Kristina Lloyd

Erotic Fiction

Do women prefer erotica?

Undone Kristina Lloyd-580

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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September 30, 2014 Posted by | Kristina Lloyd | , , , | Leave a comment

Pucker up for Sommer

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Social media means we get to see a lot more of people’s day to day lives than we used to. And many of us in the erotica writing community have watched on as fellow writer, Sommer Marsden, deals with her husband’s cancer battle, displaying candour, determination, frustration and even her trademark humour. Today, writers are rallying round with a Snog for Sommer to raise money and show our support.

Please visit the Smut for Good page to find out more, to donate if you can, and to check out some of the other authors who are contributing a kiss for the cause.

Below is an excerpt from my newly released book, Undone. Sol and Lana are in the woodland on the morning after the night before. A man they had a threesome with is dead. During the threesome, Sol had avoided kisses since his lip was bust from a tennis injury. Here, Lana is craving the taboo intimacy of Sol’s broken lip.

I’m giving away a paperback copy so comment below (‘Me please!’ is enough!) or RT with the hashtag #undonelips to be in with a chance of winning.

I sniffed and nodded, easing back as Sol released his grip. I dusted the tear splashes on his T-shirt. ‘Sorry,’ I croaked.

‘No need.’ He smoothed my hair from my face and gazed down. Under his jutting brow, his once-twinkly eyes were now smudged with concern. The split on his lip sagged, a taut polished bead of bruises and blood. The injury seemed so decadent, a flagrant display of sensuality and excess bordering on the sordid. I wanted to kiss him there but doing so was forbidden. I might hurt him or open up the wound. And foolish to kiss where blood could spill into my mouth.

That his lips were off-limits made me desire to touch him there all the more. I raised my face higher, seeking and offering, my breath quivering with suppressed sobs. But I bottled out. Instead, I grated my lips over the rough, harsh stubble of his jaw, trying to inhale him. That was safer. I tasted my tears on my lips and I brushed harder, nibbling, kissing, smearing my saltiness against him, murmuring half-words of sadness. I couldn’t stop. The scouring on my lips was addictive.

I liked to think I was shredding tender skin on the burn of his bristles; that he was ripping me at the molecular level so the kissing, murmuring wreckage of me would lodge with him unseen.

I edged closer to his lips. Wasn’t it even more foolish not to kiss him there? A man was stone-cold dead. In the scheme of things, what did minor transgressions matter? Who cared about taking a chance on civility and health? So what if I tried and he was repulsed? Because wasn’t this, right now, what mattered most; this seizing of messy moments undaunted by a wagging finger?

I gazed up at him, and I wanted to vanish into his eyes. The hand cupping my head coiled my hair into a gentle fist and, oh, sweet, dirty joy, his cock nudged against my hip. A thick, slow beat throbbed between my thighs, three distinct pulses that wetted and widened me. I opened my mouth as if I were about to eat thin air. With great care, I reached up to take his injury in a soft, moist hold. As tenderly as I could, I ran my tongue tip over the taut, cracked plumpness.

A noise snagged in his throat.

I pulled back, concerned. ‘Does it hurt?’

‘Everywhere.’ His voice was a throaty whisper. ‘But I can’t feel it.’

*

About Undone

When Lana Greenwood attends a glamorous house party she finds herself tempted into a ménage à trois. But the morning after brings more than just regrets over fulfilling a fantasy one night stand. One of the men she’s spent the night with is discovered dead in the swimming pool. Accident, suicide or murder, no one is sure and Lana doesn’t know where to turn. Can she trust Sol, the other man, an ex-New Yorker with a dirty smile and a deep desire to continue their kinky game?

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September 14, 2014 Posted by | Kristina Lloyd | , , | 9 Comments

UNDONE: an excerpt (2)

I’m kicking off my month-long blog tour for Undone with an excerpt. The story starts when Lana Greenwood has a threesome with a couple of strangers at a swish manor-house party. On the morning after, one of the guys, Misha Morozov, is found dead in the swimming pool. The scene below occurs in the hours after the body is discovered. Lana and the second guy, Sol Miller, have escaped to the woods to discuss what they should tell the police. Lana has known Sol for less than a day. Although she’s deeply attracted to him, she’s starting to fear he may have something to do with Misha’s death.

UNDONE

The track narrowed, sloping gradually into denser woodland of beech trees, their smooth, grey trunks rising to a high mesh of green brilliance. Sol tramped up shallow steps edged by thick twigs. The forest floor was scattered with prickly husks of mast and dry, dun-brown leaf litter, friable and soft to walk on.

