Erotic Fiction – Frock ‘n Roll

It’ll do. For now.

Not that it doesn’t look good on her – on the contrary. The dress looks like danger itself. Low cut. Dark and shimmering. A hint of the curves of her breasts visible. Just enough to be a tease, what with the tiniest suggestion of lace from her bra peeking.

It’ll do.

But she’d rather skip the part of this night where she stands around with her fingers wrapped around the stem of a full champagne glass, listening, nodding, engaging in idle chatter. If this night came with a fast forward button, she’d x 48 the whole thing until the good bit. The bit where this dress lay discarded in a pool of shimmering fabric on his hotel room floor.

Or maybe not that far ahead. Maybe she’d slow it down the moment they finally found themselves alone after stealing glances and secret smiles all night. When the formality of the party would start to feel like another world altogether, a world outside their little bubble of back against elevator wall, lips crushing to lips and hands roaming around expanse of already aroused flesh.

She grins to herself. Imagines the feeling of his hands slipping up her stocking-clad thighs and under the hem of this dress. Lets herself sink, only briefly, into the heavenly imagination of his body pressed into hers, erection hard and urgent against her lower belly.

Yes. Tonight will be a good one. With a careful sweep of her lipstick, she paints her lips into a seductive crimson slash. The final touch on an evening weeks in the making.

Tonight she’ll ruin him for other women, and he’ll love every second of it. He’ll carry the taste and scent of her with him for weeks, and still he’ll be greedy for more of her.


She’s as ready for it as he’ll never be.


Written for Charlie Powell’s #FreshlyPolished competition. The colour allocated to me was called Frock ‘n Roll, which was described on Essie’s website as follows:

low cut and flirting with danger, this lustrous, shimmering rich espresso is a dress for success.

I liked that description so much, I let it inspire the dress my protagonist is wearing in the piece.

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Erotica: Dexterity

A short piece of erotica, inspired by a thought I had during Eroticon 2015. Probably one of a few pieces of short erotica I’ll be writing on here in the next couple of weeks.

Erotica: Dexterity

by Jillian Boyd


She’s got a thing about fingers.

Other women like getting lost in soulful eyes. Or love imagining what the fabric of those Levi’s is covering.

She likes imagining touches. Soft strokes. Gentle, little circles on her shoulders. Digits ghosting down her spine, snaking to her front, teasing the soft and the wet between her thighs. She could come for hours; hips time and time again bucking under her own touch, imagining it’s not her thumb on her clit or her index and middle finger buried deep inside her wet hole.

She’s got a thing about fingers and when she lays her eyes on his, her cunt throbs in a reminder.

They’re good fingers – not too long, fingernails nicely trimmed, tapping out a gentle rhythm on the table they’re sharing. She watches as he wields knife and fork into his lunch, chatting to another table mate about something she can’t quite make out. Her focus isn’t on words, but on the way he holds his cutlery.

Sure, it feels odd sometimes. There are moments where she wishes she was just a shameless crotch-starer instead.

But she’s got a thing about fingers. And she’s definitely got a thing about his.

They get to chatting in between talks and taking notes. She likes the sound of his voice; a musically accented lilt, a softness and warmth that makes her melt to him. He’s a nice man. He seems like a kind man. There’s a small part, hidden deep inside her, that wants him to just talk to her all night long.

She steals glances at his fingers. He gesticulates as he’s talking, which does nothing to quiet down the oncoming storm of arousal brewing in the core of her. All day she tries to concentrate on words being spoken but all she can think about is those fingers, those fucking fingers.

Her own fingers, without her realising it, start ghosting movements in the air. Little circles on the body of her mug of coffee. Small caresses against the palm of her hand. Movements she imagines him making on her skin.

By the end of the day she has been reduced to a walking, talking, throbbing, libidinous entity. Lust made flesh and all because of one man’s fingers.

By the end of the day, she knows that there’s only one way she wants the night to pan out.

They’re both covered in the warm haze of a few beers. The night is just a touch too warm, the city stretched out in front of them in a scape of glowing lights. A couple of them had found their way to this room – his room – for alcohol and laughs. They’d since retreated into their own rooms, one by one until the two of them remained.

They’re covered in the warm haze of a few beers and not much else. The white duvet lies bunched up on the floor, decorated with a rainbow of fancy clothing. She lies naked on the bed, the glow on the moon highlighting the sheen of sex on her skin. She’s spread open, her own fingers holding on to his hair as she presses her cunt into his face. His tongue is urgent, wanting, clumsy because the first time, there’s nothing there. No knowledge, no finesse, nothing but pure and primal need.

She loves it. She loves the feeling of his tongue and the expanse of his body, an uncharted world she wants to explore. She doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol or the circumstances. She doesn’t even know if she’ll remember how his tongue felt the next morning. Or how the first condom he tries to roll over his erection tears because his fingers are trembling with needy nerves.

