Whatever happened to my teacher? Free erotica that's in a class of its own!

Hi!

Once again I'm letting you have me! Go on! Have me! I'm free, prone and aching for your touch. Open me. Gaze into my gash. Drink me. Consume me. Then rate me, review me... It's surely the least that you can do?

What am I? I'm a book, of course! What? You thought I was a woman? What sort of sorry slut do you take me for? Oh, I see, we've met before... I'll let you off then. Now roll me over and do me from my other end, from back to front, before your husband/wife comes home. I'm here:

'Whatever happened to my teacher?' on Amazon

Sorry, I got carried away. There is a point to this post and here it is: I'm giving away a book today. It's an anthology of sexy short stories, all with the teaching environment as a loose theme. If you open your mind and loosen your clothing enough, you may find that teaching can take place in a variety of places. Night clubs. Whore-houses. The backseat of cars. In my world, at least. Take my hand and join me there. Let's see what we can learn together xxx

Love and kisses till next time,

Alexandra xxxx

Excerpt from 'First Kiss' from the erotic anthology 'Whatever happened to my teacher?'

Skilled fingers find and undo every button, locate and lower his creaking zip. Clothes are falling off him. Hands are exploring him. He remembers he too has hands and rests them on her naked hips. Her skin is smooth, lightly oiled, and invites tactility. He feels he ought to speak, but there are no words in his experience for what is occurring. No one - except his mother and a procession of nurses - has ever touched him so fastidiously. Should he ask permission to remove her bra? To touch her intimate places? She seems to read his mind, unclips and discards the flimsy cups, then tugs the bows tied at her hips till the triangle falls away. She is naked.

He should be hard by now, but he isn't. His crotch feels merely uncomfortable. Her roving hands momentarily test his progress and, recognising his unreadiness, retreat and clench his buttocks, forcing groins together in a melodramatic mime of what is soon to follow. The realisation of where this is leading stops his flowing blood and, with relief, he starts to rise. 

'I was thinking I might not...'

'Hush!'

Gentle backwards pressure accompanies her whispered word. He finds himself lying on the bed. She is kneeling on the patterned carpet, removing his trousers and socks. He strips off his shirt. She plants her red mouth on the black tent that covers his manhood. He is almost crying.

'I didn't think you'd do that. Didn't think you'd do that...'

Writing erotica: part 1. Personal grooming and a little fundamental foreplay

Standing up: lying down. Bound and gagged: free and loud. Safely-first; safety-last. Fully-clothed: disrobed. Face to face: sixty-nine. Anally: vaginally. Manually: orally. Angelically: demonically. Yes, there are many ways to have sex, maybe more than one can possibly number. Similarly, there are myriad ways one can write about it.

However, that has not always been the case. Several writers - D.H Lawrence and Henry Miller to name but two - became notorious simply by writing about it at all. They were famous for nothing more than inserting a little sauciness between their relatively puritanical pages. For years, their books were deemed too subversive for dissemination, were dubbed obscene by straitlaced, well-meaning censors. They were smuggled and seized, sought by statesmen and schoolboys alike, who furtively fingered the offending passages, often inadvertently sticking those well-worn pages together.

But that was then, when knees were never seen and when the contraceptive pill was but a twinkle in the pharmaceutical industry's eye. These days, a little sauciness gets you nowhere; it barely raises an eyebrow, let alone anything meatier.

In this Internet age, the Interneposcene, when all manner of visual and aural abominations are available at the click of a virtual button, we require our erotic reading matter to contain more than the odd expletive, more than the occasional tit, cock or cunt. In these decadent days of extreme excess, the discerning reader demands debauchery of every conceivable kind. There we are then, in a nutshell. The erotic writer's quandary. How the fuck do you keep someone engaged enough to keep turning your pervy pages, when a plethora of pussy-pounding cum-spraying porn is a mere click away?

I, for one, am not sure a writer can. And that's not me being defeatist. It's me being honest. Look around you! Instant rewards are everywhere. Online porn. Online gambling. TV box sets. Sky Movies. Sky Sports. X Box and Playstation. GTA (steal a car, snort some drugs, shag then kill a hooker - and all before breakfast!), COD, and enough addictive all-action gameplay to last a hundred lifetimes. What's that you say? People will always need a good read, a nifty nip of quiet escapism from their humdrum lives? You may be right. You may indeed. Yes. Let's cling to that hope and indulge ourselves. Let's see what we can do to bind our reader to our bed of words, to tease and titillate till they squirt their cerebral loads onto our pristine printed sheets.

Assuming I have not already lost you to some virtual slots, and assuming you've not been distracted by that too-loud advert on that too-big TV, bear with me. And, while you're at it, bare with me, for that is but one idea I have up my latex sleeve.

