Lady Laid Bare

Passionately Curious - Curious about Passion

World’s Least Satisfying

It’s hard to remember the last time – or any time – I had such an unsatisfying wank as the one I did the other day.

Himself had gone off to the North for the weekend, on an adventure with a few mates. We were house sitting at the time, so my only company for those two days was a cluster of cats. Now, I spent most of that weekend either at my day job or in front of the telly doing my other job, with one eye on the Olympics. The rest of the time, I was seemingly permanently clouded in a haze of tired and achy.

Maybe, in hindsight, a wank wasn’t the right solution after all. My brain managed to convince me it was, though, because my brain can quite often be a great big dickweed.

Go on, it said to me. It’s late, you’re mildly comfortable… 

And? “It’s late” and “I’m mildly comfortable” are not reasons I should be masturbating. In fact, considering I’d dragged the duvet downstairs and had my netbook perched on my lap and a cat precariously close to my face, comfortable wasn’t so much a thing I was as a lie in general.

I wasn’t at all comfortable because I was bone-tired and walking through the endless, boring as fuck mists of a depressive episode. The kind where Nothing has a capital N and you’re existing in a constant state of low-key fed up with your horrid mind.

I also wasn’t comfortable because there was another cat, perched in front of the TV, glaring at me rather openly. As if to say I know what you’re contemplating and I don’t like it one bit, you weird human.

But still, I gave in to my brain and slipped my fingers down the waistband of my pants. And to be honest, I wish I hadn’t. I wish I’d have just gotten on with what I was doing. It felt forced. It felt like I was doing it for the sake of reminding myself that yeah, I do still have a wank, thank you very much. It wasn’t a bad wank, but it was a wank that, if it were a film, I would have seen it through to the end but gotten up at the start of the credits and grumbled about it being a waste of my bloody time.

That’s not the wanks I want to be having. And I hope to fuck I find out what’s going on there, because I do not want masturbation to become another task on an endless tick list.

Project Emmanuelle – The Sex Lives of Ghosts

Last time on Project Emmanuelle, we had an altogether more chilled time with Brittany Odell and her radio talk show antics. Sure, actual fucking nymphs showed up to waft around Emmanuelle’s bedroom but still.

This time, we’re dipping into rather more ethereal waters as Emmanuelle’s summer house turns out to be haunted by the ghost of a baron and his two lovers. Can the spell of the supernatural mend the relationship of the three friends Emmanuelle has staying over? Is Emmanuelle still looking for this David chap from the last film? (Answer – No.)

And, most importantly, how long will it take for you to get utterly freaked out at the baron’s haunted, faceless portrait? Continue reading

Slicker Than Your Average

I like writing stories set in the summertime. To me, there’s something about the change of seasons from the blushing days of spring to the all out glory that a summer can be that somehow mirrors the blossoming of a sexual connection between two people. I like the idea of heat from the outside assisting in generating heat from the inside.

In real life, summer’s effect certainly made a good go of it. When the sun first started to hit in earnest a few weeks back, I noticed the change in myself.

My mood slowly lifted. My general depressive funk from the last few months took a back seat, if only for a while (note- yes, on the back seat, but it’s still there, and still an awful bastard). And my libido, oh man. My libido was like a little angel/devil hybrid sitting on my shoulder, whispering utter filth in my ear.

I’d like to imagine, by the way, that this little angel/devil hybrid is actually Alice Clayton, considering I’ve been heavily into a Clayton reading binge.

Summer. Yeah. I got into it. ILB got into it. We got handsy and frisky and all kinds of naked, wrapped up in cuddles where the comforting warmth of him glowed right through me. There were orgasms, there were giggles, and all was well. I am a pale, freckly sort with a dependence on factor 50 who works in a place which is never any less than sauna-level hot. I’ve gone on record plenty of times grouching about how I don’t enjoy this kind of heat.

But… I think that’s actually a bit of a lie on my behalf. Only a bit. Or maybe not a lie. Just an underestimation of how a good lashing of summer could make me feel a bit better. The kind of loveliness with the occasional breeze. The kind where you can walk and bask and just for a moment marvel at the little bits of beauty in the ugly stuff.

It’s one of the other reasons I like setting stories in summer. It’s a gorgeous season, blooms and colours everywhere. Tiny moments of happiness can become wonderfully large in these halcyon days. With sex, momentary touches and kisses can spark such an insatiable fire. Sweat beading on foreheads, the glistening of skin…

Having said that, there has been something distinctly unsexy about the past couple of peak summer days. It’s like that The Oatmeal cartoon about microwaving butter – too much? Then nope, you don’t get to do sexy times because you won’t even have the energy to lift a finger, let alone fingering. Sexy moans and groans are replaced by moans and groans as a means of conversation, often punctuated by pointing and nudging your head. You feel like a human Pritt stick.

