by Kate Pearce
Don't you just love smut Fridays? I know I do! Here are a few excerpts from my upcoming book for 'Cheek' "Roping the Wind", a stirring tale of a washed up cowboy and his orthopedic surgeon.
It comes out in the UK on December 6th. Unfortunately, those of us who live in the US will have to wait until Feb 5th 08-unless you comment on this post of course, and get lucky!
It was an exhausting book to write as both the characters kind of leapt off the page and started fighting from page one. And as soon as they discovered their mutual kinky interest in leather, things got really interesting...
It’s available to pre-order at Amazon UK and Amazon.com
“I knew I wouldn’t hurt you.” Jay touched her lip with the finger he’d used on her clit. “You were already wet and ready for me, weren’t you?” His cock jerked inside her as she licked his finger tip. “Did you touch yourself? Did you get yourself hot for me?”
She bit his finger as he slid out of her. “I like to think that you did, although according to our deal, your body belongs to me and I should really be giving you permission.”
He grinned as she drew in a sharp breath and pressed his hand over her lips. “Uh, oh, darlin’. Don’t be shooting your mouth off. I don’t want to have to get mad at you.”
Over the top of his hand, her blue eyes snapped murder. Without releasing her, he leaned down and picked up his leather belt.
“How about I put you over my knee? We’ll call it a round dozen if you promise to ask me nicely next time you want to play with yourself.”
He paused to catch her reaction, realized her entire attention was fixed on his leather belt. Lust and dark excitement stirred deep in his belly. He lowered his voice.
“You like the sound of that, yeah?”
He looped the belt in his fist and brought it up to caress her throat, sliding the soft leather down toward her breasts. Her nipples puckered as he rubbed the belt over them. Her breathing shortened to soft pants and he took his hand away from her mouth.
“Yeah, you do, don’t you?”
Helen shuddered as the leather belt danced over her butt.
“Next time you feel like playing with yourself, call me.” Jay said.
She struggled to breathe as his fingers delved between her butt cheeks.
“You don’t own me.”
She jumped as the leather smacked against her skin twice. His hand returned, smoothing the pain away.
“I own this pussy.”
Two more sharp cracks of the leather made her writhe, mingling pain with pleasure making her want, more.
“Just tell me you won’t do it again without permission and I’ll let you go.”
Helen pressed her lips together.
“Nothing to say?”
She tensed as he slid two long fingers past her anus.
“I’d like to fuck your ass now. My cock thrusting into all this warm sensitized flesh.” He added two more fingers making her gasp. “I bet you’d come so hard they’d hear you screaming on the Bay Bridge.”
He reached up to the workbench and picked up a long scrap of soft leather, showed it to her in his hand. Her eyes widened as he wrapped some of it around his thumb and applied it to her clit.
“Did you know that cowboy boots can be made out of almost any kind of leather?”
“Goatskin, shark, lizard, alligator, ostrich…good old American bison.” He rubbed her clit a little harder. “This is deerskin one of the softest. Does it feel good against your skin, Helen?”
He watched the slow play of his thumb, the way the leather darkened as her juices soaked into it. She tried to move her hips against the solid thrust of his embedded fingers but he kept them still and deep.
“I like deerskin myself. The color, the suppleness and the way it stretches over a last.”
“A last what?”
He chuckled, bent to kiss her just above his rubbing thumb. “Shoe last. The three dimensional wooden pattern a boot maker carves for each customer.” He licked a corner of the leather into his mouth, tasted her unique scent mixed with the animal musk. Licked her again, harder now, from his knuckles and back over his thumb. She shuddered in his arms.
He withdrew his fingers, studied how wet they were and licked them clean. Holding her gaze, he wrapped the leather around them.
“I wonder how they’ll feel now, inside you?”
He slowly slid them back inside her, felt her internal muscles grip him like a fist as she came so hard she almost fell off the work top. He removed his fingers, stood up slowly and grinned at her.
Strangely enough, this story made me write another short piece which will be included in “L is for Leather”, which is an exploration of my character’s fantasy life and was super cool to write!
So comment to win a chance to win a copy and have a great weekend.
Friday, November 30, 2007
by Kate Pearce
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Where have all the trollops gone?
Long time passing…
Where have all the trollops gone?
Long time ago…
Where have all the trollops gone?
