Monday, December 31, 2007

On the Eighth Day of Christmas ...

my true love sent to me:

Eight vamps a-vamping*

Seven Stetsons swinging

Six purring pussies

Five silver rings

Four bloody men

Three hundred Spartans

Two detectives dancing

And a werewolf tied to a tree!


*OK, so strictly speaking I didn't post eight images of pale and fangy vampires but eight images of much sexier, more robust men which I'm trying to pass off as relevant by claiming they're warding off vampires by having some vague crucifix thing going on around them. Um, did I get away with it? (Honestly, Jake Gyllenhaal is relevant. He's wearing a tiny little cross. Look! It's not just a gratuitous chest.)

The real eight vampires are in Lust Bites, the super hot vampire anthology from me, Portia Da Costa and Mathilde Madden, released in the US tomorrow! If my maths is correct, my novella, The Vampire's Heart, has four vampires, Portia's novella has one and Under Her Skin from Mathilde has three. So that's eight lots of sucky, bloody sexiness! Check out Ashley Lister's fabulous review here. Ashley writes: 'For those of you who want to see some of the UK’s greatest erotic authors telling torrid tales of virile vampires, Lust Bites has to be your next purchase.'

Also released tomorrow in the US is my third novel, Split, a darkly sexy tale of submission, bondage and puppetry set in the Yorkshire moors. Pop back this Saturday and I'll tell you a little more about it. I may also offer a prize!

Happy New Year everyone! Have a wonderful evening, and when the clock strikes midnight, please join me in raising a glass to the wonderfulness of sex, lust and dirty books. Wishing you all a happy and horny 2008!

Kristina X

Sunday, December 30, 2007

On the Seventh day of Christmas...

My true love sent to me...

Seven Stetsons swinging

Six Purring Pussies

Five silver rings

Four bloody men

Three hundred Spartans,

Two detectives dancing,

And a werewolf tied to a tree!

Happy Holidays to everyone on Lust Bites and much joy in the New Year!!!
Kate x

Saturday, December 29, 2007

On the 6th Day of Christmas...

...My True Love sent to me:




Six Purring Pussies

Five silver rings

Four bloody men

Three hundred Spartans,

Two detectives dancing,

And a werewolf tied to a tree!

Merry Christmas Everyone! May your pussies always have plenty of cream.
Love from Madeline Moore

Friday, December 28, 2007

On the fifth day of Christmas my true love sent to me...

Five silver rings...

Four bloody men

Three hundred Spartans,

Two detectives dancing,

And a werewolf tied to a tree!

Happy holidays, whether you prefer your cocks caged or free-range!

Teresa Noelle Roberts

Thursday, December 27, 2007

On the 4th day of Christmas...

... my True Love sent to me:

Four Bloody Men

Three hundred Spartans,

Two detectives dancing,

And a werewolf tied to a tree!

Love and Hugs,


Wednesday, December 26, 2007

On the 3rd Day of Christmas...

... my True Love sent to me:

Three hundred Spartans!

Two detectives dancing,

And a werewolf tied to a tree!

Hope you have a very merry Christmas season everyone! But wait - there's more.

300 is my very favourite number (Even better than 69) for reasons made explicit above and left (courtesy of Queerclick). Oh yes. So today is a special day because this is the

300th post to appear on Lust Bites!

Thats one post for every sweaty, filthy, overmuscled, fanatical Spartan warrior at Thermopylae, folks! And all of them full of smut, passion, wit and creativity (that's the posts, not the men. The men are just full of testosterone).

Therefore in honour of this occasion I am proud to present a

300 - Bum Salute!!!

"King Leonidas approaches the Hot Gates"



Tuesday, December 25, 2007

On the 2nd Day of Christmas...

... my true Love sent to me:

Two Detectives Dancing!
And a werewolf tied to a tree...

Have a beautiful Festive Season, everybody! :)

Love from Portia

Monday, December 24, 2007

On the First Day of Christmas... true love gave to me

A werewolf tied to a tree

Mathilde Madden xx
Untying Unwrapping her presents at midnight!

Sunday, December 23, 2007

Coming and Going Attractions

by Kristina Lloyd

Aa-and relax!

