The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 13

It’s that time of year again when the Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica is upon us. And once again, I’m honoured to have a story selected for inclusion.

One of the things I love about Mammoth, particularly since Fifty Shades overtook the western world, is editor, Maxim Jakubowski‘s introductions. It’s no secret that Maxim has long been a champion of well-written erotica and his forewords generally contain a reminder that the genre is far more diverse, interesting and literary than the market dominance of identikit, fuck-a-billionaire books would have us believe.

This year, Maxim writes: “We have found ourselves briefly in fashion, only to be overcome by the lemmings and a publishing industry that will never learn its lessons properly, but we’re still alive and kicking and, I would venture to say, the general level of quality now to be found in erotica writing is higher than ever.”

My story in Mammoth 13 is “The Bondage Pig”, first published in Alison Tyler‘s Big Book of Bondage. The piece received some great reviews on its first outing, and I’m thrilled my pig gets to ride again!

Relatedly, Maxim, who has a monthly review feature with LoveReading, recently gave my latest novel, Undone, a great write up, saying: “Lloyd has long been one of the more interesting and challenging authors in the sometimes formulaic Black Lace stable” and “No one does damaged characters better than Lloyd and has a clearer open line to the well of cravings and obsessions.”

Check out the whole review on LoveReading.

I have to say, I’m thrilled by the reception Undone has met. I particularly love this review, funny as fuck and complete with animated gifs: HOLY HELL!!!!! This book was bomb-tastic. Who doesn’t love a book with HOT MEN, FILTHY SEX, betrayal, and mystery?!

Indeed! Who doesn’t?

Do women prefer erotica?

It’s the final day of my month-long blog tour to promote my latest book, Undone. I’m at Anna Sky’s, discussing women’s apparent preference for erotica over porn. A national newspaper asked me to write on this topic yesterday but offered zero payment. However, I would, they said, get exposure. So I declined because I think this practice sucks. Then I wrote a piece anyway.

Please check it out! I’m desperate for the exposure!

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Sparkly guest post: Justine Elyot

Justine Elyot is with me today, bringing a bit of bling to my blog and recalling the trailblazing days of our awesome publisher, Black Lace. I love Justine’s fun, upbeat approach to erotica. There’s something distinctly British about her work that goes beyond mere location and language. She writes with wry humour and creates relatable, down-to-earth and enthusiastically horny characters. Diamond is the first in her new trilogy for Black Lace, and I’m greatly looking forward to the read. Take it away, Justine!

Diamonds and Black Lace

I’m delighted to be here with Kristina Lloyd, who is my stablemate at Black Lace…but I did promise not to talk about the pony play, so perhaps I should move away from that angle.

But, no. Hang on. Why should I? If I want to write about pony play, and somebody else wants to read about it, what’s stopping us?

Quite a lot, actually.

I know pony play is niche and, for the record, I have never written a pony play scene myself. But that’s not because I think it’s dreadful and unacceptable. I’ve read and enjoyed a fair bit of pony play erotica (Molly Weatherfield’s Carrie’s Story springs to mind – recommended; do give it a go). I sincerely doubt that I could publish it anywhere but Kindle Direct or Smashwords, though.

Well, wasn’t it ever thus, you might ask? Hasn’t erotica always been the preserve of self-publishing and dodgy fly-by-nights?

No, not necessarily, because the venerable Nexus imprint had long been on hand to supply what Wikipedia describes as ‘sado-masochistic pornography written mostly for men’, and in the 1990s it was joined by a sister imprint, Black Lace. Black Lace’s remit was pretty revolutionary for the time – deftly mission-statemented as ‘by women for women’, it was the first label to deal exclusively with erotica that explored female sexuality.

And it did exactly that. Women were able to buy top-shelf material without the traditionally embarrassing, and sometimes rather threatening, packaging. Instead of page after page about the female (sex doll) character’s big tits or juicy ass, the focus was on the female gaze. It was fantastic and, in my naivete, I really thought it meant society was moving on from its unholy terror of women’s sexuality.

