January, clearly, is my month of pig. I have couple of new stories published: Cutting Out Hearts in Best Erotic Romance (ed Kristina Wright), and The Bondage Pig in The Big Book of Bondage (ed Alison Tyler). The latter story features a lot of pig and recently received a seriously fab review from Kiki DeLovely. More on that porcine piece next month. (TBBoB is available for Kindle now but gets its paperback release in the UK on Valentine’s Day; I do think there ought to be more pigs among the hearts and flowers.)
Meanwhile, Cutting Out Hearts tells of Susanna, a married woman who goes home with her local butcher after bumping into him one evening. I’ve only just spotted the pig reference when choosing an excerpt! I swear I’m not obsessed. Here’s the excerpt:
From Cutting Out Hearts
Oh, the lies we tell ourselves.
His kitchen was magnificent, the sort that might feature in one of Ness’s magazines: granite worktops, halogen spotlights, acres of space and a double-drainer sink. A triple row of knives and cleavers glinted on one wall, and at the room’s center was a large pine table with curvy legs, its surface scored with marks. Likes to socialize, I thought. Well, that’s probably good.
He selected a bottle from a wine rack, his hands gripping its neck. I hovered, not knowing what to do. When he took two glasses from an overhead cupboard, I joined him, spreading my fingers over the base of my glass as he opened the wine like a waiter, regular corkscrew and a muscular withdrawal.
The cork gave a dull pop, a starting gun for seduction.
I’m doing this, I thought as Will poured. I’m flirting with intent. Oh, sweet whoever’s up there, strike me down with a pitchfork.
“Chin chin,” he said as we clinked glasses.
I drank, not knowing what to say. I was about to admire his kitchen when he said, “You often look sad. You know that?”
My heart dropped. “Do I? I don’t mean to.”
“You mean to hide it?”
“Guess I didn’t know I looked sad.” I shrugged. “Maybe that’s just how my face is.”
He walked away to put on a CD. Sound system in the kitchen, the heart of his home. I stayed leaning by the granite counter because I hadn’t been invited to sit down. When he returned, he said, “You don’t look sad now.”
“You look terrified.”
I laughed. “I am.”
I shook my head. I felt as if a pill were stuck in my throat. I swallowed. “Of me. Of … of what I might want.”
He looked at me for a long time, trying to read my face. Then he drew a deep breath and leaned at an angle, elbow on the work surface, making his body softer, his height lower than mine, unthreatening. “Have you ever been tied up?” he asked.
Hail Mary, mother of Jesus! Have I what? The room whirled, streaks of halogen whizzing past blurred granite, flying knives, swooping saucepans, and a pine table on its hind legs, dancing pirouettes among the shifting white lights. My knee bones did a runner and between my thighs, I melted like butter on a skillet.
“I …” I began.
Did I accidentally drink all his wine? Was this me? Why was I shaking?
“I … no.” I pictured a joint of ham trussed up with string, its pig-pale skin bulging against the bonds. “No, no.”
He smiled kindly. “I would never do anything you didn’t want me to.”
Never? Never forever?
I shook my head, fighting a rising panic.
Will stood, walked into the adjoining room then out through a door leading deeper into the house. Was he going to his bedroom? Was he expecting me to follow? Well, I wouldn’t. I didn’t think my legs would carry me anyway. Besides, wanting a wrong thing was bad enough; acting on the want could have no justification. Oh, but I thought of many excuses while Will was gone: I don’t love my husband and I doubt he loves me; what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him, like the tree he doesn’t see; how can I know if the grass is greener if I don’t even try the other side?
Will returned, grinning, loops of rope in one hand, jacket off, tie loosened. “Just in case,” he said, and he tossed the coils at my feet. They landed with a clatter.
He stood inches in front of me. The world froze and so did my heart. He must do this all the time, I thought. An expert, and me the lamb to his slaughter. I could see the faint prick of his nipples through his white cotton shirt. Then everything started thundering as his face moved toward mine, or perhaps mine to his. His features grew large then his lips on mine were warm, moist and mobile.