‘I’m in stupid sandals,’ I said irritably. ‘Will you please slow down?’

He stopped and turned. I read impatience in his silence but I may have been projecting.

‘I’m not dressed for this. Where are we going?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Somewhere quiet.’

‘If you ask me, this is pretty fucking quiet.’

‘A little further on, that’s all.’

He turned and continued marching along the low incline of the earthy, staggered path. I lagged behind, my breath quickening. Underfoot, the carpet of dead leaves muffled our tread and dulled the occasional crack of twigs. These makeshift steps hadn’t been used in some time.

‘You know that bit in 1984?’ I called. ‘Where Winston and Julia go to the countryside? Is this like that?’

‘Never read it.’ He spoke loudly, turning to shoot me a fleeting look. ‘I’m a Yank. We do Steinbeck. Why, what happens?’

I laughed, and the relief of doing so brought a wave of pleasure that made me laugh again. I felt feeble and giddy. My calf muscles ached.

‘They go on a sort of date,’ I yelled. ‘And they have to keep walking through woodland, not speaking until they’re … till they’re past all the hidden microphones and bugs and whatnot.’

‘Then what happens?’

I paused, panting for breath. The gathering hush blanketed our voices, our words seeming to linger in a realm unused to speech. I drew a deep breath and said, ‘Then they sit down on the grass and have a lovely picnic.’

Ahead of me, Sol laughed. ‘Get outta here!’

‘OK, I lied.’ I grinned as I strolled on. ‘They fuck each other’s brains out.’

Sol laughed again. ‘Then yeah,’ he hollered. ‘It is like that. Because I totally forgot the picnic.’

The steps ended as the forest floor levelled out, the ground a deep bed of old leaves reminiscent of crumbled cigar skins. Sol stopped walking and surveyed our surroundings.

‘Seriously, I can’t go much further.’ I stood downslope from him, gasping for breath. ‘These sandals are useless. I’ll break my ankle. Then you’ll be sorry because you’ll be the one carrying me.’

He smiled and began sauntering off the track towards a toppled beech. His trainers created small flurries of leaf litter when he picked up speed in a boyish scramble of pleasure. At the tree’s base, a lattice of roots matted with earth formed a ragged wall, and the vast spread of dead, bare branches lay tangled on higher ground. Narrow sunbeams pierced the thinned canopy and saplings rose towards the patches of blue sky. Sol slapped the fallen trunk in a gesture of satisfaction; then he turned and leaned his backside against it. A bird rattled overhead before flapping away with a desolate cry.

Sol patted for his cigarettes, smirking as he watched me struggle over lumpy terrain. I stopped a few feet from him, hands on hips, trying to catch my breath as I assessed our location. Ivy crawled over the horizontal trunk, the ground dipping in a small valley beneath the tree, thick with forest debris. Pale, filtered sunlight, dusty with forest air, gave the small clearing an atmosphere of reverence and myth.

Sol put a cigarette to his lips and tilted his chin. ‘Take your top off, Lana.’ The cigarette waggled as he spoke.

Lust slammed into my cunt. He cupped a hand to the cigarette tip, shielding his lighter. I laughed nervously, adoring his show of arrogance. A lock of his dark hair spilled forwards as he gazed at the flame. Smoke drifted up from his cigarette, swirling across shafts of light.

‘Here?’ I said. ‘Do you think we’re safe?’

He inhaled with long, luxurious pleasure, hard enough for me to hear the suck through his teeth.

‘I figure so.’ He released a slow trail of smoke, watching me steadily. ‘Haven’t seen any of those hidden microphones for a good while now.’

I laughed and caught a whiff of his cigarette. In the clean, fresh forest, it smelled illicitly industrial and modern. I could well believe we were the first to walk this way for years, that our voices were breaking an ancient silence. Secrets were secure here, the trees our only witness.

‘Well? I’m waiting,’ said Sol.

I faltered. Ordinarily, I’d have participated without a second thought. Sol and I had the hots for each other and seemed to be on the same wavelength. This was just a bit of fun, some casual sex at a weekend party. But we were fleeing a scene of death, so sex couldn’t be easy and meaningless anymore. Indulging in pleasure seemed disrespectful to Misha. I knew too that, although we concealed it well, emotions were running high.

All these doubts flitted through my mind. But Sol looked at me and I looked at him, and my cunt didn’t want to pay heed to my brain. And my overburdened brain, desperate for a break, wanted to relinquish control to my lust. I’m not sure what my heart was doing. Cowering in fear, most likely.