If you wanted luscious kink, there was Portia Da Costa’s Entertaining Mr Stone. If you were in the mood to indulge yourself in fantasties of sinful years-gone-by there was Anna Lieff Saxby’s Lord Wraxall’s Fancy. If your tastes ran to the edgy and literary, Kristina was your woman with her Asking for Trouble. And if (like me) you could handle all three, and more – well, you had found your late night reading home.

It was amazing. And then it ended.

But now it’s started again, under the 50 Shades shadow, beneath which a thousand little mushrooms of billionaire romance have sprung up. During its absence, the erotica scene has changed. ‘More romance, and make it aspirational’ is the order of the day. Exploration of female sexuality is plum back out of fashion. Knitting and baking are where it’s at.

So I have to be thankful for a publisher that doesn’t ask me to cut the anal sex scenes (because, of course, no nice, normal woman could possibly enjoy it).

Long live Black Lace and all who drape themselves in her!

(Incidentally, Wikipedia still lists Black Lace as defunct.)

I will now prove the actual existence of Black Lace by giving you an excerpt from my new Black Lace book, Diamond.

She poured herself a glass of Merlot and she was sitting on the broad windowsill, sipping it and looking out into the weedy front garden, when Leonardo came into the room.

She almost double took.

Jesus, he scrubbed up well. He scrubbed up a lot more than well.

His hair shone like polished conkers, matching his melting eyes. She wanted to go over and bury her nose in it, knowing it would smell divinely of her expensive shampoo. But that wasn’t all she wanted to do. His face, now clean and shaved, seem to actually shine. It was pale but as full-lipped and high-cheekboned as some exotic angelic creature painted by a Renaissance master. He reminded her of a portrait she’d seen by Pietro Perugino – an older version of that melancholy-eyed young man.

But he was taller and broader and undoubtedly fully developed, and she found herself transfixed by his forearms, sinewy and powerful – one of them sporting an amateurish tattoo that she couldn’t quite make out from this distance.

The clothes fitted well, having that telltale recently-unfolded look such new garments always did. He had not put any socks on, though, and stood in the doorway barefoot, gripping the top of the splintering frame so that she could see his long, surprisingly delicate fingers splayed across the peeled paintwork. His nails still bore little crescents of black deep down – paint, she supposed.

His stance was almost aggressively masculine, and she had to remember to breathe before saying, ‘Help yourself to wine.’

‘I’ll do, then, will I?’ he said, staying put for another moment.

She thought that he was displaying himself to her, but then she dismissed it. He was young and unearthly-beautiful. What would he want with her?

‘The clothes fit well,’ was all she could come up with.

‘Yeah. Not sure they’re my style but…’

‘What is your style?’

She smiled and he walked over to where the wine bottle stood on the floor with an empty glass beside it.

‘Ghetto,’ he said shortly, picking up the bottle. ‘Not so fabulous.’

I don’t know about that.

‘I’m not sure if I like wine,’ he said, sniffing at the bottle neck. ‘Never had it before.’

‘Never? Seriously?’

‘Nope. I’m a superstrength lager man myself. As long as it’s on special.’ He poured himself a glass. ‘Gets you the most pissed for the cheapest price,’ he elaborated, with a combative look in her direction.

He was trying to tell her who he was, she realised. He was giving her a get-out clause. I am who I am. Take it or leave it.

‘Wine is nice. I don’t usually indulge, but I can call this a housewarming, I suppose. Try it. Go on.’

‘Why don’t you?’ he asked, filling his glass to the brim. ‘Don’t you like drinking?’ He had to sip a bit off the top to prevent spilling it.

‘I like it. I just try not to like it too much.’

She came over and sat on the mattress, hoping he would do the same.

He did.

