Kristina Lloyd

Erotic Fiction

On My Knees is everywhere!

On My Knees K Lloyd pbkMy book of short stories is now wherever you want it to be!

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!

November 3, 2015 Posted by | Kristina Lloyd | , , , , , | Leave a comment

“No Sleep” and writing on the body


Today I’m guesting at one of my favourite places,, 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.


ON MY KNEES_417x625On My Knees presents fifteen of Kristina Lloyd’s best-loved tales of female submission, including ‘The Bondage Pig’, ‘On My Knees in Barcelona’ and ‘All My Lovers in One Room’.

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

Amazon UK :: Amazon US :: Amazon Ca

October 6, 2015 Posted by | Kristina Lloyd | , , , , | 2 Comments

Happily Ever Anal!

happily_ever_analI have a note pinned to my corkboard under the ‘To do’ section saying: HEA promo – 14 Feb!

Um, Happy Valentine’s Day, everybody! I’m late.

Happily Ever Anal is the fourth in our series of booty books, and in this year’s anthology our stories have a romantic twist. My contribution, ‘Dr Facility and the Loving Butt Plug’, tells of a woman who’s longing to lose her anal virginity within a committed, loving relationship. So she seeks the advice of the mysterious and slightly monstrous Dr Facility.

My story isn’t trad romance, as you can probably tell! I had heaps of fun playing with the conventions of romantic love and the tropes of romance fiction when I wrote this story.

Here’s the beginning of the piece.

Dr Facility lived on the wrong side of town, tucked away among the warehouses of the old docks. At the entrance to his practice, an engraved silver plaque read: Dr Facility makes dreams come true.

It neglected to say whose dreams.

I pressed the bell. Immediately, the voices came tumbling into my head, a cacophony of lines I’d been rehearsing since embarking on my journey (my emotional, sexual journey, that is, not the one that had brought me there that night). What to choose?

“Dr Facility, I want to lose my anal virginity to a man who’ll truly love me.”

“Good doctor, I’ve heard buttsex used to be meaningful and you might think me old-fashioned but I yearn for those days.”

Or “Please help. I want to get romantically fucked up the ass. Is that even possible in the 21st century?”

When the buzzer sounded, I heaved open the thick, steel door. My hands shook. I’d heard so much about this man, always in whispers and rumors, in bars late at night when tongues grew loose, and in furtive conversations, the sort where a friend tells you about a friend of a friend who could recommend a man down by the docks.

He wasn’t what I was expecting. He was shorter, for one thing, and dramatically handsome — his eyes smoldering, his brow grim and brooding, his starched white coat at variance with the carelessness suggested by his unshaven jaw and unkempt hair. Too caught up in intellectual pursuits to remember daily grooming, no doubt. In the center of a vast room stood his desk, a deeply polished oak number topped in green leather, an Anglepoise lamp casting a pool of light onto the surface. Dr Facility sat behind the desk in the half-shadows.

“Tell me what you want, ” he said as I took my seat opposite him.

I spoke, nervous and halting, and he studied me, turning a pen in one hand. When I’d finished, I awaited his response, my heart thumping, my plea for help hanging awkwardly in the silence. I had to remind myself he was a professional, he’d heard it all before.

Finally, he said, “This is the first time anyone’s come to me with a problem like this.”

I looked down, embarrassed. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be, please. I enjoy a challenge. It could even make a credible research paper. Your identity would be protected, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Now if you could raise your skirt and lean over my desk.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard.”

“But …” I struggled for words. “You mean this desk? Here?”

Dr Facility gestured around his dingy, oversized consulting room. A low bookshelf lined with leather-bound texts ran along one wall, next to it a winged armchair and a small table, big enough to hold a book but little else. Opposite, pinned to an empty wall, was an eye chart of letters diminishing in size. Standing forlornly in a far corner, just about visible in the gloom, was a tall, balance-beam weighing scale made of wood and brass. Below a square window whose blinds were drawn, a drinks cabinet offered a multiplicity of liquor bottles, short and fat, tall and slim, their colorful contents reminiscent of an apothecary’s wares.