The holiday season’s here and tomorrow we’ll be kicking it off in fine style as Mathilde Madden launches our Twelve Days of Christmas. Yup, Lust Bites is bringing you a Christmas Carol! We may be out of tune, out of synch and out of order, but you can bet your last mince pie that every day from now until the 4th of Jan the visuals here will be stunning!

Lust Bites has been going strong for over a year and during that time we’ve published almost 300 posts, have displayed 72 pictures of David Beckham naked and have exchanged 4699 emails behind the scenes. Only one of those stats is a figment of my imagination. It takes a lot of chat, banter, brainstorming, organisation and the occasional, er, rigorous discussion to make this blog work.

Here’s a tiny peek backstage, a random sampling from emails on our private mailing list. Ah, if only you could see the ones we daren’t make public.

I like the scheduling. I really do. I like it the same way the rest of you like an arrogant sneering bastard throwing you up against a wall.

Listen, I have buggered up the sidebar. It was me. I am SO sorry!

Just wanted to say that I have NO idea what's going on. I turned off all my yahoo mail for the week.

He'd probably be very flattered that you think he has a lovely bottom.

Oh dear. Blogger seems to have died. This reminds me, that we should back up the blog somewhere. I saw a button to do this once but I can't find it now.

Is America awake yet?

Now I really feel like a bitch. Ah well.

I'm not going to say this on the public blog but [CENSORED!]

Help, I'm sorry! Can't remember what the special post is on...Can you refresh my memory?

I did write a set of instructions, all on file, about how to change it without doing *any* html. You obviously missed all those e-mails.

I’m not a real practising pagan – I’m just in it for the sex.

The two-timing bastard! Oh the humiliation! How will I look my friends in the eye?

Is PMT like HRT? Would people stop talking in fucking code? I'm always the eejit having to say, WTF is a Wii? BTW, what's HRT? And now, pray tell, what is PMT? Is it our PMS? Now, back to deadlines, before I can RIP as a DOA.

Are you having problems with the sidebar picture? It was supposed to be your turn this Saturday.

Sorry if I went a bit nuts. It's the werewolves fault really. They is making me crazy.

I want to post my boyfriend but he won't let me.

Your guinea-pig was successful, Kristina!

It’s been a wonderful 12 months. We’ve had some fantastic guests, given away dozens of dirty books, offered lots of scorching hot excerpts and started some memorable discussions. Olivia Knight getting Sticky, Janine Ashbless on Bestiality, Alison Tyler's Sexual Soundtrack, Stephen Elliott chatting to Mathilde Madden and Kate Pearce interviewing Molly Weatherfield were among my favourites. My Cunt proved very stimulating too but my number one favourite post of all time has to be the unforgettable Day of the Dick.

We’re grateful to all those who joined us for the ride in 2007, for supporting us and making this such a lively, smart and sexy place to be. We hope you’ll join us for more fun next year.

Don't forget, Madelynne Ellis’s massive scavenger hunt runs till January 5th, so why not check out how to play, pour yourself a glass of something potent, and come and poke around our blogs. We’re all very filthy – I mean, friendly – and there are heaps of amazing prizes up for grabs.

Merry Christmas everybody! Wishing you all a spectacular holiday – and please come and sing along with us if you can! Cheers!


Friday, December 21, 2007

Why 69?

by Anne Tourney

Felicien Rops: Soixante-Neuf

'Tis the season for giving and receiving -- preferably at the same time, with one or more people -- so why not try 69 with your lover/spouse/best friend/UPS guy? If you need a refresher on how to accomplish this classic position, check out this bit of immortal prose that I wrote in a fit of purple:

With the grace of ice skaters we reversed ourselves on cue, our moist bodies gliding effortlessly into a perfect 69. His cock found my mouth as if by instinct; my lower lips locked magnetically onto his roving tongue. His throbbing shaft filled my throat; my juices overflowed onto his chin. We rocked in unison, driven by the urgency of our hunger and the flux of pleasure that pulled us together. In a knot of intertwined passion, we licked and sucked and caressed each other until we both lost consciousness of our material selves and dissolved into a fog of ecstasy that transcended skin and muscle and bone . . . .