Thank you for reading – the book is available now from all sorts of places, including The Book Depository:

http://www.bookdepository.com/Diamond-Justine-Elyot/9780352347756

Alison Tyler on Writing

Two things I adore: Alison Tyler and writers talking about writing. And today, I’m lucky enough to have both! Wrapped Around Your Finger is out now in the US from Cleis and shares a UK Black Lace release date with my own book,Undone, tomorrow, 11 September. Here’s Alison, telling us how she works:

Wrapped Around Your Finger is the third novel in what has become my “Submission Series” but what began as a blog post a day. For 18 months, I worked on the story. I don’t sleep much anyway. I slept less while writing this series. Every song I heard on the radio became a potential soundtrack. Scents sent me back in time. Colors were brighter.

I remember both the stress and the freedom of sitting down each morning and slamming out a scene. I thought about the story all the time. Unlike a short piece or a stand-alone novel—which I tend to wrap up after a few days, a week, or a few months— this tale had no end planned. I lived and breathed the words every day.

The first post went up in August of 2006. The desire to wrangle 500,000 words into novel format remained for years simply a fantasy (or possibly a nightmare). How does one take 2000 pages and divide them into novel-sized sections that make sense? The concept was too daunting at first, and I hid from the idea until Cleis asked if I was still interested in writing novels.

Yes.

But this series was unlike any of my other novels because the words were already there. I simply had to edit the fuck out of them. When you write a blog post a day, you can trust you have not overused a specific word. When you put all of the pieces together, you learn a lot about yourself as a writer. Or at least, I did.

I found pet words and phrases that I didn’t know I owned. Which means that I edited these books to their limits. The most thrilling note I’ve received ever as a writer was this one from Cleis’ copy editor:

I meant to mention in passing: I think I noticed this last time around, with Torment– it’s gratifying to see, going through the document, that Tyler used the opportunity to pare back her own language very effectively–word cuts that might’ve been presumptuous coming from me, but make the text so much more direct and tight. And not a single typo or added spaces, as usually happens when (usually individual contributors) start rewriting. She’s a pro!

The books as they stand are Dark Secret Love, The Delicious Torment, and Wrapped Around Your Finger. I still have 300,000 words to whip into shape.

Wish me luck.

XXX,
Alison

Alison Tyler has been called “a trollop with a laptop” by the East Bay Express, “a literary siren” by Good Vibrations, and “a hell of a writer” by Violet Blue. She is the editor of more than seventy-five anthologies for publishers including Pretty Things Press, Cleis, Plume, and Harlequin. Her novels include Dark Secret Love, The Delicious Torment and Wrapped Around Your Finger, which is the third in the “Submission Series” published by Cleis Press. Visit her at alisontyler.blogspot.com and follow her at twitter.com/alisontyler.

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UNDONE: The beginning

Monday 30th June

I can’t recall my first thought that morning: that I was in a strange bedroom; that an unfamiliar man was naked beside me; or that a woman was screaming somewhere in the distance.

The scream filtered into a hung-over dream so I couldn’t be sure if it was real or imagined.

‘You hear that?’ I asked him. My mouth was bone dry.

He said nothing, his slow, sleepy breath rattling in his throat. ‘Hey.’ I nudged him and he rolled on his side, the muscles in his back slipping and shifting as if his body were liquefying, man becoming river. He grunted as he turned, dragging the sheet so it twisted like a toga, flashing that distinctive tattoo.

His breath grew quiet. I tried to piece him together. Broad, bronzed shoulders. Scruffy dark hair. I looked at his back, as big and silent as a continent, his spine a groove swooping down to the furred cleft of his buttocks. What was his name? Hell, what had we done together? A solid thrum between my thighs responded before cognitive memory could answer.

I flopped away from him, squinting. The room was cream and gold, its walls slanted, the curtains glowing with light as pale as honeydew melons. I licked my teeth. Outside birds trilled and chattered, and I couldn’t hear even a murmur of cars. I must have imagined the scream, the noise an echo escaping from a dream I couldn’t recall. Dravendene Hall was too tranquil for drama. Even a bad dream seemed out of place.

