The Bestseller

2009 is drawing to a close and will soon give way to 2010, the year that Black Lace as we know it ceases to be. So, just before Big Ben tolls the imprint's demise, my final guest commentator on the subject is the wonderful Kristina Lloyd, whose three Black Lace titles, Darker than Love, Asking for Trouble and Split are still regular fixtures in the erotic charts. I'm thrilled to have her as my guest. Take it away!

"Early Black Lace novels were an odd mix of wonderful and awful, often within the same book. As a reader, I favoured historicals, partly because the contemporaries were too bizarre and alienating. Sex in these books seemed to be a luxury item, something to aspire to along with the yacht, the health spa, the five million thread-count Egyptian cotton bedsheets and the handsome manservant (Italian, pref) with his imperious smile and perfectly manicured foreskin.

The first novel I wrote for BL, Darker Than Love, was set in the Victorian era. I'd had several short stories published in Forum, Desire and For Women but I knew my contemporary style was way too down and dirty for BL. Writers' guidelines at the time recommended authors use the words 'fuck' and 'cunt' only sparingly and preferably within dialogue. I couldn't see how a woman in the mid 1990s might own her sexuality but be a bit shy about swearing. A nineteenth century setting seemed more appropriate and I reckoned it would be easier, not to mention pleasanter and more interesting, to research the Victorians rather than the lifestyles of the rich and glamorous.

In 1998, when BL announced to authors they were relaxing their editorial guidelines, I was chomping at the bit to write a novel that was filthy, upfront and deeply unglamorous. Menage, Emma Holly's debut novel, had recently been released and I'd devoured it, thrilled to find such likeable, realistic characters leading ordinary but scorchingly sexy lives. I put a proposal together for Asking for Trouble in a whirl of excitement. In my covering letter to the then-editor, Kerri Sharp, I confessed I'd found most of BL's contemporary fiction 'all a bit Cinzano Bianco'. Kerri replied, 'I'm so glad I've chucked out the Cinzano!'

Asking for Trouble has been one of Black Lace's bestsellers – proof, if it were needed, women don't need rose petals and rubies to assuage any guilt about getting off.

BL was rarely complacent about its place in the market and I'm heartbroken to see it end, especially when it looked to be on the up. Single author collections were being introduced; new writers with fresh, original voices were being taken on; popular US authors were appearing in BL anthologies, a move sure to have helped blur the UK/US publishing division and raise the profile of the imprint Stateside; and, after a few years tussling, it seemed there was finally space for writers of erotica and erotic romance to co-exist within the imprint.

The internet, though it's often blamed for the demise of print porn, has proved a great marketing tool for genre authors who don't get much of a cut of their publisher's budget. These last few years, I've loved finding out more about familiar names and discovering new ones online; I've loved feeling myself part of an erotica community; I've loved challenging the industry's sexism and have been thrilled by the support we've received on Erotica Cover Watch. Thanks to everyone who's backed our campaign for man candy on covers!

Once, being a Black Lace author felt like being part of a job lot; the imprint had greater prominence than its individual authors. Readers had to buy blind and the impression was dirty books were all much of a muchness. Who cares who wrote it? So many BL authors have now surged beyond that to declare their distinct voices as writers and people. I hope we'll all manage to find hot new homes for our fiction – homes which will allow those voices to shine and suck cock! I hope readers will follow their favourite authors to their new homes. And I hope we'll all get to read and write a lot more quality filth in 2010 and beyond!"

Out with the old (especially the Cinzano) and in with the new (a good Scotch, maybe?). I'll drink to that. See you in 2010 xxx

Tis the Season

Merry Christmas, sexy sybarites! Hope your stockings are well filled.

Easy Tiger

Two lovely links to post today.

One is the influential romance commentator Michelle Buonfiglio's Heart to Heart blog at the Barnes & Noble book club in which she recommends On Demand as an antidote to all the trashy Tiger Woods gossip in the press.

"A young woman’s confidence and sensuality blossom when she’s mistaken for a call girl in a swank hotel. From that moment on, exploring the power of that fantasy – and learning the exotic penchents and desires of those who love and play lustfully w/in that hotel – becomes her raison d’etre, and the reader’s most erotic pleasure."

Secondly, I'm proud to say I've been Erotica Cover Watched - and Mr Suit passes muster! Thanks to Kristina and Mathilde, curators of this fabulous and ever-thought-provoking campaign site. Check it out!

The Enthusiast

I'm absolutely delighted that Lucy Felthouse is stopping by tonight to give her take on the end of Black Lace. An avid reader and reviewer of their material, she was an invaluable asset to the marketing and promotion of the brand. And she is a terrific erotica writer in her own right! Check out the Xcite books website for some of the anthologies her stories are featured in - the latest one is Temptations Vol. 2. (Nice cover! nom!)

So without further ado - take it away, Lucy!

"Black Lace took my hand and led me into the world of erotica. I can’t even remember how I found out about the books, but I seem to remember the first one I read being Wicked Words 10, which I loved. I enjoyed the variety and smuttiness of the stories. From there, I started buying more, both anthologies and novels, but found that I much preferred the anthologies – the novels didn’t have enough sex in them for me! I found myself skipping through lots of text just to get to the dirty bits. However, I had this experience only with early novels and as my tastes and the label matured, I found myself loving the full-length tales just as much as the collections.

As I showed more of an interest in reading erotica – I also started writing it as the result of a dare, and my aim was to be published by Black Lace. My growing interest then stemmed out into my university dissertation, which was about erotic literature. Here I started corresponding with various authors from Black Lace and beyond, and realising just how nice they all were! Far from being stuck up and unwilling to talk, I found erotic writers to be the most friendly, open and helpful people, which helped greatly with my research.

