Lights fade up on Alison Tyler sitting at her blue Formica kitchen table dressed in a red silk bathrobe. She’s drinking a cup of coffee and typing into her laptop.
Alison Tyler: Come on, we’re doing this online. Can’t you at least dress me better?
Lights fade to black
Lights fade up as Alison Tyler enters her kitchen dressed in killer boots and a black leather dress. She sits at the table and sips from a martini glass.
Scott McMorrow: Nice entrance. Love the dress.
AT: Oh this? I just threw it on.
SM: Do you think I could have one?
AT: A black leather dress?
SM: An entrance. You showed up looking like a porn goddess. I just kind of showed up.
AT: Not a problem.
Lights rise on Scott McMorrow sitting at his desk, typing on a Mac.
SM: That’s it?
AT: You’d like more detail.
SM: Maybe a few adjectives. An adverb. You could ask me what I’m wearing.
AT: I didn’t know this was going to be that kind of an interview. (deep sigh) What are you wearing?
SM: Killer boots, black leather…
AT: We should start. Where’s my vodka?
SM: I thought you were sipping coffee.
AT: Switched drinks with the outfit. (checking notes) We recently discussed the German cannibal trial on Lust Bites. One man allowed himself to be cooked and eaten by another… Caused a bit of, um, consternation among our readers. You wrote an entire play on the event, called Leftovers.
SM: Leftovers doesn’t focus on that particular event, though it definitely holds elements of the relationship those two had, physically and emotionally. The play is a dark comedy about a reality cooking show, Eat or Be Eaten, that has contestants vying to win so they can gain the rank of most coveted comestible.
AT: First t-shirt of the day. So, for you, cannibalism is…
SM: Delicious. I enjoyed researching that play. And, hey, everybody has to eat.
AT: Do you always look to real-life events for source material?
SM: People do wild stuff. I like that. And if I can use it…
AT: Tell me about Puppet Therapy.
SM: That play is rooted in a marriage counseling practice that was big in the 70s… couples using puppets to role play with each other. I put a twist on it.
AT: Whips, chains, and threesomes?
SM: I’m all about the cheap thrill. That play does have an elephant, though.
AT: Always fun for a casting director. I read in your bio that the play was performed in Italian. Did you have a chance to see the translated work?
SM: Teatro del Navile did a great job of that in Bologna. The warped humor played really well for the Italians. Though I don’t speak the language, I could follow the rhythm of the audiences’ reactions.
AT: Now what about your play, Fishing the Moon? This one features a girl in drag, masturbation on stage, death and dismemberment. Another play features Jell-O. In a bucket. Used for… you get the idea. I’m sensing a theme with you.
SM: Want to know what flavor Jell-O?
AT: Your latest play, Future Sex, is being read at The Bay Area Playwrights Festival on August 5th. Can you tell us a little bit about what that festival is like?
SM: Great experience. We had a pre-festival retreat. All of the playwrights had to read their plays in front of each other.
AT: Kind of like show and tell. Ooh, and I know all about the thrill of being Exposed, of being Caught Looking, of playing Hide & Seek….
(Beat) Wait! What’s that noise?
(A siren offstage)
It's the Shameless Plug Alert… not that I’d know anything about that. Scott, you edited the erotic poetry collection, Velvet Heat, which features 45 poets, including fellow Lust Biter Shanna Germain, and was a finalist for an IPPY award. The sultry photograph on the cover is by Thomas S. Roche. A commenter today will win a copy of this luscious collection—and one of Shanna’s poems from Velvet Heat is below. Thanks so much for visiting, Scott.
SM: Great to be here.
AT: Now what flavor was the Jell-O, again? Learn more about Scott at www.ScottMcMorrow.com.
Lights fade to the sound of ice cubes clinking in a glass.
Letter to My Ex
I met a man last night who reminded me of you:
snake-hipped, thin through the calf, tight across the chest,
even said howdy pardner in that fake-ass drawl.
But he didn’t fuck like you, all tongue and teeth and tip.
He was soft and gentle and didn’t once use
the flat of his hand against my will.
Baby, it made me ache for Dallas,
the leather rain across my face, the press of buckle
to my backside, the way your teeth snapped against
my skin, a dog at the end of his chain.
I said to this guy last night, but he wasn’t you.
That first time I came for you—for anyone—you said
pressure and time, pressure and time will make you mind.
I still have indents in my skin, pockets where you
buried your bones—they wait for someone to dig
them out and resurrect their desire
by firelight, by rainfall, by your stiff fingers,
thunderbolts that split my skull like a sneeze.
I want to be sick of wanting you.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Sunday, July 29, 2007
What a week it was last week. I hope you didn’t miss anonymous's post about sexual fantasy. Our thanks to everyone who shared a fantasy of their own. It seems like the majority of our readers are in need of a spanking! Then again, maybe I knew that.
Talking of spanking, on Monday Scott McMorrow is here with our own Little Miss Spanking, Alison Tyler. Scott's a playwright. You know, like Shakespeare. Except Scott's really dirty. So, yeah, like Shakespeare.
In Scott's honour I have made this post properly iambic. Except for the bits where it isn't.
In the middle of the week Dayle A Dermatis pops in - fresh from perching on our editor's lap in Texas - to give us a taste of her latest Cheek novel, A Little Night Music. It's a dirty riot of rock stars and bondage. Cue my excuse for the picture upstairs. Nice, isn’t it?....
…Um, where was I? Oh, yes. On Friday one of our newest Lusties, Deanna Ashford pops her Lust Bites cherry with a debut post interviewing prolific author Mandy M Roth.
And if we can make it through the week without Kristina Lloyd popping up and making a joke about anal sex, I'll be amazed.
How did all this drool get on my keyboard?
Friday, July 27, 2007
Add a comment for a chance to win a signed copy of the whole book!
“Perhaps once in a lifetime, if you are lucky, you will live in a house with a history.”
So begins The Ten Visions, set in an
To celebrate its release, here's a satisfying chunk - so grab your morning coffee / evening wine, and curl up...
The book blurb
The moment she starts her doctorate in Oxford, Sarah is beset with mysteries. An old portrait in her rented house bears an uncanny resemblance to her. A new lover insists he's a ghost. Her attractive, sinister supervisor obstructs her research at every turn. An ordinary hill on the meadow fills her with fear - and not just her, but also the man with whom she falls in love. And every time she has sex, she hallucinates strange places and other times.
With her own life and soul at risk, Sarah uses sex-magic and a sequence of visions to travel between different times, worlds and places. On an epic journey, she battles an ancient evil to solve a mystery dating back centuries - a mystery that holds the truth of her origins and purpose.
Just before this bit...
When Sarah meets Adrian, a gradute botany student, on Port Meadow, his jealous girlfriend promptly throws him out. Sarah offers to put him up in her massive rented house and in return he takes over the cooking. It’s only temporary, until his girlfriend relents, but after a few nights under the same roof and an aphrodisiacal meal, their resolve is crumbling.
‘I’m not sure we should be doing this,’ he muttered huskily.
In reply, she reached for the edges of his t-shirt and pulled it slowly over his head. She watched in fascination as his smooth chest was exposed, his muscles tight and compact, his own nipples crinkled. She bent down, and took one in her mouth, exploring the small hard nub of flesh with her tongue.
‘Sarah, please…’ he whispered, ‘I don’t want to take advantage… of… uh… the situation…’
His words faltered as her lips nuzzled. The smell of his skin made her hungry for more, and she suckled more eagerly, tasting the edge of salt and arousal in his pores. Pushing his hips away from her, she lay along the sofa, her mouth clasped to his breast, her own breasts invitingly close to his face. He blasphemed softly as he pressed his cheeks between their inviting softness. Lifting her mouth a moment, she murmured, as she remembered Jo saying, ‘Neither god nor the devil can touch us here… They have no rule in this house…’
‘Who does…?’ His words were a muffled groan against her firm, yielding skin.
