunt, then opening your legs and kissing you there, always makes me hard in seconds) and I need to do it again. My middle finger traces a line down the centre of your body with one inevitable destination; the journey is slow, delicate, unbearable. We continue to kiss. I feel you gasp as I move lower. Your breathing tells me I am near. The heat speaks too. You are totally shaven; I draw patterns on the soft flesh of your lower belly and I know I will soon find the cleft slippery wetness I seek. Moving in millimetres, I probe, then make light circular movements on the tip of your clitoris.

Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus - extremely generously, I feel - nine further stories in 'Measuring up', my latest collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.

Tunnels, tracks and trains - an erotic short story for the hearty hearted

Hi,

I'm sick of apologising for my absence, my consistent inconsistency, and so I won't. I do my best, turn up when I can. It will have to do. It's all I have.

I wrote a story for a competition on Lush Stories and, though better than the best sliced bread, it received pathetically few plaudits, a vacuum of votes, and was placed joint 53rd with an unlikely tale purportedly dictated by Satan to a second-hand car salesman trapped in a cave at high-tide somewhere near Whitby. No, I didn't believe it either. Perhaps it was a tad too tame, a little too symbolic, to take the judges' fancy. Unfortunately, as their cogitations are kept tightly pressed to their heaving chests, I'll never know.

And so to said story. The theme of the comp was 'hardcore', which opens the doors - both front and back - to all manner of fetid, unsavoury acts and substances. I did my best to keep it tasteful and thoughtful, while still including all the relevant gory genre details to meet the comp's brief brief. Here it is then, in all its gut-tingling glory.

Tunnels tracks, and trains.

'May I join you?'

His bass voice turned me to chocolate. Though the fragile wrapper remained pristine and professional, the heat of his gaze reduced the contents to a runny mess. I melted, sank and soaked into the seat. Almost immediately, he could have slid any part of himself into any part of me; I would have watched his limb's lascivious entry and would have sucked it clean on its dark and dripping egress. Though shockingly unaware of it, I must meanwhile have replied in the affirmative, as he thanked me before slotting his black attachė case into the overhead luggage rack. Tugging at the knees of his crisp grey suit, he elegantly became one with the plush seat directly opposite to me. The door slammed in response to a distant whistle and we began to move.

His appraising glance unnerved me, caused my right leg to cross over my left knee, the resultant swinging high-heeled shoe beating time with my drumming heart. Lycra whispered to Lycra, my skirt rode up, and I prayed the tops of my charcoal hold-ups were not visible. Legs uncrossed, primly pressed together and, just to make sure, were clamped together by my well-manicured hands. In an attempt to appear unmoved, I picked at a turquoise nail then stared absently through the window at the shifting world beyond. 

Ears felt it first. Skin tingled. A whoosh then darkness. The rattling of tracks bounced back from enclosing walls. Lights flared. Now I saw myself in the glass. Dark-suited, white-bloused lawyer; blonde hair cut meticulously; face made-up perfectly. The canvas beneath the artwork had lost much of its elasticity, most of its smoothness, though the artist had become skilled enough to hide those sorry facts from all but the most intimate acquaintances. I chewed a lip. My searching tongue teased a morsel of breakfast from between my molars, a recurring necessity caused by a slightly impacted wisdom tooth. I really needed to sort out that gap. 

Again I focussed on the glass. He was looking at me. I watched him meditate on my left shoe, saw him squat before me and remove it, hold it to his face and inhale. Now his hand was up my skirt, his other inside my blouse, while an improbable third wrapped itself in my shoulder-length hair and forced my mouth down into his groin. His flies were open; his cock fat and sleek. My slobbering jaw was all but broken by the force of his thrusts, the marauding meaty cock-head crushing my tongue and battering my tonsils. In frantic response, I grabbed and strangled his smooth, dangling scrotum and clawed at his clenched buttocks. Buttons ricocheted like bullets as my blouse tore open, scissoring fingers cut away my bra's resistance, and my slender upper torso was naked. Digits clipped onto my nipples and I screamed in pain, an essential agony that exactly suited the urgency of the moment. Crossing my legs again, I stimulated my swollen clit between a sensual combination of black lace and my own smooth slippery flesh. Incredibly, I started to cum.

