Split, my spooky, sexy, third novel, is currently hovering around £3.70 on Amazon UK. I have no idea why Amazon prices go up and down but this is a bargain!
Split tells the story of librarian, Kate Carter, who runs away from her London life to take a job in a lonely puppet museum on the Yorkshire Moors. In the weird little village of Heddlestone, she becomes entangled with the kinky and darkly compelling puppetmaster, Jake, and his boorish but irresistible brother, Eddie. Split between the two men, hungry for both of them but trusting neither, Kate moves closer to uncovering the truth behind the secrets of Heddlestone. Danger is ever-present but Kate can’t tell if the greatest threat comes from ghosts or reality.
(Um, also, please ignore the Amazon UK review which describes Split as being about ‘female domination’. Seriously, femdom? Me? I think not!)
1. Check out a mini-interview with me over on the fun new site, Rude Words.
2. Check out Janine Ashbless’s fab report on smutwriters at the World Horror Convention last weekend. I had a wonderful time, and read excerpts from my spooky third novel, Split*, and my Daphne du Maurier-inspired short story, Rebecca.
3. Enter my competition now to win a double dose of dirtiness! Up for grabs is the brand new release, Sex in the City, London, featuring my story, The Caesar Society, and Violet Blue’s Best of Best Women’s Erotica 2, featuring On My Knees in Barcelona. Just add a comment to the post. I’ll pick a winner on Wednesday (7th)!
*True story: last year, I got a text from Olivia Knight to say she’d just finished reading Split, it was midnight, she was alone and was now too scared to sleep. And it was my fault. I was very pleased!
He pushed his clothes to his knees, and his cock jerked up from a dark nest of curls, gloriously thick and hard. Veins cabled his shaft and his crown gleamed wetly, a bluish-tint beneath its crimson flare. It’s such a handsome cock, a real beauty. He stared at me, mouth parted, lips shining with moisture, and he tilted his pelvis forward a fraction as if to say, Suck on this.
And so I did, eagerly, greedily. I shuffled close, bowing to lick, kiss and slide my lips down his shaft. I gripped the root of him as I slurped, spinning with how much I wanted this, how hot I was to have him. I cradled his balls, loving their velvety skin and tucked-up tightness, my tongue sloshing wetly around his head.
He clawed his fingers into my curls, gripping my head and using a touch of force to draw me onto him. His knob nudged at the back of my throat, making me edgy in case he went too far. But I loved the threat, loved the smell of him and the touch of his wiry hair, loved having my mouth full of his big virile cock.
Then I heard his voice above me, a slow, single, breath-light word, spoken as if it were steeped in decadent, wanton luxury:
Because I have secrets.
So here I am, mopping up at the end of Sommer Marsden’s amazing Blow Hard Tour 2009. C’mere, a little to the left … some on your face. There, that’s better.
Apologies for my lateness, I’ve been knocked off course by the bigotry and homophobia that is Amazon. But look, the latest is sorry folks, just a glitch! – and let’s pretend that spokesman didn’t say anything at all and hope no one views this poorly disguised volte-face as a massive insult to the intelligence of the thousands of people who’ve been up in arms about this issue. Just a glitch! Noting to worry about, you silly, silly people!
Anyway, blowjobs. Yum! I have to confess, I missed much of the tour. I’ve been sick and the most I’ve wanted to put in my mouth recently is a few spoonfuls of yoghurt so I’m still playing catch up. Was there a lot of cock? Did anyone get jaw ache? Has Alison Tyler got hurty knees or does she have callouses there already?
My second book, Asking for Trouble, is ten years old this year. Ten! My central character, Beth, says:
I love cocks. I love looking at them. I love sucking them. It turns me on hugely. I know some women say, ‘Yeah, giving a blowjob, it’s OK but you only really do it in part-exchange, don’t you?’ But I disagree. I genuinely love it.
Beth is speaking for me and, I think it’s safe to say, for lots of women as the Blow hard Tour has shown! A huge thanks to Sommer for throwing the party. You’ve made many people very happy!
To round things off and, because desire never ends, to get them going again, here’s an excerpt from my latest novel, Split. Kate has been cornered by Eddie, the brother of Jake, the guy she’s falling in love with. Eddie is a bit of a bastard.
