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So what really is the difference between porn and erotica?

2 Apr

I’m talking about writing, by the way, not those funny pictures of unlikely people doing unusual things to each other, with props.

No, I’m trying to figure out what elevates erotica from the status of pornography. I’m not the first to have done this. There is a prevailing view among erotica authors that what we do is not porn. I like to think so too. But when I try to put my finger on the thing that makes it that way, I can’t quite manage it. I’m hoping that by the time I get to the end of this post, I’ll have figured it out.

More talk about smut but not actual smut through here


Bent over the knee of Mark Zuckerberg

1 Apr

I’m on Facebook, finally. Yeah, I know. My view is that there comes a time when there’s no point struggling any more. You know you’re going to lose. You know it’s going to hurt, and hurt for a long time. So you might as well lie down and take it. It’ll only get worse if you don’t. And there’s a small part of you that thinks that afterwards it might be worth it. It’s not that the actual experience itself is enjoyable, but the effects can be incendiary.

So let’s all set fire to Facebook.

What, did you think I was talking about something else?

more this way

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.

Twitterotica – a #FuckMeFriday story: An angel’s #wake

25 Mar

This is for this week’s piece of Twitterotica to mark #FuckMeFriday (Ruby Kiddell and Aisling Weaver’s weekly writing challenge). The prompt is #wake and is justifiable. Barely.


After a ten days on vacation with her husband and mother-in-law, Christa snapped.

“You’re taking the children and your mother on the glass-bottomed boat tour,” she told Miles. “I’m having a massage.” Wisely, he chose not to argue.

The masseuse was fully booked, so Christa decided to take a long, hot bath. She surveyed herself in the mirror as the water ran. Her hair was like straw, albeit with some fresh sun-bleached highlights, and the tan lines around her boobs were uneven. One shoulder seemed to have caught the sun more, probably while she was in the pool being piggy-in-the-middle for the boys. She ran a hand over her midriff and tutted at the bloat. The effect was emphasised by her foliage-free lady garden, the product of a different and unexpected interpretation of the words “Bikini Line” by the Scottish girl who had waxed her before the vacation. Evidently in Scotland all the women wore candy floss bikinis that required the full Brazilian. Two weeks later, it still felt unnaturally smooth. But at least the swelling had gone down.

As the water’s heat began to penetrate Christa’s bones, her mind turned back to Miles. He had been looking very fine as he left with the children. She had caught a glimpse of him in his shorts and tight-fitting surf splash top. The sunshine caught the blond hairs on his legs and arms in a halo, like the wake of an angel.

Christa sighed and leaned back in the water, the surface tickling her ears. Her hand drifted back to the smoothness of her crotch. He hadn’t changed much in the fifteen years since college, when his tall, wiry frame had first caught her attention on the tennis court. Their first time had been in the college boat club, under the tarpaulin of a rowing boat.

It was desperately uncomfortable, but somehow they had manoeuvred into a position where Miles could reach under her. More smut through here

Twitterotica – A #wankwednesday story: The importance of fuck-me shoes

9 Mar

They are the highest heels I’ve ever bought. In the mirror, I could see my feet point down, almost vertically, so it’s impossible to tell where my calf ends and my foot begins. My toes are squashed into the end. They are hideously uncomfortable.

And yet, they make me feel as if I’m floating, as though mere contact with the ground is no longer a problem I need to deal with. I am an angel, a heavenly figure in black — no fallen angel, either. There will be no falling today. My sheer dress clings to me in the right places. My make-up is better than I’ve ever managed it before. My nails are smudge-free and my hair remains unfrizzed. All that is down to the shoes.

The smut continues through here

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

Twitterotica – a FuckMeFriday story: Heat, or getting a spanking from Cheryl and Posh

25 Feb

Aisling Weaver has set up a new Twitterotica writing prompt, and since I like bandwagons, I’m fully signed up. So here is my entry for this week’s edition of #FuckMeFriday, which has the prompt #Heat.


He works in PR, I work in magazines — it’s one of those relationships that works in spite of itself. There are lots of people I know who have it harder, like Jenny and Mark, who both work on the same newspaper, or Mehry, who’s fucking her boss at a travel PR firm and can’t persuade him to leave his wife.

The thing is that I sometimes have to ring up Jeremy and ask him questions about… well, I won’t tell who or what, but let’s just say he works with a lot of famous people. I work for a magazine, a woman’s magazine — please, let me be a little discreet here — and so I write about a lot of famous people. It’s how we met, after all, at a party (isn’t it always like that?) and he heard who I work for and rolled his eyes as if to say “Oh God, not them, she’s going to be a complete bitch”. I get that a lot. You just develop a thick skin, and I rather agree with him as well — I know a lot of hackettes who are complete bitches. The thing is that we’d spoken on the phone a couple of times, but he has a memory like Dear Liza’s bucket — God knows how he’s got so far in his job — and he didn’t know me. I had imagined he’d be a typical PR guy: groomed, gorgeous and gay. Well, I got two of those right. He’s tall, but not too tall, has short dark hair that you want to run your fingers through and the wickedest eyes you’ve ever seen: grey with flecks of green. The Paul Smith suits, shirts from Jermyn Street and shoes from Churches help, too. I’m pretty choosy, and I have excellent taste.

I found out pretty soon afterwards that he also has a fantastic cock.

More smut through here

Happy endings

24 Feb

I do write stories with happy endings. Just not recently. It’s only a matter of time before I find a character that I like enough to send them out into the world with a smile.

Story: Just an Average Fuck

24 Feb

Let me get this straight first: as fucks go, he was reasonable. Passable. Okay. His enthusiasm carried him through, but he had no technique, his body was not as good as I’d expected it to be and he was naive.

So why would I go back for more? Of course, it was no use saying that to him. How do you tell a guy that he sucks in bed? Especially when he doesn’t suck. Or lick. Or flick. The answer is, you don’t tell him he sucks, you just move on, and let him leave the whiney messages on your voicemail, or the Facebook messages or whatever. Who gives a shit, right?

The actual event itself was fun. It was my birthday, the twenty-third or something like that. We were in a bar, and Dominic walked in with his buddy, a guy I actually know, what’s his name, Freddie or something. So Freddie comes in with Dominic and they’re like hiding in a corner, Dominic being all shy about talking to girls. Yeah, I know, like I need that in my life.

So I don’t pay them so much attention, but it’s a bar and it’s my birthday and the girls are all telling me I gotta get off my tits. Candace has told the bartender already and he’s lining up a funnel. So they get me a stool and sit me against the bar, with my head back and lying on a tiny rag of a towel on the bar top. And the bartender takes the funnel and sticks it between my lips, and then he starts getting every whipped up, so they’re all whooping it up in a half-circle around me. So then Candace holds my head so as I can’t move it and the bartender does a countdown and gets all my buddies to chant it–and then he starts pouring three bottles into the goddamn funnel, and he fills it and I’ve just got shit liquor filling up my inside. Then I start coughing and the funnel comes out and I drip tequila and rum and some sweet smelling crap all down my front. They call it an instant cocktail. Instant fuck-you-up-juice is what it is.

More smut 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…”


“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.