Ears again were the first to find out. Then the skin. Another whoosh. Brittle rails and dazzling sunlight. The image vanished; the reverie evaporated. Beneath a sky of unbroken blue, golden rapeseed fields soothed my dry eyes. I blinked, shuffled uncomfortably, felt arousal seeping like piss from my cum-thirsty twat. It had been a long time. Too fucking long. Priority for the week ahead: get myself laid. 

The girl on my right spoke first. Though obviously of legal age, it were as if she wasn't aware of that fact; her brown hair was tightly twisted into painful pigtails, while her pretty face suffered not a jot of make-up. The Latinate crest at her blazered breast spoke of privilege, of breeding, and her voice reinforced the nonchalant arrogance of that skilfully embroidered statement.  

'Are you going far?'

The man looked surprised, as though noticing her for the first time, and sniffed a quiet laugh.

'Too far. You?'

Quite unnecessarily, she crossed her legs while pulling a white sock back up to its scarlet mark just below her knee. Grey pleats fanned her tight white thighs.

'Back to boarding school.'

'Lucky you!'

She pouted. Eyebrows knitted as she quickly subdued her breasts with crossed arms. 

'I hate it!'

'And why is that, young lady?'

'No boys!'

The man laughed.

'Time enough for that.'

The girl stomped her feet and lisped petulantly.

'No, there isn't.'

Another tunnel swallowed us whole. The relative darkness changed him. He leered. He stood. He grabbed the girl's pigtails and pulled till she squealed.

'You really shouldn't be in such a hurry.' A glance around the carriage made sure we were all listening. 'This lot were all in too much of a fucking hurry.'

She whimpered.

'Please, Sir, don't hurt me.'

He jeered.

'You can't get fucked without pain, girl. It either comes with the fucking, comes with the parting, or comes later with the child-birth. Better get used to it, sweetheart.'

Using her woven hair like tight reins, he forced her face down into the grubby velour seat and turned her over. Her skirt was way too short; it rode up to bare her pink arse cheeks. Her knickers were way too flimsy; they tore easily between his gritted teeth. He spat the white cotton onto the floor and ogled his prize. An arm rose into the air and fell. A big hand spanked the girlish flesh. Red wheals quickly formed and intertwined. I stared in shocked wonder as her arse became an intricate map of swirling criss-crossed tracks. She was simultaneously crying and begging.

'Do me, Sir! Please! Do me with your big man's cock!'

Her tiny arsehole was obviously untouched; her slit was probably likewise, yet it was dripping, silently pleading to be violated. A fat forefinger tested her, stretched her; the middle joined its brother and opened her wider still. Ringless ring and tiny joined the fray. Massive thumb tucked in. Fuck. I could barely watch, though watch I knew I must. A silver globule of spit drizzled from his mouth. As it slowly lowered on its stretching string, he aimed it, guided it onto the rounded tip of her coccyx. Its soft cooling contact forced a sigh from the child's lips. I saw the liquid slide, pool in the puckered crater of her anus then overflow across her perineum. His intentions were clear. Even his brainless cock could sense it; visibly throbbing with anticipation, it grazed across her flesh en route to its target. She squealed again as the tip made contact. Fingers edged deeper into her young cunt and the purple bell end of his swollen manhood tested itself against her arsehole. He pushed. It flexed.  He pushed again. Her body shifted under his impetus though her backdoor stayed firmly shut. He was sweating, snarling.

'Let me in, bitch. Let me in...'

Like a well-practised whore, she suddenly relaxed. Frozen by morbid fascination, I watched the fleshy rod inch inside her, watched too his bunched up hand as it drilled a torrid tunnel into her virgin innards.

Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus - extremely generously, I feel - nine further stories in 'Measuring up', my latest collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.

