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Royal erotica – Cashing in on William and Kate’s first night

4 May

More fictional sex between people whose motivations are less than pure.

*****

The wardrobe smelled of mushrooms. Kirsty fought the urge to retch, and wondered for the tenth time in ten minutes if she could let the door ajar to give her some respite. She tried to distract herself from the odour by checking her camcorder again. How long would they be? It was already past midnight.

She flipped open the viewscreen and checked the battery. Full. Sixty minutes left on the tape. It ought to be enough. Jeremy said he didn’t expect the whole thing to last more than five minutes.

“Let’s face it, they’ll be exhausted,” he had told her as he drove her along Pall Mall. “It’s the biggest day of their lives, even Wills, and he’s a prince. Just imagine how Kate will be feeling.” He leant on the horn and flicked two fingers up at a taxi driver. “She’s been working up to this moment for the last ten years. They’ll be knackered.” They stopped at the red lights in Trafalgar Square. “Just think of all the things that might go wrong.”

“Too drunk, too tired, too wasted,” Kirsty volunteered.

“And she might have the painters in,” Jeremy said. “But none of that matters. Even if nothing happens, if we have got the only video of the royal couple’s first night together, then we’ll be minted.”

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Aching for Reviews

15 Apr

I hadn’t realised, when I thought I’d jump into the Indie stream and have a splash around, that the hardest thing about it would be getting people to read my stuff. But it is.

By that, I don’t mean that it’s hard to get people to pay for an ebook. That’s not so much of a problem I think. No, the hard thing is trying to persuade someone to read a free copy and then post their opinions online. And, because Amazon.com is such a publishing powerhouse, what that really means is posting their opinions on Amazon.com or .co.uk.

So if anyone would like to do that, please let me know, and I’ll give you a free copy of Payback or Aching for Marvin.

My Latest Thrill: Vanillamom

30 Mar

I can’t believe it’s taken me so long to get round to giving Nilla a blow-job-in-a-post but here it is. She’s been prolific recently, with not one, not five, but eight – that’s EIGHT – story posts in the last week. Amazing. YYTMGK783W9C

It seems that the wee spanking she received is the cause. In which case, I say, go Nilla’s Boss!

What, you want the url? Okay, here it is:

http://vanillamom.wordpress.com/


Erotic News: Uprising in Libya

27 Feb

This story has grown bigger than I expected so I’m posting the first part now and the second part will come later.

*****

Jemima examined her suitcase. A pair of jeans. Five tops, two of them dirty. Two pairs of sandals, two unmatched flip-flops, and her Louboutins. A shalwar kameez, without the matching scarf. That was still in Tripoli. Her make-up kit, thank God. Seven pairs of knickers and five bras. No dresses, no jackets, and no Agent Provocateur red bikini. At least she had her heels.

The ship rolled a little and her stomach lurched with it. How long til they reached Malta? Too long for her insides, but not long enough, because she knew Marcus would be there, and she knew she would have to explain to him why she had been in Libya and not in Fuerteventura with Alice.

She caught a glimpse of something underneath her jeans. One of Ijaz’s vests. She smiled, despite her seasickness. Of all the things. She picked it up and pressed it to her face, drinking in the odour of sweat and sex.

More smut through here

Do you want me to suck your lance, baby?

24 Feb

Over at Erotica for All, Tiffany Reisz has made a passionate plea for writers to take the euphemism out of fuck talk, or ‘erotica’ as we like to circumlocutarily denominate it.

As she says:

In my writing, I tend to err on the side of the standard–it’s a cock, it’s a penis, or it’s implied. When I write, “he pushed inside her,” readers are pretty sure I’m not talking about a man penetrating a women with a matchbox car, a tube of chapstick, or a cell phone. I’ve seen other writers use flowery euphemisms for the penis during sex scenes– “lance,” “sword,” “manhood.” Manhood is a particularly odd one for me. I’ve never had a penis in my womanhood so why would I have a manhood in my vagina. And the sword metaphors freak me out a little. Sword? Lance? Really?

And that’s the truth of it. The only synonym for cock that I can swallow is dick, and cock just has that percussive sound to it that makes my stomach tingle. Dick has its place, but for me it’s second best to cock. Weapon is too aggressive. I mean, even with rough sex it’s not a weapon. And lance… I mean, have those people ever seen a lance? Or, if they’ve seen a lance, have they ever seen a penis? Or a cock for that matter.