But she will, if she concentrates really hard, remember how his fingers felt as they brushed over her nipples. Over her clit. Over the puckered ring of her ass.

She will remember his fingers for days to come. His fingers will make her come for days, even though they aren’t touching her.

His fingers will make her yearn for the whole of him. But in that moment, as her moans grow ever louder and her grip on him becomes ever tighter, she doesn’t know yet.

A month comes and goes, and she loses count of the times she’s stolen glances at other men’s fingers. She’s still got a thing about fingers, and she doesn’t find the countless stolen glances worrying.

It’s the way none of them are his fingers. His hands.

She doesn’t know what to do with herself anymore. She frigs on memories that still drench her knickers. She opens herself up time and time again, not just imagining but wishing it was him. All she has is a first name and the memory of his grinning face.

And for once, that’s not enough.

The day is still lingering in the stages where coffee is the gateway to social interaction. She’s queuing along with other delegates, barely able to suppress a yawn.

She hears a giggle somewhere behind her, a giggle that makes her freeze into place. By now, it’s been eleven months since those fingers opened her heart. Eleven months, and she’s tried, by God, she’s tried to forget him and tried to move on.

And for a while, she managed to convince herself she had. She hadn’t even taken into account that they both work in the same field and would both probably be interested in this conference. Well, hadn’t much.

But then there’s that giggle. She turns around and there he is, his fingers curled around a cup of coffee. He says hello, she says something along the lines of fancy seeing you here. His hand reaches out and touches her shoulder, and she is warmed not by the coffee she’s not yet drinking but by the promise of those fingers on her skin.

And the promise of what a second chance can bring.

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Erotic Fiction: … And Then There’s Ricky Lawson

Erotic fiction time! And since you all seemed to like the character of Anna Triplett, who I introduced in The Catalyst, I figured bringing her back regularly for her own series of adventures would be the only right thing to do. Besides… I kinda like writing about her.

So, here’s (sort of) part two of… well, we’ll see if this does end up becoming a series. No full sex in this one, but plenty of references. And you get to meet one Ricky Lawson, junior doctor and trainee in emergency medicine…

… And Then There’s Ricky Lawson

The sun’s hesitant as it filters through a haze of fog, illuminating the staff room at work. It’s morning, it’s quiet and I’m sitting at a table trying to work my way through a leaning tower of case files from the past week. The stack of orange foolscap folders doesn’t seem to be depleting – on the contrary. It’s like whenever I finish off one, six more will come to attend its funeral.


He says it before the door’s even had time to swing shut. At first I just see a whoosh of white uniform, speeding towards the source of life that is the staff room’s rickety coffee maker. I’m not even sure he’s seen me – for all I know he may have just announced that he was having coffee for no other reason than to assert it to himself.

“Anna? Two sugars, splash of milk?”

Not this time though, apparently. I have been seen. And I don’t know if it’s a sign of it having been a long night but I’m mildly impressed by the fact that Ricky remembers how I take my coffee. Considering we’re like passing ships in the night when it comes to shifts, it’s no mean feat.

“Spot on. Long night?”

“I’m doing my rotation on A&E. Wilson and his hyper-speed, non-stop chattering. Swear to God, the only way I’ll make it through the last of it is with paracetamol on tap. Can I sit here?”

I gesture to the empty seat in front of me, and Ricky hands me my cuppa. “Yeah, Wilson’s… intense, for lack of a better word. Like a PowerPoint presentation where you’ve just got giant blocks of text and your hand is cramping up just from taking notes.”

“Like his own PowerPoint presentations then? Because he’s fucking fond of those, let me tell you. Last week, he sat us all down and tried to explain… well, I’ve forgotten but he mentioned something about animal mating rituals.”

“Right. Because that totally makes sense in the context of an A&E rotation. And here we have the common urban fox, whose apocalyptically shrill mating cry is very reminiscent of the desperation junior doctors experience during their first stint on A&E over Christmas.”

Ricky laughs, a kind of shoulder-shaking, full-bodied laughter that’s really not done at 9 in the morning because it’s making me the kind of warm that I’m just a bit too tired for. The kind of warm that makes me think of the hours I spent vigorously fucking Mark The Artist. I shift in my seat, partly to dull the sudden ache in my cunt, and partly because my back’s really bloody hurting.

Mark The Artist was two weeks ago, and I have yet to stop thinking about it. I’ve written pages and pages about it in my diary, trying to make sense of… well, everything that happened in the past eight months. Everything that lead me to this feeling of something being set in motion. But what the hell was being set in motion? And what was I supposed to do to help it… well, stay in motion?

Sometimes my sex life felt like a piece of knitting with a dropped stitch that I couldn’t find. No matter how hard I chased it with my crochet hook, it just wouldn’t reveal itself to me. At the thought of that baffling analogy, I winced and suddenly felt very much like I could fall asleep on top of this pile of case work.