Still. When it comes to writing erotica set on days like these, I’m allowed to play around with the truth just a teeny bit, right?

Project Emmanuelle – Sex Talk

Last time on Project Emmanuelle, we hit an early highlight (or not, depending on your tolerance for crazy sauce) as Emmanuelle faced off against Dracula himself, in a battle of sexual wits. Also, some other guy was involved and managed to trick an entire hen party of Emmanuelle’s mates into very nearly joining his army of the sexy undead.

By comparison, Emmanuelle The Private Collection: Sex Talk is a lovely, tranquil sea of calmth. It is the Paracetamol to your heat-related tension headache.  It is the Sunday morning Frasier double bill to soothe your Saturday night hangover.

In that it has a radio talkshow and its host central to the plot, as that’s what the Sex Talk of the title refers to. Continue reading

Wicked Wednesday #215 – At Night

This is a piece of short erotica written for this week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt – “Night World”. If you want to see the accompanying picture, shot by Molly Moore, visit this week’s page here.


At night is when I think of him the most. When I miss the way he touches me, talks to me, whispers love into my ear and on to the surfaces of my skin. At night I miss him the most because nights have a sharp air of loneliness about them. The dark, illuminated by amber dots of streetlights, is a harsh mistress. It teases you, taunts you with the empty space next to you in bed.

I look out of my window, down into the little cobblestone backroad where the Friday night stragglers and Saturday night lovers pass and lean against the brick wall for support when they kiss or try and get their bearings through the haze of alcohol and whatever they might have been sweetly smoking. The pulse of lust glows through the streets, the summer heat having its way with the minds and libidos of the lovers of this city.

My lover never leaves my mind. Summer heat or not, he’s always there even when he isn’t there for me to hold and taste and inhale. He’s there when I let my hands slip between the folds of my labia, dipping into the ever-growing needy wetness and stilling the throb in my clit with the strum of my fingers. He’s there in little words or moments that make me smile to myself because they make me think of his voice or his laugh.

He’s there when I spot them, at an hour of night where most of the city has given up and gone to bed. They’re giggling, staggering, pawing at each other with a lust that’s messy and almost teenage in its wantonness. I can see her, backing against the metal of the doorway across from my living room window, a doorway to a storage room at the back of the pub on the other side. I can see him, kissing her all over, her moaning with the joy of new lust, new love or just something for the night only.

Whatever it is, it makes me ache for him. So far away, only available through webcam pixels and laptop speakers. So far away and always so close.

At night is when I think about him the most. When I wish with my heart and body and soul that the day where we can be as messy and lusty and carefree as the two people outside my window is now.

Abscence. Heart.

At night is when I feel it grow fonder.



At night is when I feel it.

And how I wish, I always wish the daylight would break right then and there. Another day ticked off the endless waiting list. Another day closer to wild and carefree.

But until then, the view outside my window, late at night, will have to do to keep me company. To remind me that I am not alone in wanting.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Night Night

Masturbation is awesome. You don’t need me to tell you that, most likely. But I enjoy preaching its virtues because it really does help with lots of things – for one, it relaxes you. For two, as I re-discovered last night, it’s a rather good sleeping aide. And god knows, I needed a good, solid night of restful sleep because I’ve been losing so much over the last few weeks. More than anything, I wanted my brain to shut the hell up for a few hours so I could let my body catch up on the recovery it needed.

I don’t remember how I came to think about it – maybe it was because we’d just finished watching Emmanuelle The Private Collection: The Sex Lives of Ghosts and there was a residual twinge of arousal still holding on to me. Or maybe because I couldn’t for the life of me think of any other way to calm my brain down. It was a swarm of thoughts clouding the corners of my mind – and from that swarm came the tiniest notion that maybe, just maybe, masturbating was the answer to making the swarm disperse. Masturbating for pleasure, yes, but more than that, masturbating to make myself feel better. Healing through my own orgasm.

“I feel like having a wank.”

I said it into the dark of our bedroom, a while after we’d turned off the lights. Both of us were still awake, restless and insomniac as we are, in the midst of a conversation about something I can’t quite remember but was probably incredibly geeky.

“Okay. Any reason?”

“No. Just feel like it. Fidgety.”


I didn’t need to elaborate on it. I didn’t need to explain why. I just rolled onto my back, continuing our chat. He did the same, pushing the duvet aside.

“Are you wanking too?”

“Yeah. Might as well.”

So we lay there. Side by side, the silent sounds of our mutually shared pleasure and healing filling the room.