It was around this time that I discovered authors which are to this day, amongst my favourites. Portia Da Costa, Kristina Lloyd, Janine Ashbless, Mathilde Madden and Saskia Walker – please take a bow. More recent discoveries include Deanna Ashford, Nikki Magennis, Charlotte Stein and of course Justine Elyot, you ladies also deserve a round of applause, for you have all achieved something that I cannot. You were published by Black Lace, and for that you should be very proud. It was a label which went through many changes, and had some variance in quality, but the one thing it always was – was a beacon of light for erotica, raising its profile and making people realise it wasn’t something just for dirty perverts, secreted in brown paper bags. It was sexy and fun and something that us ladies could talk about in the pub. It clearly did a good job as we’re still talking about it now.

Black Lace, you may be gone, but you’re certainly not forgotten. You’ve led many writers into the genre, and as a reader, I’m grateful for that. I’m sad that I’ll never have my name in or on one of your covers, but I was inspired enough to begin to write seriously and I hope that one day I’ll be as famous as Portia Da Costa!"

The Debutante

How fitting that, on the US release date of her superb collection The Things That Make Me Give In (available here), Charlotte Stein is here to reminisce about Black Lace and what it meant to her. Fitting, too, that she namechecks the marvellous Portia Da Costa, who also has a book, Shadowplay, out in the US today (available here). I call that synchronicity in action!

So, enough of my rambling - here's Charlotte:

"The first Black Lace book I ever bought was, I think, Conquered. It had a ridiculous cover and the person who wrote it - Fleur Reynolds - had a pretty ridiculous name and the name of the publisher was pretty ridiculous, too. A stupid novelty band from the eighties!

But it was about 16th Century Peru! It had pervy goings on, going on in weird outlandish settings! The girl on the cover had a bird on her head! It was marvellous.

And for a while Black Lace, for me, was a sort of silly, fun sort of thing. But I think it changed, somewhat, when I read Portia Da Costa's The Stranger.

They weren't just kind-of-daft books anymore. I could actually see some of this stuff happening. They became, more and more, about real women, who often did outlandish things but all the while remained recognisable.

This was when I began to love Black Lace. I loved Black Lace more for Menage, Dreamers In Time, The Houseshare, Crash Course, The Top Of Her Game and Sin.Net. Because all my favourite books have that in common- a heroine I recognise. A real heroine, who could just be going about her ordinary little life. Who could be no-one at all...

...until you peek beneath the covers.

The last Black Lace book I ever bought was and ever will be On Demand, by Justine Elyot. It is a book that continues this tradition. That although many outrageous things happen during the course of its fantastic contents, her female characters are real, they are real women, and I believe in them.

And although Black Lace is no more, I am forever grateful that its authors- Portia Da Costa, Janine Ashbless, Madelynne Ellis, Justine Elyot and many, many more of my faves, continue to write about those wonderful, wonderful heroines."

Amen! And I certainly hope people want to keep reading about them too. Thanks, Charlotte!

This is the way the world ends...

I'm pretty sure that On Demand features a lot of both, so it can't be said that Black Lace ended without bangs or whimpers.

Banging and whimpering were in evidence from day one, of course, though in 1993, when the imprint launched, my awareness of it was pretty vague. I'd heard of it, because there was a fair bit of press hoopla at the time, but it washed over me. I think I might even have disapproved of the 'by women for women' tag line. There was no way, back then, that I was ever reaching for a book off the top shelf in a shop and taking it to the counter, especially in the WH Smiths concession at Bristol Temple Meads station, where I recall spending a bit of pre-journey time analysing the titles and covers and wondering - in a not very urgent way - what lay within. If I'd browsed them on the internet, I might have bought. But I'm not sure I'd even heard of the internet in 1993.

I got braver as time went by, and started buying erotica titles. I think it was because I was living in London then, and you had the feeling that nobody cared at all what you did in London, whether it was buying a copy of Delta of Venus or stabbing a passerby in the neck. Even then, I stuck with the 'classics' of the genre and didn't think of Black Lace. I don't think I had a reason for that, beyond not knowing what the quality was like because nobody had recommended them to me.

It wasn't until I read a piece - I think it was in Cosmopolitan, though I could be mistaken - about Kristina Lloyd's Asking for Trouble that I sat up and thought 'Ooooh, interesting.' I bought the book and I was not disappointed! Here, I thought, was the kind of book I wanted more of - sexy, dark, fresh, brave, modern. The kind of book I had imagined probably didn't exist.



It was a wonderful find, and the gateway to a secret garden. I was so happy to find it, and even happier to become part of the vegetation. But now, unless a Mary Lennox happens along sometime, the secret garden is all locked up again.

Funny thing about gardens, though - they can grow in a lot of places.

(I feel I ought to make it clear that I never stabbed any passers by in the neck while I was living in London. Just for the record.)

Five Star Hotel

The first review of On Demand is up at amazon.co.uk and Lucy Felthouse gives the dodgy goings-on at the Hotel Luxe Noir a fab five stars. Here is what she had to say:

"Previous to reading On Demand, I'd read Justine's stories in anthologies and always enjoyed them. So I was pleased to get my hands on a whole book of her writing! Rather than being a novel, though, On Demand is an anthology of short stories, all written to a theme. And the theme in this steamy read is the setting - a hotel.

What makes the book so fabulous is the fact that it isn't just a book of stories based in a hotel; it's also centred around the same characters. This means, of course, that you get to know and care about the characters and what happens to them. You'll feel yourself getting thrilled when they get hot under the collar, and getting hot somewhere else when they're getting laid! And boy, do they get laid!

With a theme like the one chosen for this book, it would have been very easy to get stuck in a rut and for all of the stories to have been formulaic. However, Ms. Elyot has skilfully written the stories in different places and scenarios, so every tale is fresh and fun, as well as damn sexy. The tone is light, and there's definitely more physicality going on than emotional attachment, but that's what makes this book what it is. It's a fruity, frisky fun fest that has something for most tastes, and will get you horny in no time!