He took a step towards me and I took a step back. He moved closer again.
He was broad-chested and muscular, and I’m short and dumpy but it hardly mattered. I was scared of him, irrespective of size, but I wasn’t going to let it show. My heart was going pitter-patter and I swallowed hard. ‘You’re invading my personal space,’ I said in the most assertive voice I could muster.
I was backed against a section of wall between two door jambs and he placed his hands either side of me. He grinned down, cocky and gloating, his brawny arms inches from my head, his Celtic tattoo a blue-black chain of geometric links. He kept his body at a distance from mine and I could easily have ducked under his arms but this, I guessed, was a slower game of wits.
I had a bag over my shoulder. I let it fall then kept perfectly still, trying to block out the scent of his sweat, his masculine beeriness, and how grubbily excited I was to have him threatening me with his bulk. In front of me, that great block of a chest lifted gently with his breath, and I got to see the sprinkles of stubble on his jaw, the spidery blood vessels in his eyes, the hairs in his nostrils, the smallness of an ear lobe. With the sudden close focus of him after a couple of drinks, that’s how his face seemed: not whole but a messed up jigsaw of fragments, a pub-goer’s Picasso.
‘No,’ he said coolly. ‘You’re invading my personal space.’ I saw the crooked arrangement of his bottom teeth, and I pressed my head against the wall, not wanting him any closer and yet wishing he would try. I swallowed again, trying to get saliva into my dry mouth. Adrenaline sharpened my senses and I felt very sober, very alert.
‘So what’s the deal here?’ he said without anger.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I replied.
I DIDN’T TRUST HIM
He looked at me, smiling faintly, and I had to turn away. ‘What’s your name, pretty lady,’ he said. He knuckled a finger beneath my chin, tipping my head to make me face him.
I looked up, wondering what to tell him. His mocking tenderness intimidated me. I didn’t trust him. And yet I thrilled to the set up: me captive and meek, trapped by this smooth, smiling, unpredictable bully, the brother of the man I was falling for.
‘Kate,’ I replied thickly.
He nodded. ‘Kate,’ he repeated, and, with gentle pressure, he trailed the knuckled finger down my neck, pressing lightly on my throat before resting it in the dip of my collar bones.
I felt weak at the knees so I closed my eyes, fighting my lust. I could feel sweat prickle under my arms, across the small of my back, and my eyelids felt thin enough for him to see through and peer into my brain. I could sense him looking and I could smell him, the pub on his clothes and the deodorant-tinged sweat. Closing my eyes probably wasn’t a great idea. Instead of sight, I had a blank space in my head where imagination could thrive, knocking visual reality for six with its flood of dark possibilities.
‘Tell me about Jake,’ he said softly, and I heard his hand move to the wall again. […] ‘What do you two do together? Mmm? Does he let you play with his dollies?’
I opened my eyes and scowled.
He smiled down at me. ‘Where did he find you, sweetheart?’
I turned aside, gazing at the hand by my head and his stout wrist, refusing to answer.
‘Tell Uncle Eddie,’ he said. ‘Go on. Talk to me, Kate. Did he get you on t’ internet?’
‘It’s none of your business,’ I murmured.
‘Ah, so he did. […] Tell me,’ he said again, the wheedling tone back in his voice. ‘Does he fuck you nicely?’
‘You’re sick,’ I muttered.
‘I know. That’s what all the girls say.’ He angled towards me, tattoo stretching as he did a few vertical press-ups against the wall. Again, I tried to escape, my head pushing back as if the wall might yield. ‘Do you like it sick? Does Jake?’
‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Do you get off on it?’ As I spoke, I realised taking him on felt better than resistance. ‘Do you? Does it turn you on to think of your brother fucking me?’
‘Yes,’ he said calmly. ‘A lot.’ He smiled, and traced two fingers over my lips, lingering there in an offering. So I parted my lips, not knowing if I would suck or bite. I licked and nibbled his fingertips, feeling the rough texture of labour in his skin. There was a malty, beery taste to them, and they were warm and thick, his fingernails smooth against the ridges of my teeth. My eyes were locked on his, staring into the steel grey shards of each iris, and I released his fingers briefly to say, ‘He’s always fucking me. We’ve hardly stopped since I got here.’
DO YOU LIKE SUCKING COCK?
