Lady Laid Bare

Passionately Curious - Curious about Passion

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

Sex Wizard

I strip out of my clothes, content with letting the air hit my naked body. Early start at work, an unpleasant heat regardless of the pissing rain making fabric cling to me. It’s a day I’m glad to see the end of, a day in which cool air and soft sheets and bare skin on bare skin are my reward. I’m buzzing with the kind of low-level arousal that tends to travel with you during summer – a sort of hey, it’s the weather for it even when it is most definitely not the weather for anything except lying in bed and watching several back-to-back hours of iZombie on Netflix. Weather that was made for doing absolutely fuck all apart from surrendering to its cushioning heat.

I don’t quite know how my brain comes to it… well, actually I do know how my brain comes to it. A tantalising combination of dabbling on the Tube sites for shits and giggles and spotting several videos from a website called Lubed, along with finding just the right woman on Chaturbate and watching her writhe helplessly in the throes of arousal. But something prompts me to ask if he fancies indulging in a particular kink of mine tonight, even just a little bit. A kink which I kind of forgot I had until I was reminded of it in the most delicious way.

Reader, I must confess – I am seriously into the sight of glistening skin.

It’s why I nearly jizzed myself with happiness when I saw the links to those videos. I wasn’t even aware there was porn which catered so specifically to this turn-on – but there it was, a glimpse of a whole website dedicated to lube drizzling on tits and abs, to sticky and wet fucks and the glee of making a great big mess with personal lubricant.

Now, as we’re both still in the process of unpacking from our move, I haven’t the faintest idea where our actual stash of lube is, despite me clearly remembering packing it. For that matter, I’m also not entirely sure where the rest of our towels are. But what we did have to hand, right on top of the chest of drawers next to my side of the bed, was a bottle of Body Shop lavender massage oil. Which would not only do the job quite nicely, but would also make less of a mess. It would do. For now. Besides, I was already soaking wet from watching our cam girl of choice on Chaturbate – she was naked, spread out and at the mercy of an OhMiBod vibrator inside her, which pinged every time she got tipped. Judging from the wall of yellow in the chat box, the constant beeping sound of tipping and the fact that she was pretty much constantly grinding and moaning, she was having a pretty goddamn good night of it.

And then, with one of the Lubed videos in the background, he liberally went to town with the massage oil, coating me with the scent of French lavender and letting me relax after the tensions of the past few days. I spread my legs, wanting to see how turned-on I could get without actually touching my clit. I rubbed my labia around the area of my clitoris, amazed at just how effective it was. It was so effective in fact, that I didn’t even see my orgasm coming.

It was the kind of orgasm that can make you feel like a sex wizard. Congratulations, you have levelled up and just discovered how to stimulate the internal bits of your clit. Have a mind-meltingly good climax. Next level – get the towels ready? Can’t say I’m not hoping…

Self-love with a side of awkward…

For someone who’s so evangelical about masturbation, I have a slightly alarming confession to make. One that I seriously need to rectify in the future (watch this space, I guess, probably…) because I don’t see why not, actually. I, Jillian Boyd, erotica writer of five years, haven’t really written a lot of straight-up masturbation stories. Sure, I’ve done the odd scene featuring a bit of self loving, and I’ve made reference to characters privately giving in to their lust for the one they can’t yet say the words to.

But man… oh man. Masturbation is bloody great. So great, they’ve dedicated the entire of May to celebrating it. It was the start of my sexuality blossoming outwards – a start which I wrote about a while back, for Girl on the Net - and it remains an important way of connecting to both my own body and my partner’s body.

So, why not take what I love in real life and let it bleed into my fictional scapes? Why not take masturbation, the catalyst of so many people’s sexual lives, and just let it star on its own? Be the headline act? It’s something I’d like to make an effort to do – heck, maybe I’ll even compile an anthology full of the stories I come up with. But for now, I wanted to share with you one of the instances where those references to characters first giving in to their lust in private come in to play.

The story? Sign Your Name, from the anthology Inked: Sexy Tales of Tattoo EroticaThe situation? Shira, a student on adult learner art course, is compiling her final portfolio on the subject of dancing and its ecstatic beauty. She’s kind of become the artist-in-residence at her friend Heather’s dance studio, where she sits and sketches the instructors – all the while engaging in a blossoming flirtmance with Latin dance instructor Oscar…

 “Yeah, it’s an adult learner’s degree. I’m taking it at that big new place near the Seagram building.”

The statuesque older blonde – Rosalind, teaching Tuesday ballet – let out a low whistle as she leafed through Shira’s sketchpad.

“Christ, is that me?” she said, stopping at something she’d drawn earlier on. “Wow, you’re making me look good here!”

“I wanted to capture the lines you were making when you were doing barre work, specifically.”

“I’m very impressed – mind you, I can’t draw for crap but I can see when something’s pleasing on the eye… like this drawing…”

Shira felt her cheeks warm, as Rosalind bent down to look at a not-even-remotely-subtle doodle of a very topless Oscar, mid-shirt switch.