“You alright?”

“Yeah. Well… yeah, and no, I guess? Just tired. And my back’s killing me.”

“When do you finish your shift? It’s 9.15 now.”

“At ten. I’m probably going straight home and to bed. And from the looks of it, with these case reports as my bed time reading of choice.”

“I’m off right now technically, but if you want I could help you with these. As long as they’re not Wilson’s case reports because they all look like they’ve been written by a cockerel with a broken claw.”

“They’re from Dr. Roberts, so that’s at least a bit more legible. And thank you.”

He nods, and grabs a pile of files for himself. As we potter on, he’s quiet apart from the occasional moments where he points something out to me, or quietly giggles to himself about whatever’s amusing him. Ricky Lawson started working as a junior doctor here at the same time as I did, a few months before… well, the thing happened. We sort of get along well, in that way where you can’t actually gauge a relationship on any other level because you spend only tiny amounts of time actually talking to each other. But in those tiny amounts of time, I always feel like we could be good mates. I mean, we seem to have quite a few things in common and we’re the same age. Or maybe I’m just telling myself that we could be good mates because… because I don’t know, actually.

What I know about Ricky is information gained for at least 75% through the other junior doctors and nurses. And it’s the most random information I get from them as well. For example, I know that he’s single and that he moved to London from the North. I also know that he doesn’t like the smell of Lynx deodorant (“any of them, really”) and is apparently, as one of the guys put it, “hung like a champion stallion”. This was quickly followed by – “Well, at least I think he is… keep in mind that I was absolutely off my tits on vodka slammers at that moment and thought the coat rack was my mum’s cat.”

Ricky Lawson, hung like a champion stallion. The thought of it makes me blush hot red. And, again, I find myself shifting in my seat because just even contemplating what it would be like to corner Ricky and fuck him like an unchained beast is too much to take for one morning. I make a mental note: get home, take cold shower. Twice.

Eventually, the Foolscap Folder Pile of Doom depletes to zero and as I stand to pick up the files two things happen in such rapid succession that it truly takes my breath away.

One: my back decides it ain’t wanna play anymore and actually gives out, so much so that I have to cling to the table to stop myself from falling.

Two: Ricky sweeps around and grabs onto me with such an agility that it renders me both completely speechless and utterly, utterly damp in the knickers. My mouth forms a still O as I look into his eyes – and I swear I’d never noticed that they’re so vividly blue – and it’s only when I notice the concern, coupled with him asking me if I’m okay that I remember that my back really fucking hurts.

“Okay, I’m going to hold on to you and we’re going to walk to my car. I’m going to help you get home, alright?”

I can but nod. It’s the only thing that doesn’t hurt.

Two hours later, and I’m laid up in bed, feeling drowsy but thankful for painkillers and soft pillows. Ricky’s sitting on the edge of the bed, and his face is starting to blur from the strength of the painkillers. I squint to make out his features – he’s close by but he just looks like a gently concerned smudge in the distance.

“I hesitate to ask but how are you feeling?”

“‘s Alright…” I say, my words sounding as smudgy as my vision looks. “I’ve felt worse. And better.”

“Middling will do for now. When are you back due at the hospital?”

“On call today and tomorrow. Back Thursday.”

“Yeah, that’s not happening. I’ll tell the supervisor what’s happened. You need a couple of days rest at least. Take care of yourself, Anna.”

I can’t pinpoint what it is – it’s probably a combination of the medication and the fact that I’ve not slept for a while – but the way he says it… just the way he tells me to take care of myself, with a concern that he really doesn’t need to show considering he doesn’t know me all too well makes me well up with grief and memories.


“‘s Okay. ‘s Nothing.”

I shake my head to underline how nothing it is – I know I’m lying to myself and to him but I’m too close to sleep to tell him about old ghosts. He gives me a paper hankie from the box next to my bed and I blurble a thank you.

“It’s nothing. Docs caring for docs, and that. I’m going to let you sleep now, okay?”

And then he presses a kiss to my forehead and stands up and I say something along the lines of please don’t leave me alone.

“I was going to your kitchen to make a cup of tea if that’s okay. Not leaving. Call me when you need me. Now sleep.”

And eventually, I do. For what feels like years. In my dreams, the last eight months never happened and I almost, almost dread the thought that I’ll have to let him go again. But you can’t live in dreams forever, can you now?

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Google Search Term Erotic Fiction: The Catalyst

I used to give myself hours of enjoyment just by looking at this blog’s Google search term stats. Long-time readers will probably remember some of the gems that came up, and for newer readers – don’t worry, I’ll revisit that particular avenue in a future post.

