Watch a Sexy Vid!

Not the under-the-counter kind, but Rachel Kramer Bussel's fabulous book trailer for the Please, Sir anthology. I'm very excited to be a part of this, and will post on the subject further anon. But for now - feast your kinky little eyes.

Even Spanking Madder

As if Ultimate Spanking weren't, uh, ultimate enough, I also have another spanking story released into the world of ebooks this week. Strip the Willow is a one-off longish short story, and can be purchased for the bargain price of 99p - or the even more bargain price of nothing at all, if you take advantage of e-Xcite's 'Buy Two, get the Third Free' offer. Not as easy to say as BOGOF, but every bit as good.

So please do go down to the Xcite books website and find out what happens when the jeans come down...there's a free excerpt underneath the listing too.

Spanking Mad!

Psst, I'll let you into a secret. I love a good spanking story!

OK, that isn't really a secret, is it? But it's completely true. Spanking stories are my first love, and they will be my last. Spanking stories of the future and spanking stories of the past *fires up synthesiser*.

So the latest anthology to feature my writing, Ultimate Spanking from Xcite Books, is one I am devouring from cover to cover. And it is a banquet - a feast of flagellation, a cornucopia of corporal punishment etc.

My story is called Paying For It and concerns a girl called Kat who feels the need to call upon an unusual specialist service. Here is an excerpt:

‘Right,’ he said, and he stood up, took off his suit jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. I forgot to breathe, my wine glass frozen in my hand, watching him like a tiny mouse in the sights of a raptor. ‘If this goes well for you, then, Kat, perhaps we can come to a more formal arrangement. But first, I need you to put down that glass and fetch the straight-backed chair from the corner, please.’

My chest decompressed in an undignified rush. I rose on shaky legs and went to fetch the chair, which was plain old-fashioned wood with a very high back and no arms, in the Shaker style, I suppose, though I’m not sure that’s still in fashion. I could imagine Professor Strict – or whatever his real name was – as the preacher of some old-time religion, thumping the Bible in a kitchen with a similar light oak finish. Sending the girls outside to cut switches, oh yes, he had that look.

Shaker style was apt, because I was shaking, nay quaking, with the enormity of what I was doing. This was really happening. I could leave. I didn’t have to go through with it.

But he took my elbow, firmly but not painfully, seated himself on the austere chair of chastisement, and pulled me down over his lap in such a seamless gesture that I almost didn’t realise what he was doing. Talk about a shift in perspective. There, stomach pressed tightly to his expensively-trousered thighs, legs sloping down to the floor and head dangling perilously close to the shiny leather of his shoe, I truly felt the ignominy of my position. I was not even remotely in control of this situation, even though I was the ‘client’ and he the ‘service provider’. It was such…a relief. Yes. A relief. What happened next would not and should not be up to me. I wanted it to be up to him. And I knew he would not fail me.

‘Do you think you’ll be able to keep still? Or should I hold your wrists behind your back?’

‘I really don’t know. I’ve never…’

‘Alright. We’ll see how we get on.’ One hand cupped the tartan seat of my skirt, tapping it lightly and experimentally. ‘How’s your pain threshold?’

‘OK, I think.’

‘If you get to the point where you really can’t bear any more, you must tell me. Think of a word.’

My mind went blank. Think of a word? What sort of a word? Any old word?

‘Or should I think of one for you?’

‘Yes please.’

‘OK, the word is Antidisestablishmentarianism. Got that?’

I giggled and squirmed in his lap. ‘That’s too long!’ I objected.

‘You had your chance. Right then. I hear you’ve been a bad girl, Kat, is that right?’

‘Yes,’ I muttered, glad that he could not see my flushed face.

‘Didn’t catch that, Kat,’ he said, with a leisurely swipe of my behind that shocked more than it hurt. ‘Was that Yes? Or was it Yes, Sir? Which do you think is the right answer?’

‘Yes, Sir,’ I squeaked.