For the first few seconds, I was tense and self-conscious. My mouth wouldn’t yield. I’d forgotten how to kiss. Then instinct took over and I was gone, slipping toward delirium, heat flaring in my face. I closed my eyes and behind my lids, a blue sun blazed in a pitch black night, receding and surging. Between my thighs I grew hotter and wetter, plump tissue parting with treacherous ease. I embraced him, needing the support of his bulk and wanting his weight pressed against me. Running my hands over the slab of his back, I plucked his shirt from his waistband, my fingers seeming to move of their own accord. His body was warm and clammy, muscles shifting below thick skin as he raised his arms to thrust his fingers into my hair. Wisps of hair on his shoulder blades brushed my fingertips. He held my head still, clamped, so I couldn’t escape his kiss. Not that I wanted to. His hands were good there. I fancied if he let go of me, I might dissolve into a puddle of lust.
When he pulled away, he had a new look of seriousness to him, eyes and mouth sagging, lips gleaming.
“Oh god, I shouldn’t,” I whispered.
Ignoring me, he dropped to his knees, hands sliding down my legs.
“I shouldn’t,” I said again, even quieter now.
Slowly, his broad hands rose higher, back up my legs to bunch my skirt around my hips. He kissed the skin on my thighs, making my breath flutter faster, then his mouth was on my underwear, lace shielding my pubis like an ornate gate of silk. No trespassers, please. But inside the fabric I was swollen to fatness, fluids seeping to reveal my need and welcome him in. He traced a single finger over my damp patch, making my groin pulse so insistently I thought my heart had lost its moorings and plummeted to a new place. He nudged into my briefs and I felt him, his flesh on mine, touching me where only my husband was supposed to touch. He skimmed my lips, tickling fronds of hair and when he split me open, I groaned deeply and so did he.
I couldn’t remember when I’d last been so wet.
|Three years’ of assplay stories now in a single volume (paperback and ebook) and on Audible, thanks to Susie Bright||My sixth appearance in the annual Mammoth erotica series, this time with my short story from Bad Ass|
Happy New Year all! See that widget in my sidebar showing the latest release of books I’m in? I can’t keep up with it!
December was a busy month, meaning I neglected to shout about the above two releases, both featuring bottoms! Three years of anal erotica shorts, edited by Alison Tyler, are now available for your listening pleasure via Audible (UK and US). You can read a little about the series here.
In a happy coincidence, one of my stories from our trilogy was selected by Maxim Jakubowski for inclusion in the 11th volume of the Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica (Amazon UK and US). Mammoth has only just been released in the States this month so perhaps I’m not that behind on my behinds after all.
My story in Mammoth is from Bad Ass and tells how my moon-widow narrator reconnects with her lunar-loving husband when their marriage starts to falter. It features bondage and anal and is called, inevitably, Dark Side of the Moon.
Want to read the opening and my thoughts on the piece?
More on my appearance in Kristina Wright‘s newly released Best Erotic Romance 2013 later in the month along with details about my story in the soon-to-be released Big Book of Bondage from Alison Tyler.
Isn’t it great when the new year starts with a bang? Long may it continue. Wishing you all a sexy, happy 2013!
ETA: The ever-brilliant Ms Naughty has posted her annual Porn for Women Retrospective. It’s a super piece which includes, among many things, a great overview of the response to 50 Shades and the news, via PhD research, that we are now seeing more naked men in RomComs (post includes empirical evidence aka pics of hot dudes in the buff)!
Dream Lover has hit the shelves Stateside! I’m massively excited by this, partly because I’ve never worked with the editor, Kristina Wright, before and she is fabulous; but also because my story, Living off Lovers, has been getting some great reviews — and it was an absolute bitch to write!
I had my characters, my setting, a mood I wanted to convey but the story kept eluding me. So I kept pushing at it, going in wrong directions, deleting, cussing, coming back to the beginning. And on and on it went. I swear, I nearly threw the damn thing in the bin but I’m so glad I stuck with it.
Here’s what people have been saying about my piece:
“A terrific, wonderfully written story [...] The paranormal elements are genuinely chilling, the romance is sweet and affecting, and the eroticism thoroughly steamy. ‘Worth the price of admission alone’”
Could you all go back and read that last quote, please? Sweet! My work got described as sweet! See, I do have range.
