Wednesday, 14 February 2018

Some day I'll fly away

Octave Tassaert (1800-1874): La Femme Damnee
I'm taking a week off my blog to move house - see y'all on the other side!

Monday, 12 February 2018

Blue Monday: Terrance Aldon Shaw guests

Every Monday I post a hot excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest is TAS - Terrance Aldon Shaw - with an excerpt from his paranormal erotic novel The Seven Seductions:

Haunted by a demon’s prophecy…

Gretchen grows up dreading the destiny she cannot escape—not even within the walls of a convent—the lustful longings of the otherworldly creature she knows only as The Nameless One.

Uncanny things have always had a way of happening ever since her older sister read aloud from a book of black magic, unwittingly awakening the demon. But now, after having become Sister Mary Chastity, Gretchen must struggle with the stirrings of her own long-buried desires, the undeniable yearnings that overpower her flesh, and the guilt that inevitably follows when memory intrudes upon the present and dark secrets come back to confound her.

On “holy retreat” in a vacation house by the shores of a lake in the Great North Woods, Mary Chastity meets Magic, a handsome, carefree young artist who tests her vows even as he speaks to something deep within her heart. Can this beautiful boy help her to face her fears—or is he part of the future The Nameless One has foreseen for her all along? Is Magic the key to Mary Chastity’s salvation—or nothing less than the incubus itself in human guise?

All is ultimately revealed when past and present converge, and Mary Chastity is forced to confront her demons in a blazing finale that takes her to the very depths of Hell and back!

Gretchen lay alone in the dark, wide awake on a dull sword-edge of anticipation. Excruciatingly alert, she had ceased to live in the present, her whole attention focused squarely on what was about to happen. Her mind was racing out ahead of her, minutes into the future, building up a terrible momentum as it roared past possibilities like sights along a railway line, and she a reluctant passenger, not wanting to imagine, yet wholly incapable of not imagining.

Is he going to finish what he started in the bathroom?

Was it her fear that held her captive—made it impossible to move? Or was it her curiosity, her need? No one had drugged her. No one was holding her down, or threatening her. She could get up and leave if she wanted, run away if she felt like it, put it all behind her and never look back.

Why is he making me wait? Oh! Why doesn’t he hurry up and get here?

Her hearing had become so unbearably acute that sound itself was palpable, dull blades slicing into her skin, and she startled at the slightest noise. Is that him? Is he here? Oh God! Oh God! Yet, she remained still, if unrelaxed, muscles tensed like taut bondage ropes suspending her an inch or so above the bed.

Please! I can’t stand it—this waiting, this not knowing—not even a second longer! He can do whatever he wants. I don’t care. Only let it happen now—

“Oh!” Gretchen started up as someone rattled the doorknob from outside. A burst of frozen heat erupted from the middle of her gut as the tension that had been building up was violently released; as the “later” into which she had projected herself suddenly became the “now,” and she was born into a new and terrifying reality.

A sliver of dull reddish light slowly widened across the bed as the door creaked open. A black smudge loomed up within the middle of this lambent pillar, resolving itself into the negative image of a human form, a faceless wraith, stepping through the portal of a nightmare.

My shadow is upon you now and you are bound to me forever.

The intruder shut the door, plunging the room back into dusky obscurity. Gretchen felt its presence in spite of her senses’ confusion, the preternatural heat of its intention projected towards her as it came on through the pouring gloom.


“Mm.” He stood at the foot of the bed, staring down at her for a moment, or so Gretchen supposed, for she still could not make out his face.

“What are you… what are you going to…”

Swiftly, silently, he hooked a meaty finger into the wedged point of her décolletage and pulled, rending the flimsy fabric with a single merciless motion. The negligée fluttered open, limp and useless at her sides, its stylish shoulder straps framing her neck like a pair of drooping wings. She could feel the sickly moistness of the air caressing her newly-exposed flesh, her breasts and belly.

She heard the ominous clink and snap of a belt impatiently unbuckled, the buzz of metal teeth, muffled by the parting denim, as he unzipped the fly on his jeans. Tyge hummed softly to himself, a lazy series of three notes, indistinguishably off-key, maddeningly repeated at random.


He toyed with her, pressing his cock against her inner thigh, drawing it slowly back and forward again to plow the coarse tangles of her mound. His penis seemed almost unbelievably heavy to her, a balky iron club wrapped in velvet, as thick as her own upper arm, hard, yet not wholly rigid, its movements imprecise, unwieldy, clumsy in a childish sort of way, still uncannily aware of its own terrible power.

She whimpered, wanting it.

“Mmm-MM-mm.” Tyge hummed the strange tune, more incantation than melody, ignoring her need, unmoved, yet in constant, slow, delicious motion.

“I think… I’m ready.” Gretchen whispered the words more bravely than she felt them. She lay on her back, limbs splayed wide, wanting him to see her—all of her—and know that she was his to do with as he pleased.