At their laptops, every one –
When will they ever learn?
Will will they e-ver learn?
Attentive readers will have noticed (because you all scroll down and scrutinise the sidebars for changes, we know) that our favourite Trollop with a Laptop, Alison Tyler, has apparently jumped overboard. DON'T PANIC. In large friendly letters.
Alison's on sabbatical with a huge – and hugely exciting – project, writing a non-fiction guide, to which like the original nun she will be devoting all her attention and spending the rest of her hours in quiet meditation and prayer. (Or at least, research, and as it's Alison writing the guide, it's safe to assume the research will be pretty damn fun.) She's off the blog-roll for the duration, but will turn up like a bad penny in the comments. So until she returns with the guide to change our lives, please enjoy this musical interlude:
(arythmic guitar strumming, with slight gaps in the music as the guitarist fumbles for the next note)
All together now!
Where have all the trollops gone...
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
by Deanna Ashford
What is it about young men I like so much? Is it the taut lithe physique, the smooth skin, the sparkling eyes or that assured arrogance of youth? The thought of those firm young thighs, their ability for sexual endurance. Mind you it doesn’t happen all the time but sometimes I see a young guy and I think Wow! The sexual surge is powerful, there’s no doubt about that, but there is a small wee voice in my head saying “but you are old enough to be his mum!” (Maybe a very young mum, I hasten to add, I don’t like to think I’m that old yet.) Then the devil on my other shoulder says “what the hell, he is so, so tasty.”
It seems a long, long time since I celebrated my seventeenth birthday but I can definitely remember at the time I really only fancied older guys. I thought that young men of my age were a little crass and immature, and to go out with someone older was considered the height of sophistication. Even when I reached my twenties I still preferred older guys. Maybe I was a tad materialistic because I definitely preferred my boyfriends to be older, more sophisticated and to of course have a decent job, a car and all the other necessary accoutrements which made dating them even more enjoyable. On reflection I suppose it is as sort of basic survival instinct being attracted to males who are bigger, stronger and obviously more important.
But as I’ve grown older I have found that my outlook has been turned totally upside down. Who cares if they don't have any money: marriage and settling down with them is not on my agenda – it is beauty and sexual charisma I am after. I’m definitely attracted to younger men and oddly enough the older I get the younger the men I fancy seem to become. There is a limit of course beneath which no sane person would stray but fortunately I haven’t reached it just yet.
Should this bother me? Goodness no! Where’s the fun in that?
After all society has always made it acceptable for young women to be attracted to much older men. Centuries ago young girls in their early teens were forced to marry men way older than themselves, sometimes old enough to be their grandfathers and no one saw anything wrong with that. Even today trophy wives aren’t exactly frowned upon. Look at Hugh Heffner, he is 81 years old and yet he has three girlfriends - all young blonde bimbos in their early twenties. And he claims that he sleeps with them all. Perhaps sleep is the operative word here, most 81 year olds I know drop off at a moments notice!
Yet when Demi Moore, who is now 45, married Aston Kutcher a young man 15 years younger everyone was surprised and a little shocked. In essence she was just about old enough to be his mother. Then there is Joan Collins whose husband, Percy, is 32 years younger than her.
I wrote of an encounter between a younger man and an older woman in my book Doctor’s Orders.
Colin is a nurse in his early thirties and Zara is a well know actress a good 15 years older than him.
Zara’s skin was a pale ivory and blemish free, while her body was just perfect: curvy, not stick thin like most of the actresses Colin had come across since working here. She looked more like a thirty year old than a woman fast approaching fifty.
Colin tried not to think of her in a sexual way, but he found it far from easy, as he poured the sweet smelling oil on her back and started to massage her with long, smooth strokes.
‘That feels nice.’ Zara pillowed her head on her folded arms.
‘Relax, think of nothing,’ Colin said, so very conscious that he was touching a woman he had adored for years. A hungry ache of longing formed deep in the pit of his belly, and no matter how hard he tried, it couldn’t be totally ignored. Her full breasts were compressed by her weight, and they spilled enticingly out of the sides of her body. As Colin slid his hands up the sides of her back, his fingers brushed the soft curves. He wanted to roll her over, cup them in his hands and cover them with gentle kisses. His heartbeat quickened at the thought as life blood flooded his groin. His cock hardened – God, how he wanted this woman.
