I love those rich, fireside colours – hot enough to warm your hands by. And I reckon our chap has rather excellent hand-warming (and the rest) properties too.

Edited by Kristina Wright, Lustfully Ever After gives a romantic, erotic twist to a range of fairy tales, and features stories from Emerald, Shanna Germain, Donna George Storey, Charlotte Stein, Sacchi Green, Lisabet Sarai and more.

The only story I’ve read so far is Charlotte Stein’s You, a beautifully written, strange and memorable tale of a half-man, half-beast thing and an innocent(ish!) young woman in a forest. I’m looking forward to delving deeper into the book.

My story, The Last Dance, is a fun, contemporary reworking of The Twelve Dancing Princesses and features 12 identical sisters (dodecaplets, I decided) made famous by a reality TV series called Full House. There are 12 boyfs and some jolly fun identity confusion. Kind of like Shakespeare in a London disco but dirtier. The story culminates in a ‘scorching hot’ (says the back cover) MFM threesome. Here’s an excerpt in which Lily, wearing a stolen invisibility cloak, stumbles upon two guys, both of whom she’s had her eye on (and once, her mouth), getting it on in a nightclub.

The cloakroom was large and L-shaped, an extravagant room tiled in Egyptian green, with honey-colored benches and golden lockers, coats on rails waiting to be reanimated by their owners. Sure enough, tucked away around the corner was Gilchrist. But this time he wasn’t resting, not by a long shot. He was standing, his head tipped back, his eyes closed. As ever, because he has a wonderful theatrical streak, he was wearing a military jacket, this one a deep indigo adorned with silver buttons. Again it was open, his chest bared. He was naked from the waist down. His elegant hands, tipped with shell-pink nails, were resting lightly on the flame-red curls of my newly visible journalist friend who was on his knees, shirt off, lips wrapped around Gilchrist’s cock.

I stared like a slack-jawed idiot. My heart and hopes went up-down, up-down, much like Mr Visible’s mouth. My thoughts veered from a fear I’d lost my guys to man-love, to a brand new awareness that, wowzers, this scene was horny. My groin thumped with lust, my lips swelling fast. I drew closer, worried that the drumming of my heart might alert them to my presence.

Mr Vee’s hands were clamped to Gilchrist’s thighs, his skin pale and stark against the velvety darkness of my darling. Well, my sister’s darling, technically speaking. Rich, purplish shadows hollowed out the dip in Gilchrist’s buttocks, and he seemed so sturdy and corporeal compared to the kneeling beauty whose shoulder muscles shifted under translucent, blue-tinged skin, his armpit hair a wisp of fire. Gilchrist was a mighty storm and Vee was a forest wraith, strong but otherworldly.

Gilchrist groaned quietly and clasped his lover’s head, his dark fingers sliding through Vee’s russet curls. He held him close on the downstroke and Vee, adjusting his position, edged towards Gilchrist’s black-haired crotch, slow and steady, until he’d taken him throat-deep. “Oh, mate,” croaked Gilchrist, eyes shut, knuckles blanching, “hold it there, oh fuck, that’s good.”

Vee’s neck bulged with the effort. My cunt pulsed as I remembered how Gilchrist had directed me to do similar. I moved closer, prepared to run the risk of discovery in return for the joy of being near them. They looked edible, like ginger snaps, licorice, brown sugar and ice-cream, but man-sized and a lot less sweet. They smelled of skin and beer, of being underground for too long. I wanted to taste them, and so I did, leaning in to lick Gilchrist from the base of his spine to his neck, careful to touch him with nothing but my tongue. He was warm and salty, and he made the strangest sound, arousal warped by disbelief. I blew on the back of his neck then stood on tiptoe to stream cool air across his gleaming, stubble-shadowed head.

He moaned again and dusted the back of his head as if an insect were bothering him. I dodged his hand, ducking sideways to see his thick length slide from the grip of Vee’s mouth, his shaft cabled with dark violet veins, saliva lending him a silvery sheen. Avoiding Vee, I cupped Gilchrist’s balls, fondling their shifting weight, making him moan. He didn’t seem to know or care that my touch was surplus to possibility.

*

Amazon UK :: Amazon US

I’m thrilled to have a story in Stretched, the latest release from Racy Pages. And extra thrilled because, wowsers, we’ve got a sexy guy on the cover. Not only that, he’s been given equal space to the sexy woman, and blimey, he’s even more undressed than she is!

Respect to Racy Pages!