Eddie tried to keep his face impassive but I saw the faintest flutter in his nostrils as his breathing went a little wrong. ‘How does he fuck you?’ he asked. ‘Hard and fast? Or good and slow? How do you like it, Kate?’
‘I like it all ways,’ I mumbled, and I made eyes at him as I drew his fingers deeper into my mouth, tongue lashing as I mock-fellated.
He stepped closer, body resting lightly against mine as he fed me more of his fingers. ‘Do you like sucking cock?’ he asked, and his body pressed harder.
The slab of his torso flattened my breasts, and his groin dug into my belly. I mumbled around his fingers and slowly he slid them out, awaiting my answer.
‘Love it,’ I breathed, and I gaped for his fingers again, sucking firmly when he returned them, tongue twirling, teeth scraping.
After a little more of this silliness, he said, ‘Unzip me, Katie. Unbuckle my belt and unzip me.’
I wanted to so much it hurt. I didn’t like him one iota. I’d had it in mind I might bite his fingers or laugh in his face if he tried taking it too far. And now he’d done precisely that, and I couldn’t laugh because my fingers seemed to be on his belt, slowly undoing him, wondering whether I’d go through with this or pull back and scoff when he was exposed and vulnerable. His erection was pushing behind the denim and I cupped the bulge of him, reaching down to graze my nails over his balls where the fabric was faded and soft.
‘Get my dick out,’ he said, and seconds later I had his zip undone because I couldn’t resist that instruction. He pushed jeans and underwear onto his hips, and his cock bounced out, thick and sturdy just as he was.
I melted, flesh turning to wet lust. […] He stepped back and I dropped to my knees. I shuffled closer, sex throbbing, juices slick. My mouth was open and I was about to swallow him when he put his hand on my forehead, stopping me.
‘Manners, Katie,’ he said. ‘What happened to your manners?’
I pushed against his hand, eager to defy him and have him filling my cheeks, but his block was rigid.
‘You don’t get this for free,’ he said, giving himself a little shake. ‘I want you to ask. I want to know how much you want this dick.’
This is a page of my notes on Asking for Trouble plus some tiny scraps of paper detailing scenes from the novel. When I’m trying to figure out the structure of a book, one of my methods is to summarise key scenes, both written and unwritten, on pieces of paper and make a big, messy jigsaw on the floor. The jigsaw never gets completed (especially if I’ve forgotten to shut the cat away) but it helps shape the story and shows me the direction I need to go in next. Some scenes get deleted; some never get written; some are inspired by the jigsaw because, like I said, the jigsaw is incomplete; it has holes.
I love this part of novel writing. You can have two or three elements in the story which refuse to connect or a lone fragment that surely belongs to the horror novel that’s been on the back burner for years or a sex scene which is actually a short story in its own right. Stuff happens when you do the jigsaw. It can take days, weeks even. You number the scenes, put them in an envelope, get them out again the following day.
I find the best magic comes from the biggest problems. You might find a perfect way to connect those seemingly disparate elements. You might have to sacrifice one of your favourite parts for this to work. You might have to accept they won’t connect except in a feeble, forced way and then you have to do the big, strong thing and let go! Get rid! Delete! But always, always, something new is born.
This really feels like creation to me: what was once a miserable piece of carpet tormenting you through a hole in the scrappy jigsaw is now an amazingly hot piece of dialogue brimming with sexual tension and desire. And it’s just begging to be written!
Why am I telling you this? Because Alison Tyler has a wonderful new blog, Scruffy Jottings About Filth, featuring a fascinating – and expanding – array of smut writers’ notes. I sent AT a couple of pages of notes relating to my latest novel, Split. Then I got to wondering if my note-making style had changed over the years.
Asking for Trouble, my controversial and bestselling book, was published ten years ago. Yes, ten! It’s never been out of print, has been number one on Amazon UK’s erotica charts and still regularly hops up and down the top twenty. Sales have recently been gathering pace in the States as well. (Hey, what kept ya?) Anyway, later in the year, I’m going to have a party for my porn and you’re invited!
But look, my scruffy jottings have barely changed in the last decade: same handwriting, same type of notebook and pen, same dark and twisted fantasies! So Happy Birthday me! Here’s to knowing what you like while also staying open to exploration – but not so open that your likes fall out!