The House of Elyot: August 2010

Moving Over, Darling

I've had it with blogger. It is horrible to use. So I'm over on WordPress now - come and see me!

I have a winner! Using my scientific random selection procedure (aka Eeny Meeny Miney Mo) I concluded that my spare copy of Orgasmic will be winging its way to sunny California, straight into the mailbox of LaBibliographe. Congratulations, ma'am - just drop me an email or a message with your mailing address and I'll pop it in the post.

My second good result of the week was getting a cover for my November novella (the Nov nov) at Total E-Bound. And what a cover! I hope, if you find yourself reading Competitive Nature, you will find out for yourself how splendidly fitting this artwork is.

Sunday, 8 August 2010

Stuff to Win, Stuff to Buy, Stuff to Read

The generosity of those nice folk at Cleis Press means that I have an extra copy of the new Orgasmic anthology, featuring my story, The London O. Would anyone like a freebie? Just comment, mentioning your favourite word beginning with O, and I'll put your name in my magic hat.

If you already have a copy, or are generally looking for something hot and super-duper-brilliant to read, get on down to Total E-Bound and check out Charlotte Stein's latest release, Past Pleasures. It's due out tomorrow. Let me give you a taster:

Book one in the Desire Through Time Series

The future holds all the pleasures any woman could want.

No sex? No women?

When Kate agrees to a mad experiment with something as insane as time travel, she expects exactly what Professor Waites had suggested: dystopian nightmares and possible barbarians.

So when she finds herself in a future where women no longer exist and the men have no idea what they’ve been missing, she can’t seem to catch her breath.

Especially when the men in question—the darkly handsome Tem, and his starkly beautiful companion Aley, are so curious and so ready to learn everything she has to teach—including all the past pleasures they never knew existed.

Excerpt From: Past Pleasures

When the machine first wound down, Kate Connor couldn’t quite decide if it had worked. The room she was standing in looked ordinary—neat and uniform, but ordinary. The carpet was a rough beige pile, and a little curving armchair stood to her right, by the door. Warm light spilled from beneath another door directly in front of her, giving the entire room a soft ambience that she found somewhat comforting.

It could have been anywhere. It didn’t have to be 3033. For all Kate knew, the machine hadn’t worked, and instead she’d been teleported to somebody’s plush, little apartment.

But then more details surged into focus, and a different idea of what sort of year this was came with them.

The door to her right, for example. It had the look of something you’d find on a submarine. It seemed reinforced and strangely shaped, rounded where it should have been sharp-edged, sunken and scalloped where it should have been smooth and straight.

There was no discernable handle.

There were no objects in the room, either. It took her a while to notice, but once there they became starkly obvious. No books, no DVDs, no magazines lying around—nothing but a little table, a bed and an armchair, with nothing resting on top of any of them. Everything was pristine and seamless, as though no-one had ever lived in the room she stood in.

Even though she knew someone did live here. She could hear them, in the bathroom.

Of course, it could have been that the room before her was not, in fact, a bathroom. After all, the running water might have signified anything, in this brand new alien context. Perhaps they used the water to pass electric currents through their molecularised bodies here. Maybe it wasn’t water she could hear at all, but stabilising fluid, for their mechanised gears.

For the first time since starting this whole crazy thing, awareness of the complete unknown grabbed hold of her guts. She thought not of the sweet countdown to her first journey through the machine, but of its opposite—how long until Waites zapped her back? How long was left? Ten seconds? Twenty? It had seemed like a scrawny little glimpse, before, and she had pushed for more.

Why in God’s name had she pushed for more?

The bathroom door was starting to open. Any second, and Earth’s bleak and terrible future was going to emerge and grab her with its tentacles. She held her breath without even being aware of it; her hand clenched tight around the timer strapped to her wrist, ready to press and press and send a frantic plea for help across the vast acres of time and space—

He was almost a disappointment, after a build-up like that.

“Hello, brother,” he said—and not even in a Chaucerian accent in reverse, or with a buzzing mechanical note behind his voice, like the lizards in V. She ran her gaze the entire length of him, but no third arm sprang out. There didn’t seem to be a ray gun on him or a tentacle growing out of his bum or anything, not anything at all.

He looked like a normal human man. Apart from the preternatural attractiveness, which Kate was pretty sure didn’t count as terrifying. In normal circumstances, perhaps, but not when in the future, trying to cope with everything aside from handsomeness.

Like the gesture he appeared to be making. Hand up, palm facing her. It seemed impolite not to make the gesture in return, and yet awkwardness flooded her on doing so.