“Please?” She was practically weeping now, her voice ragged with emotion as she tossed her head to the side in a fevered agony of longing. “Please, I want…”

“Mm-MM?” He stopped in mid-hum. A bolt of lightning ripped through her lower body as he brought the tip of his cock into contact with her clitoris.

“Oh Jesus God!” Gretchen clutched the bedding on either side of the mattress, gathered up into tight wads in her fists, as if bracing herself in this way might keep her soul from flying apart.

“Mmm-hm-hm!” Tyge seemed to chuckle as he pressed at her again.

“Please,” Gretchen sobbed, “now!”

“Mm-MM-mm…” In no hurry, he rested a flat palm in the wide valley of her bosom.

“C’mon!” She shoved her pelvis up at him. “I’m right here!”


“Now!” Gretchen sobbed through gritted teeth. “Now!” the word repeated like a mantra as her desperation rose, inflected in a dozen different ways. “Now!” she moaned and whined and begged and pleaded until she was cursing unaware, lashing out blindly in her frustration. “Now, goddamn it! Now! I want… I want…”


“I want you… I want you to…”


“I want you to…”


“Fuck me!” she screamed at last. “Now! I don’t care! Just do it now!”

He was already prying her lips apart with the tip of his cock. She felt it quivering there like a diviner’s rod, seeking the hidden well of wetness deep within her folds.

“Oooh!” Gretchen moaned, the sound abruptly cut off by a sharp intake of breath as he eased forward. “Oh… Ohhh…. OHHHH!” She screamed again, but not from pain or fear.

He leaned over, bearing down, filling her easily though he came into her with twisted serpentine thrusts, as if careening around a corner. Their movements were wildly out of sync, like awkward swimmers reaching out for one another beneath the water, repelled by mutual surface tension.

“Fuck me!” She was panting, her voice barely more than a bated squeak tinged with the pain of unfulfilled desire. They moved obliquely together, joined at the crotch, twisting and corkscrewing around the immovable axis of his penis, she turning her thighs away from his, off-center, a little to the left; he rolling his hips in the opposite direction in order to pull her back into alignment, though he continued to impale her with a steady, mechanical rhythm.

“Oooooooh!” That noise again, somewhere between crying and singing, though Gretchen was barely aware of any sound at all.

Tyge crawled on top and crouched above her in the bed like a soldier poised to do pushups, pinning her there with the bony weight of his hips. Her moans came in syncopated gasps, soft replies to the regular pulsing thrusts that drove her back and back towards the middle of the bed, the syllables rising in pitch like the sound of water filling a narrow glass to the brim.

Her limbs seemed impossibly buoyant, her whole body in a state of languid atrophy, shrinking down with each relentless thrust until all weight, all substance was concentrated like an imploding singularity in her cunt. Gretchen opened her mouth to cry out again, but no sound reached her ears. All sense was lost. All save for the feeling of those tender inner walls eagerly expanding around her lover’s extravagant girth, aspiring to become the center of a new cosmos, a cornucopia of pleasure, overflowing with light.

And they had only just begun.

Buy The Seven Seductions at:
Amazon US 
Amazon UK

Terrance Aldon Shaw (TAS to his friends) was born and raised somewhere to the left of Chicago in that vast whitebread wilderness known as the American Heartland. As a kid, he passed the time by creating his own graphic novels and “pretend” screenplays, conversing with a brilliant circle of imaginary friends, and dreaming about escape from the stifling phony wholesomeness and pious pabulum of small-town life.

Now devoting full time to writing and reviewing, TAS specializes in mainstream fiction with strong erotic themes and explicit sexual content. His work might best be described as “psycho-rotica,” as he prefers to explore the complex, fascinating inner world of sex; the thoughts, feelings and emotion s that accompany the erotic experience.

Readers can find Terrance Aldon Shaw’s books in both electronic and traditional print at most on-line retailers. His reviews of erotic fiction, musings on the craft of writing, and the occasional free short story are posted on his blog, Erotica For The Big Brain.

TAS on Facebook
Erotica for the Big Brain

Thursday, 8 February 2018

New House Pics

We've got a new house! I am now the proud owner of this view from my flat-roof balcony!

 Also this thrilling crack in the aforesaid flat roof:

 This wallpaper:

This chandelier:

Argh... SO MANY chandeliers...
Several slightly unnerving statues:


"Are you sure we're not in a horror scenario?"
And the bath canopy of your nightmares:

No kidding: I'm too scared to take a bath
We're going to take some considerable time decorating, it seems. Or else just vanish mysteriously, leaving nothing but a note saying "It's inside the wallpaper! It's coming for me! Ah! The angles! The Anaglypta! "

Monday, 5 February 2018

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

If you enjoyed Kay Jaybee's naughty artist last week, you might like this excerpt from my short story Wet Paint, which appeared in Nexus Confessions Vol. 6

Our heroine is trying to annoy a painter she's discovered in her favourite sunbathing spot:

I squinted closer at his easel, which had a painting on it of the lake, with the big stems of reed mace and a couple of golden ducks.