‘I do,’ she said, sinking her teeth onto his chest, nipping him lightly. He wailed in shock, and then she squealed, as his teeth found her nipples. All carefulness, all gentleness, was forgotten. Savagely, they bit into each other, rubbed their faces over the aching sensitive flesh, and suckled as hungrily and fiercely as babies, remembering long-forgotten rhythms. She needed him, her veins thrummed with longing. The intensity was too much to even tear off his clothes and pull him into her. She had to take everything she could now, give everything she could, as they were…
Curled in the foetus position, in mirror images, their mouths were drinking straight from each other’s hearts and still it wasn’t enough. Her nails dug into the small of his back to pull her along his body, and sink her face into the heat of his crotch. Her hips lay in front of his face, and he groaned deep in his throat. Clutching handfuls of her long skirt, he hauled it above her hips and her cleft lay bare to his view. She scrabbled at his jeans as she felt his mouth close on her full lips. The scent of his groin was intoxicating her. She could see the tight seams straining around the hard protrusion, as she fumbled at the buttons. At last, she ripped them open, pulled his boxers down, and his cock sprang out. His tongue was running over the length of her slit, up and down, again and again. His hips strained towards her mouth. With one movement, she pushed his jeans down his thighs and lowered her mouth onto him. As he felt the succulent warmth engulf him, he slid his tongue inside, to touch her delicate bead. Her clasping lips and busy tongue slithered up and down him, tasting the sweet stickiness at the top and coating his shaft with slippery saliva. He was lapping deftly at her, gliding his tongue between her lips to taste her juice, and returning to the sensitive tip. She kept her thighs close together and relished the slow agony of lust building inside her. Even so, she pressed her hips closer and closer to him, and with each movement took him deeper. She tipped her head, the better to swallow his thick member. Wrapping his arms around her legs, he forced his palms between them and slowly spread her open.
For a few moments, he lay still, his senses overwhelmed. His nostrils and taste buds were full of her juice, his cock strained in the slick grip of her throat, her flowery folds were exposed to his eyes, her intermittent whimpers of bliss sounded in his ears. He lowered his mouth slowly again. His hand fanned, and two fingers probed at the small, moist aperture. As the opening yielded to and clutched at his digits, her mouth released him and she howled in delight. That animal sound sent a new wave of lust rolling over him. Swiftly, he swung astride her and lay pressed against her, feeling her breasts crushed under his hard stomach. With his mouth drawing furiously on the sweetness of her clitoris, he dug into her with his hand, and played her screams of bliss like a violin. Wild with ecstasy, her lips darted all over him. She licked at his balls, tongued his shaft, nibbled his glans, clutched his thighs, and wailed. Her flailing hand found his shaft and grasped it. It felt as firm as a rudder against her palm. While her mouth lapped and sucked at his tip, her fingers slid along the sticky length in a perfect echo of his fingers’ rhythm within her. Her thighs spread as far apart as they could, the inner muscles drawn tight. Her hips bucked in time with his.
She could feel the shining ball of gold deep inside her, spreading along her veins like a spider’s web. For once, she did nothing to hurry it, just felt it spread and savoured the taste of him wantonly. The pitch of her wails rose. All her body, every vein and muscle and particle of soul, seemed to shimmer in anticipation. Slowly, his fingers withdrew, his mouth lifted. Her mouth and fingers stilled. In silence, he shifted from her. She lay motionless and breathless on the sofa, her thighs still parted, as he stood. Now that the moment was upon her, she felt a thrill of fear that she had never felt before. Her skirt, she realised, was still bunched around her waist. He dragged his jeans off his feet. Bending over her, he pulled her skirt over her head. The intensity of his eyes made her tremble when she met them. Both he and she seemed to be wading through dark gold air in slow motion. The very walls of the room seemed to hum with tension. She watched, frozen and burning, as he knelt between her widespread legs and leaned slowly forwards. His mouth touched hers as that blunt, blind tip touched her entrance. In unison, his tongue and his staff nudged at her different lips. She shuddered, feeling the suspended, shimmering frenzy returning. His lips pressed hard against hers as his flesh fought against the straining passageway. He seemed to be dividing her in two, as his thickness pushed gradually and relentlessly inwards. Her pussy felt as if it were screeching with ecstatic need, her breasts heaved against him, his lips had not yet left hers. Her hips bucked against the unyielding rod, unable to wedge it deeper. Kissing her deeply, he clasped her shoulders tenderly in his hands, and with one hard shove sank fully into her. The uncontrollable yelling of her orgasm was caught in that first, long kiss.
When at last she subsided, they were kissing still. Their tongues entwined languorously. Slowly, he withdrew to half his length, and pushed gradually into her. She received him, deep inside her, with a sensuous moan. Again, he pulled away, and unhurriedly sank to the hilt in her again. Her legs closed beneath him, leisurely, enclosing him even more tightly. Their thighs pressed; their arms wrapped around each other. With each motion, all the skin on her body rubbed smoothly along his. A rich ache built inside her as he kept on grinding slowly. Their breath came faster, they began to pant, their hearts beat furiously against each other’s breasts, and still he maintained the same, steady pace on top of her. Each time he drove slowly into her, he seemed to fill her more. All her body was glutted with him, every cell crammed and ready to burst with intensity. Her head swam as she drowned in his kisses. The raging passion was unbearable, his barely controlled thrusts dizzied her. His gasping breath was hot on her cheeks. The pounding of his veins echoed in her ears. She felt something deep, far down in the depths of her, awaken, as she approached the excruciating crux, she began to scream as he did, the sounds lost to her passion-deafened senses. Her whole body clenched his as she reached the summit with him, and sank into unconsciousness.
The room was small and built of rough, untreated wood. Daylight hardly penetrated the gloom. A forest of drying herbs hung from the ceiling, brushing her hair as she pulled her thick skirts up to avoid the thick mud around the doorway. Despite the dimness, she knew the exact shape of each bunch and each of its leaves – the long, trailing leaves, the tiny spear-like ones, the small serrated ones. Stray fragments crumbled into her hair as she passed, imparting their dusty perfume. She shaded her eyes against the brilliant sunrise with one hand, the other dangling by her side, holding the water jug. Warm, southerly wind lifted tendrils of her hair. Far in the distance, squinting in the light, she could see the breast-shaped rise of Round Hill, and silhouetted against it on the far side of the river, the gilded silhouette of her darling. As she watched, two horse-riders cantered up the meadow towards him. In horror, she saw the menacing steeds closing on him. She was sick with dread as she sank to her knees, pulling her fingers through the mud. She felt the grainy muck under her fingernails, but didn’t look down; her eyes were fixed on him. Round and round her tracing hands moved, stabbing and smoothing at the wet ground, she had to do it faster – she had to move faster – she was muttering under her breath, she mustn’t look away, the bile of fear was rising in her throat…
A violent fit of choking ended the murmuring litany. As she spluttered, a warm arm gripped her around the waist, a hand patted her back hard. She drew breath at last, through her gagging coughs, and felt the welcome oxygen spread through her veins.
‘You’re okay!’ she exclaimed, falling into his arms in weak relief. Her head lay against his chest, feeling the warm lifeblood flowing through his skin. ‘I was so worried – it was so awful…’
‘You were worried?’ said Adrian in disbelief, tilting her head back to look at her. ‘I’m okay? You passed out cold!’
Sarah looked around her in confusion at the spacious room, full of soft furnishings and warmth, with its high ceilings. A few candles still glowed.
‘I… had the weirdest dream.’ She shuddered. ‘It’s still with me – it felt so important. You were there, you were in terrible danger, these men with horses were coming for you, but the water was between us and I couldn’t do it fast enough.’
‘Do what fast enough?’
With his arms wrapped safely around her, the dream was evaporating, shreds of it flying away as her full consciousness returned.
‘I don’t know… It was important, it was so important.’ She shook her head to clear it. ‘I had mud under my fingernails.’ She examined one hand, half-expecting to see the soil still ingrained.
Want a bit more? There's another excerpt on my website - and if it tickles your fancy just right, tell the postman to bring you one or download the hands-free audio-version. Don't forget to add a comment below to be entered into the draw for a signed copy.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Pop another bottle of champagne!
Ummm...that's...well, that's some pretty damn sexy champagne. It makes me think of...well...
Ahem. So sorry. Where was I?
Oh, yes! Amy S. is the winner of the autographed Erotika: Bedtime Stories anthology.
So, Amy S., send your information to lustbitesladies AT yahoo DOT com. Soon you shall have free smut. Goes well with Bubbly!
P.S. from Alison Tyler: The winner of a copy of Original Sins signed by Ashley Lister and the 7 Deadly Sins Bracelets is "anonymous 4:45." (Just a reminder, you wrote this line: "Who takes sin more seriously? The Americans or the British?") Email me at msalisontyler at yahoo dot com. Oh, and if you all want to read a sizzling excerpt from Gwen Masters' hot-as-hell story "To Protect and to Serve" click here.
Posted by Gwen Masters at 11:33 AM
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
I am anonymous.
I’ve written more pornographic works of fiction than you’d care to imagine. I want you to be anonymous too. I want you to log out of your blogger accounts and talk dirty to me. I want to hear your sexual fantasies and I want you to hear mine.