I always feel like I've hit the erotica writer's jackpot whenever I'm able to use the phrases "throbbing shaft" and "fog of ecstasy" in the same paragraph. But seriously, when I find myself writing this type of crapola (which I do, more often than I'd rather admit), I usually don't make it to the mutual climax before I have to fling my shovel across the room. Then I hike up my thigh-high boots, and wade through the bullshit to the kitchen, where I pour myself another cup of coffee and brood over the yawning gap between erotic fiction and experience. Those dazzling 69 performances happen far more often on my computer screen than they do in any bed I've occupied.

You know what I need, as an erotica writer? I need a Mystery Lover X, an anonymous, agreeable, highly flexible sex partner to try various positions, acts, and toys with me, so that I can write about the more exotic sex acts realistically. I need the X-rated equivalent of those semi-visible dining companions who are always featured in restaurant reviews but receive only passing credit for their insights: X ordered the pad thai, which he found savoury but bland in comparison to my chicken coconut curry, might translate into X enjoyed tonguing my pussy while I lay upside-down on top of him, but found that my own oral skills were lacking in a 69 position, i.e., he kept feeling my teeth.

I'm ashamed to admit that I've written about 69 largely from a second-hand perspective. Few of my lovers seemed inclined to try this back-to-front position, and the few times I'd tried it, I'd found it alternately awkward, embarrassing, and only intermittently arousing. In my mind's eye, I see 69 as a fluid, sensual continuum of bodies, a seamless communion of mouth to pussy to cock, a yin-yang symbol rendered in flesh. In reality, the whole thing reminds me of trying to assemble cheap furniture: Insert shelf B into plank A using widget Z to adjust screw Y. Torso length has to match up to some degree, so that mouths can reach genitals, and how did the two of us somehow end up with a total of six legs?

There are lots of ways to perform 69, as I discovered from an eye-popping search of internet porn. Some of them seem accessible to moderately flexible people like me, others appear to require an extensive study of yoga and/or a couple of gold medals in gymnastics. Standing 69? Not even Mystery Lover X will try that with me. He doesn't want to throw out his back trying to hoist my rather large carcass into a reverse position, just so he can tongue me upside-down. Mystery Lover X is nothing if not pragmatic. Like me, he tends to prefer to experiment on a nice, firm mattress, in a horizontal position.

There's something about 69 that makes me feel utterly exposed and vulnerable, and not necessarily in a sexy way. Maybe it's the tension between trying to please my partner, and worrying about how I'm responding to his efforts to please me. I'm caught smack in the middle of my two deepest sources of anxiety: trying to relax enough to open up completely to another human being, while giving that person enough pleasure to ensure that he can let go of his own self-awareness (hey, I'm reasonably enlightened, but the Dalai Lama I ain't). The whole point, of course, is that we both reach Mount Ecstasy at precisely the same moment, with our lips melded to each others' genitals.

Part of the problem here, not only in erotic fiction but in sexual experience itself, is the almost fanatic cultural emphasis on sex as a direct route to erotic nirvana. As a writer, a reader, and a lover, I've been guilty of placing a quasi-religious faith in the transformative power of Orgasm. Is this a crime? I don't think so; after all, those glorious spasms are what allows not only for great art, emotional passion, and a heck of a lot of cheesy porn, but the perpetuation of the species. But what I miss in my pursuit of pleasure, beauty, and the ultimate Climax is the gratification of struggling for an ideal.

Lakshmi, Rama, and Vishnu on the wall of a Hindu Temple

Yes, yes, I know. I realize that "the difficulty of struggling for an ideal" sounds about as sexy as working out on a Stairmaster while reading German philosophy. What I'm trying to describe is the intimacy that evolves through the effort to reach for something beautiful with someone you love, or at least like very much. Oh, hell, if someone blows your skirt up, and they have acceptable hygiene, why not invite them to join you in a quest for the metaphysical through the physical? There are reasons for all those ornate positions in the Kama Sutra, you know. They're configurations of the eternal; they represent different letters in an alphabet of sacred desire.