Once my eyes had adjusted to the dimness, I could see the details of a framed picture hanging several yards away from the eye chart, a black and white photograph of a wild-haired woman in a straitjacket, the image flecked with dirt and scratches. The woman looked to the camera with deranged glee, and yet it also seemed as if she were looking at us, her avaricious eyes fixed on Dr Facility’s desk.

It was hard to say what sort of doctor this man was.

“Do you see any other desks here?” he asked.

“No, I’m sorry. It’s just that …”

I trailed off helplessly. Dr Facility, at ease in his big, swivel chair, observed me as if waiting for me to expand. He resumed toying with his pen, his spotlit hands flexing and twisting as he slow-twirled his little, ink-filled baton. His shirt cuffs peeked below the sleeves of his white coat, cufflinks glinting in the light. Boldly, I met his gaze, thinking if the madwoman could face her tormentors, then so could I. Immediately, I checked myself, thinking, But I’m not paying him to torment me. I’m here for his help.

My boldness shrank the more I looked at him, fear creeping in as its replacement. I saw fathomless depths in Facility’s eyes and an intensity in his manner, a suggestion he’d seen darkness and had survived. I saw, too, that he wanted more. Here was a man who could carry other people’s burdens without being dragged down. I suspected he rather liked the weight of us in our flawed, fumbling glory. It made him feel superior, not quite human.

I shrugged. “There’s nothing else. I’m nervous, that’s all. I’d rather know what’s in store for me before I … obey.”

“The first step,” said Dr Facility, “is recognizing that surrender to the unknown is crucial to the process of falling in love.”

“I know plenty about falling in love, thanks,” I said crisply. “And no one ever asked me to bend over a table and bare my butt. At least, not until we were going steady.”

Amazon UK :: Amazon US

Undone MSI don’t know why it took me over three months to tell you about the release of HEA.

Oh, yes I do! I was in the final stages of writing my next novel, Undone, and I’m very much a mono-tasker. Anyway, Undone has since been delivered to my editor at Black Lace, and will be published on September 11th.

I’m very excited by this book but more on that another time.

Right is a pic of the manuscript, printed twice, and made messy with edits.

And now I can remove that HEA note from my ‘To do’ list!

May 21, 2014 Posted by | Kristina Lloyd | , , , , | Leave a comment

Dirty Little Numbers

gdp007-dirtylittlenos_cover2Dirty Little Numbers, an anthology of flash fiction, is out today, 23rd Oct!

My story, Under Captain Jack, is the opening piece in the book. Kicking off a collection is always a thrill, and being first also means my short short can be read for free on Amazon’s Look Inside Thingyin less than 2 minutes! (I timed it, and I’m a slow reader.)

This is probably the one and only time Johnny Depp will feature in my work, so do make the most of it. (He’s a bit too skinny and pretty for my taste.)

Under Captain Jack is followed by fic from a range of writers, including Jeremy Edwards, Tamsin Flowers, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Raziel Moore and more, more, more. Some names are new to me, some I’ve known for a while but don’t yet know their work. I’m hugely looking forward to delving in and discovering new writers via bite-sized pieces of hotness.

This is the first time I’ve worked with Go Deeper Press, and I’ve been super-impressed. In the wake of FSOG, I’m enormously grateful to all editors, imprints and writers who are willing to resist the commercial temptation to do romantic billionaire bonking; who are pushing boundaries; and who are motivated by a belief in our genre that’s rooted in its potential for cultural change rather than in its currently fashionable, mainstream kerching!!!!! value.

Check out Go Deeper Press and support the indies!

Buy Dirty Little Numbers directly from Go Deeper Press.

(You can upload to your Kindle via this option, or read as a plain ol’ PDF .)

Or buy DNL from:: Amazon US:: Amazon UK

UPDATE! Annabeth Leong has written a smart and lovely review of my piece and we have two 5 star reviews on Amazon US already!

October 23, 2013 Posted by | Kristina Lloyd | , , | 3 Comments

Twin peaks!

Anal on Audible 250 rsz_the-mammoth-book-of-best-new-erotica-11-volume-11
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?

“When Jackson came back from the moon, he was a little changed.”

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!


JakeGETA: 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)!

January 5, 2013 Posted by | Kristina Lloyd | , , , | Leave a comment