Stretched‘s editor, Tinder James, writes in the intro: “The world of Stretched is filled with the heated encounters of strangers, phantom lovers, and couples devoted to satisfying one another. This collection often floats into that dreamy band of consciousness, gently bumping its head on the shore of reality.”

I have to keep re-reading that second sentence. It perfectly and beautifully encapsulates the type of erotica I like to read and write. A lot of the authors in the book are new to me, and it’s a fabulous, fresh collection. My story, All My Lovers in One Room, is told from the point of view of a woman who believes she is dying.

Here’s an excerpt:

You know that white light you hear rumurs of? A glorious white light at the end of a tunnel, brighter than anything you’ve known, a huge sense of tranquillity and long lost family members awaiting you with open arms? Here’s a tip: avoid the family. Hang a sharp left before the exit and you’ll find yourself in an antechamber with all your flings, exes and casual fucks. I realize it’s not ideal (and some may prefer the family option) but if you want to buy yourself some extra time, it’s a way to duck the point of no return and to avoid all those uncles you couldn’t shake off at weddings.

The woman we had a threesome with (at Charlie’s request – although to be honest, he practically begged me) is chatting to the chick I had sex with as a student because I thought it would make me cool. I suppose I used them both. I wonder if they’re discussing me but I figure I’m of little interest to either woman these days. If Charlie were here, he’d be hoping they were about to give us a floor show. He could be predictable like that, Charlie could.

But Charlie’s not here, he never fucking is.

Oh, Charlie! He was the whirlwind I span from, the storm who thrilled me, the fucker who kept me waiting and wanting. But this time, his rotten punctuality really takes the cake. Charlie, I’m dying here! Don’t tell me you’re stuck in a meeting and don’t try texting me either. I’m at death’s door, capisce? I can’t get a signal. I need you here and I need you now.

I would never have said that to him in life, would never say need because I don’t believe in need. There’s only want unless it’s life threatening. But hey, it pretty much is right now!

Tick tock tick tock.

And then I feel him approach. I’m like an animal sensing an earthquake before the tectonic plates have shifted. Hairs ripple on the back of my neck and my blood sets up a pulse in my cunt. A thousand and one butterflies dance in my stomach. Oh Charlie, you divine bastard.

I smell him first. He smells so real, so intimate. He’s the essence of life knocking out the stink of sterility in my nostrils. I catch the scent of his neck, the aroma of warm skin spliced with muted notes of aftershave and the worn, laundered cotton of his collar. I get the tang of city traffic, fumes and hot rubber, then paperwork like linen and the metallic whiff of cheap, blue ink on his fingers. Maybe my nose is super sensitive now the rest of me’s shutting down but I think I smell the tabby cat he stroked en route to work that morning, the sun-baked wheatfields in the pasta he ate for supper last night, the heat of his cock in his palm, the spill of his come, the mountain breeze from the Alpine holiday we said we’d go on one day. Or perhaps that’s his fabric softener. I don’t know. I breathe him in, wanting to consume all the scents he acquired while he was busy doing other things, living a life I know so little about.

Tinker, tailor, soldier, spy.

No, he’s not a spy. He just acts like one. “The name’s King,” I like to say, “Charlie King.” If he’d been more available to me, I don’t know what I’d have done. I might have lost interest but I doubt it. Time and again I tried to let go, move on, find a man who could topple him, but how to let go when something’s got you in its grip?

Ah, and there, now, the softness of his lips, like angels and feathers as he teases with his hello: kiss, murmur, kiss, his fingers sliding down my neck with a tenderness that’s menacingly, enchantingly possessive. Those fingers say more than any words could: I own you, you’re mine.

*

Amazon UK :: Amazon US

…right there, from wetness to stubble. I want to tongue the sweep of his shoulder blade, trace the curve behind his ear then taste the scrape of his jaw.

This is my 100th post! I have exciting publishing news on the horizon but not allowed to share yet. *drums fingers*

So much imagery in femsub eroticises the woman – you know the kind of thing: her in cuffs or some elaborate, pretty bondage; her with her arse bared ready for a spanking; her with her eye make-up streaming down her face. You could make an argument that, as the one being ostensibly “done to” in a D/s dynamic, it’s appropriate for the woman to be the observed photographic subject. But if this were the case, mansub (aka femdom) would be rich with imagery of men bound and quivering. But as we know, it ain’t. The focus is traditionally on the whip-wielding woman in impossible heels. In both cases, yet again, the het male perspective wins the day.

I’m currently interested in images of couples which eroticise both partners (and don’t look as if the photographer is saying, “Move your arm, mate, so we can see her tits better”) and which capture some of the swoon and grrr of submission and dominance. I liked this one!