‘So?’ said Sol. ‘You don’t strike me as the shy type.’

He looked such a hot mess. Strong hips, worn jeans, cool way of smoking. I once read that women desire bad boys because they want to be the one who’ll fix him and make him good. What are we? Zookeepers? I’ve never wanted to tame a man in my life. On the contrary, I’ve welcomed the excuse to become more like him, to have a bad influence foisted upon me. In my youth, I longed to be swayed off the straight and narrow. I’d wanted the dangerous, corrupting guys because they legitimised me acting like an archetypal man, reckless, hedonistic and selfish. I’d wanted him, carefree, randy fool that he was, because he made me believe I could fuck it all to hell. I wanted to join him for the ride

But I learned the hard way that these are the guys who cause heartbreak and pain. I was quite certain I’d grown out of them. As an adult woman, I thought I preferred adult men who didn’t fuck you about; who were able to take responsibility for their own lives and treat fellow human beings with respect and decency.

I thought I had it sussed. And then all of a sudden here was Sol, wild, intriguing, pleasure-hungry, and quite possibly implicated in a man’s death. He was too much, way too much.

And at that moment, too much was what I craved.

~~~

Published September 11th, 2014
Pre-order with Amazon

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Read more about Undone.

September 1, 2014 Posted by | Kristina Lloyd | , , | 1 Comment

Undone blog tour launch: kinky cocktails and digital drinking!

Welcome to Kinky Cocktails and Digital Drinking! This is an all-day party to launch my Sexy September blog tour for Undone which starts on Monday. I’ve strongarmed a bunch of wonderful writers into helping me on the tour and today, we celebrate! Because Lana, the protagonist in Undone, owns a cocktail bar, we’re offering some lustful libations. Check out our spectacular cocktail menu below, and sample some of these delicious drinks! How much can you handle? Will you need to lie down after a couple or can you keep on necking them?

If you’re still standing, stagger over to join us on Facebook and Twitter (#kinkydrinks) where we’ll be chatting, running comps and giveaways, drinking cocktails, and generally having a fine ol’ time! Next month, I’ll be popping up on these authors’ blogs, talking erotica and telling you all about my new dark, erotic thriller, out September 11th. Until then, chin chin! Bottoms up!

Kinky Cocktails and Digital Drinking

Sea Breeze
The Zombie
Heaven on Earth
Champagne Rita
The Jelly Bean
Screwdriver
Old Fashioned
Sex on the Beach
Amaretto Sour
Redheaded Slut
Slippery Nipple
Parisian Blonde
Staten Island Ferry
Screaming Orgasm
Naughty Angel
Slamdancer
The P-ness
Hanky Panky

August 29, 2014 Posted by | Kristina Lloyd | , , , | 10 Comments

Erotic Romance and Domination 2

Jakubowski RomDomI’m delighted to have not one but two stories in Maxim Jakubowski’s recently released anthology, The Mammoth Book of Erotic Romance and Domination.

Last week I gave you the opening of How to Get Sex When You’re Dead. This week, I’m posting the opening to my second story, Seven Stripes of Colour.

Seven is a story about kinksters who meet via online dating; kinksters who are old enough to have some serious baggage. This is one of those stories that made me moist-eyed as I was writing it. It’s rare that short stories do that to me. Novels, yes. Shorts, not so much.

Seven Stripes of Colour

Under a pale apricot sky, city buses looped in front of the railway station, their slow headlights weaving patterns in the dusk. Louise strode from cab to pub, her heart beating a little too fast. She loved doing this, meeting men in places where no one belonged, in stations, airports and motorway cafes. She imagined her grey, digitalised self on CCTV monitors as she made her way to another date.

The anonymity of these places appealed to the pessimist in her. She expected, at best, a short-lived affair. At worst, the two of them would part in relief after a sour coffee or non-descript wine. Then he and she would merge with the travellers around them, en route to elsewhere, confused and anxious, caught in the limbo of to-ing and fro-ing. Warp and weft. Yes and no.

Jason was different to the others, that much was obvious at once. His kindness and warmth were evident in his greeting: a broad grin and a kiss on the cheek. All too often, the dominants she met after ‘meeting’ online were, if young, guarded and cocky or, if older, charmingly chivalric.

“I’ll get this,” he said when she’d selected her wine at the bar.

“OK, I’ll get the next round,” she replied, indicating that already she liked him enough to stay and wasn’t expecting him to foot the bill. Establishing the importance of equality was, she felt, crucial if powerplay negotiations were to be fair and mutual.

Fifteen minutes into their conversation she wondered what the catch was. Married? Impotent? Deranged? Three hours later she knew, but by then it was too late.