As well as being fabulous, On Demand is also the end of an era. For it's the last book to be published by now defunct erotica publisher Black Lace. R.I.P, you will be missed. So grab yourself a piece of history and get a bonking good read at the same time! "

I'm thrilled to have such a glowing first review - thanks a million to lovely Lucy! I hope anyone else who has bought it enjoys it just as much - especially my competition winners, Damiana and Anne-Elisabeth. Congrats, ladies, the book will be on its way to you.

Titillating Titbit Numero Tres - and a competition

Here is the third and final piece of On Demand, red in tooth and claw, for your delectation:

‘I have some lovely new toys to demonstrate today, and I hope my lucky winners will be able to help me with the show,’ she says, smiling. She lays a large case out on a low table between me and the audience and opens it up. ‘Take a good look at what is inside,’ she invites. ‘Choose your favourites and then, when we are ready, you can try them out on Sophie here. Please don’t be shy to do whatever you wish to her. I am paying Sophie to do as she is told, and she will get to choose and keep her own favourites after the show. For the next hour, no part of Sophie is off-limits – you may use her tits, her pussy, her arse, exactly as you please.’ They look sidelong at me, curious and ravenous at once. Furiously flushed, I stare down at the lacy tops of my stockings, drinking in the shame and transfiguring it to a strong gush of need between my thighs. ‘But of course,’ Lura finishes, wagging a bony finger, ‘you may only use the products. No flesh is to meet flesh, please. This is a high-class establishment, not a brothel, and Sophie is here to demonstrate, not to service you.’

‘Not yet,’ mutters Neil and I aim a killer glare at him. He winks back at me, then the group bow their heads over the suitcase, picking things up and inspecting them, sometimes looking over at me as if speculating on the effect they might have on me.

I see long columns of smooth metal, precious mineral rings, acres of discreetly hued silicone, pots and bottles and horsehair and silk.

‘Has everybody chosen?’ asks Lura. ‘Who would like to begin?’

The female model steps forward, holding up a glass vial. ‘I’d like to try some of this on her,’ she says. ‘I’ve heard good things about it.’

‘Be my guest.’ Lura nods and the model smiles widely at me, opens her vial and dabs the stopper on my temples, then she peels off the sparkling pastes and treats my nipples. There is a moment of sting and a dizzying aphrodisiac aroma once my skin absorbs the contents. I take a deep breath, noticing how my nipples are an even darker red now, throbbing lightly and begging to be touched.

‘How does that feel, Sophie?’ asks the model.

‘It’s…heightening my senses…and it smells gorgeous,’ I say, gasping as she grabs hold of a calf, hoiks it over the velvet arm of the chair and then glides the stopper along my labia majora, once, twice, three times, until the potency and intensity of it have caused my clit to expand and emerge from its hood. I see all eyes upon it, eyebrows raised, chins stroked. I think some sales may have been made, but I am too unfocused and needful of more touch to think of much else. I wriggle my bare bottom against the plushy pile and bring my hands up to my nipples, which seem to explode into spangles, oh, god, it’s almost enough to make me come already. How long have I been here? Five minutes? I signed up for an hour.

‘Sophie,’ says Lura sternly. ‘Hands off your nipples. I’m not paying you to touch yourself.’ I moan and grip the arms of the chair, gazing longingly at some of the dildoes and vibrators the men have chosen. One of those is just what I need now. But Lura is busy hyping up her new concoction. ‘Imagine the possibilities. A few dabs on your lover’s skin and he or she is helplessly aroused, beyond reason. You can use it during normal sex, as a stimulant, or those with wickeder imaginations can devise schemes for pleasurable torment. Leave them tied up and burning for you. Make them wear it in a public place, underneath their clothes. And I’m led to understand that it can add a whole new dimension to a spanking. I will leave your admirably filthy minds to come up with your own scenarios.’

If you would like to win a copy of the book, all you need to do is drop me a comment. I'll put all the names into a hat, and on Friday I will draw two winners! Good luck!

Titillating Titbit Numero Dos - and a reminder

Here's another bit of On Demand for you - a spanking scene this time - yay!

His hand began to fall, faster, stingier, peppering my cheeks with shot. Instinctively I tried to put a hand back to shield my bum from this new campaign, but he pre-empted me, twisting my wrists up into the small of my back while the smacks continued in a random unpattern, sometimes down as far as my knees. Now I was writhing with discomfort, considering calling ‘amber’ but knowing that I would despise myself if I did. This was nothing, surely. But, oh, it really didn’t feel like nothing. It felt like searing vengeance on my poor bottom, and the worst of it was that I had no idea when it would end. I compromised with myself, moaning, ‘Pleeease stop, it huuuurts,’ instead of mentioning a colour. Somehow, though, I knew that this would inspire his arm to swing higher and his hand to slap harder, which it did.

‘Now you’re getting what you deserve, Sophie,’ he said. ‘You’re beginning to glow.’ I could vouch for that. His hot rain stopped abruptly; I sighed and pushed my bottom up, wanting his fingers to slip down into my burning crevasse. To my infinite joy, he took me up on the offer.

‘Hmm, dripping wet,’ he observed, skating around my eager spread, pushing in and pressing down. ‘Perhaps this is not punishment for you, Sophie? You seem to be finding some pleasure in it? Is that so?’

‘No, Sir, no I don’t,’ I lied, backing shamelessly into his touch. ‘It’s awful, Sir. It’s too painful for me.’

‘Ten strokes of the hairbrush for your dishonesty,’ he decreed, withdrawing his fingers with a squelch and reaching for a large wooden-backed number from the bedspread selection.

I flopped back on to his lap, defeated and doomed. The brush cracked down and it really, really hurt. Only ten of these, I told myself, I could handle ten. Mamma mia, but I had no idea wood was so hard! I would have congratulated myself at this point for my choice of soundproofed room, if only I could have thought of anything beyond the sizzling heat and swingeing impact of the oval terror at my rear. What made it more difficult still was that he seemed to be concentrating on just one area – the crease between buttock and thigh, sensitive flesh stretched taut in my bent position. I howled through the remaining nine strokes, then fought to regain my breath.