‘That’s pretty. Are you using watercolours?’


I gave him a beaming smile. ‘So what sort of birds are they?’

‘Mandarin ducks.’ He looked irritated. I guess curvy young women didn’t make a habit of chatting him up and he didn’t know how to take it. I moved some papers and sat down on the bench right at his shoulder.

‘Go on, keep painting.’

He grunted sourly. Then he turned his attention back to his picture. I let him paint in an area of lake before I spoke up again.

‘Do you like birds especially, or do you just like painting anything?’

‘Well, today I’m painting birds,’ he said quietly. ‘Trying to, anyway.’

‘What about painting a pair of Great Tits?’ I grabbed the hem of my top and hoiked it up, revealing my big firm beasts. Give the man credit; his reaction was more collected than I’d have expected. After a brief hard stare he slapped his paintbrush into the paint on his tray and daubed it onto my left nipple. The paint was thick and cool and stood up in a tiny peak from my flesh..

Cerulean blue, I believe it was.

‘You’ll find they’re just Blue Tits,’ he remarked snarkily. ‘Very common.’

‘Well you could at least even them up,’ said I, pulling my top right off over my head. He saw the delight and the challenge in my face, and something changed in his. His mouth softened.

‘Okay.’ He dipped the brush in water and gathered blue paint again, more carefully this time. He applied it carefully too, swirling the brush-hairs over both my areolae until they puckered, coating my nipples which hardened to stiff nubbins with the pleasure of the cold, soft touch. I sighed in appreciation. He sat back and regarded his work critically.

‘Are you going to-?’ I started. He popped the long brush handle between my lips, sideways, like it was a horse’s bit. Or a gag,

‘Hold this.’ He waited until I’d taken it obediently between my teeth, then instructed me: ‘Lean back.’

Eagerly I adjusted my seat on the bench, straddling it with my legs and leaning back on my arms, so my torso was drawn out and my tits upthrust, wobbling gently with each breath. The painter nodded approval. I wondered how he was going to manage without his brush, but it turned out he wanted a different one anyway; one with fatter shaft and a big square-tipped head, the kind used for putting in big areas of sky. With this he began to paint me, starting with my breasts, and it turned out he had a bit of a talent for abstract art as well as for drawing birds. I became his canvas; a warmer, more rounded one than he was used to maybe, but generously sized. He painted swirling lines of bright colour, following my body contours, mostly in greens and yellows like I was some strange jungle reptile. He painted down the line of my chest and stomach, then turned my navel into the centre of a sunburst. He worked quickly, with an expression of great concentration. I’d never seen an artist in action close up like this, and it was fascinating. The tickle of the brush was tormenting because it was so concentrated when every inch of my skin wanted to feel it at once; it was like a cold wet tongue lapping at me.

I started to mew with arousal around my wooden gag. He ignored me. On top of the background colours he layered paths of spots in blue and white, using a narrower brush and undiluted paint. If I’ve ever seen anything like it, it’s Australian Aboriginal painting.

He got all the way down to the waistband of my skirt. ‘Take this off,’ he ordered, so I shimmied awkwardly out of it before resuming my position. He stared at my tanga briefs. ‘Open your legs.’

I spread my thighs for him.

‘Are you shaved?’

I nodded.

He didn’t even ask me to do it this time. He just took hold of my panties and pulled them down, tossing them aside before crouching to look at my plump bare pussy. His nose twitched as he inhaled the scent of my sex. I could smell myself too: I was wet with anticipation.

He painted my mound, turning it into a madly-coloured tropical flower. He painted my velvety outer lips until the flower began to open all its petals. Then,‘Get your knees up,’ he said: ‘I want to see everything,’ and I did, lying back along the hard wooden bench to do it, bringing my knees up to my chest and hoisting my ankles over my head.

He cleaned his brush and manipulated my swollen pink clit with the cold tuft, making me moan. My pussy was so overflowing with juice that he could wet his brush in me and use it to mix his paints. He dyed my inner lips in bright crimson and then coloured right down my crack to my bum-hole, the brush-tip swirling like a tongue around my puckered little entrance until I squealed, feeling it dilate.

‘Quiet.’ He lifted his brush, showing me. Then he reversed it in his hand. The wooden shaft was, oh, about as thick as a middle finger; he slid it into my arse, jiggling it about to make sure I felt it and groaned at the invasion. Then leaving the brush hanging out of me like a skinny tail, the painter stood. Slipping his trouser-buttons he unzipped his flies to release an erect cock that wasn’t nearly as weedy as you might think from the rest of him.

Nexus Confessions Vol.6 is available on:
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Google Play

Sunday, 4 February 2018

The Loophole

Gimme that sweet sensation of a throbbing rationalization...