I ended up sleeping until midday. I can’t say it was a particularily restful night’s sleep but I slept. And for now that’s fine by me because in this hellish new landscape of the world, rest is what helps us heal.



I’d asked him, just before I left for the shops to get something I’d managed to forget to buy twice already that day (ceterazine, because my subconcious really wants me to break out in an angry field of hives, apparently).

“Will you light some candles and make the room a bit… sexier while I’m gone?”

Or something of that ilk. As I walked to the supermarket, weaving through the aisles until I’d found the allergy pills I’d been looking for, I pondered on our sex life from as of late. The other day, after a joyous and wrecking wet orgasm given to me by his skilled hands and fingers, we’d (for the first time in a while) fucked – without me so much as having an inkling of Bad Shit™ on the brain or outside interruptions mattering for all of it. This, of course, felt like a glorious thing for me. And with that in mind, I felt in fine fettle as I opened the door, to be let in to a dark, candlelit room by my naked boyfriend, hiding behind the door so as to not be seen by the people who I’d just let in to the house.

They were old friends of the Irish guy occupying the room next to us, friends who’d come down for the weekend to stay over. During the course of the next 48 hours (and to my knowledge, still as I’m writing this post) they in turn met up with some more mates for a pre-drink session in the empty room downstairs, went off clubbing and slumped back in at 3.30 the next morning, sat in his darkened room shooting the shit for most of the next day, left for another party sesh and arrived back at the same time.

And it was as those mates trickled in, loudly and very much present, that I asked my boyfriend to massage me, before spanking me with one of my thick knitting needles.

Now, I’ve mentioned countless times before (or maybe I haven’t, in which case – forgive me for thinking I had mentioned this and also, the more you know) that I’m kind of daftly afraid of people hearing us having any kind of moments of sexual pleasure. Our room is quite securely locked, so there’s no way anyone can just walk on in. Nor are the walls as… well, cardboard as they were in our previous place. I can hear murmurs – and occasional snores – but there have not been moments where the walls have vibrated because someone’s watching a Vin Diesel movie somewhere in the house.

There are only two things that could be of worry to me here – one being my own weird, twisty, turny brain. The other being our IMPOSSIBLY SQUEAKY BED.

Funnily enough, it was the first, not second one that caught me in this case. And it was entirely down to the fact that, whenever we’re engaging in any kind of spanking (which is rare, exactly because of this – and also many other factors) I become hyper-aware of noises. Specifically, the noises being made by hand hitting flesh, reverbrating around the room. I have absolutely no idea if anyone can hear the slightest from outside, but the idea that someone may hear us is enough to scare the bejesus out of me.

So, imagine being scared by the idea that one person currently in the vicinity may hear you and your boyfriend having spanky sexy funtimes. Now, imagine about ten people consistently meandering up and down the stairs, lingering outside your door and having merry conversations while you’re trying your very best not to freak out and to enjoy what’s happening to you. But you can’t really enjoy it because you slowly but surely become convinced that, somehow, everyone in the street can hear you.

Got that mental image?


Now imagine the same, but with the spanking replaced by my muffled groans into our duvet as he uses the Doxy on my clit in a way that still makes my head spin when I think about it.

Not Complaining – Masturbation Monday


Welcome to Masturbation Monday – a meme created by erotica writer Kayla Lords as a way of getting your week off to a less crappy and more sexy start. The idea? Write about masturbation or anything else that gets you and your readers turned on. And because I made myself a promise to write more masturbation erotica, I’m now going to make it my mission to participate on the regular (or at least as much as I can).

The image above is the prompt for this week, and I turned it into this erotica short, called Not Complaining.


There is a languidness to her movements. But she’s fine with that. It’s the middle of the summer. The sun’s rays are hot to the point of overwhelm. Languidness tends to be the default mode for most things when the weather’s as merciless.

She isn’t complaining. On the contrary, she likes it when she takes her time.

They’re sitting against the wall of one of the stables, the only one providing enough shadow to cool down their flustered bodies. It was Michaela’s idea to strip off completely – again, Stevie isn’t complaining. She’s content wearing nothing but her hat, with her lover’s head resting on her shoulder and her hands wandering around her body.

It’s the early afternoon. Warmth at its highest, her brain at its foggiest. She yawns, trying and failing to keep track of the to do list reeling off in her mind. Michaela kisses Stevie’s shoulder, caressing her bare breasts.

“Turn your brain off.”

She takes one of her nipples between her fingers, gently rubbing it. Enough for Stevie to come out of her fog and into the feeling of Michaela’s touch. It takes her a while to realise she’s actually said something.