Zara's bottom was was pert and tight, with no sign of softness or dimpling - a testament to the time she spent working out in the gym. Colin dug his fingers into her gluteus muscles, kneading and squeezing. The movements pulled apart the cheeks of her buttocks and he caught a glimpse of her rosy brown anus. Aroused by the delicious sight, he tried hard to concentrate on the massage, sliding his hands lower to stroke her legs.
She gave a soft appreciative sigh and her legs rolled open just a little. Colin's fingers, slick with oil, slid between her thighs, just brushing her dark blonde curl. He felt her shiver and was so tempted to proceed further; to mesh his fingers in the silky pelt, dip them inside the lips of her sex and seek out the throbbing heat of her quim.
I have friends who taken a fancy to one of their son’s young friends and felt mortified that they feel that way. Fortunately that hasn’t happened to me yet, I’m happy to ignore the young men coming to my door and traipsing up to my son’s room, all dressed the same in baggy jeans and tattered ‘T’ shirts. It seems to me that it is far easier, and probably far safer, to lust after a young guy who is totally unreachable.
In the past I’ve always gone for muscular men, the prime example being Sawyer from Lost, who is the perfect on-screen bad boy. His sultry glances and arrogant attitude make you wonder just how good he’d be in bed. Spectacular I’d guess if his wicked smiles are anything to go by. He’s bad, so very bad, and that makes him far more attractive than good doctor Jack. Nevertheless, there is no way I could class Sawyer in the ‘old enough to be his mother’ category. He’s 38 and way to old, but he is still gorgeous enough for a mention (This is my post!)
It is the sweeter, younger flesh, I’m attracted to like the erstwhile elf Orlando Bloom. Thousands of females fell for the cool blonde innocence of Legolas wondering what it would be like to bed such an enigmatic creature. Then we saw the real
Portia Da Costa also admits to fancying a young man. I quote “Professor Charles Eppes as played by David Krumholtz in Numbers. He’s beautiful, quirky and a genius beyond his years. He’s young enough to be my son but my feelings are far from maternal!
Since my interest in
Monday, November 26, 2007
By Mathilde Madden
Oh, but we have some cruel task masters at Black Lace Towers. They do insist on staggered release dates. Meaning that while we are glorying in our new releases here on Lust Bites we always have to include a disclaimer for our beloved US fans - explaining that they will have to wait two more months.
This is the age of the global village - and waiting is hard. But pout no more, because, for The Silver Collar, book one of my much talked about (by me) werewolf trilogy is here, here, HERE!
(Well, okay, here tomorrow - but don't spoil it.)
Over on my blog, right now I have gathered up some of my (really quite glowing) reviews.
Hop over there to see them and leave a comment for a chance to win a copy of the book. (Lusties too - as it's on my blog).
But before you go... A while ago on my own blog I introduced my six main players with snippets that showed them at their best. Here are the snippets I used to introduce my heroine, Iris, and my hero, Alfie. (Apologies to Janine Ashbless for the tongue action in snip 2)
'Iris.' He nuzzled his face into the angle of her neck and shoulder, licking the sensitive skin there. 'You're the one who wants it.' He said against her spine.
'Wants what?' Iris's voice cracked as she let her head fall back. Alfie buried his head tighter into her flesh and nipped at her skin. Then she was twirling around in his arms, he was pushing her back against a tree. He was kissing her again.
'We have to be quick,' he said, almost as part of the kiss. You can’t take the collar off me until afterwards and you have to take it off before…'
'The moon'll kill you,' Iris said, talking into his hair as he moved down her body, his teeth and lips and tongue everywhere.
'Yes,' said Alfie. 'So quick.' He wrenched her trousers down, lifted her, used the tree for extra support and practically seemed to set her down on his cock.
Iris jerked. Too much, too soon. 'Alfie!'
But Alfie's hands were there on her clit. Those fingers again. Those fingers that had made her come so many times. He was supporting her with the tree, with the angle of his body. Her feet were off the floor. The hand that wasn't jammed down between their bodies he brought up and touched her face. Then he pushed two of his big fingers into her mouth. Filling her there too. In. Out. Stopping her cries as her orgasm began to rush fast towards her. He held her then. Found her tipping point, her edge and held her on it, stilling his cock inside her, his thumb on her clit, his two big fingers fucking her mouth. Iris shuddered, waiting for her moment.