Friday, 2 February 2018

Making Him Wait: Kay Jaybee guests

I'm off doing housey stuff ... Take it away, Kay! -  Janine

Thank you for joining me today on Janine’s fabulous blog. This week I am celebrating the launch of my new look, erotically artistic novel, Making Him Wait. A story of self denial, bondage, discipline, drawing and sculpture, Making Him Wait plays with almost every element of the erotica genre- and then covers it in paint.

Maddie Templeton has always been an unconventional artist. Themes of submission and domination pulse through her erotic artwork, and she's happily explored these lustful themes both on and off the canvas. But, when Theo Hunter enters her life, she is presented with a new challenge. 

Maddie sets out to test his resolve as she teases, torments and toys with him. However, as Maddie drives Theo to breaking point, she soon becomes unsure whether her own resolve will hold out.

At the same time, Maddie must put on the exhibition of a lifetime. As the hottest gallery in town clamours for her best work, Maddie pushes her models harder and higher until they are physically, sexually and emotionally exhausted. 

Will Maddie's models continue to submit to her, or will she push them too far? And will she be ready for the exhibition in time? The only way to find out is to wait and see...and the waiting only makes it sweeter!

In this excerpt a young woman called Sara has agreed to model for Maddie in return for help in gaining enough confidence to go commando for her boyfriend , in public, in a skirt that is little more than a belt...

...Realising Sara was lost in her own thoughts, and fairly confident those thoughts concerned sex with her, Maddie adopted a firmer tone. “You do want to get this done for Jake, don’t you? If you have changed your mind about going commando, then I have to know now so we can change things.”

Visibly pulling herself together, Sara took a deep breath. “No, I haven’t changed my mind. Jake will love it – I just have stage fright, that’s all.” She forced herself to raise her eyes to meet Maddie’s and, with her chest tightening, said, “And yes, if you are still up for it, then the plan we agreed last week would be good.”

“Excellent.” Maddie stood up straight and dropped her hands from Sara’s shoulders. “Well, as you can see, I am wearing similar clothes to your own, as discussed. I, however, have gone commando. You, I can see, have not. I understand that it isn’t exactly nice weather out there today, which is presumably why you didn’t walk here panty free?”

Both women knew that the fact it was unseasonably cold for a summer’s day was not the reason that Sara had failed to leave off her undergarments. But Sara was grateful for being given the opportunity to blame the dull drizzle for her last minute failing of nerve before she’d left home.

“Exactly. I didn’t want to catch a cold.”

Keeping up the pretence, Maddie picked up the high, pine barstool Sara was to lean over and put it exactly where it had been positioned during the other three sittings. “Well then, if you take off those undies and stand by the stool we’ll crack on?”

Sara’s hands shook as she edged down her knickers, trying not to notice that the fabric was rather damper than it should have been as she slid them to the floor.

Once the small scrap of black material was placed gingerly on the end of the bed, Sara walked to the stool and hovered uncertainly, wondering if Maddie really was going to do as she’d promised last week or if, now she’d got her model this far, she wouldn’t feel the need to keep her side of the bargain.

Maddie picked up her mobile. “Do excuse me for a second, Sara. I must answer these two messages before we start.”

Theo had been getting impatient...

Theo: What are u doing

Theo: I have work too woman – and I can’t concentrate with this bloody hard on! For fucks sake Maddie – tell me what u are doing right now!

Maddie smiled as she typed.

Maddie: I’m about to calm a nervous client by showing her my pussy.

Keeping the phone in her hand, she walked toward Sara. With each stride Maddie lifted the hem of her skirt a fraction at a time, aware how much she was teasing Sara with every centimetre of flesh she revealed. As she reached the end of the bed, Maddie, keeping her bare feet inflexible on the floor, flipped the remainder of the skirt up to show her rounded peach of a backside. Then, spreading her legs, she leant over the end of the bed, her chest buried in the duvet, her back arched upwards so Sara could clearly see her pussy.

The sharp intake of breath the model gave echoed around the room, but Maddie pretended she hadn’t heard it. “Do you want to look closer, honey? You could reassure yourself that we are all the same underneath. We are all vulnerable, all written to the same design code and yet somehow we are all unique.” The artist spoke softly, but with a matter of fact nature that belied the provocativeness of what she was doing.

Her fingers parted her butt cheeks so that Sara could see her vulva in all its majesty. “If all our cunts were the same, then I would be able to draw in any old pussy. And where would the fun be in that? How fabulous that we are all different – all those new, stunning, unique and tasty treats to explore.”

Maddie said nothing else. Every word she had uttered had turned her on and she hoped that she was having the same effect on Sara.

Taking a step towards the artist, her heart thudding, her head bursting with a curiosity that wanted to touch as well as see, Sara crouched behind Maddie. Allowing the haunting music emanating from the stereo to wrap around her, Sara’s eyes took in every fold and shining wet line of the inviting flesh before her.