“Hello,” she found herself replying, the steady tone of her voice a flickering surprise. It should quake, if only because of one constantly beating fact—she was speaking to a man from the year 3033. Whether or not he was about to eat her face seemed somewhat irrelevant, in light of that fact.

“Can I help you?”

Whoa! I have my finger on the Buy button, waiting for the title to release!

If, after all that, you still need reading material, head down to ERWA, where the fabulous EllaRegina has a new story in the free reads section. 'The Hand & I' is one of my favourite stories of the year so far, surreal and sexy in equal measure.

Enjoy your reading!

Sunday, 1 August 2010

O Wow

August, to me, has long been a nothing kind of month. No people about, no work coming in, nothing decent on telly. A big fat zero of a month. But this year, that zero becomes an O. Because this August, the Orgasmic anthology hits the shelves.

Edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel - always a hallmark of quality - this collection focuses on the female orgasm in all its glorious complexity and variety.

My story is called The London O and features two characters who will be familiar to those who have read On Demand. Adventurous lovers, Lloyd and Sophie, add a new dimension to seeing the sights in the capital city.

Originally I had planned to write a book of short stories centring around this couple enjoying the tourist facilities in different and inventive ways, but then I realised that it was rather a thin premise for a whole book, and this story let me indulge my craving without letting it get out of control. Here is a snippet for you:

“How does it feel?” whispered Lloyd, standing beside me, one hand placed possessively on my bum, rubbing my skirt as if this would wear through and reveal the answer.

“Very, very rude,” I replied. “Wicked and indecent. I really hope I don’t have some kind of accident on the way home. I do not want to end up in Casualty wearing these.”

“Does it fill you? Are you wet? Does it rub against your clit?”

“Yes to all three. Shut up, for God’s sake!”

“Oh no, I want you to know you’re wearing it – I don’t want you to be able to forget. And I want you to know that I know. God, this is turning me on. I hope there aren’t any delays on the Northern Line tonight.”

We stepped off the escalator and I made a concerted effort to try and walk normally, notwithstanding the exquisite pressure on my clit and the large fake cock wedged in my pussy.

“It’s giving you a sensational wiggle,” said Lloyd admiringly, falling behind me to survey my swaying backside. “It looks so obvious that your pussy is stuffed. But I suppose I know it is, which makes a difference. Maybe nobody else would guess.”

I was convinced that everybody knew it as we headed on to the platform. Every passer-by, from the teenage youths clicking teeth and sucking back hi-energy sodas to the elderly suited man reading his Telegraph, was perfectly cognisant of the fact that I was wearing vibrating knickers, the crotch soaked, my pussy wrapped around a plastic cock, because I was a dirty slut who loves to come and can’t get enough orgasms.

Lloyd kept putting his hand into his jacket pocket, teasing me with the fear that he might be about to activate the vibrator, causing me to clamp my thighs together and clench my pelvic floor muscles. By the time the dirty-grey train came roaring through the tunnel, though, he had still not pressed the magic button.

The train was about three-quarters full, and we could not find a seat together, so I sat in the centre of one row while he took a place by the door, at the end of the opposite bank. Sitting like that, with a highly-perfumed lady on one side and a gay punk on the other, I was suddenly sure that people might be able to see up my skirt somehow – though it was knee-length and didn’t even give away the fact that I was wearing stockings ordinarily. I decided to cross my legs, but this pushed the nubbed rubber even further into my swimming clit, and made my pussy feel even fuller – an inescapable sensation. I squirmed against the seat cushion, unsure whether to uncross my legs again – and Lloyd chose that moment to flip my switch.

I had to swallow a cry as the invasive presence in my pussy began to rev up, a slow shudder at first, speeding to an almost unbearable throb. It felt so painfully wanton that I knew my climax would not be put off for long. I sat back, stretching my spine, trying my very hardest not to pant or moan. My pussy lips twitched and my nipples were hard and sore, pushing against the lace of my bra until some of the pattern must have transferred to them. Lloyd’s sly, delighted smile accentuated the hot rush of sensation; he had had to put a copy of the Evening Standard over his crotch to hide the excitement of it all. My nether regions seemed to be flexing and rippling beyond any vestige of muscular control; the vibrator whizzed up to maximum speed, my clit was swollen and struggling to barge past the little rubber stimulators, my cheeks were hotter than fire, I was fidgeting so much that my neighbours forewent the customary Tube etiquette of complete-oblivion-to-all and began looking sideways at me. And then I came, pressing my hands down into my lap, trying to breathe through the intense flood of liquid sweetness, shuffling my bottom against the cushion and biting down on my lip.

And we were still only at Goodge Street.