More rude thoughts through here

Twitterotica – Five Minute Fiction: A Gong Bong

23 Feb

I’ve posted this at Leah Petersen’s blog for her #5minutefiction contest but I think I may have missed the deadline… humph. Anyway, for your amusement, I have reposted (and added one crucial, erotic line) here:

*****

The bong was full, the smoke curling like djinns. Ricki put her lips to the tube and sucked hard. Too hard. The cool smoke blasted into her lungs and the demons inside slipped into her body, possessing her organs, her bones, her blood.

Sure, she had smoked weed before, and got high, and giggly, but this was something else. She put the bong down, stunned, as the walls of the room tightened and squashed. John became part of the wall. He was laughing. At her.

“I think this is the perfect time to play this.”

He flicked the remote at his iPod and a trail of remotes followed it in the air from his arm. Ricki felt sick.

“Gnome…. gnome… gnome…”

What. The. Fuck.

“I’m going to be sick,” she said.

“Wait.”

And the smut goes on through here

Erotic News: If it bleeds

22 Feb

I don’t want to explain stories before they’re read; after all, what’s the point of reading it if you already know what’s going to happen. On the other hand, it’s only fair to warn you that I almost offended myself while I was writing it. I really don’t know where this came from at all. Apologies if you find the subject matter distasteful–please consider this to be a warning.

*****

Juliette had always enjoyed her job. Who wouldn’t? Who hasn’t turned on the news and thought “I could do that. All she’s doing is reading aloud”? It was a chance to wear nice outfits every day, to be recognised by millions of people, to get tables in the best restaurants, and even to receive extraordinary presents from her fans–the best one being an impressive plaster cast from a man apparently known as Peter Penis. Twenty-centi-Peter, as it became known, took pride of place in Juliette’s toilet, hung perpendicular to the door. Her mother used it as peg for her handbag.

But it was one thing to enjoy the fame, the fashion, and the deranged, and another thing entirely to enjoy the daily task of delivering news of the latest awful things to happen in the world that day.

There were plenty of things Juliette’s colleagues relished about the job. Nick, the doyen of the desk, lived from the fumes of self-importance that came from being the network’s biggest–and oldest–star. Her ‘best friend’ Natalie–that is, they shared the same agent–was obsessed with getting the big political interviews, and with them the opportunity to flirt with some of the world’s most powerful men. And George, the new golden boy of the airwaves, was happy to accept the advances of ambitious assistant producers (of both sexes) and the queue of fans at the car park entrance. Natalie claimed that the women operated a ticketing system, rather like waiting at the deli counter, “except you get better salami at my deli”, she said.

But those were perks of the job. The grizzly content of each bulletin–who could enjoy that?

Juliette noticed the first time when reporting on a plane crash in some country she had barely heard of in South America. There was footage of a young man, a survivor, being helped away from the crash site. His shirt was in tatters and one of his trouser legs was torn off, leaving a gash in his leg. Juliette couldn’t take her eyes off his muscled torso and sculpted thigh, and the long red wound in his leg. She could barely read the autocue for the urge to find him and fuck him. Her first words on leaving the desk were to order a researcher to find the full footage of the incident. She took the tape home and watched it over and over. She fell asleep confused, and sore, and still horny.

The next occasion came some weeks later, taking her completely by surprise, in the middle of a bulletin. George was introducing an item when the gallery went mad.

“Holy fuck, that’s amazing. George keep going.” Sally, one of the on-duty editors, was almost shouting. “Joolz, you’re going to take something breaking in New Jersey. It’s a siege, exclusive to us, you’ll do a two-way with Fraser.”

A familiar surge of excitement hit Juliette in the stomach, and she readied herself, mentally rehearsing her ‘serious and concerned’ face, as opposed to the ‘snarky yet professional’ face she usually used for most of George’s attempts at banter. She blew hard and let the blood snake into her fingertips, but it was like Nick said–the buzz wasn’t as big as it used to be. Maybe she was getting older. Shit. Don’t frown, don’t frown, don’t frown, don’t…

“Thanks George. And now we have some breaking news for you from Newark, New Jersey, where a fugitive is holed up in his attic and has been exchanging fire with police. More than one hundred shots have been fired so far by the man, and our own Fraser Jameson is at the scene. This is his report, with footage exclusive to this station.”

The red light blinked off and she picked up the make-up mirror she kept under her desk. Static line check first. No crows feet, no vertical frown lines, no diagonal frown lines, no laugh lines and fuck George for saying she never laughed. Dynamic line check. Frown lines are shallow, crows feet lines just behind the eyebrow — Annie needs to sculpt higher tomorrow — nothing near the mouth.