I, for two, can only write erotica when I'm horny. And it often involves some state of undress. And some type of ingress. I'm trying to be subtle here, but I can tell by your perplexed expression I'm not quite hitting the hole. Let me try again. When writing erotica, I am always horny, often naked, and often wanking. If female masturbation can be called wanking. Which I think it can. I am certain that being actively horny helps the creative process. There's many a naughty passage I can look back on and say, 'Writing that paragraph induced a wonderful orgasm!  A stomach clenching, nipple-numbing, full-body cumming that sated me for hours...' Try it! The next time you're suffering from writer's block or whatever else they call a lack of imagination these days, loosen that clothing, slide in that hand and pummel whatever parts you have. Hormones will flow. The mind will open. And out will pour scenarios beyond your wildest.

But before you drown in the juicy stuff, a word or two about the basics. Personal grooming. Sharp fingernails. Dirty fingernails. Chewed fingernails. Fuck, how I hate them! Don't you? Of course! Literature also has its fingernails. And they need to be perfectly manicured to enter a reader's mind. It goes without saying that erotica demands even more smoothness and cleanliness, as those fingers are heading for even more intimate zones. And the fingernails in question? They are spelling, punctuation and grammar, or SPAG, as an English teacher boyfriend of mine used to call them. Now his fingers were always perfectly manicured. Soft, smooth and impeccably clean. Nimble too. Mmm. Sorry. Where was I?

Like perfect nails, perfect spelling is essential. Spellcheckers are literary nail files. Thankfully, they are computer-ubiquitous, so you have no excuse. But don't just run the spellchecker: read your work back. Over and over. As I am doing now to this. Ah! Found one! Just a moment... Look for homophones, those words that sound the same but mean something totally different. Knob and nob. Knew and new. Watt and what and wot. And those that, depending on regional accent, can sound so similar as to be almost identical. Your and you're. To and too. You know the ones. Fix 'em! From experience let me assure you of this: a jagged nail that snags on lacy knickers is ne'er going further. Similarly, one misspelled word and the reader's literary legs will snap closed. Mark my words!

Bad punctuation is surely literature's equivalent of dirty fingernails. And it's not always easy to get right. Because - in many cases - there is no right. Or wrong. There is, however, a general consensus. A consensus that says 'however' should never follow a comma, 'and' should never begin a sentence. And nor should 'because'. So I'll fix those later. Or maybe I'll leave them to the editor. Yes. I will leave it to him. Anything wrong with this piece is his fault. It was perfectly perfect when I emailed it. While I'm on the subject, beware of editors. Editors will nit-pick. And they may well have a 'house style' to fall back on when common sense rails against them. Best to leave them to it. I had a boyfriend who was an editor. Pain in the arse doesn't describe him. Well, once a month it did, but that was more about friction than fiction. So don't go ballistic over an ellipsis! Don't give a shit for that colon! It's not worth it. But timely full stops and capital letters are a must. Commas demand consistency. Exclamation marks and question marks answer for themselves. Get them in there!

And then there's grammar. I've chewed that down to the cuticles on many an occasion and often simply had to give up. Because it's not art: it's science. I'm an artist, for fuck's sake, not fucking Isaac Newton. Yes, there are laws of grammar, just like there are laws of motion, but they are far too numerous to learn and far too exotic to even begin to understand. So don't bother. Simply read a lot then read some more and some more and then some more and more. Keep doing that. Eventually, you'll soak it up. Like an osmotic sponge. Then all you'll have to do is to say, 'Does that sound right?' And if it does, it is. For grammar, much like punctuation, is one person's opinion over another. Language changes. These days, drowned by a tsunami of popular culture, it's changing faster than ever. What was wrong yesterday (If I was) sounds right today. What resigned you to the working class (It was me) no longer negatively affects your social climb. Go on! Trust yourself! I trust you already, would allow your dancing digits into my every orifice. And I don't let just anybody do that, despite what they say about me.

So here we are. What you've been waiting for. The nitty-gritty. But wait! Would you believe it! I ran out of words! And I never got round to the bad breath and body odour, never mentioned the questionable dress-sense, the socks and sandals of a writer's metaphorical wardrobe. But I will. And soon!

Till next time,

Alexandra xxx

Image taken from the illustrated 'Once concealed: now revealed. A nifty nip of naughty poetry' by Alexandra Amalova.

Free today! Nibble away!

Hey! You! Don't watch that! Watch this!

Get you teeth into me today with no consideration! Free for one day only:

'Measuring up - an indispensable compendium of eclectic erotica'

'Measuring up' on Amazon

Here's a taster, from 'Searing heat and dexterous feet':

'Would you like to touch... my toes?'