“What’s that?” she says, trying to repress another yawn.

Michaela chuckles. “Turn your brain off, Stevie.”

“What makes you think it’s on?”

“I know you. You’re sitting here, with me, but you’re cleaning out the stables and calling the repair man to check on the fence in the lower field in your mind.”

“It needs to be done.”

“Baby, it does not need to be done right now. And you’re certainly not gonna get it done through telekinesis. You might as well just give in for now. Relax. Enjoy.”

“Who says I’m not enjoying?”

“You’ll enjoy more when you stop thinking about next year’s sheep sheering season.”

She shifts, sliding her hand from Stevie’s breasts down to the thatch of dark, curly hair covering her mound. Stevie can’t keep her legs from falling open. But she’s not complaining. Instead, she’s moaning, relishing in the delicateness of Michaela’s touch. She hasn’t even gotten to her clit yet – instead, she’s taking her time, teasing her lips, getting her wet. She closes her eyes, letting her mind drift away from life on this vast, seemingly unending land. Away from daily tasks and waking up at 4 in the morning.

“You, Stevie Farrell, are a bad-ass. You are intelligent. You are gorgeous. You are one of the most capable, level-headed people I have ever met.”

She whispers love into her ears, continuing her teasing as she goes along. She grows needy for release, her mind diverted on the single track of Michaela Cannon’s fingers and words and warmth. But Michaela keeps teasing because she knows Stevie well enough by now to know that’s how she likes it. That’s how she shakes off the stresses of managing this farm, even for just a few hours – by easing herself into pleasure like it’s a warm bath at the end of the day. By being teased and tantalised to the point where she can’t bear anymore.

And she’s not complaining. The day is long, the weather is hot and her girlfriend’s touch is just the ticket to make her switch off from thinking about the later.

It’s the now that counts. And for now, she’s doing nothing but riding the waves of pleasure.



Click the big friendly button to read more Masturbation Monday stories…




In between the shiny metal of the nipple clamps and collars, they pop out at me. I grab one of the display ones, giving it a closer look.

We’re in Sh! Womenstore, having drifted here after SceneGirl’s birthday celebrations not too far away. He’s sitting down, chatting to Renee in an attempt to recover from some chest pains. I’m letting my curiosity roam free, touching and ooh-ing and aah-ing and giving the person behind the till upstairs fair warning that I’m likely to accidentally turn something on without knowing how to turn it off again.

It’s been a while since I’ve been there. Already I got to experience the tingle of spotting both a copy of Spy Games (which I edited) and several copies of Come Again: Sex Toy Erotica (in which the opening story is my Dare You To…). I’ve held a newer model of the Stronic, marvelling again at it thrusting into thin air. I’ve gazed longingly at lubes, squeeling with joy at the flavoured ones.

And now, this thing. Or these things, if you will.

They’re the Kinx Dual Masseuse Nipple Suckers They come in a set of two, in a rosy-lilac colour. The way they work is through pressing the bulb shape onto your nipple, creating a vacuum of air. Never let it be said that I am hard to amuse because I spend the next five minutes gigging like a little shit while squeezing them.

Of course I bought them. Once natural curiosity towards a shiny toy hits good and hard, I can not be stopped. It doesn’t happen often – if it did, I’d probably have to dedicate an entire cupboard to Stronics and nJoy Pure Wands. But these suckers looked cute, were low of budget and appealed to my love of nipple play.

Thus, the suckers came home with us.

We tried them the same night, getting a bit too caught up in the novelty of doing things like attaching them to your forehead and yelling  EXTERMINATE. I did however like how they felt on my nipples, even though it took us a while to actually grasp how to best make them work. The next night, we tried them again, this time also making time to try them out in the other way they were suggested to us.

I’d never even considered the idea of trying suckers on my clit. It appealed to me though, because curiosity and that sort of bumph. He set about attaching one of the suckers, wriggling it around to make sure it wouldn’t instantly dislodge from my clit. After a good couple of minutes in which nothing really happened, he carefully removed it and gasped at the sight of my engorged labia and bud. It wasn’t a pleasurable feeling -  I think for me it’ll be more of a use it for the thing it says on the front of the package kind of thingy in the future.

But the look of sheer admiration, of fascination for my vulva, that lit up his face? That more than made up for a little bit of uncomfortable.

Project Emmanuelle – Emmanuelle Vs. Dracula

Emmanuelle Vs. Dracula title

Yep. At some point in the character’s life span, yonks after Emmanuelle’s origins as the bored housewife of a French diplomat looking for something more from her sexual experiences, she got out the stake and holy water to combat Dracula.

And, you know, some other dude. Continue reading

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