Normal Service will be resumed

Until we get our monday post up, here's something to distract you.

Coming Attractions

We bring the first month of the year to a close with Alana Noel Voth asking, 'Do you Remember the First Time?' The first time you decided to write some filthy smut, that is. Whatever would posses a person to start doing something like that? Alana will tell us how she began and I'm sure there will be a few more tales of losing smut-writer virginity.

Wednesday will feature a chat from the dark and devious mind of Janine Ashbless. So dark and devious, in fact, that I have forgotten what it is about. Nikki Magennis informs me that Janine is currently unreachable in the North Pole. Will she be back in time? Does she know what her chat is about? Will Lust Bites collapse under the weight of the uncertainty? Tune in on Wednesday.

On Friday we continue a sort of 'firsts' theme... first time writing smut, first time I've forgotten what the chat is, with Nikki Magennis talking about first lines and opening scenes. Using the forthcoming Sex in Public as a short story collection as a jumping off point she'll take us on a tour of stories and novels that hit the ground running hot.

Happy viewing

Tilly aka Mathilde Madden
Dedicated to Urban Kinkery

Thank Smut it's Friday

Okay, so, here's the thing. Each month on the last Friday, one of us will post up a hot excerpt from one of our novels or short stories.

All you have to do is enjoy it.

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EQUAL OPPORTUNITIES by Mathilde Madden

Background

David is in a wheelchair following a spinal injury. Mary spots him in the library and finally decides to fulfil one of her darkest and most hidden kinks. Mary is a devo. She is turned on by disability. David knows this, and he really doesn't care. He's a good looking guy and before his accident he had his pick of the women. But since he's been in a wheelchair his confidence has taken a knocking and his studly prowess has vanished. Mary is just this kinky girl, you know? And he's just happy to be getting some.

Until now.

*

David
Another night, a night of coffees and insomnia and wrongness, she keeps me up into the darkest, tiniest hours of the morning, asking me questions. She asks me about what happened to me, about the accident, about how it felt then, how it feels now. She touches my body and asks where I have sensation and where I don't and where it varies. She makes me describe Being-David-Malkovich over and over until I run out of adjectives, out of words, out of thoughts. I keep going until I feel like she could step inside my body, and feel every feeling I do, and nothing would be a surprise. She shows me that my body – my changed, spoiled, abnormal body – is her own personal Song of Solomon. It's a very weird feeling, and one I'm not sure I'm used to yet.

As the night gets darker so do her questions. She says, 'If you weren't in your chair, how would you move?'

'What do you mean?' I roll over in the bed so I can rub against her, pressing close.

'I mean, well, would you crawl around? What could you do?'

'I couldn't really crawl, like, up on my knees. I could pull myself along though. My arms are pretty strong.' I feel her shiver against me.

She swallows slowly, and then says, 'So, sort of on your belly?'

'Yes, just like that.'

'I'd like to see you doing that.'

'Why?' I say with a teasing smile. Because, of course, I know why.

'I just would. Show me.'

So I do. Suddenly the lights are on and I'm in my chair, heading into the living room where there is most floor space. I let her gently help me on to the carpet and watch me drag myself across the floor on my stomach, the best I can. I'm still naked and I feel utterly vulnerable. My whole world contracts. I suddenly feel this strange wave of sensation. I am utterly dependant on Mary right now. And I like it. It's everything I shouldn't like, but I do. I feel like I need this. Like I'm addicted to her. And her bizarre way of thinking.

I'm crawling for her. A weird little fucked up creature dragging itself across the carpet. And, god, I really shouldn't like this so much. It's every kind of objectification. But sparks of arousal are flying all over my body. I can scarcely tell which parts of me are which. I want to scream at her for her to take me. Use me. Make me into a mere thing. I want her to stride across the floor to me and fuck me. Force herself inside me. Own me.

But I don't. I don't because even in my own zoned out state I can tell she's lost in her own rapture. She wouldn't even hear me. 'Tell me why you're doing that,' she says, as she stares at me crawling, squirming on the floor, her voice so ragged it's barely recognisable.

'For you.'

'No, no, tell me why you have to move like that.'

I change my path and start to drag myself towards her, meeting her eyes from way down on the floor. 'Because I can't get up.'

I can tell how much this is turning her on and it arouses me to see her almost frozen to the spot with desire. My cock is so painfully hard now – burning against the carpet as I continue towards her.

She stares at me in silence after that, until I reach her and run a desperate, wanting hand up her bare leg; trying desperately to reach her cunt. As my hand grazes her upper thigh, she takes half a step backwards, pulling deliciously just my out of reach. And I whimper. Begging. Helpless. Everything she loves.