The older I get, the more I realize that sex in reality is profoundly different from the way it plays out in my imagination, not just from a practical, in-the-flesh, oh-shit-that-hurts-like-hell standpoint, but from a psychological perspective. The chords that any given sex act strikes in my psyche are rarely the ones I expect to hear. So what combination of notes does 69 hit in my psyche? For me, it's the flux of giving and receiving; loss of self and loss in self at the same time. I know that sounds ridiculously abstract, but I'd be lying if I told you that I found it instantly exciting to have my hind quarters clamped over a man's face while my mouth is buried in his groin. I confess that I've written about 69 as if it were one ongoing nekkid funfest, but in my personal, undivulged experience, it takes time and patience, and a gradual easing into each others' bodies, to get to the point that it feels easy and fluid and fulfilling.

Even then, 69 just doesn't always work for me. But isn't it lovely when it does? Through some extensive experimentation with my new companion, I found that I prefer to lie on my back on the bottom, with Mystery Lover X upside-down on top of me. MLX himself rated this position as highly satisfactory, though the acrobatics gave him a charley horse at the critical moment.

So tell me . . . what do you think of 69? Favorite positions? Exalted and/or embarrassing experiences? Post pictures!

Photo credits: Felicien Rops, Soixante-Neuf from; Standing 69 from; Ancient Indian 69 from Travel.Hat.Net

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Crush Wednesday: Men in Uniform - Top Ten

By Mathilde Madden
I was going to say, that at this time of year, we think about all the uniformed men who work tirelessly even through the bitterest cold while we’re kicking back with the sherry and the fairy lights. But who am I fooling, it’s just an excuse for a parade of hotness.

10. Canadian Mountie
When I asked my fellow lusties to suggest their favourite uniforms, Dayle A Dermatis offered this one. He’s not showing much flesh and the hat’s a little goofy, but I have to admit there is something about a man with a great big beast between his legs.

9. Butler
You rang, ma’am.

Or soccer, if you prefer. I know what I prefer and it’s the shorts riding up over those muscular legs. (I can’t believe this picture is over ten years old – I still love you Eric!)

7. Man of the cloth
Monk, priest, crazy evangelist. Oh, and personally I do like a nice angel. (I know that veers a little off the path of what is technically a ‘uniform’ but it is Christmas.)

6. Superhero
The lycra! The angst! The lycra again. Too much to love

5. Naval
Love lifts us up where we belong! Also, all the nice girls love a sailor. Deanna Ashford mentioned the naval uniformed Chippendales - is Tom of Finland near enough?

4. Policeman
They uphold the law, they carry handcuffs, they offer to take down your particulars... what more is there to ask?

3. Vintage Military
So many people hollered ‘Sharpe!’ at me, when I asked about uniforms.

2. Firefighter
Rawr! It's getting hot in here.

1. Military
Ah, now, I know we’ve had naval and vintage, but my number one is, of course, your basic squaddie brute. Oh, lovely.

So, did I get them in the right order?

Mat Madden x
All present and correct, sah!

PS Here's one uniformed man (hang on - where is his uniform?) that deserves an honourable mention - search him out with the Lust Bites Scavenger Hunt - still running until 5th Jan 2008

Monday, December 17, 2007

Works in Progress

collated by Deanna Ashford

Well good morning everyone, Christmas isn’t far away now and we lusties are busy getting organised just as everyone else is. I for one am useless at motivating myself to write cards and buy gifts, I am far too interest in working on what I’m writing at present.

This month we are featuring works in progress for Madelynne Ellis and Deanna Ashford. (Yes, that’s me I’m slipping some of my own work in progress onto the blog this month!) We both write Historical novels and so be prepared to step back to a time when dashing highwaymen preyed upon unwary travellers on land, and cruel pirates preyed upon them on the high seas.

Some background to the book from Madelynne.

Desperate Measures has been a work in progress for some time now, actually I've written two other books (Broken Angel & Phantasmagoria) since I started it. It's been on hold because Black Lace passed on it, because apparently highwaymen are cliched and no one really wants to read about them!

The story is set in the early 1700's in the north-east of England. When Thea Roche's husband is thrown into debtor's prison, she's left friendless and destitute. In order to support herself, and take revenge on her enemies, she dresses as a man and takes to highway robbery. This leads her into path of sexy fellow highwayman, Gregory Fox, and egotistical social climber, Thieftaker Edmund Stark. In order to avoid the gallows, Thea has to keep one step ahead of them both, while she learns that notority is far more alluring than respectability.