‘Good girl, Sophie; you took that well,’ he praised, putting the brush aside.

‘More than ten of those would definitely have been amber,’ I gasped, and then I lost the words again because his hands were returning to soak in my juices a second time.

‘Do you like to hand control over?’ he asked me, working busily on my tenderised clit.

‘I think so,’ I wibbled. Two fingers slipped inside, possessing me.

‘Good. I am responsible for you today, Sophie. I am responsible for your punishment, but also for your pleasure. What I want you to do now, Sophie, is tell me when your climax is close. Can you do that?’

‘Yes, Sir,’ I wailed stickily, riding his hand, luring it up inside, knowing it would take very little. I felt on fire inside and out, tensed as a bowstring. When I snapped there would be a white-out of sensation.

I rocked up and down, sucking him in, I could feel the pressure rising, a counterpoint to the fading sting of my bottom, it would not be long, it was close, I was close. ‘I am close, Sir,’ I confessed unevenly.

He took his hand away and smacked my bottom hard.

‘NO!’ I cried.

‘Dirty girl,’ he gloated. ‘Come and look at yourself.’

Don't forget that I would love to hear your thoughts, anecdotes, ramblings, reviews on the subject of Black Lace if you have any to spare - just fire 'em off to justineelyot@gmail.com.

Titillating Titbit Numero Uno

I have my author copies of On Demand now, and they are handsome indeed. They look good, they feel good, they even smell good. Mmmm.

And, if you haven't got hold of one yet, here is a snippet of what lies within:

‘Oh God, that’s beautiful,’ whispered Phil, capturing the moment, the lips fixed together, the hands flicking at Maddie’s stiffening nipples, her legs weakening so that Damian hooked one of his in front to keep her upright. The eroticism of it made Phil wonder how long he could continue as mere onlooker. Perhaps he should speed the action up somewhat. ‘What if he puts one hand in your knickers, Maddie?’

‘Mmm hmmm,’ she consented, pushing her bum back against Damian’s hard crotch. One large hand travelled slowly down her stomach and into the waistband of the burgundy satin French knickers. Maddie had to part her thighs a little, wobbling on unsteady legs, to provide unhindered access to the wandering fingers. Damian groaned as they slid between the lips, finding them wet and ready for some serious attention. His wide palm rested against her mons while the fingers rubbed and probed. Phil’s photographs depicted the large bumps of his knuckles straining against the satin while Maddie rotated her hips, her mouth still caught against his, her sighs absorbed by his tongue in her throat.

‘OK,’ said Phil unsteadily. ‘Turn her around to face you and take down her knickers now.’

Maddie let out a meek ‘oh!’ at the withdrawal of Damian’s fingers from her secret spots, or was it the return of his tongue to his own mouth? Nonetheless she allowed herself to be moved around, her stomach up against the hot bulge of his cock, while her recent model peeled the knickers and stockings down slowly, revealing her smooth tan bottom to Phil inch by inch as he snapped hungrily. The elastic slackened at the top of her thighs and the silky material dropped down to the floor, looking eerily like a pool of blood in colour and dispersal. Damian, it seemed, no longer needed to take direction, and he lowered an unprompted hand to knead her buttocks, re-establishing their kiss while the other hand resumed its work between her legs.

‘Fuck, I can’t do this any more,’ said Phil, tossing the mobile phone on to a bed. ‘Make room for me.’

Tempted? More excerpts to come if you need swaying!

Giving Thanks

Friends in the US are celebrating Thanksgiving on the very day that I am celebrating the release (a week ahead of schedule) of On Demand. It even got into the top 20 erotica titles on Amazon! I've been so excited all day that I feel like a small child who's eaten eight bags of Haribo. Slightly sick and headachey but weirdly euphoric.

Anyway, I will post a few snippets here and there over the next few days, but first of all I really want to thank a few people - appropriately enough, given the day.

So thank you all the people who have stayed with me from the first story I posted on the internet, some of whom I still only know by nicknames, but all of whom have been brilliant - Amy, Sandra, Bonnie, Marilynn, Josh, ummm Scary Bear Hair :D. In fact, all of you - you know who you are. If I'd realised I could have put a dedication at the front of the book, you would have been in it.

Massive thank you to Adam Nevill for commissioning it and to Charlotte Stein for partnering me in debut-erotica-writer crime.

Thank you to everyone who has bought it, everyone who is thinking of buying it and everyone who had a hand in producing it (especially the cover artist - I love my cover!).

And a big, big thank you to the Mr, for never ever believing that I couldn't make it, even when I didn't believe it myself.

*weeps in Oscar-accepting manner*

I love you all. Now, where's my pumpkin pie?

An Invitation

My calendar tells me that On Demand releases in under a fortnight and, barring a radical reinvented return to the erotica block in 2011, it will the last of its illustrious line - the final Black Lace title to be published.

So an event that should be one of unalloyed excitement - my first full-length publication - will be instead tinged with sadness. But surely, I thought, it deserves some kind of marking; a funeral of sorts, but one of those jolly, humanist type funerals rather than one that's all...well...black lace.

With that in mind, I would like to invite anyone and everyone to whom Black Lace ever meant anything - whether you wrote the books, read them, or used them to prop up your wonky coffee table leg - to join me in a final fling.

Throughout December, I would like to post personal testimonies from people who were involved with Black Lace in any capacity at all. These can take any form you like - an extract of yours, some thoughts on a book that meant a lot to you, an anecdote, a picture of a favourite cover - it's up to you.

If you would like to add some final thoughts on an imprint that was groundbreaking, exciting and a byword for quality erotica in its day, then please do email me at JustineElyot@gmail.com and I'll be delighted to include them here. (Feel free to plug all your BL releases too, if an author ;)).

Let's make the last dance a damn sexy one.