Pleasure bubbled as snatches of the night before returned to me. Forty one years old and my first threesome. Go, Lana Greenwood, go! Work that bucket list! I smiled and stretched, feeling fucked, messy, glorious and alive. I tried to ignore the dull sense of disquiet threatening to upset my happiness. A forgotten nightmare, that was all. Beneath the bed sheet, I rubbed my foot against his, just making contact and saying ‘Hi there, relative stranger’. His foot edged away, avoiding mine. Ah, I thought. One of those. Shuns affection. Well, I could handle that for a one-night stand.

That’s when I realised a third person should have been in bed with us, Misha, the Russian guy. Oh boy, the things we’d done together. The things they had done. Images rushed in of bodies slamming, of sweat-damp hair, limbs entangling and mouths gaping. I’d watched them as if in a fog, my perception misted by thwarted desire. What was he called, this guy lying next to me? He had a freshly bust-up lip when I’d first met him. Damn. Embarrassing if I couldn’t recall his name. Should I rummage through his wallet?

Sol, that was it. Sol Something-or-other. Dangerously attractive and charmingly cocky. An ex-New Yorker with a dirty smile and an introductory handshake that had turned my knees to mush. It wasn’t one of those concerted, hefty handshakes taught in business schools to suggest sincerity. It was a grip from a man who liked to tease but didn’t know his own strength. There’s not a lot I wouldn’t do to bed someone like that. As I later demonstrated.

And Misha was a customer from The Blue Bar. Ack, I should not have fucked a customer and crossed that professional boundary. Jeez, but the guy was hung. How awkward was that going to be when he next stopped in for a drink? All I’d be able to think about was his ginormous schlong. Already I was itching to tell Katrina. I could picture her laughing as I relayed the highlights. ‘I swear, Kat, his cock was so huge he nearly passed out when he got hard! You could practically see the colour draining from his face! Couldn’t even form a sentence. No blood supply to his brain!’

I glanced around the room in search of water. I’d packed coconut water, good for rehydrating. Sensible me. The smooth beige carpet was littered with bondage gear, condoms, beer bottles and tissues. Well, maybe not so sensible. But oh, what a night.

Misha’s absence didn’t concern me until the scream rang out again.

‘We need help!’ yelled a male voice from far away. A door banged.

My heart speeded up, nausea clutching. Don’t ask why, but a gut instinct told me this was related to Misha. I stood and slipped on my dressing gown, a 1950s wrap in pistachio green silk and sprigged with dusky roses. Does it seem shallow of me to mention details of my clothing when a tragedy was unfolding? It’s an impulse I can’t resist. If I’m to tell my story to these pages, I need to visualise myself and how I acted, otherwise I risk vanishing into the words, disappearing in the slippage between my outsides and insides, between the sound of language and the meaning.

I parted the curtains, fingertips trembling on gold brocade. Far below, beyond the tiny, diamond-paned window, the calm of striped green lawns and orderly flowerbeds rolled towards surrounding woodland. I picture the scene now, and I’m a character in an Elizabeth Bowen novel, albeit without the youthful innocence.

We were high in the West Tower, having opted to use my room because I’d brought Clejuso handcuffs and a bottle of Belvedere Unfiltered to the party. The American had been impressed by the cuffs; the Russian by the vodka. Personally, I’d been impressed by their eagerness for a post-Cold War ménage but then neither guy had turned out to be as straight as I’d imagined.

The silk belt to my dressing gown lay on the cluttered floor. I grabbed it, picking hurriedly at knots as I remembered how Sol had used the silk to tie my legs to the chair. I threaded the smooth length through the loops of my gown, fastening a limp bow as I swished from the room, leaving Sol asleep. I descended the steep spiral staircase to the second floor of the west wing to find doors opening along the corridor. A pyjama-clad woman with bird’s nest hair and grumpy, kohl-smudged eyes glared at me, as if I were to blame for the disturbance. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ she growled.

