The rather beautiful paperback version is available from the Amazons (snazzy global link here) and the ebook is sold via all the big retailers – so you can purchase for your Kindle, your fancy iPhone, your tablet, your Nook, your cranny and more!
You can also buy in various formats (.mobi, PDF, ePub etc) from Smashwords.
This is a full-length collection, featuring fifteen of my stories published in UK and US anthologies between 2007 and 2014. I’m so pleased I’ve been able to bring these kinky pieces together in a single volume. There were a handful of additional stories I would have liked to include but, since I sold all rights to the publishers at the time, I unfortunately had to leave them out.
For nosy parkers such as myself, I’ve offered an ‘About the Stories’ section where I reveal a few behind-the-scenes details – the inspiration behind the pieces, their route to publication and so on.
I’m toying with the idea of doing a volume of my flash fiction next year but I’ll see how this book fares first!
Today I’m guesting at one of my favourite places, sexblogofsorts.com, with a piece about writing on the body, and my reasons for finding it so frickin’ hot. I was half tempted to call the guest post “That’s Why the Lady is a Tramp” but I behaved.
In the piece (read it here), I mention “No Sleep”, the opening story in my new collection, On My Knees, because it centres on a scene where he writes on her body – not in a nice, arty way but in a thoroughly nasty way. You can read the whole of “No Sleep” on Amazon preview but I thought it would be nice to feature an excerpt here as well.
From “No Sleep”
The hotel room, like the bar, was warmly minimalist, a cocoon of cream, browns and aubergine. She turned up the dimmer switch, stripped and knelt, pleased that the thread of ribbon in her black bra was a near-perfect match for the bruise-purple stripe on the bed linen. Not that he would notice. Not that she cared. This was a sex thing, not a matching-bra-and-bed thing.
On the dressing table, the brandy glowed like a tiny fireplace. I could be anyone, she thought.
When he entered, he glanced at her as if she were nothing but furniture before he turned to hang his jacket in the alcove-cum-wardrobe. “Clasp your hands behind your head,” he said, removing his shirt.
She did. She felt nervous and stupid, playing this game of make-believe because it aroused them. Children play games, not adults.
He removed all his clothes, aimed the TV remote then flicked through screens of information. Naked in the dimness, he was glorious, his cock erect, vulgar and shameless, his arms sculpted with light and shadow, his butt taut and lean. Colors from the TV shimmered on his chest.
She recalled him once telling her about a program he’d watched, something involving Romans and their servants, and how it had turned him on. This was months ago when they’d first started seeing each other (if you could call it “seeing”). She’d treasured the snippet because he never revealed much about his day-to-day life. Then again, neither did she. Distance.
But this was cheeky: six weeks apart and he switches on the TV first? She was aching for the warmth of his skin, the scent of him and the wild thrust of his cock, and knew he was equally hot for her. She admired him for being such a cool bastard. The more he ignored her, the more humiliated and horny she grew. She liked to claim she wasn’t ashamed of her kinks but when she was in the thick of it, compliant, needy and submissive, she felt embarrassed by the enormity of her lust. She wanted satisfaction and didn’t like to dwell on how low she might go to achieve it. But it was a tricky business, this game-playing, because going low was part of her pleasure. She loved what she hated, hated what she loved.
He didn’t have that problem. He loved it all.
He set down the remote and addressed her. “Hey, what’s this? Free whore?”
She winced at his jaunty tone, hated it.
He approached. He had a pen in his hand, a Sharpie. “Now this is what I call room service,” he said. “What are you?”
Her voice was soft. “A whore.”
“Sort of a whore?”
She closed her eyes. “A free whore.”
“That’s right. Likes getting used so much she doesn’t even want paying.”
He wrote the words across her chest in black ink: FREE WHORE. She held still, swaying only slightly.
“Arms folded behind your back,” he said. He pushed her bra straps down, lifted her breasts free and grabbed her by the hair. Holding her head firm, he drove into her mouth, increasing his reach until her throat was opening to clasp the last inch of him, so warm and tight. She gazed up obediently, her lips around his root, her eyes watering. Her makeup ran, making her tears as black as the words on her chest.