(Image from allposters dot com.)

Me and Alan Titchmarsh

We rub shoulders now and again, y'know. What with our common interests in gardening and smut, it's hardly surprising - oh, wait, I don't garden. Well, OK, we don't really get together that often, I suppose. Except when we're in the same Press Release together! And when that Press Release is about MY NEW BOOK! Waaah!

In the words of the PR:

"Adam Nevill, newly recruited ex-Black Lace editor has doubled the Xcite list for 2010 to 26 books. New signings for Autumn 2010 include novels from Chloe Thurlow, K D Grace, Charlotte Stein and a short story collection from Justine Elyot. "These are four of the most exciting new names in modern British erotica, who have made a real impact in print erotica within the last few years," said Nevill.

The Xcite Books range was recently featured on the Alan Titchmarsh Show with sex expert Julie Peasgood. The company are exhibiting at Erotica 09 at Olympia from 20th – 22nd November 2009."

Good Lord, Xcite Books are fast movers! I had barely had five minutes to admire my new contract before my editor was emailing me a link to this story! It's rather reassuring, I must say, after months of tick following tock following tick following tock.

Huge congratulations to Chloe Thurlow, K D Grace and, most especially (with lashings of thanks on top for brow-soothing services rendered), Charlotte Stein.

Anyway, yes, the new book is out in Autumn 2010, so I'd better get cracking. 'Let's get mucky' as Gordon the Garden Gnome (voiced by Mr Titchmarsh) might say.

*I'd also love to know if 'sex expert Julie Peasgood' is the same person who played Barry Grant's girlfriend in Brookie.

Away With the Fairies

I'm not usually one for ponytails on a man, but I'd make an exception for this dude. The whole cover is ravishing, which is one more reason to be over the moon that I'm included in this gorgeous anthology - the terrific erotica writer Kristina Wright's first time in the editor's chair.

My story is called Three Times, and is a bit of departure for me, having a fantasy setting (yeah, I know, cos my usual stuff is, like, so realistic...) with princesses and woodsmen and magical plants and suchlike.

I can't wait to see what the other contributors' takes on the theme will be - erotic fairy tales have really caught the popular imagination of late. In fact, I'd say they were the new black - but I'm told that that's spanking ;).

Anyway, the collection is published by Cleis and will be out in Spring 2010 - look out for the striking cover and be swept away to fairyland.

The End Is The Affair

No more Quickies. No more Wicked Words. No more Sex with Strangers, in Public, in a Shopping Trolley on Your Hols, or any of the various configurations. No more Seduction, Liaisons, Misbehaviour, or Sexy Little Numbers.

It ends with an affair. The Affair, in fact - the final multi-author anthology from the monolith of reading pleasure that is Black Lace.

My story in this book is called The Interview, and here is a taster for your palates:

"Unlike the ruthlessly clean-shaven Ralph, Aaron has a trace of stubble and I find I want to rub my face against his sandpapery skin, rub him on to me. His lips are firm, his breath warm, his body warm, his embrace firm, all firm and warm; it is comforting first, then it is arousing. He allows his hands more license, letting them wander all over me, down to my hips and across my bottom, then his fingers walk slowly up my spine, finally grazing the nape of my neck until I feel ready to kiss harder and longer and fuller.

I try to push him, try to crush him but it is deliciously difficult to make any impact on that hard flesh; I try to devour his mouth with my tongue but he just captures it and beats me at my own game. I try to merge into him, to force myself through his pores, but the bruising bulge beneath his midriff keeps our centres apart. Sooner or later it is going to demand attention in no uncertain terms, and now is as good a time as any.

‘I want to take off your underpants,’ I say hoarsely, gasping for air.

‘Good.’

I unveil the beast, which is large, maybe larger than Ralph’s, though I’m no judge – I rarely look it in the eye. I flinch and look up into Aaron’s eyes again.

‘Don’t you like it?’

‘I…I’m sure it’s…very nice.’

‘Nice? No, Jacqueline, it’s not nice. It’s a greedy selfish bastard that will ride roughshod over you to get what it wants. It’ll make you feel good, but so does cocaine, and nobody says cocaine is nice.’

‘I’m sorry. I’ve said the wrong thing. I don’t know what I should say.’

‘You don’t have to say anything yet. Touch it. Find your way around.’

The surrealism of the situation is not lost on me. Adonis stands bare-naked in my living room and I’m worrying about the etiquette of handling his…um…you know.

I put out a hand and tap the side of it. It is hard and stiff and springs back to attention straight away. There is a bead of moisture at its head. I still can’t look it in the eye and I blur my vision a little, avoiding its frank stare. My fingers drift downwards, outlining the heavy sacs beneath, then weighing them in my palm.

‘Grab it. It won’t break,’ urges Aaron. I hesitate, so he takes hold of my wrist and moves my hand back to the shaft, prompting me to wrap my fingers around its girth. I find I quite like the feel of it; the skin is velvety and malleable, even as it stands proud, and my hand spans it comfortably. I begin to stroke it, trying not to loosen my grip, moving my other hand down to squeeze the sac.

I look up to see that he has shut his eyes and thrown back his head; an encouraging sign, so I speed up a little. His eyes open and he coughs a little before saying, ‘Perhaps you should taste it too.’

‘Taste it?’

‘Yeah. But you have to ask me. Ask if you can suck it for me.’

‘I can’t!’

‘You can. Just say it! Don’t think about it.’

‘I…can I…no, I can’t.’

My hand seizes up and I look away, feeling tears well up. Why can’t I just say the words?"

Will she be able to say the words? You'll have to read the rest of the story to find out!

But don't just read mine! There is plenteous treasure behind the cover lady's lavender shift dress - treasure that includes: Charlotte Stein; Elizabeth Coldwell; Portia Da Costa; Kyoko Church; Shanna Germain; Primula Bond; Rachel Kramer Bussel; Janine Ashbless; Gwen Masters; Alegra Verde; Izzy French and K D Grace.