Then, suddenly, she growls like an animal and flips me over with a kind of preternatural strength, and we fuck until I feel sure she's worn away the carpet beneath me.

And after that, while we are still lying there, a sweating mass of heaving chests and smarting carpet burns, that's when I say it. I don't know why.

I say, 'I love you.'

*

Want more? There's another excerpt on my blog. Here.

Also, here is an interview with me talking to the glorious founder of Lust Bites Nikki Magennis about the book and other smutty topics.

Or you could always buy the actual book
Amazon UK
Amazon US

Crush Wednesday

From Alana Noel Voth, a message despatched by pigeon post to Lust Bite Island, and brought to you via the wonders of science:


I was in my mid-twenties when I got hooked on a TV show called The X Files. I used to stay home Friday nights to watch it. Before The X Files was hip and commercial, when it was still underground and cultish, I watched it. No one knew what I was talking about.

"X what?"

The general assumption was I meant porn.

My version of porn. After all, I remember lying on the couch with The X Files flickering in front of me, silver light and shadows, then suddenly I'd left the room and was on my knees sucking Fox Mulder's cock, or Fox Mulder had his mouth on my cunt.

It wasn't unusual for me to masturbate during commercial breaks either.

It also wasn't unusual for me to fantasize Fox Mulder fucking me from behind, fucking me on my side, fucking me missionary style. Fucking me. Or me fucking him in his small dismal apartment in Washington DC, straddling him on a ratty couch near a window marked with an X.

The X-Files was a little show on the Fox Channel about two FBI agents, Dana Scully and Fox Mulder, who pursued the mysterious. The wacky and wicked. Frightful and freaky. Dangerous and perverse. The show was both spooky and slapstick. So was Fox Mulder.

Spooky Mulder they called him in college. Intelligent. Intense. Geeky. Articulate. Kinky. Lonely. Driven. Less than perfect.

Exhibit A: The big nose. His square jaw. Set of small bright eyes. Thin upper lip, pouty chapped bottom. Fox Mulder has the kind of face an artist conjures when she seeks perfection in flaws. I love flaws.

On the show, sexual tension brewed between the partners, Mulder and Scully. I used to write for Playgirl Magazine, and the first story I sold to them was my version of the Scully/Mulder screw. Mattress in an abandoned building, stained by a bit of blood, foul play. Damp darkness and white heat. Their limbs tied together like rope, lips bruised by kisses.

I coveted Fox Mulder for years. Still covet him now. Fox Mulder. Not David Duchovny. Not the actor. The character, Special Agent Fox Mulder. The only man on Earth I'd marry.

Why? Well I'd love to get into that. Here's a short but solid list, anyway.

1. Fox Mulder is never home. Surly I jest? Nah. A Special Agent spends eighty percent of his life chasing the truth that's out there, investigating mysteries and solving cases, which means this wife (me) gets to spend fifty percent of my time (I have a kid, remember) writing.

2. Fox Mulder is college educated and has written and published his dissertation. Call me pretentious, but I'm impressed. Know how many can't punctuate correctly let alone compose an entire thesis? For Mulder also reads. Travels the world. Has first hand experience with aliens and werewolves. Imagine all those intense conversations in bed after we've fucked.

3. He's amply employed. Always good in prospective husband material. After all, I'm a writer who made $150.00 last year writing.

4. He wears a long black trench coat. Nuff said. But leads to my next reason to marry Fox Mulder.

5. He's kinky. Watch enough episodes of The X-Files and it's evident Fox Mulder is not only a prime kinkster but hard up too, a mystery all in itself. Fox Mulder enjoys the services of phone sex operators; he frequents porn shops; and he'd probably hang out with me in a strip club too. Baby, lets tip the ladies.

6. He has a hot partner. Yeah, I'm talking about Dana Scully. The red head in quaint tailored suits. Imagine dinners with just the three of us. The conversation, the dessert.


Fox Mulder, only man on Earth I'd marry. Might explain why I'm still single. But in the meantime, who's your man, ladies, ldeal Husband Fantasy Fuck?

Do tell!




http://alananoel.typepad.com

Ring in the new!

You may have noticed a few changes lately. We’ve been redecorating, but we’re still arguing over the colours, so who knows what lustbites will end up looking like. At this point, flock wallpaper and flying ducks are a distinct possibility. If you have any suggestions or ideas, please do chip in!
Anyway, much more importantly, a few new writers have jumped on board. Everybody, I’d like you to properly meet:

Teresa Noelle Roberts: ‘Erotica and romance writer, sometime fantasy writer, person generally obsessed with the written word (and with nature, love, and sex)’. Teresa also somehow splits herself in two, and forms Sophie Mouette with:

Dayle A Dermatis. Dayle is a ‘writer of fantasy and science fiction, media tie-in, romance, and erotica’. She collaborates with other writers as well as Teresa. Phew! One or both of the girls will be explaining just how this works in the near future. Meanwhile, check out Sophie Mouette’s Cat Scratch Fever.