Juliette snapped her mirror shut. Nothing for her to worry about yet. In fact her face seemed younger. Had she put on weight? Goddamn it, the mirror…

“Juliette?” Sally in her ear.

“Fraser Jameson reporting there. And we go live now to Fraser in Newark. Tell us, what’s the latest there Fraser?”

“Thanks Juliette. Police continue to surround the house where–”

She tuned out of the commentary and focused on the live pictures. The cameraman was holding a tight close up of a window in a trashy, wooden slat board home. There was nothing to be seen inside but darkness, and he slowly pulled backwards to show the whole house, first some broken windows, then peeling paint on the balcony struts, and finally a pile of mattresses at the front. The shot pulled back further, and panned round to show the group of police officers, some armed, some hidden behind cars.

“–more than five hours and senior officers believe that the stand-off is likely to continue for some time. Juliette?”

The autocue provided the answer. “Is there any indication why this man is taking such drastic steps Fraser?”

“Well, there is speculation Juliette that–” Fraser spent nearly two minutes concealing his own lack of insight into who the man was, what he was doing and exactly why there were dozens of sharpshooters outside this rather ugly house. The buzz was beginning to fade.

Sally was in her ear again. “You’re doing great Joolz, this is diamond stuff. If it bleeds, it leads, yeah?” Why couldn’t she just shut up?

“We’re seeing some fascinating pictures here, Fraser, showing exactly what the police can see–” The camera panned back round to the waiting officers “–and it seems that this is likely to… holy shit!”

The closest officer was hurled backwards, blood spraying from his head, his arms splayed to the side. He traced an arc across the screen and landed in a tangle. He was perfectly still.

Around him was mayhem; the pop-pop-popping of gunfire, shouting, and the tumbling of the cameraman to the ground.

It took a couple of seconds for the impact to hit Juliette–and what an impact it was: a physical thrill, a rush of pleasure that swept out from her stomach, down into her pussy and through her legs. She tingled inside. Her throat tightened. Her nipples hardened. All she could think of was the sight of that officer dying in front of her, dying for her, sacrificing himself on her altar. The autocue was a blur. She could feel herself on the verge, out of control.

“Juliette! Juliette! Fucking holy mother of fuck, she’s smiling, get the fucking camera off her, George!” Sally the editor was in total meltdown.

George stepped in and saved the bulletin. Juliette was led away from the desk by the floor manager and left alone in her dressing room. Her hand slipped under her skirt, the image of the dead officer etched into her retinas. She found her clit under her pantyhose and began rubbing hard. It wasn’t enough. She pulled to get them down but they were stuck tight underneath her skirt band. She tried the other way, going through the top, but there wasn’t enough space. Both hands now, one pulling at the pantyhose fabric, the other concentrating on her clitoris. Then her nail snagged on the material, tearing it, and she scrabbled underneath, pulling her panties aside and finally laying her fingers in the place she needed to be. And the blood flowed in her eyes and it was the man again, falling, and falling, and the other man, unseen, pulling the trigger and making the choice, and he was hers, her instrument, and it was her choice now, and the blood sprayed and jetted like come.

No one heard her stifled moans. No one came to the room to check her. She was safe. Juliette righted herself, trying to swallow her pleasure and self-loathing. There was a crease on her skirt. She concentrated on that. Two deep breaths. Back to the floor.

Two days later, she finally accepted George’s advances and allowed him to take her to his home and pull off her dress and slobber down her neck while his cock poked out of his trousers, prodding her leg. She had kept footage of the incident, apologising for her unprofessionalism and demanding the services of a counsellor to help her through the trauma of seeing, no, commentating, on a murder. Everyone was very sympathetic. Juliette even managed to persuade another researcher to go through the archives to find footage of similar incidents. The results were being burnt onto a DVD, but while George jabbed away at her, she imagined the possible scenarios. A fireman trapped in a burning building… a woman in a cage, sinking underwater…

“Is that good for you baby?” George grunted, as he finally found the right way in.

“Oh yes, George, yes baby, oh come on, you’re killing me here.” And she draped her arms round his neck and wondered what might happen if she squeezed his throat. His face was so sweet, straining as he pumped and pumped and…

“Oh fuuck.” His breathing deepened and he shuddered and– “what the fuck are you…?” he choked, her hands at his throat. “Oh fuck, chyeerrsss.” He came as she throttled him, his face going purple as she felt herself getting closer and closer and…

George grabbed an arm and flung it down, pinning it to the bed.