“How’s your hotel?” he asked, quickly filling a silence.

“Five minutes away.”

He laughed but didn’t take the bait. Well, it was still early in the game so fair enough. The photographs he’d emailed didn’t do him justice. You wouldn’t call him handsome but he was definitely striking. His face had a skew-whiff, battered quality and his dark eyes glittered, really glittered. They held the mad energy of a man whose zest for life has resulted in him seeing too much. He wore faded jeans, trainers, T-shirt and a suit jacket which he hung over the back of his chair. His shoulders were wide, his arms muscular and darkly-haired. Rogue strands of silver glinted in his short brown curls and flecked his neat sideburns.

As they talked, buses crawled beyond the long, low window behind him. Occasionally, headlights swept into the dark wooden bar, bathing the two of them in a shuddering glow or framing him in momentary halos.

“I haven’t done this for over four years,” he said after Louise returned from buying the next round. Wine for her, beer for him.

Uh-oh, she thought. Here’s where it all goes pear-shaped. He’s going to tell me he’s just split up with someone and I’ve got a rebound on my hands. Or his ailing mother’s about to die, or he’s fresh out of jail.

“So how am I doing?” he added.

She laughed. “You’re doing great. Nine out of ten. Clearly a natural.”

“Damn, I dropped a point. How come?”

“Hey, no one gets ten. Ten would be perfection and a perfect person would automatically lose a point for being perfect, ergo insufferable.”

Jason nodded thoughtfully then smiled. “Well, I got top marks. Go me!”

After a pause, she asked, “So tell me, what’s the story? Why’ve you been away from the joys of dating?” Nervous, she ran her thumb and fingers up and down the stem of her wine glass, desisting when she recalled a claim the gesture was indicative of a subconscious gesture to jerk a guy off. So much wishful thinking in pop psychology.

“Ah, this and that,” he said. “Got out of the habit. Found myself continually disappointed. I was in a straight, you know, a vanilla relationship for around 18 months but…” He trailed off with a shrug. “It’s not for me. I tried but the older I get, the more I… Anyway, that ended over a year ago. And since then, before then too, I’ve been trying… No, wondering how to realise my desires without, how shall I phrase it?” He inclined his head at a philosophical angle. “Without causing harm.”

Her heart pumped harder. She found him simultaneously exciting and terrifying. She started to work the stem of her glass again, this time not stopping when she realised what she was doing.

“Should I be worried?” she asked. “I mean, if we decide we want to play together, would I be in danger? Because if so, I’m probably going to pass. Sorry.” She took a large sip of wine as if to support her decisive words.

Jason shook his head. “I’m ninety-nine per cent certain you’d be safe with me.”

He reached across the table, allowing his fingertips to drift over her hand. She returned the gesture, their contact tentative and fumbling like that of long-standing, melancholy lovers. The beam of headlights from outside crept across their table, casting glossy patches on the wood and rippling over their knuckles. When she looked up, his eyes were downcast, his curls briefly backlit. In that instant, she was irrationally afraid; not of him but for the two of them together. She felt as if they’d been caught in the arc of a searchlight and had nowhere left to run.

“And the missing one per cent?” she asked as the bar’s shadows settled around them again.

His smile was strained. Behind him, the buses kept huffing and purring, their passengers silhouetted in halogen-white windows. She thought of Blanch DuBois at the start of her journey trilling, “Why, they told me to take a streetcar named Desire!”

At length, he gave her a stern, serious look. “You,” he said, “are fucking beautiful. And you’re driving my cock insane. What’s our safeword?”

The confident delivery of his sudden, dirty seduction was more than enough to arouse her. She loved knowing this new man was sitting opposite her in a pub, his cock secretly swelling as they talked. Adrenaline made her fingers tremble, and a beat throbbed between her thighs. For a moment, the world burned, the lights outside gleaming in tones of white-gold, dark amber and bright cherry-red. She experienced the slippage, the shift of the mundane into a spectrum of yellow-hued, fiery magic, the start of a rainbow. She recalled the schoolgirl mnemonic for remembering the order of colours in the spectrum. Richard of York gave battle in vain. Red orange yellow, and so on.

“Red,” she replied, amusing herself by thinking, A bus called Lust.

“We should drink up.”

She grinned and touched her glass against his. “We should.”

*

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July 30, 2014 Posted by | Kristina Lloyd | , , , | 3 Comments