“Oh, don’t pay attention to that one. ’S just a bit of playing around.”

“What is? Hi, Rosalind. And, hello, our artist in residence.”

On cue, Mr. Just a Bit of Playing Around walked into the bar area, dumping his backpack next to a chair and taking a seat in between the two women. Shira could have died a thousand happy deaths just looking at him up close – those bedroom eyes were even more like an invitation when they were looking directly into hers.

“Shira Caplan,” she said, taking up the invitation and meeting his gaze head-on. “Heather’s an old friend of mine from college.”

“Good to finally be able to talk to you. I’ve been… well, yeah, kinda curious ever since I first saw you.”

Right at that point, a throng of young ballet girls and boys manifested through the doors, chattering away, to the amusement of their teacher.

“Ha. Timely.”

Rosalind rose from her chair and nodded to the pair, before rolling her shoulders back and taking in a deep breath. Shira had watched Rosalind teach this particular class before – she’d almost fallen onto the floor laughing from the sight of the statuesque Brit in leotard and pointes chasing one of the more rowdy  boys around the room in an ultimately successful attempt to get him to hand over the remote to the stereo. It was amazing to her how the different teachers not only had their own style of movement, but their own style of making their classes get the hell on with it.

“Can I have a look? I’m amazed how much you seem to get done during your time sitting here.”

She contemplated just putting her sketchbook back in her bag, thereby sparing her the blushes of having Oscar see a few of the more… explicit sketches. She contemplated it for about three seconds, before twatting the little Yiddish angel of consciousness off her shoulder and shifting the sketchpad towards him. Something told Shira that Oscar knew full well what to expect – and that he kinda liked it, too.

“Very cool. So, are these the final product, or are you planning something else with them?”

“Some of these will be in the final portfolio, yeah. As a sort of look-at-my-process kind of thing. I’m gonna use most of them as the basis for other pieces. And I’ve been going around town, seeing shows and getting some basic sketches done. I’ve been toying with the idea of getting a few live models to pose for me, but I’m not too confident about asking.”

He’d stopped leafing through the sketchbook as she was explaining herself, his eyes resting on a quick sketch she’d done of him, surrounded by all kinds of doodles that would, at first sight, seem completely random and out of place.

Only Shira knew what they were meant to be. And the fact that he was looking at them, biting his bottom lip as he appraised what he saw and not even knowing what most of it was, made her wet.

To mark your body with my design.

To sign my name across your heart.

I will it to be so.

I will to make it so.

The words just popped up in her head, like an incantation out of a book of spells. Was it bad that she wanted him to ask? Would he – this stranger who she’d only spent time observing – run for the hills if he found out what was on her mind? There were many, many things she was expecting to happen, bracing herself for, even. But then Oscar leaned forward, close enough for her to catch a hint of the scent of leather and woodsmoke, making her light headed.

“Heck, I’ll model for you. Name a place and a time and I’ll be more than happy to help you out.”


That… she wasn’t quite expecting.

“Oh. Oh, it’s okay. Really, it’s just an idea for now. I’m still ironing out the kinks in the project as I go along,” she said, waving her hands around in dismissal. “It’s fine. You’re all doing enough for me as it is. I can’t really ask more of you.”

Shira suddenly felt fidgety. She rummaged through her big bag, producing a hair elastic and setting to work on fixing her dark brown mane into a braid. He watched her fingers go through practised motions, and took a deep breath.

“Alright. Let me know if you change your mind, Shira,” he said, standing up and slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Shira… I like that.”

“You like… what, my name?”

“Yeah. The sh sound. The rah at the end. It feels good rolling off my tongue…”

She felt her cheeks flush, her clit aching with the desire to feel what that tongue of his could do to it. Shifting, she was painfully aware of just how wet she’d gotten.

“It’s of Hebrew origin. Means poetry. Or singing. I’m no good at either, though.”

He chuckled. “I don’t know what my name means. Now I’m sorta hoping it’s is good at dancing. Right. Artist in residence, it was lovely to finally hear your voice. I’m going to go home and have a cold shower while thinking about it.”

He turned to leave, but not before fixing her with a grin that reduced her to a puddle of melted former woman.

“Good night, Shira.”

The way he let her name dance in his mouth lingered on in her mind long after she’d left the studio for the evening, long after she’d lain in the dark of her bedroom basking in the sticky-fingered afterglow of God-knows-how-many orgasms.

To mark your body with my design.

To sign my name across your heart.

I will it to be so.

I will to make it so.

For Tabitha Rayne – gorgeous, intelligent, wonderful, extremely stylish, extremely Scottish – and her Self-Love Is In The Air blog hop. Did you know she invented a sex toy? Like, the very one in the picture below? And you can, like, win one and stuff? Click the banner to see how you can do this, to read the other posts in the hop and to generally have a blimmin’ good afternoon reading.


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