Fantasy can be a paler version of reality or it can be an end in itself, allowing us to imagine what we can't or would rather not try. Here are three of mine.
Sshh, gather round. Draw the curtains and promise not to tell.
I’m in a room like a large prison cell, all whitewashed walls and tiny, barred windows. I’m naked and hog-tied, suspended on the horizontal, my legs held open by the ropes. Leaning casually against the wall, a gang of mean, muscular soldiers are watching me. They’re grimy and shaven-headed, and they’re wearing camouflage pants and dirty combat boots. They’re waiting till it’s their turn to fuck me or stick their cock in my mouth. I feel exposed and ashamed, horribly aware that my cunt is on display and I'm wet.
One guy strides forwards, unzipping. He’s brawny and arrogant, and I sway on the ropes as he moves between my thighs. He penetrates me, gripping my hips as he pounds hard and fast. The other soldiers are smiling and sneering. Another steps forwards. ‘Make her suck your dick,’ says someone, and he does.
This fantasy doesn’t have an ending. It’s not that kind of narrative. More men fuck me. ‘Can she take another?’ ‘Yeah, she's a slut.’ Sometimes they leave me alone, or push me on my ropes. I sway gently. I might get impaled, mouth or cunt, on a cock or dildo. They laugh, making jokes and talking about me as if I don’t exist.
I’m a subject in medical research. I’m naked, strapped in one of those reclining, gynae chairs, my knees bent and fixed open. I’m hooked up to monitors and various bits of bleepy, flashy equipment.
There are two guys in white coats, one by my side holding a clipboard, the other standing between my thighs. They’re friendly but aloof - professionals interested in my reponses not in me. The guy between my legs examines and touches me – my breasts, cunt and inner thighs. He crouches down to study me, peeling my labia apart and holding me open. Standing, he deliberately arouses me, reporting his findings to his colleague: ‘She’s getting very wet’ or ‘I think she’ll come soon.’ Sometimes, he gives me a kind smile. ‘Is that good?’ he’ll ask, working his fingers inside me.
It’s night time and I’m walking down an alley in a seedy part of town. On the street I’ve just left, there are shabby strip joints, neon signs and narrow doorways. A man steps out of the shadows. Before I can scream, he slams me up against the wall, clamping his hand to my mouth.
‘Shut it, bitch,’ he hisses, fumbling with his fly. I’m fighting back, screaming into his hand, but it makes no difference. He’s strong, he’s horny and can overpower me without much trouble. He enjoys his strength and the fact he can torment me. He grins. ‘You’re going to like this,’ he says, slowly jerking his cock. He fucks me up against the wall. He’s rough and ruthless, grunting and panting. Sometimes he orders me to turn around and he fucks me from behind. Sometimes, he forces me to my knees, clutching my hair in his fists as he fucks my mouth.
Again, this fantasy is never ending.
So where will you to take me? What goes on in the murky corners of your mind? What are you thinking when you’re on the edge of coming?
I don’t care if you’re man, woman or undecided. I don’t care how pretty the writing is. Give me scenes, give me snippets, give me truth. Put your inhibitions away with your identity. Be anonymous. Be brave. Be yourself.
Let’s melt this blog.
What is it? Go on, I’m listening.
Monday, July 23, 2007
... wailed the Black Lace editor.
by Janine Ashbless
A few years back I wrote a story, The Dragon’s Bride, in which a woman has sex with a dragon. (Have you any idea how hard I’d get my ass kicked if I submitted that story these days?) It was a Big Cock Fantasy really. Some people loved it, and some recoiled from it: “Sex with a talking dragon is still bestiality!” they squealed.
“Is it?” I asked, genuinely bemused. Is a free-willed, highly intelligent, self-aware creature who can talk, make moral judgements and understand the consequences of his actions just an animal? Because that doesn’t describe any animal I know.
What it is that makes the dragon/human liaison off-limits? The fact that Oromon is not biologically of the same species as Sheldi? - If I’d written a story about a human and an elf (or a Klingon) would that be as edgy? Or is it the fact he’s a quadruped and she’s a biped? Where’d you draw the line?
The fact one instinctively goes “Yuck!” or “Eeek!” when confronted with a particular sexual dynamic doesn’t necessarily mean there’s a sound basis to one’s reaction. I mean, personally I’m phobic of saliva – anyone who tried the Scarlet Sex Tip of “spitting into your lover’s mouth” with me would find themselves kicked clear across the room. That doesn’t make saliva a moral issue! Examine all motives. Don’t forget that when Captain Kirk first kissed Uhura, that episode of Star Trek was banned from TV - because it was obvious to the studios that the majority of viewers considered racial ‘miscegenation’ morally offensive. Nor is that attitude dead today – ask yourself what proportion of Hollywood movies feature a black hero getting off with a white woman.
Taboos (and violent, visceral revulsion) often manifest in situations where boundaries between categories are in danger of being shattered: black/white, male/female, inside/outside, animal/human, food/not-food, living/dead. Remember how genuinely offended and angry people got in the ‘60s when men starting wearing their hair long – because that mixed up existing gender signals and blurred category boundaries. Most Westeners would find the prospect of eating, say, dog, stomach-churning: dogs are Not-Food despite being edible. Fingernails on the living hand are beautiful; fingernails dropped anywhere else are repulsive. Perfectly acceptable feet or shoes suddenly become Dirty when put on a table.
It’s a very strange relationship we have with the animal kingdom. From a very young age we’re all fed with stories about bears that go on picnics, hedgehogs that spring-clean their houses, rabbits who shop for hats and ducks that want to fly airplanes. We are inculcated with the idea that Animals are People just like us, with feelings and aspirations and personalities. Then suddenly it’s flipped on its head and we’re told that no, animals are there to be crammed into battery cages and minced into hamburger and have oven-cleaner squirted in their eyes. Blimey, no wonder we’re confused.
Fantasy fiction expresses among other things our yearning to go back to that belief that there are beings with whom we share the world that look different to us but are People just the same. Fantasy stories are filled with talking animals, with mythic beasts possessing wisdom and secrets and tantalising mystery. We want to interact with people who share most of our biology but are still Other (Hey, isn’t that a part of all heterosexual attraction?). We see animals as a bridge between us and the natural world we are estranged from. And, being sexual adults, we load fantasy beasts with other significance: animals are spontaneous, they have sex without guilt, and they represent the power of instinct overriding rationality and cultural restrictions. One look at Furry communities lets you know how important the symbolic power of the animal-human is. Pony-girls are a favourite fantasy of many people. Cowboy erotica obsesses about horses and sex in stables. And what about the HUGE interest in lycanthropes in romantic fiction? The entire point of werewolf erotica is the fetishising of the fact they can turn into animals at any moment, isn’t it?
Does this playing around with taboo smack of hypocrisy? Or is it the hallmark of the erotic always to be dancing on the edge of the Forbidden?
My position, for what it’s worth, is …. I think we’re obligated by humane decency to engage sexually only with those of an equal mental and moral capacity to ourselves – anything else is exploitation at some level. And my feeling is that anything you can argue with, challenge, be moved by and empathise with AS AN EQUAL counts as a Person regardless of gender, genetic makeup or appearance – and I see no problem writing about sex between Consenting Autonomous People.
In the real world this category definitely excludes animals (along with children, adults in comas, corpses etc). In fantasy worlds it cannot exclude werewolves, vampires, mermaids, angels … or dragons*.
Here’s a short extract from The Dragon’s Bride
The same story collection, Cruel Enchantment, also had a short story about a werewolf initiation orgy. Do you wanna read the bit where the heroine actually had sex with a wolf? Brace yourselves; here it comes:
“As soon as she was released this time, Michel rolled her over onto her front. Someone took her from behind, quick and slippery and panting, his balls slapping audibly against her pussy, and after he had finished another mounted her. Her first thought was that this man had an extraordinarily hairy chest and thighs – and then her second though was a white streak of incredulity., but Michel held her down hard so that she couldn’t wriggle round and look behind her. She buried her face in his leg, half laughing and half sobbing, and pure shock wrenched another orgasm from her.”
Shocking, wasn’t it? You may never recover – though somehow I doubt it.
* Or unicorns. See “The Unicorn and the Strumpet” by our own Teresa Noelle Roberts, which you can find in the anthology ‘Garden of the Perverse’: fairy tales for twisted adults. Oh, and wait till you see what’s coming up in Love on the Dark Side, the next Black Lace anthology!