'Indeed, I would.' He swallowed. 'Nothing... nothing would give me greater pleasure.'

I chuckled.

'Nothing?'

'Precisely. Podiatry is my specialty and reflexology my lifetime's passion.'

Nothing. Blood pounded in my ears. As though marking the seconds, sweat dripped from my nose and splashed precisely where my swollen crimson clit prodded my sopping crimson briefs. Our breathing synchronised: our needs did likewise. His tentative fingers tickled then grew bolder, firmer.

'Oh, my dear! Your skin is so soft. So smooth...'

My left foot was entirely in his hands. Moulding gently, he tested every bone, every tendon, every sinew and cell, separating toes in turn and subtly tugging while manipulating my ankle joint with barely perceptible pressure. Now he concentrated his attentions on the scrubbed and silken sole. One by one, across its delicate surface, he touched a procession of nerves, each with improbable connections across my entire body. I shuddered in delectable expectation. Gentle circular motions on the ball of my foot eased tension from my neck and shoulders, my back and buttocks. In response to divers digital devices, my tongue, lips and forehead relaxed. Eyes softened. Jaw released with an accompanying outpouring of breath. And there, oh, god, yes, yes! And there again, on my instep, an insistently pressing fingertip opened me, penetrated me, and tickled my incredulous cervix. In disbelief, I squeezed my eyes more tightly closed, dug urgent fingernails into the seat's soft wood, silently begging him to stop before my oozing lubrication audibly dripped through the lattes.

Aspen boards creaked as he eased forwards. He steered my right heel till it rested in his crotch. I sighed. He groaned. His throbbing flesh expanded, spread along the length of my sole. With increasing force, I ground my heel against the base of his cock, safe in the knowledge that, in this sultry heat, his dangling scrotum would be safely out of harm's way. Then, with the ball pressed to his pulsing bell-end, I slowly and deliberately foot-wanked him through his loose-fitting trunks. 

While my right stepped up the pleasure to his groin, my left received the full gratitude from his incredibly skilful hands. Administering only to the squirming sensitive sole, he gave pleasure to my whole body, somehow biting my taut belly and sucking my aching nipples; one moment fucking my hungry mouth and the next stretching my tight young arse. Now he was riding me, buggering me, stabbing his rigid prick into my bowels, while pulling my bedraggled hair, slapping my stinging buttocks, fingering my gushing cunt, and sinking his teeth into my arching back, my rolling shoulders, and whiplashing neck. I heard myself cry out.

'Don't stop! Don't you fucking stop!'

My helpless body bucked and writhed. Clinging feverishly onto a quickly fading reality, my pincering nails bit even more deeply into the seat's swirling grain. I lurched forwards, backwards, forwards again, vaguely fearing I might fall, yet, throughout, he clung to my calves, pressed his bearded chin to my thighs, his forehead to my fiercely clenching belly, and pinned me to my perch.

In the endless orgasmic melee, a tit was wantonly bared and its nipple deliciously crushed by agents unknown. Stretched and tangled, my knickers soon dangled from my right ankle as my squelching hole became a haven for two, if not three, if not a fistful, of fingers, though how that had all come to be, I could not be certain.

Fireworks still exploded on my eyelids. Pleasure still rippled in deepening troughs from the tip of my clit to my every extremity and back again, in an apparently infinite loop. I was suddenly dimly aware that his mouth was on me, his tongue was in me, his fingers were up me, and my long legs were over his strong, wiry shoulders. Once, twice, three times, I slammed the back of my head against the sauna's wooden wall, though couldn't begin to care a fuck, either at the thunderous noise or the swingeing pain. Pain was for later. Pleasure was now. Oh! And what pleasure! I found myself cumming again and again.

He guided me down through decreasing circles of indescribable bliss, till again the wooden seat filled my palms, its wooden lattes digging into my buttocks and thighs. My bra was symmetrically full of tender tits, my knickers - miraculously back in place - were full of raw and sticky quim, while my spinning head was full of unprecedented joyful wonder. And still I did not open my eyes, knew that sight was long obsolete, and that seeing him could only break the sexual spell he had so eloquently intoned. While tirelessly testing my finely-tuned secondary senses - touch, taste, sound, and smell - I stretched my long, now limber limbs and sighed. On flexing my tingling toes, I fortuitously found them in the vicinity of his crotch and proceeded to pleasure him.

Within the tented trunks, he was impressively hard. As a starter, I fucked him with both feet, grasping his shaft between my soles and violently kicking up and down from my knees. Fatigue intervened. While recovering, my left foot grasped and tugged at his waistband while the right sought the string and released the bow. He gasped as his cock sprung free. The tip of my right big toe homed-in on his cock-head and drew circles in the slippery precum that oozed from his slit. For an age, I lingered there, teasing and tickling till his breathing quickened and his shaft tensed, began a spastic dance against the taut rounded ball of my foot.