When she needed air, she tapped his thigh and he withdrew. “Aw,” he said, thumbing away a tear. “Such a good submissive.” She thought he was taunting her; then, in a gentle voice, he added, “You’re beautiful when you cry, you know?”
She thought he was being sincere. (He was.) “I’m not crying,” she said.
“You will be soon,” he warned.
He was right, of course.
In her bag of kit, she had rope, cuffs, flogger, blindfold, ball gag, bit gag, butt plug, vibe, condoms, lube, Wet Wipes. The crop had been too long to pack, so she’d left that at home rather than have its handle poking out of the zip on the Underground, letting everyone know she was a pervert. She should have left the whole bag at home. All he used were the condoms plus the pen that he’d brought himself. It was testament to his dark imagination he could reduce her to a sobbing wreck with so little equipment.
He fucked her on the bed with slow cruelty, easing himself into her without hitting home. He didn’t thrust, he didn’t go deep, and the angle was weak. She was on her side, a leg in the air, pleading for more.
“When I’m ready,” he said, rocking calmly into her cunt.
She shifted position, trying to take more of him but he laughed and readjusted, denying her the advantage. “What are you after?” he asked. “Tell me, I might give it to you.”
She muttered obscenities, begging him to fuck her and fill her and let her have his cock, oh please, it’s torture, I can’t stand it, give it to me hard, please, please.
He took the pen, made her twist forward, then wrote her words on her back as if she’d been dictating. “In case I forget what you want,” he said. He swiveled her onto all fours, gripped her hips, and penetrated her with one neat, clean thrust. Her walls stretched to take him and the two of them groaned in unison. “Oh, I’ve missed this little cunt,” he said.
He fucked her one way for a while before flipping her over, pushing her legs back and slamming in deep again. He went at her with a dour force and passion, his face clouded with absorption in the moment, sweat sprinkling from his forehead. She clung to his cock, slippery and snug, and he filled her with his big, meaty aggression, calling her names through gritted teeth. He withdrew without coming—time for something else now—and told her to kneel on the bed.
Her legs were shaky and she was bothered by the ink stains on the sheets. She imagined the words printed backwards on the cotton, entertainment for the chambermaids. Fuck me hard, please, I can’t stand it, I need your cock, please, oh God, please, and do you think that will come out with Dreft?
He’d had plans he’d been mulling over for weeks, plans involving rope and pain, gags and ass-fucking. But he’d found the Sharpie in his pocket on his way up to the room and he was running with sudden, new ideas. He made her open her knees a little wider then pushed the pen into her wetness. “Grip it,” he said. “Don’t let it drop.”
“Oh Christ.” She squeezed her PC muscles, her entire body tensing with the effort. But the pen was so slim and his cock had been so big, leaving her wet and open. A lifetime of Kegels couldn’t have saved her. She couldn’t hold the pen for a second.
“Try again,” he said.
When she failed for a second time, he slapped her face. This was usually the point where she’d start slipping away from him. He could see it in her eyes. He pinched and twisted her nipples, scratched her skin, and she arched toward him, whimpering for more. He circled and rocked her clit, his fist in her hair, stretching her neck taut. She came quickly. His gaze never left her face.
She looked dazed and remote, as if she existed somewhere behind her eyes. He could do anything he wanted when she started to drift but he was always careful, measuring her reactions, occasionally checking in for a whispered “yes”.
She was in a black, swimmy place veined with purple, pinpoints of light growing large and small. She had no words. If he needed it, she would try her very best to say “yes”. Sometimes, “yes” was as heavy as a boulder. When she couldn’t manage to lift the word, he always understood. He never heard her silence as “no”, thank God.
Kristina has contributed to dozens of anthologies and magazines over the years, and the stories in this collection feature a range of characters, settings and submissive desires. In ‘Living off Lovers’ a woman in a haunted apartment block becomes obsessed with a man she barely knows; while in another tale, Susanna, despite being married, can’t stop thinking about her local butcher (‘Cutting Out Hearts’). An army-boot fetishist meets her match in ‘Boot Camp’; and when Coral’s lover claims ownership of her ass, she orchestrates a threesome so she can enjoy being shared (‘My Ass is Your Ass is My Ass’).