1) What were you expecting - Dragon cock?
2) Mr Tumnus. Fauns are acceptable -
3) And werewolves, some of the time -
4) But this is just way too pervy, apparently.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Saturday, July 21, 2007
by Kristina Lloyd
Your regular host, Tilly, is recovering from having her hair dyed pink (I kid you not) so, as the Lustie with the second maddest hair colour, I’ve been brought on from the subs' bench to preview the week ahead. (Yes, thank you again: that's ‘sub’ as in ‘substitute’.)
Heroes that are hung like donkeys are all very well, but what about heroes who are donkeys? In this age where the paranormal is practically normal and shapeshifters are sexy, who says a hero has to be smooth all over? Janine Ashbless braves bestiality on Monday. Expect fur to fly.
Midweek is a mystery. One shy, retiring Lustie dons the invisibility cloak to reveal her sickest – I mean secretest – sexual fantasies. I'm reliably informed at least one of these fantasies will feature the word 'gang'. Or was it gag? Honestly, I’ve no idea who this mystery woman is. None at all. What's that? A bribe? Well, maybe I could ask.
The final Friday of each month is devoted to our Smut Slut – it’s like pay day but the currency is porn. Coming your way this month is Olivia ‘Egg White’ Knight with an excerpt from her stunning paranormal debut, The Ten Visions.
So that's pink hair, bestiality, fantasies so twisted no one will own up to them and hallucinogenic ghost-sex. Looks like another quiet week on the blog. Now then - who’s got the invisibility cloak? Speak up, I can’t see you.
ETA: They should never have trusted me with this job. I forgot to announce the winners of our recent giveaways. Tilly will be back soon, don't worry. It'll all be under control.
And so, the results are: A basket of Good Vibes lube to Jeremy Edwards! And a signed copy of Stephen Elliott's My Girlfriend Comes to the City and Beats Me Up to Smut Girl, Sommer Marsden. Winners, send your details to msalisontyler@ya ... Oh, for heaven's sake, shall I quit pretending? Alison publishes your erotica. You guys know each other professionally. I swear this isn't incest. Those were the names that my random number generator chose. Next time there's a draw, you should send a ten-men independent adjudicator team round to my place. Actually, when is the next draw?
Erotika: Bedtime Stories is here! This first anthology from Sensorotika is filled with naughty tales. Four of my stories made it into this volume. Here's a teaser of a tale from one of those:
From "Passing the Time"
By Gwen Masters
She had all sorts of ideas now, and no one to share them with. She wondered again where he was, and why he hadn’t called like he said he would.
Leaning over with a sigh, Amber put the lotion on the windowsill above her bed. As she did, her gaze landed on the space beside her nightstand.
On the little red box peeking out from under the bed.
In that box resided a variety of adult toys, from vibrators to dildos to pearls to clamps. She looked at the box for a very long time. In all her concern that her boyfriend didn’t feel the way he once had, her sexual desire had taken a vacation. She had played with herself the day before and found that the resulting orgasm wasn’t worth the time. It was nothing but a thin, joyless spasm of physical release that left her feeling even worse than she had before she started.
But as Amber looked at the box, she started thinking.
First she got sad.
Then she got angry.
Then she got busy.
She yanked the box out from under the bed. Something in there rattled -- batteries, perhaps. She opened the top and looked at the first toy there, the dildo that looked quite a bit like her boyfriend’s cock. She picked it up, testing the weight of it in her hand. She looked at the phone. It sat there silently, mocking her hopes that she would hear his voice while she contemplated exactly what she was going to do with that toy.
Because she was going to do something with it, by God.
Her nipples were hard and hurting already. She ran her hand along where he had been, traced the bruise his tongue and teeth had left there a week ago. She shifted in the bed, lay down on her back and let her fingers walk all over her skin. It was slick from the lotion, warm from her shower. Goosebumps rose everywhere when she thought of the kisses he had bestowed on the back of her neck, of the way he had kissed her ear and made her sigh. She touched all those places and then some.
Her legs shifted. Her knees opened. She slid one hand down between them, careful not to touch the most sensitive places. She loved the way her legs felt, delightfully smooth and silky, perfect for wrapping around a set of strong, pistoning hips. Soon she was moving a little, pushing her body up to meet her hand. She spread her fingers and slid them between her legs.
She was wet. A tiny moan escaped her.
She lifted her hand to her lips, licked first one finger, then another. She moaned again, a low and secret sound, something for herself alone.
She suddenly remembered the toy in her hand. She slid it across her thigh and let out a shuddering breath. She wanted to be filled, to be slammed hard, to be made love to. All at once.
She pushed the toy against her clit. Her moan was louder this time, and the sensation rolled through her with the force of a fast-moving wave. Had she really been that tense?
“Slow,” she said out loud, taking a deep breath. The toy slipped against her clit, back and forth, warming even more as her wetness spread over it. Her pussy was as smooth as her legs were. The wetness flowed unchecked across her lips and down the crack of her ass. She would have to change the sheets later. She didn’t care.
Her mind slipped away to another place. There was a man hovering above her, a fantasy behind her closed eyelids. She didn’t see his face but she heard his voice in her head, the familiar smooth tone that turned her on when he said those oh-so-right things.
You want that, don’t you? You want my cock.
She slipped the toy in another inch. The walls of her pussy stretched deliciously around it. She bit her lip as her boyfriend’s voice whispered again in her head, and she imagined she could feel his strong arms on either side of her, holding his weight above her body. A drop of sweat rolled down her forehead and she imagined that it had dripped from the man in her mind.
You like that, don’t you? You can’t get enough.
The word slut crossed her mind, and as it did the man chuckled in her ear.
Slut, huh? That’s what you like to be called? Slut. You’re a good one, aren’t you?
She arched up and slid the toy home. It made her gasp, made her whimper, made her stretch. It made the man in her mind laugh out loud.
Look at you, how bad you need it. You’re a slut, you’re in heat, and you’re ready to take on the whole neighborhood. Aren’t you?
She was right on the edge. That fast, that hard, that steep was the climb. She stood it for three long strokes and with the fourth, she turned her head into the pillow to muffle the scream as she came.
Amber lay dazed. The orgasm had knocked the breath from her.
The whole neighborhood, he taunted again.
She reached blindly and found the toy box again. Without opening her eyes, she felt around until she found what she wanted. What she needed...
* * *
Ah, yes...every woman needs a toybox filled with delicious things!
One commenter on today's blog will get a copy of Erotika: Bedtime Stories, autographed by yours truly. If you can't wait that long or want a few more for your friends, here's where you can find out more.
Now go have a sexy weekend!
Gwen "Loves Her Toybox" Masters
Friday, July 20, 2007
by Alison Tyler
Anyone who’s visited the Erotic Readers and Writers Association is familiar with Ashley Lister’s witty reviews. Two thumbs up from Ashley Lister is something every writer strives for. (Peek in the sidebar, if you think I’m lying.)
We’re extremely pleased to have Ashley with us today! As Ashley is the author (under pen name Lisette Ashton) of Original Sins (as well as more than twenty other novels), I thought we’d focus on the seven deadly sins for our questions—I have to admit, I had to look these up. I could only come up with four on my own (LUST, SLOTH, ANGER, VANITY). I’m guessing the others are SERVING DECAF COFFEE, WATCHING YOUR ROOMMATES HAVE SEX, and DRINKING MARTINIS WITH FEWER THAN THREE OLIVES. But I could be wrong.
So I asked Ashley to clarify what the sins are and to tell us how they fit into his own life. He poured me another four-olive martini and leaped to the task.
The Seven Deadly Sins
Let’s face it: the seven deadly sins are out of date. They’re not, and never have been, deadly. Since when are sloth or pride ever likely to prove fatal? It’s stretching credulity to believe lust alone could be a “deadly” sin – although it’s probably one hell of a good way to go.
And, now we’ve established that they’re not deadly, can we all agree that they’re not really sins? I think it’s more accurate to consider them as foibles or character traits. Surely we’ve all succumbed to one or more of these peccadilloes at some point during our daily routine? I think I’ve been through most of them today, and it’s not yet nine o’clock in the morning.
ANGER: Do I ever get angry? Why would I get angry when I’m watching the days fall off the calendar as I’m waiting for an editor to get back to me? Or when I read an Amazon review where some halfwit has publicly dumped on six months of my creative efforts? Or when the PC flat-lines half an hour before I’m about to perform my monthly back-up regime? Why the hell would I get angry about those damned things? Under the circumstances mentioned above, is anger really a sin? Or is it a wholly justifiable response to 21st Century life?