Butcher's hook - a poetic cocky rhyming-slang meat-fest fandango

NPhew! That's a meaty mouthful! And as anyone who has ever shared a trusty tryst with me will know, I do love a meaty mouthful.

I wrote a poem. I wrote some more. I drew pictures, one for each. I put them together in a little book. I published the fucker. 

It was only then that I realised nobody reads poetry anymore. No one gives a fuck. Or maybe nobody gives a fuck about mine. Either way, it is out there still. Gathering virtual dust in Amazon's virtual store. Which, perhaps, is poetic justice. Though, then again, perhaps not. Here she is:

'Once concealed: now revealed' on Amazon

Here's a snippet, a chop off the old block, about a girl whose grisly Saturday job turns bloody-well wonderful, despite her vegetarian leanings. As for me, I will never quite look at a salami the same way again.

Have a great weekend! Hope you get lots of all you desire, if not all you deserve.

Take care,

Alexandra xxx

Butcher's hook

Hacking bones, I glance askance

At Graham in his bloody apron

Sawing through a clump of muscle

Trimming fat and severing tendons

Oh, those hands! now gloved and crimson

Skillful as a slaughtering surgeon

Operations never ending 

Always reaping, never sewing

Grisly gristle, loathsome lites are

Minced for barbecue delights; I

Stuff obscenely swollen skins

Hope Graham sees me tease the meat

Yes, meat is murder, this I know

Yet swallow all my bile for him

Each Saturday for Judas' pay

To see his ruddy butcher's face

He chops then slams the cleaver down

Into the block with bloody stains

'Give us a hand wi' this one, Sally'

Nods towards the freezer door

Breath clouded by the deathly chill

My quickened heart eviscerated

Tripe, in stripy red and white,

His carcass wardrobe, I surrender

Handprints, carmine DNA from

Countless nameless murdered beasts

Is evidenced across my virgin

Smock, my curves delineated

Vibrant flesh, the steak I crave

Is in my grasp; I tease the meat 

Obscene, the sausage swells till, oh!

His joint roasts in my oven mouth

How dripping drips despite the Arctic

Cold; we cling, we kiss, he lifts and

Hangs my living corpse amongst 

The racks of ribbed asymmetry

My collar hooked, he strips this fishy

Mammal, till I'm shaking, naked

Graham cleaves me raw and gaping

Stabs me with his beefy skewer

Juicy breast and brisket cleave 

Together, weaving shanks around his 

Tender rump as lips and tongues

Entwine and baste the tasty flesh 

Loins lock while the silent herd 

Dismembered flocks around our frozen

Fevered fucking, marking urgent 

Rutting stark against their corpses

Pumping life into this place of 

Death unrecognisable we

Consummate our co-existence

Glory in our life extended

From the silent frosted tomb two

Red-faced Lazari emerge to

Throngs proclaiming disbelief as

New life swirls within my womb

*

Noveltrove Erotica! A new site to read erotica, mine included!

Hi!

Two posts in a week? What is this? Life is cyclic, as well you know. Normal service will soon be resumed.

Anyway, while I'm here, I'd like to tell you about Noveltrove Erotica, a new erotic story site I have, er, just, er, come across. As I said, it's called Noveltrove Erotica. And it's here:

Alexandra Amalova at Novel Trove

I'm going to post some stories from my published books, get them out and shake them about, much in the manner of a large pair of tits (mine are far too pert to do this) or an erect male member and accompanying scrotal sac (if you're male and suitably endowed, I'll let you do that for me). So get over there and check them out. I'll be adding more on a regular basis, so get your box of tissues ready.

Enjoy the rest of your weekend,

Alexandra xxx

Published today: The dizziness of freedom

Hi!

As the title suggests, 'The dizziness of freedom', book III of The Inversion Chronicles, is available as from today.

'The dizziness of freedom' on Amazon

If you haven't yet read the first two, then you have a busy weekend ahead of you! Get stuck in! 

Set in the distant future in a distant and inhospitable solar system, the series centres on the encounters of a certain Alex5, the captain of the ship carrying the last humans from a war-wasted Earth, yet offers us several other first-person perspectives, both human and alien. There is action! Sex! Love! Sex! Death! Sex! Rumination! I'm not sure the exclamation mark sits well after rumination, but I'm leaving it in in an attempt to convey the trauma that rumination may often (in my life, at least) lead to.

Have a lovely weekend! I hope the sun shines on you while exciting things (possibly, though not necessarily, from Amazon) come your way.

Take care and all the very best,

Alexandra xxx