My story, Living off Lovers, is about an Art Deco apartment gone bad. Here’s how it starts:
Living off Lovers
I know he watches me. He watches me having sex when he takes his cigarette breaks by the rear fire door of Charlie’s Steakhouse. He smokes a lot. I have sex a lot and the blinds in my bedroom are thin. I imagine him in the street below, smoke trickling from his lips as he watches the shadow of me, three storeys high, giving head to the shadow of a stranger. I wonder if he wishes he were the one sliding into my red, wet mouth; if his cock swells inside his grubby chef’s whites; if he returns to the sweating kitchen and scalds or cuts himself because his mind’s not on the job.
I like to think he hurts himself because of me.
In the mornings when I leave for work, he peers through a slit in his curtains. I know he does. I think he looks at my mail too — just the envelopes. But to look at the envelopes, he’d need a key to open my mailbox in the hallway. I think he has this key. I think he has all sorts of keys and his morals are loose.
I think this because I watch him as much as he watches me. At least, I hope that’s the ratio. Most of the residents of Tate Court have left and those who remain must stay vigilant. He senses my fear, I’m sure he does. Worse, he enjoys it.
Before the elevator broke down, he joined me one afternoon as the doors were sliding shut. He came from nowhere, bringing with him a whiff of sweat, cooking oil and cigarettes. I held my gaze several feet above the ground, staring at geometric repetitions on a panel of marquetry, hoping I seemed cool, not intimidated. When he pressed the button for his floor, I glanced up, despite knowing five was his level. Everyone does this. We’re habitually on our guard, seeking confirmation that the people around us are still themselves. It doesn’t do to be lax about the details.
The floor shuddered and the elevator creaked upwards as if carrying the weight of the world. Tate Court is dying. Its cool modernist lines are slumped and cracked; concrete gapes through chipped mosaic floors and over half the apartments stand empty. We are a burden on the building, although our number is dwindling. That was the last day I used the elevator. The mechanism jammed, leaving us stuck between the second and third floor, only for a few minutes, but those minutes changed everything.
“Damn.” I jabbed at the floor buttons.
“There’s no point,” he said. “It’ll move when it’s ready.”
He was calm while I was tense. “You speak as if the building’s alive.” I couldn’t keep the accusatory tone from my voice.
He smiled smugly, implying he knew it was. The elevator whirred but we said nothing. The dial above the door flickered between 2 and 3. Sweat prickled in my armpits and across the small of my back. I made a mental note to remind myself of this moment in winter when I was huddled in a blanket, the heating having failed once again. Perhaps it would warm me.
Eventually, he said, “Rachel, isn’t it?”
He was leaning against the paneled wall, forearms resting on the brass rail, effectively taking ownership of the elevator’s space. Stubble shaded his jaw and his dark skin gleamed with grime-streaked sweat. He looked like a laborer, dirty and vigorous. Two of the knuckles on his right hand bore raw, red wounds and a finger on his left was wrapped in a blue plaster. Above his right wrist, an inch or so of silvery scar tissue made a bare patch among his soft, dark hair. Inexplicably, I wanted to suck him there.
“Yes,” I replied. “And you’re Merrick North.”
There was no friendliness between us, merely an acknowledgement we were equally wary.
Another silence passed. I focused on my breathing exercises, trying to get a grip by reassuring myself I wasn’t in danger. My fears were irrational. The walls were not closing in on us; the space was not getting smaller; we were not running out of air; we would not die together in each other’s arms. Deep breaths, Rachel.
I didn’t know where to look or what to say. In our hard, boxy surroundings, he seemed increasingly real: human and vulnerable yet intent on protecting himself, just as I was. After only a few minutes — minutes which seemed like hours — the living, breathing physicality of him began to get to me. You can’t blame me. If you were stuck in an elevator with a stranger, I bet your thoughts would start warping too. He filled the space and he filled my mind. His jeans sat neatly on his hips, a thick buckle above his crotch, and his stomach was flat beneath a shabby blue t-shirt. I wanted to touch him, wanted to press my head to his chest and hear his heart. I wanted the warmth of his flesh. The walls of the elevator were a coffin. I don’t know why that made me want to fuck him but it did.