GLUTTONY: Oh dear. If this is a sin, it’s one I commit on a regular basis. I write most days, sitting in front of my PC, but I take lots of breaks for strong black coffee. And you can’t drink strong black coffee without chocolate. Or biscuits. Or a slice of cake. Or a ham, tomato and lettuce (with mayo) baguette. Or all of the above. With a couple of extra biscuits. And I do need that strong black coffee. I’m a glutton for strong black coffee.
SLOTH: This (alleged) sin used to be called sadness, which strikes me as a bit of a cruel judgment on the part of the person compiling the original list. To condemn someone as a sinner, just because they’re not jumping around, laughing, smiling and singing “I’m Walking on Sunshine,” is pretty harsh, and unlikely to brighten their mood. Am I guilty of sloth? Between watching Buffy DVDs, Angel DVDs, and keeping up-to-date with all that’s happening in the latest reality TV shows, I don’t have time to be guilty of sloth.
GREED: Isn’t this the same as gluttony? The distinction is supposedly that greed applies to material wealth whereas gluttony is for those of us who drink too much strong black coffee. The truth is, if I were greedy for material wealth I wouldn’t be a writer. I’d be doing something that paid money.
ENVY: This one’s mine. I’m such an envious person I could be a stunt double for Shrek and not have to use any make-up. I envy other writers for their talents. I envy writers who aren’t lazy or gluttonous and spending their days in either the kitchen or the TV lounge. I envy JK Rowling for her bank balance. I envy Eliza Dushku’s boyfriend for being Eliza Dushku’s boyfriend. I embrace envy and claim it as my own. But I don’t consider envy to be a sin. I like to think of it as a motivational tool.
PRIDE: Originally pride was claimed to be the worst of the sins. The punishment reserved for this alleged sin (in hell) involved being broken on the wheel. Tied naked to a wheel? Pain? Discipline? Severe retribution? I can think of worse ways to spend a Sunday afternoon. I think I’ll embrace this one as well as envy. And gluttony. And all the others I’ve mentioned above that aren’t really sins.
LUST: Lust is neither a sin nor a virtue: Lust is a vocation to which we all aspire – and a stepping stone to much better things.
All of which seems to suggest that the original seven sins are past their sell-by-date and in need of replacements.
Which is why I’ve compiled the following list of contemporary sins that are far, far worse than the originals.
Spammers. We live in a fantastic age of computers and chemically enhanced erections. Yet spammers, bombarding us with offers for Viagra and Cialas and every other damned penis pill on the market, have sullied this utopia.
People who say, “…but, at the end of the day…” This cliché means the speaker is saying, “I am a moron, with nothing left to contribute to the conversation, but some insecure need compels me to continue talking and talking and talking…”
Snipers on eBay. I admit, this has nothing to do with erotica or writing, but these irritating bastards should either be reading or screwing or doing something better with their spare time than trying to execute a last minute bid on eBay.
People who say, “I don’t like erotica…” and then go on to admit that they’ve never actually read any erotica. I used to work with someone who said this quite regularly. Once is irritating. Twice is infuriating. Three times and they should have their lips stapled.
Amazon Reviewers. Specifically those who start off their review with the words, “Amazon’s review system is flawed because I have to award this book one star, although I didn’t want to give it any…” As my mother always used to say, “If you can’t say something nice, then keep your damned mouth shut.”
Of course, this is only my list. If you’re reading this and think I’ve overlooked anything more egregious let me know what I’ve missed.
Post a comment, or a sin, for a chance to win a signed copy of Original Sins, as well as a set of super-swell seven sin bracelets for yourself. And ask Ashley any question that you'd like. He'll be popping in throughout the day.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
In which a group of Lustbites authors share their wanton adventures, and some juicy publishing tidbits, from the Romance Writers of America conference in Dallas, Texas, 2007.
Deanna Ashford: I find writing a particularly insular occupation, so my arrival at the RWA National Conference was somewhat of a culture shock for someone from 5,000 miles away across the pond. The Dallas hotel contained at least 2,000 attendees, about a quarter of whom, so I'm told, were published writers.
There were a multitude of workshops to attend on every conceivable aspect of writing and promotion, as well as panels which gave the attendees an insight into the heady world of publishing itself. Publishers held signings for their various authors, which meant lots of freebies for one and all. There was also a huge literacy benefit signing by at least 400 authors, which the general public were invited to attend. Aspiring writers could request meetings with editors and agents in order to pitch their books or themselves. Lastly on the final evening there was a glittering awards ceremony.
It was the perfect place to meet fellow authors, especially those I had corresponded with or who shared the same editor. I met, and hopefully got to know a little, some charming and entertaining people, including a number of US members of our blog. Also I met my editor, Adam, in the flesh at last. Not surprisingly at such an event he was totally outnumbered but appeared to remain charmingly unfazed by the proceedings.
Not surprisingly just about all the Black Lace authors attended the publishing panel entitled “Never Underestimate a Lady,” which had our editor Adam Neville and two Virgin Black Lace/Cheek authors, Michelle M. Pillow and Anne Tourney discussing the erotic market. They all spoke brilliantly on the subject. Adam mentioned Lustbites and the forthcoming short story anthology of the same name, which he said was deliberately named after our blog.
The following day there was another publishing panel on which Adam participated, along with editors of three other erotic romance lines--Avon, Harlequin and Kensington. It was there Adam made an amusing comment about where he'd found Black Lace books placed in bookshops. Not only are they in the romance section, they can sometimes be found in self-help and even zoology!
Not surprisingly, after travelling such a long way I couldn't resist sneaking out for some sightseeing. I just had to see the book depository where the Kennedy Memorial is situated, which of course overlooks the infamous grassy knoll! Also with 2 dollars to the pound how could a girl resist shopping. I did quite a lot and can highly recommend the North Park Mall.
All in all it was a wonderful trip where I met some great people, hopefully made a few friends and last, but not least, learned a lot more about the profession I have chosen to belong to.
Dayle A. Dermatis: "New Erotic Romance Lines - One Year Later" was exactly as advertised--editors from Avon, Harlequin, Kensington, and Virgin (as well as two authors) discussing how their year had gone, what they were looking for, what the trends are, etc.
The best news: They all agreed that erotic romance was here to stay!
Avon Red does paranormals and historicals as well as contemporaries, 85,000-90,000 words. They also do novellas of 25,000 words and short stories/e-books are 5000 words. They want HEA* (happily ever after), but the characters can have multiple partners on their way to romantic bliss. Full guidelines can be found here.
Harlequin Spice is looking for erotic fiction; HEA is not required. Strictly M/F is also not required. That said, they're also interested in erotica romance as well. 90,000-150,000 words. They also have the e-spice line, which are online stories from 5000-15,000 words. Click here for novel guidelines and here for e-spice guidelines.
Kensington Aphrodisia wants single-title books of 80,000-100,000 words and novellas of 20,000 to 25,000 words. While darker themes are okay, hardcore BDSM and strong fetishes are discouraged. They handle gay and lesbian erotica as well, but both "within the context of a freewheeling, generally heterosexual storyline." General guidelines for submission are here.
Virgin Books (Black Lace and Cheek) is interested in manuscripts of 70,000-75,000 words for both lines. Black Lace requires a non-contrived, non-wish-fulfillment HEA, and Cheek definitely requires an HEA. Black Lace books can be contemporary, historical, or paranormal, whereas Cheek is contemporary only. Links: Black Lace guidelines and Cheek guidelines.
The editors agreed that their research indicated that readers preferred the trade paperback size. However, few erotica romance publishers are offering their books in mass market, so it's unclear how they were comparing trade paperback sales to mass market sales. Black Lace is one of the few mass market-sized left, and Virgin is contemplating moving them to trade paperback.
The final thing I wrote down in my notes was Big Spank able Asses, which is an anthology from Kensington. Because how wonderful a title is that?!
*Note: Most publishers say that HEA does not automatically mean marriage and a baby on the way, or an epilogue showing them ten years later. It means that in the end, the reader believes the characters will make it together, that they belong together.
