“No Sleep” and writing on the body

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.

.

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On 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

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

Pucker up for Sommer

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?

Amazon UK paperback :: Amazon UK Kindle :: Amazon US Kindle :: Amazon CA paperback :: Amazon CA Kindle

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

Amazon UK paperback :: Amazon UK Kindle
Amazon US Kindle
Amazon CA Paperback :: Amazon CA Kindle

Read more about Undone.

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