Twisting her neck round so she could watch Sara examining her with wide, emerald eyes, Maddie eventually broke the silence. “You can if you want to.”

“I can what?” Sara’s voice was husky as she asked, even though she knew the answer to the question.

“You can touch. See what it feels like. It seems only fair because I shall be examining you intimately as I prepare to capture your sexual essence on the canvas.”

“Will you need to touch me, then?” Sara couldn’t quite keep the edge of longing from her voice. Maddie was sure that the girl hoped and feared in equal measure that the answer would be yes.

Expertly keeping her own desire under control, Maddie’s reply was uncaringly breezy. “I would never dream of touching anyone if they didn’t wish me to, but I find I can get a better idea of the type of stroke to use with my pastel or paints if I can feel the texture for myself. It is always up to the individual model entirely.”

“Oh.” That was all Sara could say and Maddie privately speculated how much sweet honey was already flowing from her model’s private parts.

Sara’s fingers were only inches away from the artist. It wouldn’t have taken much for her to lean forward, touch Maddie’s flesh and discover what another woman felt like for the very first time.

Finally, breaking the silence, Sara whispered, “I’m pretty sure my boyfriend would be willing me on if he was here. Jake is pretty much into everything, women, men, straight, kinky; and he’s always had serious fantasy issues about seeing me with another woman.”

Maddie smiled kindly. “I honestly don’t think I’ve met a bloke who doesn’t hope to see his woman with another female, honey.”

Dropping her eyes to the floor, not daring to look at the artist’s succulent folds any longer, Sara spoke as if thinking out loud. “But would he be quite so pleased, if he wasn’t able to witness it for himself? I don’t think Jake would like me to have a woman without him watching.”

“Then don’t tell him.” Letting her matter-of-fact answer sink in, Maddie let go of her rump cheeks, and while she lay waiting for Sara’s decision, she quietly tapped into her phone.

Maddie: I am laid across my studio bed showing another woman my pussy. I am so wet.

Knowing that Sara was too wrapped up in her own battle between wishing to touch and being afraid to, Maddie read and responded to Theo’s instant reply.

Theo: If u fuck her will u tell me about it afterwards?
Maddie: If ur good. But she has to decide...

If you would like to learn more about Sara, Jake, and - of course - Theo, then you can buy Making Him Wait from all good retailers, including...

Amazon UK

Amazon US
Barnes and Noble

Kay Jaybee was awarded Best Erotica Writer of 2015 by the Erotic Trade Associations.

Kay Jaybee has over 150 publications to her name, including the novels Making Him Wait, (Sinful Press, second edition, 2018), and The Fifth Floor - The Perfect Submissive Book One (KJ Books, third edition, 2017). She has also written the novellas Wednesday on Thursday (KJ Books, 2017), Take Control (1001Nights Press, 2014), Digging Deep, (Xcite Press, 20153), A Sticky Situation (Xcite Press, 2013), and Not Her Type: Erotic Adventures With A Delivery Man (1001 Nights Press, 2014). She has written the anthologies The Collector (KJBooks, 2016), and A Kink a Day Books 1-3 (available via the Radish reading app).

Details of Kay’s work, past, present and future can be found at her
Brit Babes Site
Kay also writes contemporary romance and children’s picture books as Jenny Kane  and historical fiction as Jennifer Ash

Wednesday, 31 January 2018

On my knees

"PLEASE approve my mortgage! Pleaaaaaaaase!!!"
This painting, Jupiter and Thetis, by Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres (1811), is for kinky fans of big brooding men and supplicant women. In the original legend Thetis, the sea-nymph, goes to ex-boyf Zeus to beg him to intervene in the Trojan War on behalf of her mortal son, Achilles
It works, btw.

Things I have learned during the half-year house-moving process:

  • Mr Ashbless must love me very very much.
  • If you e-mail any British company with an offer of money for their advertised services, the chance of you getting any response whatsoever is about ... 40% tops.  If you really want them, phone.
  • Banks are incompetent. Like, unbelievably incompetent. We've lost track of the number of times we've phoned or sent them information/money, only for them to fail to log it in the computer and deny any record that they've ever spoken to us. Repeatedly. HSBC actually sent us a crate of wine to apologise for arsing us around for months, but I still hate them.
  • If you are trying to get a interest-only mortgage, when they ask you how you're going to pay it off, FFS do NOT regale them with talk of savings, investments, rental income, inheritances or any carefully-worked financial plan you have. That will just bring everything to crashing halt. The magic words are, "We will make regular overpayments." That is all they want to hear and all they will accept.
  • There is NOTHING you can do to your old house to make people buy it. They either like it or they don't, and buyers are mostly crazy. Just Febreze the shit out of everything and cross your fingers.
  • The whole chain system is bolloxed. How ANYONE ever manages to synchronise with half-a-dozen other buyers + lenders/solicitors/removal companies to move house on the same bloody day is absolutely beyond comprehension. We didn't even try, in the end.