Dayle A. Dermatis, Adam Nevill, Teresa Noelle Roberts
(Dayle and Teresa write together as Sophie Mouette)
~ ~ ~
Teresa Noelle Roberts: While I attended the literacy signing last year, I'd just gotten off the plane and was too weary to take in the full impact. This year, I'd had had at least some sleep and so I can say with authority that it's surreal. This is frenzied author- and book-worship, like unto teenage girls in the presence of their favorite boy band, and it makes me happy to see. Hundreds of authors. Probably a thousand or more readers. I was on line for about 20 minutes to pay for my books. The line for Nora Roberts snaked around and around the room. Sherrilyn Kenyon was wearing this insane and very fun Victorian-Goth outfit, fangs, sparkly face paint, and a fabulous hat in the shape of a black swan. People had wheely suitcases to haul away their purchases. And in the end, we raised over $55,000 for literacy charities. (Grumble . . . would have probably hit $60,000 if everyone's books had arrived!)
One very cool thing is that happened at the signing, as a cosmic compensation for our books not arriving, is that Dayle and I had a chance to talk with Emma Holly. (Emma, of course, got her start with Black Lace.) I somehow managed to avoid doing a complete Fangirl Gush (while, I think, getting across that I'd like to.) Dayle, who is less tongue-tied than I tend to be, managed to suggest we sit with her at the PI lunch and she agreed. Emma, it turns out, is not just a very talented and hot author, she's also a sweet person. (We did sit with her at the luncheon, although it turned out not to be the best atmosphere for much chatting since there was a pretty full program of speakers and it was one of those hotel function rooms with odd acoustics; you could hear the people in the back of the room better than the people next to you.)
Most of the workshops I attended involved either plotting/structuring your story or sparking creativity and overcoming blocks, because I freely admit these are areas where I've been struggling. Got some great insights in the structuring and plotting workshops. The sparking creativity stuff was more reminding me of tricks I already know but tend to forget when I'm hitting a rough spot. One interesting thing was that during the interactive part of the workshop, I was hitting a theme about rest and reenergizing. At the end, we had a chance to pull an inspirational card--I got one with a lovely picture of a woman napping and a message about giving yourself time to recharge. Hrrm, might be that my subconscious is on to something here! Perhaps I'd actually get more done if I let myself get eight hours of sleep a night? Could it be that I'm not twenty anymore? No, say it isn't so!
~ ~ ~
Kate Pearce: This was my third RWA conference and the busiest one I’ve attended so far. Being published means you have commitments. I find its best to become ‘Kate Pearce’ rather than be boring old me. She is so much better at socializing and selling books!
I had a great time signing books at the Literacy for Life book fair and was near enough Nora Roberts to envy the long line that snaked around 2 sides of the hall. It’s still weird when people come up and ask me to sign a book for them. I always wonder if they really mean me.
Best things were meeting my online writer friends, all the Virgin authors and discovering strawberry lemon drops at the bar. I even managed to attend some workshops and learned a lot about the business side of things. Another highlight was a workshop by script guru Michael Hague entitled “From Identity to Essence: Love stories and Transformation.” We cornered poor Michael in the bar later and had a great chat with him. He nicknamed me Miss Erotica and was fascinated by the difference between my classy identity and my smutty essence.
I came away with 2 cowboy hats, one red, one zebra strip, a flashing white feather boa, sore feet and the desire to lie in a darkened room for a week and speak to no one!
Bad things? 2000 women, eight elevators and a limited amount of time to get anywhere caused a few interesting moments. I also moderated a workshop for some friends of mine and got stage fright when I stepped up on the podium. I announced my name and the workshop as “Writing the ‘hysterical’ erotic romance.” (Instead of historical)--TWICE--ON TAPE. This wasn’t quite the name recognition I was hoping for . . . .
~ ~ ~
This was my first RWA conference; in fact, I’m not only a conference virgin, I’m a newly minted member of RWA. I hadn’t even made it through the paperwork by the time I landed in Dallas last Wednesday. I knew where I was supposed to be, and when, and I had a vague idea of why, but I was never quite sure how to get there. I went straight from the airport to the Bookseller’s Tea, which was in full swing when I arrived. There I met Jo-Ann Power, of Power Promotions. She kindly made sure I wasn’t going to faint, then gave me the task of handing out Virgin goodie bags to a roomful of strangers. It was kind of like reverse trick-or-treating, en masse. I wasn’t quite sure who was a bookseller and who wasn’t, so I handed out the bags to anyone who made eye contact with me. I also met co-authors Michelle Pillow and Mandy Roth, two inventive and prolific writers of erotic romance and paranormal erotica. They helped me get over my nerve attack, and showed me how to work the room.
Friday afternoon, I participated in a workshop panel (“Never Underestimate a Lady”) with Jo-Ann, Black Lace/Cheek editor Adam Neville, and author Michelle Pillow. We talked about the distinction between erotica and erotic romance, the future of erotica publishing, and the challenges of being an erotica writer while maintaining a “mainstream” identity. It was an interesting, thoughtful discussion, and I didn’t even choke on my water.
Saturday night, as I was recovering in my room with a cheeseburger and a horror movie, I realized that I needed this first experience just to learn how to make the most of future conferences. Here are a few of the tips I’ll use to make my next adventure more productive:
- Bring business cards. I was advised to make business cards before the conference, but I didn’t know what I’d put on them. “Anne Tourney: Geek (and Writer)” seemed the most appropriate, but I wasn’t sure why anyone would want to know my email address or phone number, so I came cardless. I soon regretted this; everyone was handing out cards, and they’re a wonderful way to keep in touch with editors, agents, and other writers, not only after the conference, but while it’s going on.
- Don’t be shy about self-promoting. I’ve come to the conclusion that self-promotion is kind of like masturbation: everyone does it, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of, and since it’s an absolute necessity in certain cases, you might as well throw yourself into it with creativity and joy. I got all kinds of ideas about promotional goodies to bring next year (I think I’ll print my name and the cover of my new release on trail mix bars, since food is terribly expensive and I always seemed to be hungry), and I’ll definitely bring a few extra copies of my novels to swap with other writers, or give away to readers, editors, or agents.
- Talk to strangers. As a diehard introvert, this was one of the toughest hurdles for me to overcome, but I did manage to introduce myself to a few people I’d never met. It was well worth the effort, not only for the professional contacts I made, but for the inspiration and sheer fun of meeting other creative creatures.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
by Olivia Knight
She stepped shyly through the doorway, the diaphanous stuff of her white negligee barely concealing the pure lines of her body. He stepped towards her... she caught her breath… His hands gripped the gossamer thin fabric. As his mouth descended on hers it seemed all the stars of the sky fell around her. Sweet music of angels thrilled through her body as she succumbed to him… at last. Through the brilliant heavenly lights, she heard the music of the spheres… and they were one.
“What did you think?” My friend breathlessly awaited my reaction to the Barbara Cartland novel*, the first I’d read, the first to go beyond a chaste kiss or marriage vows all the way into the marital boudoir.
“I don’t know,” I said doubtfully. “I always thought sex would be a bit more sticky than that.”
Stickiness: secretions, juices, fluids, mucuses, jets, spurts and drops: what would sex be without it? And what, for that matter, would erotica writing be with it? Try a few excerpts of more imaginary novels:
He withdrew his fingers slowly, a long strand of transculucent silky fluid dangling from them… He pounded into her, the rythmic slap of their bodies counterpointed by the juicy squelch of each thrust… He savoured the sight of his cock pulling out of her, slick with thick white cream… She lay beside him, still gasping as the last aching twinges of bliss subsided and their mingled juices began to drip from her saturated slit, soaking into the sheet.
Real sex is sticky from beginning to end and then some. The aftermath – creamy streaks of juice down your thighs or a little latex bag of gloop that you check for holes – is as much part of sex as the initial slipperiness and ultimate spurt. In both erotica and romance, we’re usually describing sex in considerable detail – so how far should verisimilitude go?
The Cartlandesque approach avoids stickiness assiduously. You’d be forgiven for thinking every attempt at sex is interrupted by divine intervention - hardly useful for a pubescent girl in search of solid information. At the opposite extreme are Fanny Hill’s “copious emissions”. The spectrum from romance to erotica might well turn out to be simply one of stickiness – but even hard-core no-holds-barred fearless erotica writers like us can suddenly start skittering like high-bred fillies around female juices.
Male juices are less problematic. From the ubiquitous gleaming drop on the glans to the squirt of the money-shot, this is familiar territory. Semen, spunk, cream, jizm, and even the occasional sperm (some of these characters have amazing eyesight) present no problem. With women, it’s a little coyer. You can’t start with a few Latin terms – “mucus” is the preferred medical term and sounds like snot. “Vaginal discharges”, meanwhile, sound like pus. Nouns are awkward: her juice, cream, love-juice, female juice, female honey… you soon start to cringe. The heroine’s always wet, obviously (just as the hero's always hard) – creamy, slippery, moist, damp, and juicy are all essential adjectives. The actual nature of her wetness is something we’d usually prefer not to go into.