Pretty Lady

Isn't she a stunner? I badly want that feathery corset she's wearing too.

After a lengthy news drought, I can now tell you that I have a story in the awesome Rachel Kramer Bussel's upcoming anthology Please, Sir - tales of male dominance and female submission. Having seen the line-up today I am both impressed and thrilled by the company I'm keeping between those covers.

Another thrilling thing about it is that my story, Sunday in the Study, features some characters who might be quite familiar to those of you who followed Lecture Notes. I can't believe those guys have made it into print (though Sinclair isn't at all surprised).

The book comes out in May 2010 and is already available for pre-order from Amazon.com here.

Kindle A Flame

Any Kindlers in the house? I ask because I have just realised that Ultimate Decadence is available in the Kindle format from amazon.com - look here!

And while I'm on the subject, I am mortified to realise that I haven't posted up a snippet of my story in that collection, Blind Man's Buff, yet. So here is one:

"I am aware of the bodies before I reach them; there is warmth and scent heralding their physical presence. If I do not like the smell, I try to elude them, but this one is peaches, lovely ripe delicate peaches. Or nectarines. When I catch her she laughs, low and mellifluous, and strokes my hair. She is about my height, and her touch as she unhooks my basque is exquisite.

‘Oh, look, they are standing up for me!’ Warm merriment in her voice, bathing me. Then she is pulling me back against her body – her dress is silk – and pinching at my nipples, demonstrating for the room. ‘Look at these pretty things, everyone.’ She reaches down to unsnap my stockings, then removes them. Her hair tickles my bottom and thighs and there is sweet breath on my skin. Once the hosiery is removed, she drops a gentle kiss on the inside of one thigh, then stands back up and repeats the action on the back of my neck. ‘Pretty things,’ she repeats, crooning it into my hair.

‘Put her down, Saskia,’ says Gil indulgently and, to the accompaniment of sighs, I am released once more, to pad about the room in no more than my thong. Their voices are giving away their location now, for they have broken into conversation, and their conversation is about me – or rather my breasts, and my bottom, and the curve of my hips and the tone of my skin.

‘You’re a lucky man, Gil.’

‘She is built for pleasure.’

‘Made for fucking.’

‘The perfect little slut.’

I twist this way and that, in between the sound waves they produce, until eventually I trip over a shoe – a man’s shoe, perhaps a brogue – and stumble into him.

‘Oh, I have hit the jackpot!’ he proclaims. ‘Let’s get these knickers off then. Such as they are.’

His thumbs settle inside the elastic, resting there for a while, snug against my hipbones, then he begins to ease them down, very slowly, very deliberately. He runs a finger down the string, releasing it from its captivity in my arse crack, then he chuckles – I knew he would – when my pubic hair is revealed.

‘That’s sweet,’ he says. ‘A heart shape. Look at this.’ He hurries to get the flimsy things off me so he can show my clipped, shaped mons to the world. There is a rumble of laughter and some clapping.

‘There now, ladies and gentlemen,’ says Gil. ‘Your gift is unwrapped. It is now up to you to enjoy it. Catch her and you may use her in any way you wish – short, as we have established, of penetrative sex.’ His voice is getting closer, he is almost beside me. ‘Are you ready, Venetia?’ His hand brushes my cheek. I nod. ‘Then let the real game begin.’"

Champion

Damn, I wish I could be in Leeds. Or thereabouts, at least.

From time to time, my fellows in Black Lace like to meet up and discuss the type of things we discuss. Mysterious and secret things, my friends, wicked and wanton things. Such as jelly snakes and Vincent d'Onofrio. But alas, I live in an obscure part of the country from which Barcelona is literally more accessible than Barnsley, so I have had to forego these excursions so far.

But I have been wondering lately why is it that so many fabulous erotica writers hail from Yorkshire? Is it the windswept moors, the rugged coast, the earthy honesty, the Tetleys Bitter? Because Portia Da Costa, Janine Ashbless, Charlotte Stein and Saskia Walker, to name but four, all pen their exquisite words from the various Ridings. Oh, is it because they're called Ridings? That's quite sexy, in a way. And I'd bet money that, were Charlotte or Emily (maybe not Anne) to materialise in 2009, they'd be writing hawt scenes in the heather like nobody's business, up there in the vicarage in Haworth.

So...any theories? What are they putting in the teabags? I need to know!





















(Of course, it could be all the eye candy.)

Lecture Notes Chapter 19

Fin.

Lecture Notes Chapter 18

Sinclair meets the parents.

Ultimate Decadence

Ever since I read Mil Millington's hilarious introduction to this book, the phrase 'ecstatic syncope' has been rolling around in my head. I am angry that I didn't get to invent it, but I am certainly the opposite of angry that I get to be in this terrific collection which, if you weren't already aware, is in aid of the MacMillan cancer charity.

Many famous and wondrous names can be found inside the covers - Rachel Kramer Bussel, Karen Krizanovich, Elizabeth Coldwell, Jeremy Edwards, Maxim Jakubowski, Madeline Moore, to name just a few. And it's all held together at the seams by the magical sexy glue of editor, Emily Dubberley.

She has done a grand job. To get your hands on this anthology of 'detonator-cap short stories', surf on down to the Xcite Books website right here - it's available in print and as a PDF download - ooh, how modern!

The Things That Make Me Give In

I had this beautiful, shiny thing delivered through my letterbox the other day - look at those lips! The very definition of luscious!

But it isn't just the cover I'll be devouring. This is the debut collection by Charlotte Stein, a new writer who is well worth a few of your spare quid, or dollars, or Euros, or yen, or (insert currency here).

The first story I read of hers was one of her pieces in Liaisons, a story called Men, and it made me weep for two reasons.
One: it was kind of meant to - the twist at the end is very poignant.
Two: it made me wish I could write like her.