Our latest new um...lusty biter?

Suzanne Portnoy - an entertainment publicist and writer. Divorced with two children, she lives in North London. ‘Attractive and finally a size 12 after twenty years of yo-yo dieting, she is happily single and spends her spare time writing, having sex and acting as a one-woman car pool.’ Suzanne Portnoy’s memoir ‘The Butcher, The Baker, The Candlestick Maker’ was published by Virgin in 2006.

Check out the links on the sidebar for more on all of these wonderful authors, and do drop by the comments to make them feel welcome.

Too Stupid to Live?

“Too stupid to live.” It’s a phrase used by romance writers and reviewers to describe a heroine who’s apparently had her common sense gland removed. She just does something, or possibly a series of things, that no self-respecting woman with two brain cells to rub together would consider doing.

When I was in college/grad school, there were all sorts of warnings about how to date safely. Things like, never tell the guy where you live; instead, meet him somewhere neutral. Make sure you have the means (transportation, funds) to get yourself home. Have a prearranged call scheduled with a girlfriend; if she doesn’t hear from you, she knows there’s a problem. And so on.

In almost all romances (Gothics, some suspense, and MMF erotic romance being the exceptions), you know the moment the hero’s introduced that he’s the hero. The heroine may not know it, but the reader does. Thus the reader knows the heroine is safe—the hero would never willingly put her into danger, much less turn out to be a serial rapist.

The heroine, however, doesn’t know that.

But where do you draw the line? If she’s appropriately cautious, the relationship will take forever to develop, and the process will be pretty boring for the reader. In erotic romance in particular, we expect to see some hot-and-heavy foreplay, if not outright sex, within the first few chapters.

In some books, this just works. You believe in it, and you never give a thought to the fact that the heroine is taking some serious chances with her life and health.

In other cases, this kind of behavior makes me throw the book across the room.

For the life of me, I can’t tell why one works and one doesn’t. It’s worse when I can’t figure it out in my own writing. I’m struggling with a novel right now in which I keep thinking the heroine is being an idiot for going to the hero’s house right after she meets him. Why? They have some rip-roaring sex all through the book, and end up with at least a strong pathway towards commitment. He’s a great guy (a little stuffy, but the heroine breaks him of that); she’s an independent woman who knows what she wants both in and out of bed. Why do I have this nagging feeling that their first encounter—which is essential to both their emotional development and the plot—involves her being too stupid to live?

What do you think makes the difference? Characterization? Plot? Good writing vs. not?

*

On a related note, let’s talk about safe sex. Black Lace and Cheek Books carry that “In real life, always practise safe sex” disclaimer, which I’ve always found a little funny. I mean, doesn’t everyone understand that they’re reading fiction, not a how-to book? Do we need that disclaimer?


By the same token, do you notice when the heroine hooks up with a new partner and there’s nary a condom in sight (and not a wisp of conversation regarding them)? Or do condoms end up ruining the one-handed read moment? Do they sound obviously shoe-horned in to an otherwise steamy sex scene? And if condoms are necessary, what about dental dams? Latex gloves? When does she ask for a blood test?

And how soon should the heroine go gleefully into bondange with a new man? It’s not important to even know his name, because she’s just going to call him Master anyway… Right?

*

So where’s your balance? What’s fun and fantasy, what constitutes too stupid to live, and does anything else about a particular novel affect your answer?

Coming Attractions

It's been a busy week here at Lust Bites. Alison Tyler's request for your favourite sexy films had a huge response. I hope the DVD rental industry will be able to cope with the upswing in demand for certain saucy specials. It's not too late to add your favourites to our list or check out the other suggestions. Go here.

Alison already has another post in the works about sex and music – so get sharpening those pencils to add your suggestions.

On Monday Dayle A Dermatis (one half of Black Lace writing team Sophie Mouette) will be holding the reins. She'll be talking about risky business. How far should a character go when it comes to dangerous or edgy behaviour? Should readers be warned not to try this at home?

Then it's the welcome return of Crush Wednesday. Alana Noel Voth will tell us who she's crushing on and in return we can all confess who's making us feel all squishy inside.

The last Friday of the month means free smut! We're starting a new tradition. Mark your diaries because every final Friday will be Fornicationtabulous Friday – with a free dirty extract presented here for your lascivious delight. I've elbowed my way to the front of the queue with my award winning disability smut epic Equal Opportunities. I've probably got a copy knocking around for a giveaway too.

Mathilde Madden
Official Lust Bites Werewolf Handler