Iris, kissing Iris. One time he'd taken her out in a punt. Pure Oxford tourist nonsense. But she'd looked so beautiful sitting there, while he powered the boat, by dipping the long pole into the water.
She'd said it had turned her on. Seeing him do that. Something about the pole. They'd found a place to moor the boat and just lain together kissing for hours. He missed kissing for hours. Kissing Iris for hours.
Oxford. Vix. He'd have to see her. He could sense her right now. Out there in the city. He'd been able to sense her since they got off the train at Oxford station.
He moved his palm against his cock a couple more times then forced himself to break off and take it a little slower. Iris. The punt. Pushing her T shirt up to her neck and biting her nipples. He ran his palm over his own hard chest once or twice. His hips thrust up into empty air and then the tease was almost too much. Fuck. Fuck! The wolf always did this too him.
Pinning Iris down in the bottom of the boat. Some water had splashed in from somewhere and they were both getting wet. He'd touched her through her jeans, made her buck just from that. They were so young then. Early twenties. Not a care.
He'd gone to fuck her and she'd said, 'No. I want to see it. On me, not in me.' And she'd touched herself while he did the same, coming over her little tits and making her moan – a little of it splattering over the side of the punt into the Thames.
Don't forget my blog for more snippets, the first chapter and, of course, the competition. Just leave a comment and growl if you love werewolves.
And you can step back in time to revisit the wolfie fun that surrounded the UK release.
The Origin of the Silver Werewolves
A Glossary of Selected Terms, Jargon and Classifications
Mat Madden x
Mathilde Madden on US Amazon
Mathilde Madden on UK Amazon
Sunday, November 25, 2007
By Mathilde Madden
It's cold and I'm keeping warm with thoughts of heat and sunshine. Specifically, who would I most like to be stranded on a desert island with, a cowboy, a werewolf or a barely legal piece of jalibait?
Hmm... Pass the pina cola.
Actually forget that question - next week on Lust Bites I don't have to choose.
On Monday, sit back and welcome me, because finally (i.e on Tues) the first installment of my epic werewolf trilogy is out in the US. Brace yourself statesiders. Then, lock up your sons, your grandsons and your toyboys because Deanna Ashford is on the prowl for men she could go on The Generation Game with. She's old enough to be their mother on Wednesday.
The last friday of the month always and only means smut on Lust Bites. Kate Pearce, the woman who brought us bondage vikings in space is here with a slightly more down to earth extract from her new cowboy fancier's delight - Roping the Wind.
See you on that desert island
Mat Madden x
PS The winer of Alison Tyler's early festive treat is Anna Pelletti Modica. Please email Alison at msalisontyler at yahoo dot com to arrange which chimney she needs to climb down.
Friday, November 23, 2007
I don’t even have to ask, do I?
If you’re reading this, if you’re sitting before your computer screen with LustBites bookmarked on your hard drive, then you have to admit to being among the naughty. But don’t worry if your bright red stockings are destined to be filled with coal each year, because naughty is the best way to be.
When you’re naughty, you can leave a few extra buttons undone, revealing a glimpse of bare skin or a bit of racy lingerie. When you’re naughty, you can hold a stranger’s eye for an extra long beat, imparting visions of twisted sex fantasies with your gaze alone. And when you’re naughty, you can plunge yourself into the delicious confections created by the authors in my brand-new anthology Naughty or Nice—all of them just as naughty as you are! Or perhaps even naughtier still.
Why do I focus my attention on this holiday? Why did I start with Merry Xxxmas and let the stories spill into a sequel? That’s easy enough to answer, isn’t it? A holiday dedicated to an older man who’ll put me over his lap and tell me that I’ve been a bad girl… God, that’s my daily fantasy, isn’t it? Of course, other writers have a different yuletide take.
Check out Shanna Germain, for instance. Her character might pretend to be a good little girl. At least, at first. But when she goes before her lover who is dressed in drag as Santa, the truth comes out:
“I don’t see you on my good list, though,” Shannon pulled at her beard with one white-gloved hand. “Something tells me you were a bad girl this year.”
