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Shameless self-promotion

29 Mar

I have a new collection of short stories called Payback, which is now available in various places.

Let me know if you like it.

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Story: The Maharani of Carriage O

7 Mar

After five months in India, you start to understand some of the rhythms of the railways–slow and incessant, and more enjoyable than you expect. Rather like tantric sex, or so Marc says, anyway. He likes to take the slow route. I’m more of a Ferrari girl. If you don’t get there quickly, you might never arrive.

This particular train was the overnight sleeper from Mumbai to Goa. After five months of temples, bazaars and trekking, I needed a change of pace: some relaxing beach time, a few massages, sunbathing, maybe a little bit of shopping in the market. Marc wanted to go to a full moon party, stay up all night, take something illegal, and then meditate his way down.

The trains have only one pace. Getting on one is not as easy as you’d think. First, you need to find the right platform, but the signs are in Hindi. There are always porters to tell you, but honestly, why would I lug a backpack for two miles along a main road only to hand it to some guy in a red shirt who will just try to get two hundred rupees off me for carrying it upside down over a bridge? Okay, so it’s heavy. It’s lined with chicken wire, in case someone tries to slash it and get my stuff, and I’ve got my Mac makeup and a travel hair-dryer just in case I end up at some ambassador’s party or something, eating Ferrero Rocher and champagne, and flirting with the MI6 guy. There would always be one. Hopefully a Daniel Craig lookalike.

More smut through here

Teach me a lesson

7 Mar

I’ve been away for a week, meditating, considering, plotting, characterising, relaxing, travelling, steaming, chilling and various other ings.

Didn’t I tell you I was going away? How very naughty of me. I’m sure you’ll spank me. What would you like to use?

A hand? Slap. Sting. Burn.

A ruler? Thwack. Clap. Smart.

A cane? Swish. Thock. Yelp.

A whip? Fizz. Bang. Hiss.

From Coco-de-mer

So ponder, ponder and while you do, I’ll dream up something sordid.

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