There was a black cloud on the hilltops. It rushed across the moors like the harbinger of death, a soundless figure, merciless and strong. On silent feet, it climbed the stairs to the inky boudoir where Thea lay. Alert to the dark shape that lingered at the edge of her consciousness, Thea stirred uneasily beneath the sheets. A shadow imprinted itself upon her body. A gloved hand covered her mouth, silencing her scream before it had even risen. The fingertips brushed over her cheek and traced the feathery edge of her eyelashes.

`My gold, Mrs Roche.´

The whispered caress blew fire across her lips, its threat implicit despite the soft tone. Streaks of molten metal knitted across her throat and breast. Tight ripples shivered through her limbs. Before her thick tongue could work, his hands clasped her wrists and shackled them either side of her head.

`My gold, or I take payment in kind.´

Soft heat closed over her upper lip. He smelled familiar, of honeydew and rosemary, of cut grass and cruelty.

`I can not give it to you.´

`Then I shall take something from you.´

His hand slid up her thigh, dragging the sheet up to expose her toes. The cold air nipped at them. Cobwebs of frost matted with the fiery shivers. His weight shifted above her. Wet warmth enveloped her big toe. His tongue glided over the pad, teased along the inner edge down to the v, where it flicked slowly against the seam. It felt intimate, like the massage of Richard´s fingers against her nub the night before. Dangerous sparks were wakening there now..

She wanted to pull away, flee like she´d done from the gauntlet of whores.

She saw herself again, peeking from the blood splattered bushes as Stark ground the thief into the dirt, all his men lined up around him, only now they were staring down at her. She lay sprawled upon the grass, with booted feet pressed against her limbs and Stark´s shoe upon her stomach. `I will have your confession,´ he said in a low sibilant voice.

There was a tightening in her abdomen, a pulse, a black fire that was spreading, and making her shake. The tongue between her toes, insistently coaxed the rarely touched skin, rousing shivers of delight from her tensed body. The tease was right on the edge of ticklish, almost painful. She wanted to pull away, to kick at the shadowy presence and drive it off, but the touch was cruelly sweet too. It pressed like tender kisses to her clit and it opened her like a flower unfurling its petals to bask in the sun.

Subtle fingers played across her flesh. Richard´s fingers: delicate and quick.

His satin skin moved against hers. It flowed into position, and his steely shaft branded her thigh. He´d had her once, but she wouldn´t allow it again. Not now, not ever. Not even in her dreams.

My excerpt is from Corsair’s Gold a book that is with my editor as we speak. Whether he will like it or not I have no idea, all I can do is keep my fingers crossed and hope.

Sophia lives on the island of Tortuga, which is a safe haven for pirates and vagabonds. Her father is the right hand man of the notorious pirate lord Blackheart and so she has known no other life but this.

Sophia tried to relax and forget about everything as the overpowering, sultry heat had sapped the energy from her body. She felt herself drifting away and might have fallen asleep if she hadn’t heard the faintest of sounds. The bed depressed beside her and a warm arm snaked around her waist.

“Sleeping, my sweet,” an accented voice whispered in her ear.

“Raoul,” she said sleepily. She had been half expecting him and she didn’t resist as he pulled the sheet off her and rolled her onto her back.

Raoul’s lips covered hers and he kissed her hungrily, his tongue worming its way into her mouth. She felt his hot, rather sticky flesh pressed against her side as his large hand covered her left breast. He kneaded it gently, still kissing her passionately. There was no delicate sampling of lips, teeth and tongue, but a raw intensity that only Raoul could display.

By the time he pulled his mouth away from hers Sophia was a little breathless and becoming aroused. She felt the first tendrils of desire slide insidiously through her body as Raoul caressed her breast, rolling the sensitive teat between his fingers as he smiled down at her. The smile turned into a soft chuckle as wrinkled her nose and scowled at him.

“It’s too hot for sex,” she complained.

“Ye Gods, Sophia, I’ve been on board ship for near two weeks, with none but my crew for company. My cock is fit to burst.” Taking hold of her hand, he pressed it against his sex. Her fingers automatically close around the rigid rod, feeling the heat and the power of his desire in her cupped palm.