“Fuck, you are one sick baby,” he rasped. “And a fucking horny one too.” And, to her surprise, he licked his fingers and put them down to her cunt and rubbed until she clung to him and shook, imagining blood.

The station executives rostered Juliette away from live bulletins for the next weeks, supposedly out of deference to her trauma. She began to wonder if her strange appetite was an aberration. Sex with George had become dull–he had insisted on tying her up, just in case–and when he stopped calling and found it difficult to meet her gaze, she was relieved rather than angry or hurt.

The DVD, when it arrived, put paid to any doubts she had that she had discovered a new thrill. It was soon on heavy rotation on her laptop at home, giving her a frame by frame view of some of the worst sights in TV news–protesters being shot at in crowds, images of bloody bodies, injuries. Death. Lots of death.

The third time came at Sally’s suggestion. “We need to do a one-year-on tribute to the victims of the southern train crash,” she said. “Your part is reading out a list of the names and who they were.” Sally was such a prim bitch. And fat–at least a size ten. She had looked at Juliette in a curious way ever since the cop-shooting.

Sally set up the shoot in a small studio at the back end of the building. Juliette wore black, her favourite colour again, and went through the list of names silently. She could feel herself slickening.

The camera and light went on, and Sally pointed at her.

“Daniel van der Saar. Twenty-nine. A PhD Biochemistry student at Syracuse University.

“Mehry Inett. A thirty-four year old mother of…”

Juliette could feel her pussy getting wetter and wetter as she read the names of each victim, one by one. At the seventeenth, she had to stop to lick her lips, her mouth drying up in unspent desire for each man and woman.

“Are you okay Joolz?”

Sally had laid her hand on Juliette’s shoulder. It broke her reverie.

“Yeah, I’m fine Sally, thank you. Just a bit…”

“Emotional?”

“Truly.” She patted Sally’s hand. “Are you British, Sally?”

“Irish. From Kerry.”

“Almost the same thing, right?”

Sally glanced at the autocue. “We’d better be finishing this off, hadn’t we?”

“Sure thing, I’m ready to go.”

Sally went back to the camera, and looked through the viewfinder, then looked up at Juliette again.

“Joolz.” It was an irritating nickname, but Juliette smiled. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

“You can ask.”

“Do you ever, you know, find yourself doing things… thinking things… that maybe you shouldn’t be?”

“What do you mean?”

Sally grimaced. “Like, you know. Maybe laughing when someone has fallen over.”

“Sure thing. Don’t we all?”

“And maybe, getting a bit hot and bothered sometimes when it’s… it’s not quite…” Sally tailed off. Juliette said nothing. “Only, I, well.” She sighed. “I’m taking a big risk here, but I get turned on by violence. By two men trying to knock lumps out of each other. And I think, maybe you do too.”

Juliette froze.

“You do too, and you like it when it happens. Just think.” Sally’s voice became huskier. “Two big brutes, punching and gouging at each other. And it’s about you.”

Juliette nodded.

“You know that when they finish, the winner will have you.” Sally stared Juliette directly in the eyes. The newsreader felt herself blush, and the tingle from reading the names of the train crash victims returned.

“And the loser–” Juliette’s voice cracked. “The loser is lying there, the blood spilling onto the ground.” Sally nodded in encouragement. “And you know it’s all because of you. You have the power of life and death.” Instinctively she reached for the hem of her skirt, then pulled back. “And you want him to die.”

“Does death turn you on?”

“Oh yes.” Juliette bit her lip, playing to her audience of one. “Just sitting here, reading this list of names, makes me hot.” Sally nodded. “I just want to start playing with myself and…” Juliette shivered. “I want someone to fuck me while I read these names.” She could feel herself getting hot again, and wet, and her empty cunt throbbed. Even George’s wrinkled salami would do.

Sally nodded again, more slowly this time. She turned back to the camera and popped the tape out.

“Consider yourself fucked,” she said, and walked out of the room.

Erotic News: In the matter of LaChapelle vs RiRi

16 Feb

Rihanna’s pink rubber stockings squeaked against the leather seats of the court bench. Her skin chafed, she needed to pee, and worst of all, that asshole LaChapelle had just come into the courtroom.

Goddamit, why had he wanted to have the case tried in England? There were benefits, sure; the paparazzi had already shot enough pictures of her to cover Big Ben in Rihanna postage stamps, but it was cold, the toilets were dirty and the court usher smelled of stewed cabbage. She was sure she had seen a green strand hanging between his brown teeth.