“Kristina Lloyd is one of my favorite writers… Her atmospheric style sends me into orbit” – Alison Tyler
PS. If you want to win a paperback of On My Knees (out soon!), enter my Match the Writer to the Lipstick competition. And if you write, check out Charlie’s lipstick fiction comp. Closing date for both is 11th October. For every fiction entry, we’ll each be donating a pound to Refuge.
Let’s hear it for mouthy women, for the ones who’ve got something to say and aren’t afraid to say it!
Let’s hear it, too, for writing that’s brazenly filthy; writing that strives to explore and challenge; writing that wants to get under a reader’s skin, stay a little while and rearrange the furniture.
To help publicize my new short story collection, On My Knees, I’ve teamed up with one of my favourite bloggers, Charlie Powell from Sexblogofsorts, and we’re bringing you a brace of lipstick-based comps.
Right now, Charlie’s running a short story competition and is inviting submissions of erotic fic inspired by lipstick names. Drop Charlie a line and she’ll assign you a lippy as your prompt. Charlie’s writing competition is a follow on from a previous comp she ran, Polished, which used nail polish names in a similar way. And that comp was a sort of follow on from a writing workshop I ran at Eroticon in 2014. I love it when stuff keeps on rolling like this!
Charlie and I will both be donating a pound per fiction-comp entrant to Refuge, the charity helping women and children escape domestic violence. Head over to sexblogofsorts for the full lowdown – and if you decide to go for it, good luck!
Meanwhile, over here, the game is simpler and sillier: match the writer to the lipstick!
I asked a dozen or so kickass women for their favourite lippy (or you know, their favourite this week; or even an expression of their distaste for/indifference to lipstick because I aim to be inclusive). And now I’m asking you to guess their choice. These are authors and bloggers who pen powerful prose, and women who make shit happen. None of them could ever be accused of being backward about coming forward, and for that they have my utmost respect. I count myself among them because that’s the kind of thing we do around here. See that light glinting dimly under that bushel? That ain’t ours.
To enter the competition, check out the table at the end of this post and hazard a guess as to which writer swears by which lipstick. Then simply leave a comment with your answer. The winner is the person with the most – or even all – the correct guesses! I’ve numbered the writers and lettered the lippies so you can just go, eg 1=D, 2=J, 3=F etc until you’ve got a dirty dozen. The prize is a hot-off-the-press paperback of On My Knees, but perhaps more importantly, the glory of getting it right – or almost right! Closing date is 11th October, around midnight somewhere in the world. I’m kinda lax about rules. The photos may or may not give you some clues (click the images for a bigger, high-pigment version) but hey, isn’t that a pulchritudinous plethora of pouts? An awesome array of orality? A redoubtable range of reds? Who cares how useful the pics are?
If you’re a writer and you’re feeling a little stuck, I can highly recommend browsing the names of nail polishes, lipsticks and wall paint colours for inspiration. (Farrow and Ball paints have particularly lovely names.) The colour names of cosmetics and paints are designed to be evocative, to have an emotional, sensual pull or a cheeky, flirtatious vibe, and that can be an interesting springboard for a piece of fiction.
Check out the table of writers and lipsticks below for proof. Where could Everlasting Wine take you, or (ahem) Starlit Pink? How about Hello, Sailor or D is for Danger?
Inspirational names aside, I’m personally also partial to lipstick for much darker, sexier reasons. Because in the ‘wrong’ hands, lipsticks are pens, and submissive skin is a canvas to be inscribed upon.
But I’m going to come back to that particular angle next week. Right now, it’s time to pucker up and play the game! Tell me: who puts what on her lips?