But don't go thinking that Charlotte Stein is more likely to activate your tear glands than your, er, other glands. She writes hot, hot, hot scenes full of passion or dirty sex, or, most usually, both.

If you like two-dimensional characters with no emotional depth who find themselves in unrealistic and unthought-out sexual situations - well, she won't be for you.

Similarly, if you like bland, tepid, formulaic imaginings of sex, you won't find them here.

But if, like me, you love intelligent, precise and searingly sexy writing, this promises to be a must-read. I recommend it, before I've even read it!

(Also, check out her blog, linked on my sidebar. She is well funny.)

Lecture Notes Chapter 17

The aftermath of the storm.

September Man of the Month - Gareth Malone

Now look. I don't really fancy Gareth Malone. He is too clean-cut and baby-faced for me (some nice suits though). So I don't lust at the TV while watching The Choir - at least, not unduly. I might fix my eyes a little bit more intently on the screen but that's ALL.

There is, however, something about a choirmaster. Hundreds of voices are his to command, and without the necessary force of personality, the performance will fall into cacophony. The combination of artistic talent, boundless enthusiasm and natural authority...well, y'know. I like that.

Lecture Notes Chapter 16

OMG, drama!

Lecture Notes Chapter 15

Trouble in Paradise.

Xcite Me!

Along with many others in Eroticaville, I was thrilled to hear the news that Adam Nevill, late of Black Lace/Nexus has a brand new post as commissioning editor for erotica at Xcite Books.

Good news on so many levels - I am so pleased for him, and for all the writers he worked so hard to support and publish. This town was a poorer place without him.

Lecture Notes Chapter 14

A butt plug has led to a watershed moment. As they do.

Misbehaviour

The post title does not refer to what happened on my "holiday" (aka unbroadcast episode of Survival), but to the splendiferous Black Lace anthology now available in the UK.

My story Office Sex kicks off the perverse proceedings - a Ronseal title if there ever was one*. The back cover gives a tiny teaser - 'Mr Morrell is hotter than hell and he proves it in the stationery cupboard'. Here is a tiny whetstone for your appetites:

I hear Mr Morrell shut the door, then take a quick breath when I hear a sound like a key turning in a lock.

“Turn around and face me,” he says. He is standing, arms folded, a pinstriped sex god with a key dangling from the fingers of one hand. He puts the key into a pocket, withdraws a Blackberry and, with total deliberation, switches it off before replacing it.

It seems I have become Priority Number One, marked ‘urgent’.

Oh, what on earth is in store for me, in the stores?

“That’s a very short skirt you’re wearing,” he remarks. “I’m not sure it’s entirely appropriate for the workplace.”

“Oh…aren’t you?” My conversational faculties have taken an early coffee-break.

“I’ll give you a choice, Hannah. You can go home, get changed and come back here in a longer skirt. Or…” The pause is just long enough for me to wonder if my heart is still beating. “…You can take it off. Here. Now. Which do you choose?”

Oh, I HATE choices. It takes me half my lunch break to pick a sandwich filling. This, though, is one of the easier decisions I have faced in life. The set of his jaw, the angle of his eyebrow, make it for me.

Fumbling fingers unclip and unzip; the brief strip of charcoal flannel slides over my hips and down to the floor, the nylon lining crackling static against my stockings as it falls.

“Plucky,” he says, smirking slightly. “I like that. I like it a lot.”

Only now does the implication of what I am doing sink in. I am standing in front of Morrell – my boss – in my tarty underwear. In a stationery cupboard. A cold stationery cupboard. My hands reach down to cover my goose-pimpled thighs, but he tuts and shakes his head. He swirls a finger in the air, the circular motion suggesting that I am to give him a twirl.

I remove my hands and perform a slow 360 degree turn. The knickers I am wearing are sheer and black with a red bow on the front. While not as revealing as a thong, they are cut high at the back, the filmy lace shearing away up to my hips so that most of my bottom cheeks elude coverage.

“Good,” he says eventually, then after another excruciating pause, “Shall we make a start then?”

I laugh nervously. “A start?”

“This stock inventory I have in mind. Why don’t you count the scissors in that box and then bring a pair to me.”

This was not what I have been expecting him to say. Wrongfooted, suspecting trickery of some kind, I go over to the box of scissors and count nineteen pairs, conscious all the time of his eyes upon my bum cheeks, taking the nineteenth gleaming pair of stainless steel snippers and handing them to him, nonplussed.

“Didn’t anyone tell you to offer the handle, not the blade?” he tuts. “Stay there. I want to make sure these are in full working order.”

He reaches down to the top button of my white work shirt, tugs on it and then, heartstoppingly, snips it off.

But it isn't just me contributing misbehaving minxes to the collection. You can also find fine fare from: Janine Ashbless ; Gwen Masters ; A D R Forte ; Alegra Verde ; Eva Hore ; Rhiannon Leith ; Portia Da Costa ; Jennie Treverton ; Sommer Marsden ; Chrissie Bentley ; Kimberly Dean and Charlotte Stein.

It's Black Lace's penultimate multi-author anthology, so show it some love - there aren't too many more where that came from.

* Ronseal, for those who might never have seen their advertising campaign, is a range of DIY products that do 'exactly what it says on the tin'.

Camp

I'm tuning up my acoustic guitar and practising my drippy voice for a few days under canvas.

Camping, apparently, is 'sexy' these days - let's see how erotically charged it can be to wear twenty pairs of socks to bed, shall we?

Though Morrissey did write the lines: 'Were you and he lovers/ And if you were, then say that you were/ On a groundsheet under canvas/ With your tent flap open wide' - which is at least making an effort. Tent flaps at the ready!

While I'm away, don't forget that the Misbehaviour anthology, featuring my story Office Sex, releases in the UK on September 3rd. I'll be back with more on that, plus a teaser, at the weekend.

Hi-de-hi.

Lecture Notes Chapter 13

Absence makes the heart grow ruder.