‘Better. So what do you think happens to bad girls, Kat? Bad girls who come to my home?’

‘I think…they get a spanking, Sir.’

He rubbed my skirt over my bottom, the hem tickling my thigh so that I wriggled. ‘Is this irritating you, Kat? Perhaps we should get it out of the way.’ He raised the material to reveal my white cotton briefs, stretched tight over my vulnerable globes. ‘That was the right answer, incidentally. Well done. Can’t say it’s going to spare you any of what’s coming to you though. Speaking of which…’

Oh, on the thin cotton his hand raised the most resounding crack, making me jerk and yelp in surprise. The fabric was barely any barrier at all to his painful purpose, and he rained down a few more, glorying in the crispness and efficiency of his technique, for I was already whimpering and trying to rearrange myself to a less wide-open position on his lap – which he was having none of, of course.

‘You asked for this, Kat,’ he said warningly. ‘You know it’s what you need. You shouldn’t fight it, should you?’

‘No, Sir.’

‘No, Sir. That’s right.’ And his hand was being gentle now, rubbing at the site of the soreness, dissipating the sting. ‘This’ll help you take a longer spanking,’ he told me, ruining my illusion that it was all out of the kindness of his heart. ‘Short, sharp shocks are all very well, but I think a good, long session over my lap will be better for you.’ And with that, he repeated the initial fusillade, peppering me with hard smacks until I tried to cover my backside and, sighing deeply, he was forced to hold my wrists in the small of my back.

Many, many wonderful names also contribute to the book - you will find Monica Belle; Shanna Germain ; Philippa Johnson; Poppy St Vincent; Sadie Wolf; Rachel Kramer Bussel; Ashley Hind; Cyanne; Heidi Champa; Charlotte Stein; Robin Moreton; Amelia Thornton; Sandrine Lopez; Izzie French; Aishling Morgan; Laurel Aspen; Landon Dixon; Teresa Joseph and Philip Kemp.

Happy Spankings!

I'm Free

Who likes fairgrounds? Who likes sex? Who likes sex in fairgrounds? Who likes reading about sex in fairgrounds? If you answered 'yes' to the final question, you might like to take a look at my free short story, Pleasureland.

It's part of a chapter of an abandoned novel - I stumbled across it in my documents folder the other day and found I quite liked it, so thought perhaps other people might too. So here is my little gift to you. If there was a season going on just now, I'd offer you compliments of it - but Happy April anyway. And Happy Reading.

Eggciting!

I love the cover art for my September release, The Business of Pleasure, which appeared on sites including Xcite Books and Amazon today. Sheer luxurious lusciousness, mmmm - more tasty and tempting than the Lindor Easter Egg I've been eyeing up all day.

I hope you'll find that the contents measure up to the cover.

And, if you're looking at the Xcite page, check out the also very ravishing covers for the upcoming releases by Charlotte Stein and K D Grace. Quality!

How Rude!

I think most erotica writers would agree that more sites devoted to the discussion and review of the genre would be welcomed with open legs, um, arms - so I was very pleased to note the arrival on the scene of Rude Words. In fact, I was so pleased that I, along with a number of luminaries, did an interview with them, which can be read here.

My favourite nugget from the site so far comes from Donna George Storey, whose favourite piece of writing advice is to bear in mind at all times that 'it's just for me, it's just for fun!' This is my mantra too - wise words.

Please do check it out and give Sally and the other Rude Wordsters your support - I hope this site will be successful and popular.

When a Man is Tired of London...

I've always been with Dr Johnson on the subject of London - his full quotation speaks a lot of sense to me: "Why, Sir, you find no man, at all intellectual, who is willing to leave London. No, Sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford."
— Samuel Johnson

So I was immediately captivated when Maxim Jakubowski put out a call for erotica submissions which must feature the city as an integral part of the story. I don't live in London any more (nothing to do with being tired of it either!) but I do recall my revved-up, heightened state of existence while I was there. I felt like part of something much bigger, and my own pulse tried to keep up with the manic beat of city life accordingly. I did things in London that I would never do here, and my story in Sex in the City: London reflects that.