In fact, the actual nature of a woman’s wetness in general is still bizarrely misunderstood. So, just for the record… in the four or five days before ovulation, a woman gets sticky first. Then, she gets slippery and creamy, and it looks like hand lotion on your fingers. Then, for a couple of days it’s that super-squelchy, gloopy, feels-so-good-to-plunge-into stuff that looks – frankly – like egg white.
Without preamble, he shoved three fingers deep inside her. “You’re so wet,” he gasped. “You want me so much…”
“No, you numbskull,” she retorted, “I’m bloody ovulating. It’s nothing to do with you.”
“I want you so much…” she groaned. As his fingers pressed into her knickers, she realised to her mortification that despite the rising lust that pounded in her ears, her love-petals were bone-dry. Damn, she thought. I shouldn’t have got so pissed last night – I must be dehydrated…
Obviously, all the sticky/creamy/eggwhitey stuff often coincides with horniness, plus of course there’s the independent juiciness that comes with being very aroused (or, sometimes, doesn’t). For the curious, you can tell the difference by dipping your finger in and out: arousal juices dry very quickly in the air. The other ones don’t. Like Garfield on his first visit to the farm, where he discovered the origins of eggs, bacon and milk, you might prefer not to know. In the current state of play, even if you did know, most erotic books would be enough to confuse you for life. In real life, sticky sex is the best. In books, how sticky do you like it?
And as a special sticky treat, we’ve persuaded the lovely people at Good Vibes to give you a present – so drop a comment to be entered in the draw for a hamper of slippery lube.
* Obviously to avoid plagiarism not an excerpt from Cartland’s work, which to avoid libel I must refer to as a fine body of literature providing a telling and incisive insight into normative gender paradigms which are toujours déjà inscribed, et cetera.
Monday, July 16, 2007
by Gwen Masters
I love being a writer – as if you hadn’t guessed. And I love writing erotica. I especially love writing the naughtiest stuff I can come up with, the fantasies that push the boundaries. As one of the sometimes amusing sidelines to the job, readers are always asking me if I think about sex all the time. If I get horny when I’m writing a short story. If my man reaps the benefits of my workday. Things like that.
Ummmm...well, in short: Yes.
But there are other considerations, too – sometimes the occupational hazards of being a writer pile up to make life even more interesting than the stuff on paper.
I cannot walk through the Williams-Sonoma store without thinking of what can do double-duty in the bedroom. That spatula would leave interesting red marks on a nice, rounded buttock – or that wire whisk! What devious things could we do with that?
The hardware store has the same kind of appeal. I love a good wrench set just as much as the next tool-head chick, but what I love most are the crazy things I think of to do with that nice drill set. Or that set of so aptly-named screwdrivers...for someone into BDSM, it's a veritable treasure trove.
If you want a good sex toy, remember those two words: Hardware Store.
I watch a television show and within minutes I’m thinking up ways to incorporate sex into the storyline. Movies? Same deal. Was the sex necessary to the plot? Yes? Then what could have made it better? What would happen if he had slept with that character instead of the other one? And by the end of the movie I’m off in my own world, making my own ending, and damned if I can tell you how almost any movie turns out. I seem to always remember the beginning and maybe the middle, but the end? No. My imagination has already taken me out of the theater and into my own little world.
My friends call with questions about sex, and I learn much more than I need to know about their sex lives, but at the same time, I relish how comfortable my occupation makes them. Have a question about sex but you don’t want to ask your gynecologist and you sure as hell don’t want to ask your marriage counselor? Ask an erotica writer!
Speaking of that: When seen through the haze of sex, words take on a whole new meaning. A perfectly innocent conversation turns naughty when it’s being heard by my not-so-virgin ears. Something like: “Victor said it was too big to fit in the trunk, so I put the top down and laid it in the front” will make me howl with devious laughter at the naughty images in my head.
A simple walk downtown turns into location ideas. Shagging on the train tracks? Why not? Strolling past the police station brings forth all sorts of steamy ideas, not the least of which involve nightsticks and handcuffs. Wandering around town square is an exercise in delight. There are secluded benches, hidden under tall trees. There are sculptures, all of which seem to lend themselves to odd positions. There is even that imposing courthouse, those long and flat steps, perfect for...well, whatever you might fancy could happen on the steps of a courthouse in the middle of the night.
And then we pass the church, and oh, Lord. Don’t let me get started.
But it’s not all about sex, all the time. The writer in me never quits, even when I’m not thinking about sex at all. For instance, I cannot read a newspaper without searching for typos. Quirky fonts? They drive me insane. I study typesets with the same intensity some study baseball scores or the stock market numbers. But when it comes to books, I’m really terrible. I can read through four hundred pages and no matter how great the story, that one typo on the second paragraph of page 169 sticks in my head like glue. Sometimes I reach for the highlighter – once an editor, always an editor – and then I chastise myself: Why can’t I just enjoy the damn book?
When browsing through a library, I make sure all the books are flush with the shelf -- until I catch myself doing it, of course. Then I shove my hands in my pockets to make myself quit, hoping the librarian didn’t see me taking over her space. I wander to the reference section and have to harness the urge to make certain it’s all in perfect alphabetical order.
Hell. That makes me sound like an obsessive-compulsive writer...
It might be childish sometimes, annoying now and then, and it’s definitely not good for Sunday brunch conversation, but it’s so deeply ingrained in me that I can’t seem to stop. The best part is that I don’t want to stop. I like seeing the world through imaginative eyes. I like shocking my friends with the latest naughty idea. I like taking a normal, everyday moment, turning it on its head, and making it as sexy as I can. Really, stop for a minute and look around...isn’t the whole world an erotic playground?
Now write about what you see.
Better yet, go to the comments section and write about it there. That way, we can all enjoy the products of your deviant minds!
Saturday, July 14, 2007
By Mathilde Madden as seen on t shirts
It's funny writing for Lust Bites. One minute you’re all excited writing a lovely interview with Stephen Elliott. And next thing you know your post is waaay down there and it's time to usher in the next week of jollies.
But if you loved last week – and who didn't?- Alison Tyler has her commemorative t shirt making elves busy again. And while I'm on the subject of last week - don't forget if you are seriously disturbed and thinking of buying any curly pig tail butt plugs or anal ring toss games or latex gloves, head on over to Extreme Restraints and use our special code 'elliott' for 13% off. Don't wait, this depravity only runs until Friday.
Anyway, look, David is awake, better be quick.
Monday: Gwen Masters talks Occupational Hazards. Is erotica writing dangerous? Well my little finger has been a bit tingly lately, but, frankly, no. However, there may be some pitfalls you don’t expect.
Then Olivia Knight talks about all things slippery when wet. Get sticky on Wednesday.
On Friday Alison Tyler presents Ashley Lister. Now that's going to be really filthy.
Well, that's that done. Come on David, get up. I've bought you a present…
There's only one David Beckham (unfortunately)
As a bit of Saturday sauce for your reading pleasure, may I present a hot mini excerpt from my forthcoming new title from Total-E-Bound, available on 23rd July!
OBJECT OF DESIRE
by Portia Da Costa
The blurby bit....
When Sylvia sees her new upstairs neighbour doing Tai Chi in the communal garden of their apartment building, she immediately knows she wants to do far more than borrow a cup of sugar from him. Nathaniel Gowen is everything she wants in a man and more—handsome, sexy, mature and mysterious—and she’s trying desperately to think of a casual way to introduce herself to the man who haunts her erotic dreams and fantasies.
But then one day, he comes knocking at her door…
The hot stuff...
Sylvia is having difficulty telling fantasy from reality....
And now, this is the shadowed room. I close my eyes and Nathaniel Gowen appears before me, in my fantasy. He's wearing his dark workout clothes, but as I watch he pulls the thin cotton top off over his head, drops it, and then steps out of his trousers, baring his magnificent rock-hard body.
He wants me. In my fantasy, he really wants me. His prick is just as I imagined it, on the rise, and almost erect.
I squirm on the bed, and he advances towards me, his dark eyes glinting.
I know it's just me here, a horny woman dreaming of her lust object, but when I begin to touch myself again, it really seems like him.
Trying to pace myself, I begin by stroking my throat, the lines of my collar bone, and my chest. The contact is light, as I know his would be. Those slow Tai Chi moves tell me he understands rhythm, control, an agonisingly measured rise to pleasure. He's not a smash and grab man, he's a sexual aesthete, a connoisseur. His fingers are spread and the pads glide slowly over my skin, dipping beneath the edge of my white cotton work blouse in a search for bare, hot skin.