“Could you not get the cabin boy to service you?” she teased, wanting him and yet also feeling incredibly lethargic. “He’s a pretty lad. No doubt he’d be accommodating.”

“Cabin boy!” he exclaimed. “Well favoured he may be but he’s no replacement for you, my sweet. I’m not into those kinds of pleasures, even on the longest of voyages.”

“I heard tell that Frenchmen would take their pleasures where they can.” Smiling wickedly she couldn’t resist caressing his shaft, feeling it gradually grow even harder. Men were so easy to handle at times she thought as her steadily rising desire drained the lethargy from her body.

“A despicable rumour put about by the English.” Raoul gave a hungry groan. His hand moved down from her breast to her belly then slid between her thighs. He parted the soft folds of her sex. “You say that you don’t want sex, yet you are moist already,” he said huskily.

His sweat soaked flesh press slickly against hers but she had forgotten such discomforts now as her lust for him skittered out of control. Yet she didn’t want Raoul to think that he could just slip into her bed like this whenever the mood took him.

“Moist I may be,” she said as curtly as she could. “But not near ready yet…” Her words petered off and she gave a soft gasp as his fingers slid into her silky sheath. Raoul moved them gently, twisting and thrusting. She began to crave the feel of his pulsing cock between her thighs as the pleasure grew and expanded inside her.

“Not ready?” he teased. To her dismay he removed his fingers, but she shouldn’t have been concerned because now he concentrated on her clit. Caressing it gently and squeezing it with just enough pressure to turn her on even more.

“You are a bastard,” she hissed.

“I’m a pirate what else do you expect,” he responded, pushing his fingers inside her again, and pressing his thumb against her clit at the same time. His lips reached for her breast, tantalisingly caressing her erect nipples.

Sophia arched her back and gave a mewling cry as her pleasure rose like the soaring swell of the ocean. “Please, Raoul,” she gasped. “Stop for a moment. I want to pleasure you as well.”

With a husky chuckle, he rolled onto his back, pulling her atop him but somehow managing to keep his fingers buried inside her. Sophia wanted to climax now, hard and fast, then straddle him and have his thick cock thrusting inside her to bring her to orgasm again. But Raoul had to be taught a lesson first. Reaching down, she grabbed hold of his wrist. Raoul was far stronger than her and could have resisted but he chose not to as she forced his hand away from her body.

“Have it your way. You always do.” When he’d moved his long blond hair had come free from the leather tie that bound it back. Irritably he pushed the strands of hair away from his face as Sophia crouched atop his lean hips.

“Don’t you find it refreshing after ordering your crew about all the time?”

Leaning forward, she let the tips of her rosy nipples just brush the hard flesh of his chest. Raoul looked up at her with eyes that were bluer than the Caribbean skies. He couldn’t be classed as handsome, his face was a little too long, his nose a shade crooked but he was a remarkably attractive man. His expression was innocence itself, no one would have guessed that, apart from Blackheart, he was one of the most dangerous pirates sailing these seas.

Slowly she moved, letting the tips of her nipples caress his slick flesh, gradually moving further forward until she was near lying atop his upper body, trapping his engorged cock between her stomach and his. “Sophia,” he pleaded. “For God’s sake fuck me!”

“Soon,” she promised, slipping her hand beneath the pillow.

She moved swiftly and barely a heartbeat later the blade of her knife was pressed menacingly against his throat.

“What the hell?” he grated.

“Raoul, my sweet, you must learn that you do not enter my room, let alone my bed without my permission. She pressed the flat of the blade across the beating pulse in his neck, witnessing the expression of angry confusion that crossed his features for a fleeting moment.

“You’ve never complained about me being in your bed before.”

“Women are fickle, you’ve said that on occasions. So I’m being fickle now.” She slid the blade upwards until the sharp edge was resting against the juncture of neck and chin. “No man takes me for granted, Raoul.”

He swallowed uneasily. “If you were a man I’d kill you for doing this.”

“Try it,” she challenged, keeping the blade firmly in place. “And I’ll give you the closest shave you’ve ever known.”