She shivered, wishing she had worn something more than her pink rubber dress and examined LaChappelle. He looked like he was wearing a naughty Santa outfit — a red cloak, lined with fur, covering what looked like a matching red dress, a strange white bow around his neck and the most ridiculous wig she had ever seen. He caught her looking at him and scowled.

“All rise.” The lawyers, journalists, shorthand writers and clerks all stood up as the judge shuffled into the room. He was wearing another naughty Santa outfit, with an equally hilarious wig. Rihanna smoothed her hair, unconsciously. She had gone for the straightened look and the sight of all those curls made her nervous of a uncontrollable frizz attack.

The lawyers were boring, jumping up and down from their seats and using words like ‘circumlocution’ and ‘abut’. The judge peered at them over his glasses and then waved a wrinkled hand.

“Enough. I would like to see the plaintiff and the defendant in my chambers, now.” The who and the what?

Rihanna’s lawyer nudged her. “Just go through that door,” she whispered. The pop star creaked her way across the courtroom and tottered into the chamber.

The judge was fixing three drinks and motioned to them to sit in two enormous Edwardian easy chairs. He handed whiskies to both of them. He grabbed a chair, turned it round, then sat down with his legs astride the seat, leaning on the back. Rihanna couldn’t help noticing that he had bare, hairy legs underneath his gown and was wearing socks with suspender belts at his knee. She gulped at her drink, spilling some of it down her chin, and cursed her clumsiness.

“I have no doubt that this situation is what one would describe as an ‘open and shut’ case.” The judge sounded a little shrill. He cleared his throat. “My only question is what level of compensation to set. But I sense that a pecuniary penalty would not address the core issue here, that Miss Fenty is clearly a saucy little minx who is need of a damned good thrashing.”

Rihanna choked at the words and accidentally gulped down the last of her whisky, provoking a coughing fit. The judge offered no sympathy.

“It is all very well, Miss Fenty, to make a shamelessly derivative pop video with the clumsy use of sadomasochistic props in an effort to — what is the word? — out-Gaga the competition. That in itself is not an offence. If it were then Kylie Minogue would be sitting in my chamber.” The judge paused for a moment, and adjusted his robes. “Ah, yes, where was I? The fact is, Miss Fenty, that I do not believe for a moment that you have ever bitten on a ball gag, or engaged in pup-play, or ever felt the pleasure of a properly constructed hog-tie.”

The judge adjusted his robes again, taking a little more time to do so. He turned his attention to David LaChapelle.

“However, Mr LaChapelle, I am not convinced either that this is a case that can be viewed entirely in black and white — although that is not a world view you are overly familiar with, I would venture.” Rihanna enjoyed watching the photographer squirm. “I cannot bring myself to reward a man who has made his reputation by photographing badly made-up women wearing appalling clothes strike awkward poses in front of the Croydon branch of Tesco.”

LaChapelle grunted.

“So I have a solution which I feel will mean justice is served. Stand up, Miss Fenty.” Rihanna rose. “Now turn around and place your palms flat on the desk.” Her skin gripped the wood. “Bend down so that your elbows touch the surface.” Her bottom stuck out like beacon. “Now, Mr LaChapelle, take this.” She could hear something rustling. “So, Miss Fenty, I would like you to count.”

Rihanna felt a sharp blow to her bottom. It stung, and she turned her head to look. “Face straight ahead,” the judge said. Rihanna looked at the desk. Another blow, harder this time, pushing her against the desk. The fire was still burning when another whack hit her. By fifteen, tears were beginning to well in her eyes; at twenty-two, she was couldn’t help but lift her leg to try to cope with each blow. At thirty-seven, she lost control over her bladder. When the count finally stopped, at fifty, Rihanna was in a haze.

The judge was adjusting his robes, furiously. Rihanna looked at him, her face twisted in anguish at the waves of aftershocks from her beating, and he gave a strangled cry, his own face wrenched in pleasure.

“Ahhh… Miss, um…, yes… Miss Fenty,” he said finally, breathing heavily. “Yes, well, luckily for you, Mr LaChapelle is not entirely blameless and his motivation for plagiarising my costume is at yet unclear. A thorough spanking is required I believe. Your turn, Miss Fenty.”

Rihanna stood upright, gingerly, rubbing her bottom, and felt herself tingle at the sight of LaChapelle with his ass in position. She looked at the judge.

“You may need this, Miss Fenty,” he said, and passed her the umbrella.