It is called Thames Link, and is slightly based on true events - so there's a teaser for you! I explain a little more fully in the 'About' piece afterwards, which is one of my favourite aspects of the book. Each story is extended by a little explanatory note at the end, in which the author describes their relationship with London; I was fascinated to read these yesterday, and I hope you will be too!

Here is a taster from my story:

My throat was dry and tight; I hadn’t eaten all day and I needed a shower. Perhaps, I thought, I should go home. I turned back, looking unseeingly into the window of the junk shop over the road from the pub. A reflection loomed behind me, quicker than I could respond to, and then there were hands over my bare elbows, clammy hands, and hot breath in my ear.

‘Where do you think you’re going? I hope you weren’t thinking of standing me up.’

His voice, thick and greedy, pretending to be jokey but with a deadly serious undertow.

‘I’m…not sure,’ I confessed weakly. Now I was in his clutches. In his clutches. I liked the phrase. I liked the idea. But would I like the reality?

‘I am,’ he said, dripping his poisoned honey into my ear. ‘I’m sure. I knew you’d come.’

‘You couldn’t know that.’

‘I could. Come on, I’ve bought you a drink.’

There was nowhere to sit, so we leaned against the wall. He picked up a glass for me from the pavement – white wine, though I’d have preferred mineral water under the circumstances. All the same, I took a gulp, grateful for anything wet. He watched me over the rim of his pint glass, just as he had done that morning over the newspaper.

‘I like your dress,’ he said, and he leered. A true and unmistakable leer. Behind his eyes, his mind was stripping it off me and pushing me down on the church steps before pounding into me, right here, right now, in front of everyone.

It seemed wrong, somehow, to say ‘Thanks,’ in response, but I did it anyway.

‘Thank you for wearing it,’ he said, with a catch of something in the back of his throat. For a split second, he sounded self-conscious and it was such a relief. Oh, was he human after all? But then I realised it was laughter. He turned quickly to face me, his eyes vivid, skittering from side to side. ‘And thanks for coming.’

‘You knew I would come,’ I pointed out, somewhat sulkily.

‘Oh yes. But thanks anyway.’

‘So come on. How did you know? You worked it out by the power of your stare? Are you some kind of Sherlock Holmes character, and you’re going to tell me what I had for breakfast and the name of my childhood pet?’

He snuffled a bit and moved the toe of his boot closer to my strappy sandal, so that they touched. ‘No, nothing like that. Just applied a bit of psychology.’

‘What? Explain?’

‘Very curious, aren’t you?’ He smiled slyly.

‘What…do you mean?’

‘I’ve given you your answer. And that’s all I’m saying.’

‘You…’ I was beginning to feel seriously outmanoeuvred. Even more so when he took the glass from my hand and put it on the wall next to him.

‘But I’m very glad you came.’ He took my hand and grazed my knuckles with his lips and whiskery chin. ‘Like I said, you’re gorgeous. My favourite kind of gorgeous. Filthy gorgeous.’ He flicked out his tongue and licked a knuckle. I tried to draw my hand back, but he was too quick, pulling me closer to him and whipping an arm around my waist. His hand patted my hip while he continued to say weird and creepy things to me. I could have disengaged, I could have looked around for help from the crowds of evening drinkers, I could have told him to fuck off.

I didn’t.

But there are many sophisticated and sexy London libertines contributing to this volume, and several write outside the erotica genre as well as within it - you will also find stories by: Matt Thorne; Francis Ann Kerr; Valerie Grey; NJ Streitberger; Kristina Lloyd; Lily Harlem; Maxim Jakubowski; Elizabeth Coldwell; Clarice Clique; Carrie Williams; and Kevin Mullins & Marcelle Perks. Shell out a few bob and have a butchers, guv'nor - it's available now!