Anyway, it's all signed, sealed and hopefully soon will be delivered. We've even accepted an offer on our old place!

2018 FTW!

Monday, 29 January 2018

Blue Monday: L N Bey guests

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest is L N Bey with an excerpt from their short story Girl B, included in Dancing With Myself: Stories of Self-Love Erotica, which is a new anthology from Sexy Little Pages.

Nine sizzling, sexy stories of self-love and self-discovery, edited by (and with a story from) Jillian Boyd, featuring Dena Hankins, T.C. Mill, Jordan Monroe, Leandra Vane, LN Bey, Jones, Hollis Queens and Rachel Woe.

In this sensually spellbinding collection, nine authors explore just a couple of the ways one can get themselves off – stories that don’t just home in on the how, but explore the why, and the “oh... oh my”. Dancing With Myself delves into the heads and between the sheets of a long-distance submissive and her dominant, a cam girl reminiscing, an artist entranced with her unusual subjects and many more.

“Don’t you want to know how the story ended?” Angie said.

“What story?” Bree asked.

“The one I read to Trey.”

“You told me. The woman had suggested it herself.”

“That was the twist. But they all lived happily ever after, happier than they were before, even.”

“With another slave girl in the house? I doubt that.”

“No really, they did. Because the new girl wasn’t there to replace her. He brought her in to serve her.”


“And him too, of course. It’s got this long threesome scene. They made her do everything. Did everything to her. Both of them. They kept her very busy—had her tied up, tied down, oh my God. It ends with these hints of all the things they had yet to do, every day, for ever and ever.” She tilted her head and smiled an innocent, angelic smile.

Bree felt hot blood rush to her face.

“They decided to call her Girl B. And the main character was Girl A.” Angie leaned forward. “Get it? Angie, Girl A? Bree, Girl B?” She gestured to Bree. “It was all right there in the story! It’s perfect. Who else would I suggest, when he asked me? Some stranger off the internet? It had to be someone I trusted. And who I thought was hot.”

Bree folded her arms. She had never really thought of herself as especially hot. “I can’t tell if you’re serious, or just messing with me.”

“Why don’t you ask the Master himself?” Angie said. “Hey, baby.”

Bree turned.


He was standing on the sidewalk, on the other side of the iron railing that separated the café from the moving lines of downtown shoppers. He was wearing his usual sawdust-covered jeans, but with a decent buttoned shirt and a black sports jacket. His hair was heavy and wavy, and he was wearing wraparound sunglasses that hid his eyes.

He looked good. Very good.

“Hello, ladies,” he said, leaning on the rail behind Bree.

“Hi, sweetie,” Angie said. Sweetie, after he’d just whipped her ass with a crop. “We were just talking about you.”

How does one stop a blush? Bree tried to think about work.

“Hi, Trey,” she said, but couldn’t quite look him in the eye.

“Bree.” He was smiling. “So, what were you two saying?”

“I was just telling Bree about our recent explorations into contemporary literature.”

“Oh, really! And what are your opinions, Bree? On our recent explorations into contemporary literature?”

“Oh my God, Bree,” Angie said. “Your face is so red.”

* * * *

Bree lay on her back on her bed, every stitch of her clothes somewhere between the door and here; she didn’t know, didn’t care.

She lay spread-eagled, both legs outstretched, one arm reaching up behind her head. Her other hand was toggling her clit ferociously, pressing it hard, pausing only briefly to fuck herself with two fingers. Three fingers. She raised her hips off the bed and moaned.

She kept her legs spread wide, because in her mind she was tied up that way.

Girl B.

She was tied down, ankles and wrists cuffed with ropes running to the bedposts (even though her bed had no bedposts), her body stretched tight.

In her mind, both arms were stretched and bound, but of course that would mean releasing her hand from her clit. Her wet, desperate clit. And she just couldn’t seem to do that.

She moaned again. Trey was telling her to spread wider, to make herself available. To open her mouth. And Trey would kneel on the bed beside her, right by her face, and order her to lick his cock.

“Reach for it,” he would say, and she would crane her neck and reach out with her tongue until she—
Bree came. Hard. She panted as the intense waves of release flowed through her, tensing, tensing, tensing, until she nearly cried out as the relief came.

But it wasn’t enough.


She was still tied down; they were just getting started. Yes.

Where was she? Oh yes—she was licking his hard cock, up and down its shaft, licking his balls, wanting it all in her mouth, wanting him to fill her mouth with his hard dick.

“Beg for it,” Trey would say, and she would.

“Please!” Bree said out loud, and hoped no neighbors heard.

“Now, beg Angie to whip you while you suck my cock.”

Bree couldn’t bring herself to actually say this out loud. “Please, Ange, whip me. Whip me hard while I suck Trey’s cock,” she said in her mind, and he shifted closer to her and grasped her hair and proceeded to fuck her mouth as she tightened her lips around it.