“Oh no, Santa, I was…” I didn’t know what to say. Had I been good? And if so, was I going to get whatever I wanted? But if I was bad, then maybe I would have to be punished. I couldn’t decide.
But it didn’t matter, because Shannon was rubbing her gloved hands up my bare thighs. The fabric was soft and silky against my skin, and I imagined her pressing the tips to my clit, rubbing, soaking up my juices. She was whispering in my ear, her beard scratching against my skin. “I think you were a very bad girl, don’t you?”
In “Carol’s Christmas,” Lisette Ashton retells the famed Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. Unfortunately, Carol doesn’t learn from the lessons shown to her by the Ghost of Christmas Future. But that doesn’t mean she won’t get what she wants for Christmas:
The menacing darkness of the future vision was powerful. Carol had dabbled with BDSM before but she had never expected to find herself being chained, pierced and secured to stones. The totality of commitment – the dedicated involvement to submissive satisfaction – was more than she had ever thought she would find. More than she had ever dared hope she would find.
Another spasm of euphoria exploded from between her legs.
When she finally blinked the tears of satisfaction from her eyes, she realised the spirit was pointing at the vision’s stone. He didn’t speak. He was strong and silent and incapable of speech. He simply continued to point, quietly instructing her to obey his command and look at the stone.
“Before I draw nearer to that stone to which you point,” said Carol, “answer me one question. Are these the shadows of the things that will be, or are they shadows of things that may be, only?”
The spirit remained still and silent.
The inner muscles of Carol’s sex convulsed in a greedy triumph.
Being naughty can add spice to any relationship, as deliciously displayed in Domic Santi’s humorously sexy “Mulled Wine.”
“Why does your dick taste like mulled wine?”
If Glen and I were monogamous, that would be a problem. Fortunately, we’re not. So I grinned when I looked down at him and said, “I stopped at Jake and Karl’s Christmas party on the way home.”
“Oh, indeed!” Glen leaned forward, once more sucking my dick into his mouth. His short blond curls bobbed against his Santa hat and his blue eyes twinkled up at me. He sucked me long and slowly, like he was drawing the flavor off my skin to differentiate each of the specific tastes. “Cinnamon, clove,” he laughed, pulling back for a moment. “Perhaps a hint of allspice….”
In my opinion, life doesn’t get much naughtier than performing a taste-test for exotic spices on your lover’s cock. And as the Queen of Naughty, I should know.
Now, tell me. What’s on your Xmas list this year? I mean, aside from Elvis.
For a complete list of contributors, go here.
P.S. Comment for a chance to win copies of both Naughty or Nice and Merry XXXmas. Playboy.com says: No night before Christmas is complete without reading from holiday erotica collection Naughty or Nice.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
by Dayle A. Dermatis (aka Andrea Dale, 1/2 of Sophie Mouette, and 1/2 of Sarah Dale)
Now, Dave’s pretty hot anyway, but that tattoo… I want to lick every last inch of it. Trace every intertwined line with my tongue. At least once.
So I keep writing about it. In a recent story, I wrote this:
Ink as black as his hair curved and swooped across the muscles of his back. It was Celtic—not the newfangled tribal kind, but the real knotwork-from-early-manuscripts kind—and it depicted a raven flying over the ocean, with the sun blazing overhead.
Right then and there, I had the overwhelming compulsion to lick his tattoo. Trace every spiral and intricate knot and line with my tongue.
I wanted it so badly, I trembled, deep inside.
Then there’s A Little Night Music, my rock star fantasy. Rock stars have gooooood tattoos. Nate’s a rock god, and Hannah’s wanted him since she was in her teens:
Hannah looked up. She grinned wickedly when she saw he was watching. Nate held his breath when she leaned over, waiting, but instead of his aching cock, she touched her lips to the smooth skin of his hip. Her tongue swirled over the tattoo there, a winged guitar wrapped in a banner bearing the words “Rock & Roll Forever.”
I’m picky about tattoos, though, both for myself and on other people. For one thing, I think blue-black tattoos—the generic line color—are the most attractive. I’ve seen a few nice color ones, but most of the times the colors just seem…off. Worse, they fade into a muddy sort of blob. Crisp blue-black lines…that’s what gets me off.