Lecture Notes Chapter 12

Parting is such sweet sorrow.

Taboo?

Taboo was a really popular drink in the 80s but you never see it around now, do you? Orangey-red, in a frosted bottle, tasted of alco-Tizer. I think it had a 'sister' beverage as well, but I forget the name - Mirage, maybe?

Anyway, that's not really what I want to post about today.

When I was in Paris, I went to the Musee d'Orsay (how do I get an acute accent on this thing?) and I saw this:


L'Origine du Monde by Gustave Courbet, hanging in a public gallery for anyone and everyone to see, just as long as they've paid their Euros to get into the museum. I think there may have been a little notice with a warning on at the entrance to the side room, or I might be getting it mixed up with the Pompidou Centre.

So, if you want to go and look at it, you can. If you don't like graphic depictions of genitalia, you can pass it by. Presumably you, as an adult, are capable of making this decision for yourself.

Unless...the genitalia are male. And you are a lady. Then, of course, you no longer have that facility. You need your little eyes covered.

So it would seem, at least, given the palaver there has been over Filament Magazine's attempt to find a printer who will deal with them. Are they publishing inflammatory material of a nature likely to incite hatred or fear? No. It's just a cock.

It's like one of those obscure medieval laws you sometimes read about that are technically still in force - having the right to paint your cow yellow on the sixth Sunday after Septuagesima or whatnot. It's hard to believe that it's still taboo, and even harder to work out why.

But Filament, thanks to some good old fashioned nu-media campaigning by the ever-vigilant Erotica Cover Watch, has sold enough copies of its excellent opening issue to hire a less tentative press. There will be tumescence!

I am fascinated to see what happens about distribution now, and I wish them the very best of luck.

Man of the Month - Dodgy Victorian Gent

Halfway through August already and no man of the month?! I must have been distracted.


This one is more an archetype than a man, but my recent viewing of Desperate Romantics has renewed a dormant enthusiasm for the Victorian cad, or rake, or generally sketchy geezer. I have loved these demons in brocade weskits from childhood - given the choice between Adonis-like hero and melodrama baronet, I would always root for the latter.

Now I am longing to write a novel featuring such a man. A Rawdon Crawley, a Francis Levison, a Sir Despard Murgatroyd. Ooh, that would be so exciting.

Lecture Notes Chapter 11

A trip to the zoo.

Sexy Little Numbers

Today UK peoples can buy Sexy Little Numbers, an incendiary device full of fierce fiction by the likes of: Kristina Lloyd; Charlotte Stein; Rachel Kramer Bussel ; Portia Da Costa ; EllaRegina ; Janine Ashbless ; Dianne Dawson ; Sadie Wolf ; Shayla Kersten ; Madelynne Ellis ; Carrie Williams ; Jamaica Layne ; Kay Jaybee ; Kristina Wright ; K D Grace ; Heather Towne ; Shada Royce and Delilah Devlin.

And me! My story is called The Number and in it I shoehorn about half a dozen of my favourite fantasy scenarios into one 6K piece of fiction. I hope some of them might be your favourite fantasy scenarios too. The outgoing editor at Black Lace liked it so much he thought I could use it as the springboard for a novel. Alas, it seems that that will now never be.

But here is an excerpt for you:

‘Nothing will happen that you don’t want,’ confirmed Master in her other ear. ‘We are taking you on a journey into your own needs and desires.’

‘We are going to pleasure you.’

‘And punish you.’

‘Punish you with pleasure.’

‘Pleasure you with punishment.’

‘Because that is what you want.’

‘Because that is what you need.’

The words were sufficient to quieten the nagging doubts that had prevented Charlotte’s full immersion into the experience. A weight lifted; she rolled her head back on the seat and breathed a heavy sigh.

The hands were moving inexorably higher, underneath her skirt. Another hand cupped her right breast while mouths pressed against her neck on the other side. Fingers arrived at her outer lips, prising them apart then dipping into the waters with a luscious slicking sound.

‘Well, well, something tells us our Charlotte is enjoying herself.’ Sir’s voice, just above her shoulder.

‘Did you ever doubt it?’

Two sets of fingers delved the velvet depths of Charlotte’s most intimate places, while mouths breathed warm air across her swollen nipples, then flicked the tips with their tongues.

‘When we get to the hotel, Charlotte, we are going to make you come, over and over and over again,’ Master informed her, half-eating her ear as he poured his voice down it.

‘Until you can’t walk.’

‘Or talk.’

‘Or think.’

‘Or move.’

One finger, two fingers, three fingers, more, scissoring inside her, scattered across her clit, pushing, poking, pressing, arousing every one of her nerve endings all at once. Her thighs spread wider and wider, until they were hooked over forearms, the skirt having now ridden irrevocably around her waist, no further thought given to the cabdriver. Every part of her body under sensual attack, defences stripped down, surrender ignored by the marauding hands and mouths and tongues and teeth. Charlotte felt herself to be no more than one gigantic pulsing organism; every pore in her body shot sparks down to her clitoris, which seemed enormous now, and rapacious in its need.

Twenty fingers worked at her core while two sets of lips caressed her breasts; she was pushed back in the seat with her legs forming a wide V in the air above her; one calf held firm while the triumphant digits invaded further and further across her borders, pillaging her most intimate parts.

When she came, writhing on fingers that thrust down and down while others circled her swollen clitoris, she kicked so hard that a shoe fell off and clattered to the floor of the cab.

One tongue then two plunged into her mouth before it had finished its broken keen of defeat. They drew back, the fingers leaving with them to remove her blindfold with a flourish, so that Charlotte lay, legs limp and loosely spread, skirt around waist, shirt wide open and bra cups down to reveal sorely reddened nipples, hair wild and eyes glazed, in a post-orgasmic slump.

‘I think you needed that,’ proclaimed Master. ‘Don’t you think she needed that?’

‘She needed that,’ confirmed Sir with a nod.