Sex junkie

I'm high

I float

Angelic

Psychedelic

Gazing down

Then terrified

I slowly sink

Into the void

Of prickling sweat and shaking

Aching joints

And craving

Waiting

For the next fix

Eyes and every orifice

Red-rimmed

Check my phone again

The bed's a twisted bloody mess

Again, again

No message

Nothing

Darkness

Fitful sleep

*

The door

I run

And cling

He deals

I pay

With all I've got

He's here

He's not

He's here

My dread undead

Addiction

Hot and cold

He bares the scars

The needle enters

Pumps me up

And leaves me gasping

Grasping drops

To rub around my glistening gums

Each time

He tends the wound

The crack

It mends

Too soon it's oozing

Raw again

I'm broke

He's back

In random spurts

He's here

And not

It hurts

It hurts

*****

Intense passion is sometimes akin to an addiction. I have never taken drugs, don't even partake of alcohol (aren't you happy with your brain in its natural state?), so am not condoning drug use nor encouraging such experimentation, though I would always encourage a legal, wanton, unrestrained, self-indulgent and self-administered fix of endorphins released by a good, hard shagging.

Go get yourself a fix. Have a great weekend,

Alexandra xxx

Sexual Nominative Determinism - a naughty, jokey, thought-provokey poem

Hi

For a bit of fun, between the gardening, the washing up, the cleaning and the masturbating, I considered all the lovers I'd had and whether their names reflected their physical or emotional traits in any way. I read recently of a school of thought that says people are swayed towards an occupation by their surname (Banks works in a bank; Wood is a carpenter; etcetera) and silly things like that attract me, stay with me to surface at some unexpected future time. Well here is the time! Certainly future, and I for one didn't expect it. Hope it raises as least a smile.

Take care till next time,

Alexandra :) xxx

Sexual Nominative Determinism

It's a well-known phenomenon, scientists claim

Where one's occupation is decided by one's name

I've noticed it's true on several occasions

And a similar thing applies in some sexual situations 

*

e.g.

*

Muscle-bound Jim did cock exercises

To enhance his length and strength and size as

He wrongly believed a girl's satisfaction

Solely stems from penile action

*

Phil did not truly live up to his name

In fact, he failed miserably, his cock barely came

Beyond my always-slippery and welcoming entrance

I quickly broke free from that short and sexless sentence

*

Adrian wanked and drank like a drain

Lived up to his anagrammatical name

I left him too: his cock was always flaccid

And there's neither rhyme nor reason for flaccid

(No reason, but as rhymes, I'll take acid and placid)

*

Mike thought his cock was a microphone

Sang himself love songs when he was alone

A flexible chap! Sadly orally redundant

I turned instead to yoga and can now lick my own cunt

*

Dan loved his judo, threw me around the bed

Was too rough, had no clue, so I fucked his mates instead

Who - strange, I know - all shared his name, were Daniel to a man

After great sex with the sixth, he became my seventh Dan

*

Andy was handy, his skills had renown

But he cheated on me, honed his tool on girls from the town

I started a rumour the lying fuck had AIDS

Now Andy's hand holds his sole chance to get laid

*

Lou's self-confessed secret love of water sports

Was confirmed by his close friends' smiling winked retorts

So I'd pissed on his penis, was pissing on his head

When I saw the water skis and wetsuit under his bed

*

Doug dug himself an unnatural hole

Deemed the two I gave freely 'unsuitable' 

His needs were uniquely scatological

Biologically illogical

*

Gem is a diamond, a sapphire, a pearl

And understands all the demands of a girl

Knows how I like it, the what, where and when

I need never get fucked by a fucking man again

*****

Hurray! At last! My Easter eggs are being regularly fertilised!

Hi.

Sorry again.

Another hiatus; another unacceptable gap. Again and again I am sorry. Writing has somehow taken a back seat to something more important. Yes, I know! Who would have thought it? And it's not sex, though sex is playing a very strong supporting role (and may even receive an Oscar for it).

Love. It's love. Something as puerile as that. Beforehand, BC (before Christian), I barely believed in it, merely held a token faith, much as I believe in God: it would be nice if there were such a thing, and I won't totally deny the possibility, just in case, but - come on! - really? So there it is. While it lasts, I will devote my time to it; when it's gone, I'll come running back to you, dear Blog, distended lips between my legs, flooding with recriminative tears, sobbing sorrily, pussy still aching for his soft tongue and rigid cock.

Anyway.