The tattoo has to be an original piece. Good lord, if you’re permanently marking your body, give it more thought than getting #5 on the wall that a gazillion other people will be sporting. It’s one thing to have this year’s handbag or copy Posh Spice’s haircut, but that tattoo’s gonna be a part of you forever.
Where the tattoo is can enhance its sexiness. For myself, my tattoos have to be where I can see them, because I like to look at them. One on my back would have me spinning around like a dog chasing its tail. I also make sure I don’t get one in an area that will sag significantly…
Recently, in the locker room at the gym I saw a woman with a pair of eyes on her lower back. I have a question for the guys: Sexy or not? Does it depend on whether you’re an exhibitionist? Because I imagine you’d feel like you were being watched…
But perhaps most importantly, I want to know why you got that particular tattoo. The story, that’s what’s sexy for me. Why that design, why that moment in your life, why that part of your body?
In this excerpt, the narrator is a professional photographer:
I kicked off my Birkenstocks and dropped trou before Tad knew what hit him. I posed face-down on the fountain, my red satin panties (now very damp) and red top (now hiked up a bit) revealing the tattoo at the base of my spine.
Tad forgot he was taking pictures. He stepped closer, his eyes scanning the old English lettering:
That is the best part of beauty, which a picture cannot express.
“Francis Bacon,” I said, arching my neck to watch him. “Are you taking pictures or not?”
(“Flash,” as-yet unsold story)
The tattoo fits perfectly for her and her passion for her career. (I was inspired by a writer who has “In the beginning, there was the word” on her lower back, which also makes complete sense.)
Nate in A Little Night Music has the surname Fox, which was also the name of his band in the early days.
The curtain between the two lounges parted and Nate entered. His sleeveless t-shirt boasted a wraparound picture of a Magritte painting. Hannah tried not to drool over how the form-fitting shirt displayed his hard biceps. The fox-head tattoo on his upper right arm made her want to fall at his feet and beg to be his biker babe.
And that was just for starters.
I imagine it less as a cartoon fox and something sleek and stylized and a little dangerous, like Nate himself.
In fact, tattoos show up in a fair number of my stories. I didn’t realize it until I did some checking for this article.
She has tattoos on each of her jutting hipbones: a triskele on the left, a spiral on the right. At the small of her back, right before the swell of her cheeks, is a Goddess symbol, a full circle bordered by two crescent moons. I might see that later, but for now, I trace the two on her hips with my fingertips before parting her reddened lips and feasting.
(“The Witch of Venice,” to appear in Screaming Orgasms and Sex on the Beach)
With regards to this snippet from the Sophie Mouette story “All About the Ratings” (Sex in the Kitchen), Teresa and I can’t remember which one of us wrote it. The narrator and Drew are enemies forced to work together on a cooking show, and the narrator’s plan is to trip Drew up by getting him all hot and bothered.
She always kept her strawberry-blond hair pulled back in the kitchen. Usually she wore it in a ponytail, but today she’d gone for an updo, sophisticated, but with soft curls falling artfully out.
The viewers wouldn’t see that it revealed the dragonflies tattooed on the back of her neck. At first glance, the tattoo was innocuous enough, pretty, delicate insects in shades of blue and green.
On second glance, you realized they were mating.
The audience couldn’t see them…but Drew would.
Hell, even getting a tattoo is sexy. It’s dark and exciting, and still holds a certain illicit thrill. The buzz of the needle and whatever music is playing takes over. I like to get my tattoos without conversation, alone with my thoughts. Someone’s permanently branding my skin with a mark of my choosing; it’s a spiritual act for me, emotional and personal. Someday I’m going to have to write about that…
So what about you? Do tattoos turn you on? Are you picky about what they look like, where they are, and their underlying meaning?
I’ll show you my tattoo if you’ll show me yours…
Monday, November 19, 2007
“So, what do you write?”
Say “porn” to most people and they’ll think of – well, actually they’ll choke on their drink and think of how to get air back in their lungs, but when they’ve finished, they tend to think of the following. Plumbers. Policemen. Firemen. Hell, the whole cast of the Village People. “Schtopp! Schtopp! Dis blue movie is not ready yet. Vere is his mustache? Vhy is he actually fixing ze fridge?” Sex toys. You, naked. Latex. Neighbours (not the soap). Teachers.