“You heard her—whip her,” Trey would say.

She felt the whip, the crop Angie had told her about, as Angie began to hit Bree, on her breasts as she moaned into Trey’s huge cock (she assumed it was huge); across her stomach, then harder against her spread thighs, spread so, so wide.

God damn it, she thought, as she came again, even harder this time.

“Whip me,” she whispered, out loud. Her entire body shuddered.

Tied up or not, Bree now brought her legs together, squeezed them tight with her hand still inside her, clamped her muscles hard as she rolled to her side and curled into a ball. She shuddered again.

She would not fuck her best friend. No.

But Trey was noticing her ass as she rolled over. (Never mind how she’d done that while tied down so securely.)

“Well, will you look at that, Girl A?” he’d say to Angie. “No whip marks at all on that smooth little ass. I think you’d better fix that.”

And he would recommence fucking her mouth while she begged and cried, the stinging crop heating up the flesh of her backside, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Because she was Girl B.

Her soaking wet fingers found her clit yet again.

Buy Dancing with Myself , edited by Jillian Boyd, at:
Amazon US :: Amazon UK
Sexy Little Pages

LN Bey is the author of the erotic novel Blue and the almost-a-novel collection of erotic stories Villa, to be released later in 2018. Besides being included in Dancing With Myself, LN’s short stories have been published in The Big Book of Submission 2, Best Bondage Erotica 2015, Love Slave: Sizzle, and the soon to be released No Safewords 2. LN’s reviews and essays on BDSM can be found at

Follow LN on Twitter: ln_bey
or on Amazon 

Sunday, 28 January 2018


My Myers-Briggs profile is INTJ, which apparently means I need to write lists...

Yeah yeah, my handwriting is shitty. I'm a leftie.

Yes, the move is on!

Thursday, 25 January 2018

Alma mater

My recently published story In Appreciation of their Cox is set in the city and university of Durham, in the north of England, though you won't see the name of the university anywhere in the text.

It was an amazing place to live as a student, sort of like Hogwarts - a "city" only in name, because it has a magnificent cathedral, but smaller than most towns, and centred around a wooded historical peninsula.

It has a castle too - which is one of the colleges that make up the university.

Yeah, we we're a privileged bunch in EVERY sense...

Durham was where I did my degree, and though I never rowed, the rowing teams were a very visible part of college life. I certainly knew where the college boat house was.

Durham was where I first discovered that I liked Indian food. It was where I first got drunk (I was a slow starter with a sheltered childhood, okay...). It was where I found LOADS OF FRIENDS who I felt I really had things in common with for the first time in my life. I joined the Games Society, ran my own Call of Cthulhu games, and I started LARPing.

I got laid at last (TOLD you I was a slow starter!). I lost my religion.

Oh the relief

I've still got many of those friends. I'm married to one of them right now. And I still LARP ...
... which is quite frankly one of the reasons I need a bigger house

As I prepare to move house now, in 2018, I'm aware that I don't really attach to places I live. I won't feel sad about moving home - I'm excited by the change. Durham was an exception to that rule, perhaps the only one in my adult life. Leaving in 1989 was difficult and unpleasant, and I don't think I got over it or properly detached for years.

In Appreciation of their Cox is mostly a joyous gangbang story about fit young people - no, I did NOT do that at university, sorry to disappoint y'all - but it's also a nostalgic elegy to a place I will always love and a meditation on letting go.


Monday, 22 January 2018

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

Today I am delighted to announce that In Appreciation of their Cox - my second self-published venture and the first with a "red for erotica" cover - is UP ON SALE at Amazon and elsewhere 😍

Eight tall, muscular men straining every sinew, and one itty-bitty young woman urging them on with all her might. That’s rowing for you.

Joanna is a coxswain for a top British university rowing team. She spends her days with eight tall, handsome, muscular men in tight shorts, and she adores every one of them, but she’s never succumbed to temptation and done anything naughty with any of them. Her relationship with her rowers has been strictly professional and sporting. Until now, that is.

Now she’s leaving the university and there’s one last celebratory meal for the team. Tonight, all eight men get to show their enthusiastic cox their heartfelt appreciation in a demonstration no one will ever forget…

“Who’s going to fuck me?” I whisper.

“All of us,” Murray answers, running his hand up his engorged member all the way to the glistening head. “Can you take it, Coxey?”

I nod, mesmerized. My pussy is aching to be filled. I want all of them inside me at once, though that’s obviously impossible. “Who’s going to fuck me first?”

“Stroke goes first,” says Murray. “Of course he does.”

It makes sense. They’re used to following the Stroke’s lead in the boat. He’s first among equals. Even Fergus doesn’t object when Nils picks me up from my knees and clasps me to him, wrapping my legs about his hips. I can feel his cock poking my butt and I wonder if he’s going to try to do it just like that, standing and holding me up—it’s not impossible, I feel like a doll in his huge embrace—but he carries me back over to the bar counter. The others gather round to watch. Seven more men, wanting their turn.

