Short Hot Nights, my new e-collection of flash fic and short shorts, features nineteen tales of quick and kinky erotica and is available on Kindle now!
This collection includes a handful of new pieces alongside stories previously published in anthologies from Cleis, Mammoth and more; and on the fabulous women and couples porn sites run by Ms Naughty: For the Girls and Bright Desire. Some of the pieces are just 500 words in length while the longest, ‘Last Christmas’, is a dark, ghostly story set, appropriately enough, when the nights are long and dark. (You can read ‘Last Christmas’ for free on Tamsin Flowers’ blog.) The tales in Short Hot Nights centre on submission, bondage, humiliation and obsession, themes that run through most of my work. Titles include ‘Mind Games’, ‘Sugar Upsets my Vagina’, ‘Betsy’s Blushes’, ‘Memo for the Boss’ and ‘Mad Ghosts of Lust’.
Fun Fact: a couple of years ago, I ran a flash fiction workshop at Eroticon and circulated colour charts of nail polish and wallpaper paint to spark story ideas for participants. ‘Betsy’s Blushes’ is a spanking story inspired by the Farrow and Ball paint, Nancy’s Blushes. Wanting to ensure I stayed on the right side of copyright law and not get sued, I changed my main character’s name. (A less fun fact: ‘Betsy’s Blushes’ was slated to appear in a Cleis anthology until the company was bought out and numerous scheduled titles got cancelled. Such is publishing!)
I’m not writing much erotica these days, nor (as you can probably tell!), am I blogging much. However, I’m thrilled that I’ve been able to gather together the bulk of my flash and short shorts into a single volume, and to pair this with last year’s collection of my longer-length short stories, On My Knees. If you do decide to buy, I hope you enjoy the read, and particular thanks to anyone and everyone who leaves reviews. They really do help sales, even if they’re only a sentence or two long.
Here’s a very neat link that will take you to the Amazon site where you live: Short Hot Nights
Meet sadists, submissives, spanking fans and seducers as their sexual adventures are captured in these snapshots. Whether it’s back alley or boardroom, heartbreak or happiness, every twisted encounter offers an invitation to more.
It’s no secret that I love Sh! Womenstore, as do many other erotica authors. So I’m thrilled they keep on inviting us back to their wonderful Hoxton shop!
On Thursday 11th Feb, I’ll be part of a Valentine Reading, along with Mistress of Ceremonies, Zak Jane Keir, the always-fabulous KD Grace and Elizabeth Coldwell, plus a couple of new writers. Or new to me, at least.
These events are always fabulously welcoming, convivial, sexy and fun. Come along if you can. It’s free, open to all, and there will be fizz and cake, plus a chance to shop, chat or simply gaze in wonder at beautiful vibrators.
Hope to see you there! And here’s a pic from a previous Sh! reading where it looks as if I’m trying to get the devil drunk! (The devil, in this case, being Janine Ashbless.)
If you’re around London this Friday (18 Dec), why not drop into Sh! in Hoxton for our festive reading slam? It’s a free event, 6 – 8pm, and the bubbles will be flowing!
All you need to do is settle into your seat while we entertain you with tales of seduction and debauchery. There’ll be shopping opps and book signings, plus the usual Sh!-style hospitality – friendly, fun, filthy and FIZZY! I’m greatly looking forward to this gig. The staff at Sh! are truly lovely and reading in the store is always a treat.
And in other exciting news, today I have a brand new story, Last Christmas, featured on Tamsin Flower’s blog for day 16 of her advent calendar.
I love the tradition of Christmas ghost stories so I took that as my starting point. Last Christmas is a subtle, spooky piece – and, ho ho, ho, it isn’t very nice! I hope you enjoy it – especially since this is the first full-length story I’ve written for around eighteen months (gulp). Tamsin is raising money for homeless charities so if you have a few quid to spare, please give what you can.
Wishing you a fabulous festive season and I hope to see some of you at Sh! on Friday!
In the meantime, friends, please gather around the fire and let me tell you a story…
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