“And the girls you have to tell
To pull their socks up
Are the ones whose pants
You’d most like to pull down.”
- Philip Larkin (the dirty bugger)
Doctors and nurses. Nymphomaniacs. Special “institutions”. Whips and chains. The full enyclopedia of sexual variations from anal to zoophilia with special attention to group sex, m/m, m/f/m, f/f/m, f/t/m/f, and no, I don’t know what 't' stands for either. And I don’t write any of this. I write stories. With the sex left in. Fantasy, sci-fi, realist, magical realist, mainstream, literary – and with the sex left in.
Erotica is a minefield for sexual tropes. From the Black Lace guidelines, you imagine the editor under seige, valiantly defending the parapets against a relentless onslaught of jet-set businesswomen copping off on planes, fashion photographers in fetish clubs, and Arab princes with foot-long schlongs. Also, mystifyingly, an army of women taking scented baths. All these tropes are clichés that, for various troubling reasons, people find horny. I’m not criticising. After all, I’m fine with fantasy tropes, and for deeply troubling reasons love nothing better than an undemocratic, feudal and rigidly classist society – as long as there are a few dragons about the place. But those sexual tropes aren’t story to me.
I develop ideas for my erotica stories as I develop all my stories – with a jumble of images, a resonant line, a sense of an issue at the core of the heroine’s life, a scrap of personal philosophy, a need, an academic idea, or a mood, or any mixture of the above, scribbling and staring and walking and daydreaming as the elements of story jostle into position, then writing it all down and figuring out how to sew it together, finding reasons why she won’t know this yet or how to keep him off the scene or where that information comes from or how it all started. What I never do is start with a trope: “I want to write an m/f/m scene” or “How about bondage?” I rarely even consider the sex, then I stare at my first rough outline, puzzled, and mutter to myself “Uh – where’s the sex?”
Where’s the sex? Everywhere. Give me a hero and a heroine who remain on separate desert islands for the duration of the novel and somehow, by the time I’ve finished writing it, it’s teeming with sex. As most characters aren’t marooned and isolated, it’s even easier. If anything, the difficulty is excluding sex from my mainstream novels, reluctantly fading to black, cheating my characters of their perfect moment and my readers of the romantic climax – just as I berate other authors for doing.
Sex is everywhere, like dust, and here’s the odd thing. Every novelist, at some point in their career, and often at some point in every book, will describe the dust – the golden motes dancing in a shaft of sunshine, glittering in the late afternoon stillness, spiralling like a stream of cosmic particles, twirling their infinitesmal and tiny brilliances, or what you will. Personally, I think this is due to how much time we spend in empty houses staring into space. But dust changes nothing. Sex can change everything – the shape of your home, the books on your shelves, what country you live in, whether you take that job, the coming-together or utter ruination of your life, whether you cry in the shower or sing in the street. You could lose everything. You could gain the world. So why describe dust and not sex? That’s why I write stories with the sex left in.
“Left in” is the crux. In a novel covering a year, ten sex scenes – some maybe not including the protagonist – isn’t an orgy by anyone’s standards. If there’s a relationship going on, you’re probably leaving out more sex than you’re including – you won’t describe every long lazy Saturday morning, unless something changes between them, that time. If the characters aren’t together, or were, and now want to be, their heads are probably teeming with sex. If you have more than two characters, there’s more sex than anyone can include in just one book. Sex is as ubiquitous as food, pervasive as air, and universal as love, and the latter is probably why sex will always creep into all my stories, because they’re all concerned with love – the epic kind, with armies, ghosts, castles, spaceships (still trying to get this one past the Powers That Be), dragons – destiny – a world gone mad! Widespread destruction! Betrayal! True love! A cast of thousands!
This picture from www.furiae.com
When my characters are chasing destiny, coming to terms with their true selves, and fighting for their lives, there’s just no room to crow-bar in some m/f/m – though it might happen. It depends on the story. Everything depends on the story. I do use tropes, in my own way – what else is a cold stone castle or a dragon, after all? Ancient fertility rites: guilty. Erotically charged magic: guilty. Inexplicable sexual desire based in powers what man is not meant to wot of: guilty as charged. I don’t see them as sexual tropes so much as metaphors, though, for a level of passion that’s as real as a Saturday morning and as mythical as a pre-destined king. I would write these things regardless, because to me the epic matters, and I leave the sex in, because I believe sex matters. More than dust.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
By Mat Madden
Porn, eh? Plumbers, firemen, nymphomaniacs, 'special institutions' and an encyclopedia of postures - right? Wrong. Olivia Knight starts our campaign for stories with the sex left in on Monday.