And if you want to divulge your own favourite lipstick in comments, please do! We’re all ears – and mouth.
|THE WRITER||THE LIPPY|
|1||Cara Sutra – has more sex toys than you’ve had hot dinners||A||A Different Grape – Clinique|
|2||Charlie Powell – sex blogger with knobs on; sometimes pretends to be vanilla||B||Everlasting Wine – Maybelline|
|3||Janine Ashbless – highly respected author; Games of Thrones plus cock||C||Ruby Woo – MAC|
|4||KD Grace – author, gardener, hillwalker and probably witch||D||Silver Shimmer – Gala (now defunct :( )|
|5||Kristina Lloyd – oh you know…ME!||E||British Red – L’Oreal|
|6||Madeline Moore – Black Lace buddy; needs to publish a short story collection||F||Protect and Perfect Lip Care – Boots No.7|
|7||Malin James – elegant and eloquent but don’t let that fool you||G||D is for Danger – MAC|
|8||Molly Moore – sex blogger and top tog, reframing images of women||H||Red Amour – Laura Mercier|
|9||Remittance Girl – giving academia a boner; soon to be Dr Girl||I||Starlit Pink – Estee Lauder|
|10||Rose Caraway – peerless podcaster and naughty narrator||J||MAC Red – MAC|
|11||Ruby Kiddell – organiser of Eroticon, *the* event of the year||K||Hello, Sailor – Lipstick Queen (People, this lippy is blue! Srsly!)|
|12||Zak Jane Keir – author of femdom, maker of badges, dancer of the Morris||L||Mulberry – Max Factor|
As I said, your prize, if you map 12 to 12 (or are the closest to that), is a sparkly new paperback edition of my first short story collection, On My Knees (currently only available on Kindle). You can read more about the book here. I may throw in a fancy lipstick too!
Thank you for playing along – and thank you too to all the women featured here who offered me their magnificent mouthy mouths! Mwah! And double mwah!
On My Knees, my first short story collection, is out now and available worldwide(ish) on Kindle! Truly, I could pop with excitement! I’ve written dozens of stories over the years and this collection brings together the cream of my crop. All fifteen pieces have been previously published in anthologies edited by Alison Tyler, Maxim Jakubowski, Violet Blue and more, meaning a quality read is guaranteed!
Inevitably, the central theme is femsub, Kristina-Lloyd style. So the book is short on dungeons and BDSM protocol, and big on people exploring powerplay their own way or stumbling into situations which darken their desires. And often dished up with a twist of the strange or the surreal.
The collection begins with an introduction and concludes with an ‘About the Stories’ section. I’m an incorrigible nosy parker and I love reading about other writers’ inspirations and processes, so thought it only fair to fess up myself and offer a glimpse behind the scenes.
This is my first foray into self-publishing after almost two decades of being traditionally published. While flying solo is a little scary, earning three time as much in royalties as I would do ordinarily makes it worth overcoming the fear. (And increasingly, I have to wonder what some publishers do to warrant the huge cut they take from sales, especially when the very basics, marketing and distribution, are no longer a given.) It also gives me hope. In recent years, the market for erotica has become so narrow thanks to trad publishers’ hunger to replicate the success of Fifty Shades that, like many writers, I’d begun to question where I might fit in and how my work might continue to reach readers. Self-publishing feels like a way to regain some control and creative freedom, to continue writing the kind of fiction I want to write.
I’m hoping to have a paperback version of On My Knees available in the next couple of weeks and I’ll shortly be revealing more about the stories both here and on other authors’ blogs. I’m also reading from the collection at the next Dirty Sexy Words event on Sunday 20th September. Do come along if you can!
In the meantime, please check out the book on Amazon where you can read the entirety of the first story, ‘No Sleep’, a piece about a couple in a kinky NSA relationship; and some of the second story, ‘The Bondage Pig’, a piece about, um, a bondage pig! Links are below, and here’s a list of all the stories:
The Bondage Pig
On My Knees in Barcelona
Dark Side of the Moon
The Caesar Society
Such a Special Couple
How to Get Sex When You’re Dead
Fruits of the Forest
Living off Lovers
Cutting Out Hearts
My Ass is Your Ass is My Ass
All My Lovers in One Room