Impatient suddenly, I wrench open the buttons. I'm not Nathaniel Gowen, alas, and I don't have the patience and finesse I imagine he possesses. Surely he wouldn't pull and wrench at my bra the way I'm doing? Surely he wouldn't push it up crudely so he could cup and squeeze my breasts?
Steady, woman, steady…
I imagine his caress, sweet and light, strumming my nipples with infinite precision. His fingertips encircle me, while his long flat thumb flicks and flicks, in tiny echoing circles. His touch is leisurely, and yet there's purpose in there too. I sense his goal, the one I yearn for. Total pleasure.
And as the ghost of Nathaniel Gowen fondles me, he kisses me too. His lips possess mine, then voyage sweetly and thoroughly over my skin. He kisses my cheek, my jaw and my throat, the touch of his tongue as neat and clever as his hand on my breast.
For a while I lie there, playing with my breast, lost in a dream, a dream that could be real if I could only summon the courage. My desire rises, and somehow I seem to rise with it, drifting upwards through the building, seeking the tall dark elegant object of my secret longing.
The barely lit room we're in now is his room. Dimly I picture it quiet, subdued and austere. Only in his wide white bed is there wildness. Only tangled in his cool white sheets is there heat and passion.
I'm writhing now. Touching myself more and more, convincing myself that it's him… His large hand drifts over my belly, then slithers inside my panties, momentarily probing my navel then moving on downwards. He pats my bush with tips of his fingers, then sweeps on in…
I know it's me really, but I squeeze my eyes shut, willing away reality. The finger on my clit transforms from my narrow, polish-tipped digit into one much larger with a square yet well-kept nail. He exerts pressure, just on the sweet spot, and I gasp and wriggle. He slides his other hand beneath my bottom, touching me there.
I want to rub hard. I want to rush and grasp at my orgasm, but I know I'll regret it. My greedy hurry just isn't his way, and I'll shatter the spell.
There's no need for impatience, there's no need to rush. I have all night. I have my privacy. In my dreams, I have him.
This fine piece of literature [tee hee] is available in its short but sweet and hot entirety from Total-E-Bound on 23rd July 2007... but with a different cover, of course... ;)
Here's the URL again...
Lots of love and have a great weekend!
Portia Da Costa
who knows she's obsessed, but likes it that way.
Friday, July 13, 2007
by Mathilde Madden
"I take responsibilities for these stories, for every sexual act depicted, many of which occurred when I was younger, before I made the effort to acquire the information I needed. I acquired scars instead. This is not a memoir, but it's damn close. And I'm okay with that. And I'm okay with you knowing that."
It's 9am in Los Angeles and Stephen Elliott hasn't had any coffee. He says this means nothing he says can be relied upon, 'like sleep talking.' Meanwhile it's 5pm in Brighton and I have spent all day proof reading werewolf erotica by reading it backwards. I need a distraction, frankly, and what could be more distracting than a funny, kinky, political, extraordinarily talented writer. He's single, by the way, he told me to say that.
Your writing is very truthful about being a submissive man. Do you feel exposed by what you write?
It is truthful. It started with Happy Baby. When I was writing that I was still very much in the closet [about being submissive]. And then my friends read it and started to put things together. I didn't have to come out, people just knew. And I felt more free. I felt better with people knowing. Of course, there were a lot of dumb comments and questions and I got tired of explaining things to vanilla people. Especially if I didn't really think they would understand.
I was playing cards with some friends and we're arguing about something and one of my guy friends says, 'You don't seem very submissive.' And I was like, 'Fuck you.' This is a nice guy. A liberal. But they don't think anything of making fun of my sexuality.
Also, another thing about being open. I do a lot of political writing and organizing and I've been attacked because of my open sexuality. So it's had negative ramifications on my career.
But I think it's best just to be who you are. To be as open as you can be. My only limit to my openness are limits placed by my own lack of self-knowledge. And I'm working on that.
Some people find 'coming out' makes them feel stronger and more secure. You lose the fear of exposure
Right. Nobody can expose you once you're already out.
But it's hard to think of many submissive men who have outed themselves rather than been 'Exposed'
I don't know. I can't think of any.
God. Are they're really not any?
Open, submissive men. Must be some. I'm trying to think of public people, writers, artists, politicians, actors.
I just thought, oh yeah, there's that guy who wrote that book... and I was thinking of you!
Ha. I've cornered the market. That's why I'm rich.
Do you think writing about sex and being open about your sexuality is a political act?
Definitely. That was one of the reasons I published my last book. Which is very graphic, and very open. We have the Bush administration which is really waging a war against people that practice consensual S&M.
We have to be open about who we are and what we do. We have to force people to accept us. Otherwise we're going to be persecuted.
Would you describe yourself as an erotica author? A sex writer?
I would describe My Girlfriend Comes To The City And Beats Me Up as erotica. But I wouldn't describe myself as an erotica author at all. Or a sex writer. I've written six books and only one of them is erotica.
Happy Baby is a novel that deals with BDSM themes, but it's not erotica.
An erotica story is a literary story (which is to say character driven) where the primary activity driving change is the sexual act. That describes some of my stories, and all of the stories in my last collection, but not the bulk of my work.
I'm a literary writer who is open about his preoccupation with the BDSM lifestyle.
Eden attaches a clip to my nipple. 'Do you want another one?' she asks.
'Yes, please,' I say. And that’s how it goes, as my voice gets weaker and she lines my body with her clips, finally running a string of them down my penis. Every movement increases the pain.
'You’re being so good,' she says.
'I love you so much,' I whisper back.
She strokes my face. I keep thinking to myself how nice she is, wondering why she is so nice to me. It makes me want to cry. We have the whole day. Her husband said she could spend the night; her son is away from home at camp. My roommate is home in the next room with his music turned up. That’s the world around us. And then there is Eden and I and all the clips she’s decorated me in, her initials carved across my back, the bruises on my belly, the twenty-five stripes she cut into my shoulders. 'So pretty,' she says. She takes the clips off one at a time. We’ve been together over five weeks now. I see her four or five days a week, sometimes more, sometimes less. We don’t always do this. We go to movies. We go dancing. We shop for fabric and groceries and I keep her company while she sews. I go to her house and I make her breakfast and sit on the floor next to her chair, working on my articles while she manages her affairs, her husband at work in the city. We do other things, but this is what we’re doing now.
from Just Always be Good in My Girlfriend Comes to the City and Beats Me Up
Your work is so condensed and precise. Do you go through a lot of drafts? How do you know when you're done?
A lot of times I write the first draft of something in one sitting. If it's like a short, short. Or a short story. Then I'll spend the next three or four weeks rereading it, and it kind of breathes, getting larger and smaller, until I can't make any more changes. I have to read something a couple dozen times and not want to change a word to really feel like it's finished.
I know that sounds kind of pompous, but it's true.
But then I'll work differently on longer things. Like right now I'm thirty pages into a non-fiction, memoir-ish book. Though I guess the process is kind of the same.
In this book the sections are very open ended. Kind of building on top of one another. It's a very strange book
What is it about?
It's kind of about everything. But first it's about a murder. Then it's about another murder. One of the side plots is my addiction to BDSM.
When Alison Tyler set up this interview she said you were in one of her anthologies and she was in one of yours.
Alison is in my collection Sex for America. She has this amazing story in there. All of the stories are fiction, politically inspired erotica. For example, there's a story by Jerry Stahl about having an affair with Dick Cheney in the back of a gun store.
And I have a story in her book, Love at First Sting.
Which is best erotica or porn?
Hmmmm. That's a very tough question.
Erotica is not necessarily erotic. Really good erotica does not have to turn you on, and it should be good even for people that aren't into what you're writing about. But porn should always appeal to the viewer, reader.
Erotica is art and I would argue that porn is not necessarily art. So porn is better.
For more of Stephen's work visit his website for some excerpts and reviews. Naturally, you can buy his books online US/UK - or in real bookshops. And you can also be his friend.
One commenter today will win a signed copy of My Girlfriend Comes to the City and Beats Me Up. So speak up if you want to win. And please let me know if you can think of anymore *out* submissive men. There must be some. I'm thinking maybe rock stars… There must be one. Alison? Alana? Can you help with this one?
P.S. In honor of Stephen Elliott, for this week (from Friday the 13th through Friday the 20th), take 13% off any order at Extreme Restraints. Enter "elliott" at checkout to receive the discount.