Tattoos: once the preserve of salty old seadogs and ex-cons are now mainstream. And sexy as hell. Join Dayle A Dermatis on Wednesday to find out about the beauty of words (and pictures) written on the body.
Alison Tyler is having a party on Friday. So bring a bottle. A bottle of lube. And a spanking paddle. And pair of elbow length latex gloves.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
by Deanna Ashford
After discovering historical romance novels in high school (thanks mom), it was only natural that the supernatural and love/romance elements should someday meet in my wonderland of a brain. I’m glad they did for their children have been pouring onto the computer screen ever since. Whoever said it was bad to be a daydreamer with your head in the clouds…futuristic planets and underground, subculture worlds? I don’t know about you, but I would much rather play there than in reality.
Tell us about your latest book Michelle and what made you write it.
What first made you interested in writing in the erotic genre/ or how did you get started writing erotic romance?
Which one of the books you have written is your favourite?
Which book do you think is the hottest or are they one and the same?
If you were to write a book entirely for yourself, would it differ at all from your published writing?
Do you find writing easy or do you have to discipline yourself?
Sometimes, marketing is fun though. Like the podcast/live radio show Mandy and I do. We’re on the air every Wed and listeners can call in to talk to us. We started them as something to just play around and have fun with, but they’ve really taken off.
Thanks so much for that Michelle
Thanks so much for that Michelle
Thanks for having me!
Thanks for having me!
Website – www.michellepillow.com
Blog – www.michellepillow.com/blog
Free Story – www.ravenhappyhour.com
Radio Show - http://www.blogtalkradio.com/ravenradio
Michelle has kindly offered to donate a signed copy of Along For the Ride for the best comments on LB today.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
By Mathilde Madden
Here’s how it happens. I’ll be out in a pub, say, out with friends, and I might just start talking about how beautiful men’s bodies are. And some joker will pipe up with, ‘Oh, sure, but you know aesthetically – sexual preferences aside – women’s bodies are just more beautiful then men’s.’
Some people just don’t know where to look. See my lovely Tom of Finland pic here. Now that guy knew what he was doing.
'Cause men who look like men are gorgeous. Stunning. Hard bodies and muscle. Hair and sweat. Move over sweetness, androgyny, move over cute.
But, you know, really my point is made so much better with pictures than boring, boring words...
And god, you know, it annoys me that liking muscle, big shoulders, height, grunt, deep voices… that sometimes those preferences are made out to be almost comical. Like Janet singing ‘I’m a muscle fan’ in the Rocky Horror Show, or Sinatta’s ‘So Macho’. Say you like butch men and people start thinking about Fabio or the Chippendales...
They should be thinking...
I like men. The manlier the better. Is that really so strange?
Oh! So pretty. Superbutch. Real men. The most wonderful looking things on earth.
And, look, while we’re celebrating male beauty can I just say, what the fuck is up with the book covers of erotica books for women that they have naked chicks on the covers? This book cover baffles me. There, are more like this, of course - girlie covers of erotica books - but this one seems so very FHM. Could they not find a picture of someone the gender the majority of women fantasise about the majority of the time?
They coulda come to me!
I mean god forbid a women's erotica book should be sold by *gasp* objectifying men. I know some women are into women. And sure women are pretty (though not as pretty as men.) But we know this isn't what this is about. In fact, whenever I see a cover like that I feel damn certain the book isn't really aimed at women at all. And it's not as if the world is short of pretty pictures of women - for those who like looking at pretty pictures of women.
But where's my slice of the erotica book cover model cake? Because I know I'm not the only straight woman in the world.
But enough hardcore gender politics - let's get back to the smooshier point... objectifying men for a change.
Mmm, objectifying men for a change.
(Oh, I tried, but I just couldn't resist that last one of David.)
(Or this last one of David.)
And finally, if you remain unconvinced I suppose there are other kinds of male beauty. You could go and salve your soul with Olivia Knight's post on skinny boys. (Madness!)