Before his arrival, I started a story. During our early coy exchanges, I fleshed it out. Some mornings, when I woke early and he was still sleeping off the previous night's prodigious sexual exploits, I tidied it up. And yesterday, as he was visiting family on that strangest of holidays (apparently some guy once got mistaken for the second part of some unlikely holy trinity), I finished it and posted it on Lush Stories. It's a competition piece and their rules state it cannot be reproduced elsewhere till the comp is over (fair enough, as there is a retirement-inducing $200 on offer for the winner!), so I will merely add a link and hope you have the energy and enthusiasm to click and check it out. The competition is entitled 'Hardcore', so expect something a little more naughty than usual. A little.

Tunnels, Tracks, and Trains

Hope you had a fantastic holiday; take care in the week ahead, while enjoying the longer days and wonderful weather. I, for my part, am going back to bed.

'Get ready, Baby, I'm coming back for more. Oh - and just to help you get him up - it's backdoor day, Honey. I think it's about time I gave you the key to my most intimate entrance!'

Behave yourself till next time,

Alexandra :) xxx

At last! I have returned, and with a poem, a gift for you x

Sorry.

It's been ages and there really is no excuse. Well, there are many, though I won't go into that now. Suffice to say, reality got in the way. 

Yesterday, I wrote the first thing in what seems like an age, a snappy, pithy poem about... Again, I won't tell you what it's about. Indeed, if I could, the poem would be pointless, worthless. So here. It's yours. Hope you enjoy it.  Both 1 and share it if you do xxx

Monday Morning Fuck

Slowly circling

Sliding down

Cork-screwing

Paragliding

Back from pleasure's peak

My heaven

Bliss

My favourite moment

Just before

I sink to kiss

His eyes, his lips

And take his flesh

Into my depths

Once more

Controlled and conscious 

Hold him

Press and squeeze and

Feel him fill my body

As he fills my soul

I whisper

'Did you?'

'No.'

I know

Forgo the mess

The slow egress

Into my mundane Monday workday knickers

'Thanks.'

Teasing, easing upwards

Till I hold the tip

While pressing milky pillows to his groaning lips

I eye the clock's

Admonishing finger

Linger yet another precious moment

And another

'Sorry, Hun, I'm late

He'll have to wait...'

I leap up

Take him once into my mouth then

Kiss

Lips sealed and feel his sweet acceptance

Understanding my role's all-demanding

Nature

Oh, but god, his dick

So hard and thick, still slick with me

All hunger, hope, he gropes it

Tickles, strokes

Alas, my head's not full of him

But work

Already crunching paper forms

Placating kids and staff

I hit the bathroom

Welcome the deluge

Planning the day

Rehearsing what I have to say

I need to...

Soapy fingers find the place 

Where he has been

Caress what only he has seen

Sweet lubrication

Washed away

No mess

A smile twists into dull regret

The tumbling drops

The spurting spray

Both bring to mind

His need, my loss

I leave the steam, the heat

And dripping, tiptoe shivering

To the door

And press an ear to

Creaking, rasping urgent breath

I barge

I burst

I leap

- Spray sprays

Hair flays -

Astride his hips

He gasps and grasps and slips inside

I ride

I rain

We glisten

Listen to our fleshy slaps

My slurping vacuum womb

I'm drizzling on his lap

His naked chest,

And grateful face

While laughing

'Come on, lover

Top me up

I need to feel my knickers 

Filling

Feel my wet cunt spilling out your cream

Each time I cross, uncross

Throughout my mundane Monday morning meeting

Bleating sheep and silly cows...

Now pump it up me

Squirt your dirty mess

Cum, baby

Pour your love inside me!' 

Clock admonishes again

I still it with a steely stare

Yet pray he's nearly there

He is

All biting teeth and taloned fingers

Pelvis rising

Clashing, stabbing life into my private hole

I pummel till he winces

Flinches

Inches in and out

Then holds me

Hugs me till I break free

Frenzied

Black bra, knickers, hold ups

Lips and lashes

Freckled splashes

Hair's a fucked-up frizzled mess

Zip up my dress

Stamp into heels

Snatch up my bag and keys

And coat

The mirror cries

You laid in

Got laid

Took his load

And now I bet it's dripping in your knickers

Quick!

Run! Dash back up the stairs

And grab a couple of spare pairs

*****