‘Search me.’ I strode quickly, holding my gown to my groin for decency’s sake, hung a left, then took the stairs down to the next level. I found myself on the balcony floor overlooking the oak-panelled entrance hall with its chequerboard floor, tall Chinese urns and trophy stag heads. Since my arrival the day before, I’d grown better at navigating the higgledy-piggledy gothic monstrosity that was Dravendene Hall.

Below, a guy stood in the centre of the tiled hallway, arms wide, appealing up to the balcony.

‘Swimming pool, anyone?’ he called. ‘Best way to the swimming pool? Didn’t even know there was one.’

I trotted down the staircase like a poor man’s Scarlett O’Hara, thinking the owners were crazy to allow random party-goers free rein in such spectacularly grand manor house. Their insurance must be sky high. Half-dressed people flitted and flowed, some alert to the sense of urgency, others bleary-eyed and reluctant. A lanky guy in droopy blue boxers descended one step at a time while rolling a cigarette. A woman with tears streaking her face ran in the opposite direction, elbowing people aside as she stumbled up the stairs. ‘He’s dead,’ she was sobbing. ‘He’s dead.’

People exchanged glances, some stopping in their tracks, others springing forward. ‘Who’s dead?’ ‘What’s happening?’ ‘Has anyone called an ambulance?’ ‘Oh fuck, keep calm.’

Two guys were having an animated discussion in the entrance hall, one pointing ahead, the other to the right. In the chaos, someone decided it was easiest to reach the pool via the gardens so I followed while others ran deeper into the house. Outside, the grass underfoot was cool and moist, and the morning sunlight hurt my eyes. I’m too pale and blonde for summer, even a British summer.

The pool was at the rear of the pointy, redbrick hall, housed in glass like a Victorian conservatory. Gravel pinched my feet as we hurried along a path flanked with regimented box hedge. Ahead, a huddle of people gathered on the poolside, some crouched low. A palm tree behind the conservatory glass obscured my view and it wasn’t until we were at the sliding patio doors that I saw the splayed bare feet and hairy shins of a figure on the marble floor. Two guys knelt over him, one pumping his chest.

A burly guy with a phone to his ear gazed down at the men, his crimson face filmy with sweat. ‘Anything?’ he asked.

To enter the pool house was to slam into a wall of tropical humidity. An acrid scent of chlorine tainted the heat, and silver reflections shimmered on the rectangle of blue water. Alabaster nymphs gazed impassively from slender plinths, their nipples round enough to pluck. The potted palms were lush and tranquil, and a faint mechanised hum hovered around us. My back was slick with sweat, the dressing gown sticking to my skin. I was panting, the air so dense I felt as if I were trying to inhale fabric. My legs quivered, my head booming, my skull like a vice. This sudden shortage of breath, damn it. I half-feared I might collapse. Too much late-night sex and alcohol.

‘No, nothing, mate. I think we should give up. There’s no pulse.’

A man kneeling by the body sat back on his heels.

A woman’s sob erupted as if from a trapped, primitive place.

People swung around to look at me.

The sound hung, a blood-curdling cry muffled and held by glasshouse echoes.

My hand was clamped to my mouth, my eyes fixed on his grey, bloated, froth-smeared face.

‘Lana.’ The voice was gentle. A woman moved towards me. She seemed to glide on the periphery of my vision then she clasped me in her arms, so strong and solid. ‘Hush babes.’ I let her hold me, hiding in the comfort of her hair, wanting to unsee what I’d just seen. ‘I think he must be a friend of Rose’s,’ she said. ‘Do you know him?’

Far away, coming from another world, the anguished wail of sirens slid over the countryside.

I nodded into the woman’s neck. Her hair smelled cold, like starlight and outer space. For a long time, I couldn’t form the words. Then, croakily, ‘Misha Morozov. A customer at The Blue Bar.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, rubbing my back. ‘Sweetheart, I’m so sorry. But I don’t think we can do anything else for him.’

I’m too raw. My head’s jangling with sex and death. I wish I could turn back the clock.

I can’t write any more today. I need to try and sleep.

~~~

Published September 11th, 2014
Pre-order with Amazon

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