Oh hell, I think. It’s suddenly become real, not just a lovingly honed fantasy. Have I bitten off more than I can chew? They’re going to fuck me. They’re all going to fuck me. They’re going to take it in turns to bang my cunt and my mouth and fill me with their come.

And I’m so wet that it’s running out down the crack of my ass.

“Hold on tight.” Nils’ grey eyes are cold, implacable, focused. The eyes of a champion rower.

I grab the brass rail behind my hips with both hands while he takes my weight, grasping my butt cheeks and shifting the angle between our bodies. Someone—it’s Bradley—goes behind the bar. He’s not just after a good vantage point down my body, he takes my shoulders to give me something to brace on, for which I’m grateful. Murray’s got my camera now, I notice. He’s grinning at the view screen.

“Now call time, Cox,” my Stroke says.

“Leg,” I breathe.

Nils slides me down over his helm with a smooth expertise, finding the notch and the hole.


He pushes deep into me, turning my world upside down with the sensation. My eyes spring wide open.


He twists his hips, ramming right home, grinding my clit. I add an extra gasp to the sequence that shouldn’t really be there, and groan, “Glide!” as he slips into the withdrawal stroke. “Leg; Drive; Now; Glide…” I repeat, watching the familiar bead of sweat gather at the indent of his upper lip. Over and over.

Rowing is about rhythm. And discipline. And pain. The men watch, breathless and avid. There’s just enough of my brain functioning to wonder whether Nils was fantasizing about this every time he sat in front of me in the shell and pulled an oar to my orders. But most of my attention is demanded by the gathering knot of tension in my sex, a glow that gets brighter and fiercer and crueler as it contracts to a focal point, like the bead of light thrown by a magnifying glass that becomes an unbearably brilliant point, then ignites the tinder beneath it—and quite suddenly I am ignited too and burning, all rhythm abandoned and even the power of speech lost, as Nils thrusts into me and my legs kick helplessly and every muscle in my body contracts and spasms along with my orgasm. It’s a very loud one.

Nils comes too upon hearing me climax, uttering only a single grunt, his face barely changing expression but his jiz gushing into the tight grip of my pussy. Then he grabs me up and holds me against his chest, and I’m so fucking relieved because despite Bradley’s support my arms are shaking with strain. That’s when Nils kisses me. My heart turns over and seems to bloom. He’s Stroke—he sets the example, and they’ll all follow. The kiss is tender and deep, and though he must be able to taste Darren’s cum on my tongue he’s not bothered. It’s a kiss of utter satisfaction. He breaks it at last with a little sigh, and then spins on his heels with a barked laugh, whirling me about as if we’re dancing, and I clench my thighs and cling tight to him even as my hands fly free. With a little wuff of breath he slows and lays me down on my back, on a sturdy table. Gently he slips his cock from its sheath. “Thank you,” he says, which makes me laugh.

I close my eyes for a moment, dizzy not just from the spinning, my limbs loose and heavy. My head is lolling off the lip of the short table, my back supported but my thighs hanging over the edge.

“Well,” says Fergus. “If we’re going in order…”

Fergus rows in the seven seat, directly behind Nils. He’s the buffer between Stroke and the middle four. Now he takes Nils’ place between my thighs. I see he’s got a bottle of champagne from behind the bar, and he gives it a little shake.

“Hold her legs up, will you?”

Two of the guys raise my calves. That’s much more comfortable for me. I lift my head to watch Fergus unscrewing the twist of wire that holds the caged cork. There’s a ripe pop like a giant’s kiss and as the cork goes flying the champagne heaves and rushes from the neck of the bottle just like the gush of spunk, some flying out in an arc, some spurting out between Fergus’ fingers and slopping down the bottle. It lands on my spread pussy, a cold shock on those inflamed tissues and a delicious fizzy fountain on my pubic mound, slopping and dribbling down my thighs and into the split of my behind to run onto the floor. It lands on my stomach too, and as Fergus reaches forward, thumb over the bottle-mouth, he directs the squirt of white foam on my belly and breasts, making me arch my back at the sudden shock of the chilled wine. It goes over my throat and my chin and I open my mouth wide to gulp the fizzing ejaculate.

In Appreciation of their Cox is a  10K short story - you can find it on various stores here:

Sunday, 21 January 2018

Fox fight

Damnit, that's all we got ... Still struggling with the camera setup, as you can tell!

Friday, 19 January 2018

If a tree falls in a forest...

We've had gales in our wood this week, and the huge dead oak...

... has fallen at last:

It's been standing dead since well before we bought the land, and tbh I'm surprised it took so long to drop. The roots were completely rotted away:

Luckily it seems to have dodged all the other large trees around and laid itself politely down doing the minimum of damage 😊

Circle of Life, eh?