Just before the New Year, that Exhibit A ran a reader poll to determine the best/weirdest/most utterly mystifying search term that had lead to his blog in the past year – he’d then fashion the winner into a piece of short erotic fiction. Lust Fish being the saucy result of that. And one evening, because I had absolutely nothing better to do, I emailed him with a list of my own favourite search terms and asked him to pick one to prompt me.

The motherfucker ended up picking two. So there we are.

So, dedicated to my favourite red-headed purveyor of smut, here’s a story that will somehow involve the terms “bare lady with a horn” and “hard sex romantic cake porn”.

The Catalyst

There’s January frost misting over on the tall windows. If you look carefully, you can see blurred human shapes clutching on to their cups of coffee, somehow hoping it’s going to warm their frosted fingertips back to normal. Or some semblance of that at least, for just a little while. Crossing the street, exhaling the weight of work off me for… at least another 24 hours, I guess, I make a beeline for the coffee shop and dip into the sliding doors and the comfortable warmth on the inside.

I’ve been coming in here so often, I’m starting to feel like some sort of hipster re-incarnation of Norm from Cheers. Except nobody knows my name, but at least three people know exactly how I take my tea. And I don’t have my own special seat here, although I would rather like one. Preferably one of those high and deep, comfortable one-person sofas that I imagine villains have in their evil lairs.

Waiting for my turn at the counter, I relish in eyefucking the selection of cakes on offer. It’s like cake porn. I’ve been thinking positively disgusting thoughts about those cakes pretty much all night and all day – my treat to myself after a long shift on the hospital ward. I’m trying not to think about how much I’d settle for a leisurely session of fucking with a side of orgasmic bliss on top.

And then I giggle to myself at thinking the words “on top”. I’m 28, for God’s sake…

At least, I think I giggle to myself. Only when this sweet, silky dark voice interrupts my thought process with the words “You alright?” do I realize that I have indeed been heard. I look up at him, a face I’ve seen a couple of times in fleeting seconds as he scurried about the place cleaning tables and serving toasties to office workers on their lunch breaks. It’s the first time I get a good look at him and the first time that something more coherent forms in my mind than ‘s a nice face.

He has got a nice face. Actually, scratch that. He’s got a face that, in one click of the finger, I picture between my naked thighs, his hands forcefully holding my legs open as his tongue laps my desperately swollen clit.

No, I’m not alright would be the answer to that question. No, I’m desperately horny and would you mind a quick fingerfuck in the bathrooms, kthxbai? would be the truthful answer that’s running through my head like the fucking info bar on Sky News.

I say something about having had a long day, and order my usual tea. Cake-wise, I go for a slice of coffee and walnut and have a tiny orgasm at the sight of the thick layer of icing on top. God, I missed orgasms.

I pay, grab my food and drink and sit down at a table near the tall windows. In front of me, framed on the wall is a strange painting of a naked woman standing on an Alpine mountaintop, playing a Vienna horn. The other day, during a quiet spell at the hospital, I googled the painting. Bare Lady With Horn by.., goddamnit, who was it by?

“Do you like the painting?”

I turn to the guy sitting not too far away from me. If Hoxton had a dictionary entry, his picture would be next to it. Big black square frames, a bowtie clipped on his collar and a shirt that read J’ADORE EEYORE. I instantly take a liking to his lips, being as they are coated with a thin rim of milk foam. He notices and licks his top lip and I feel my cunt go molten with sudden want.

“Yeah,” I say, shifting uncomfortably. “It’s… it’s something else, really.”

“Inspired by a really drunken dream. What I didn’t paint on there was the fifteen versions of me, stark naked, riding a yellow cow.”

Apparently it was by him.

“This is yours? It’s very good.”

“Thank you. I’m a friend of the manager, and he bought it from me to hang in here. Might have been because he was slumped next to me, equally sozzled when I had that dream.”

“Sort of an eternal reminder to not mix your drinks, essentially.”

“Pretty much,” he says, laughing. My clit throbs at the sound of his laugh and I can’t stop myself from wondering what he looks like stark naked. Maybe not riding a yellow cow though.

“I’m Mark Tamblyn.”

Mark Tamblyn stands up, tall and wiry, and comes over to my table to shake my hand. “Pleasure to meet you…”

“Anna. Anna Triplett.”

He takes my hand and in that moment I just know. I know that, in about an hour or so and after a friendly chat that becomes increasingly risqué and is dotted with touches – a brush of the fingertips, a fleeting meeting of knees, an eventual assured hand sliding up my thigh and precariously close to the gusset of my tights – that the chat will stop and heavy breathing will replace it. I know that he’ll invite me back to his place, just around the corner.

He’ll lead me through his studio, every inch of it emanating the scent of paints and varnishes, and to his bedroom. I’ll kiss him, urgent and hungry and desperate to undress him. I’ll rip his silly shirt off, bow tie and all, marveling at the outline of him. I’ll be the one to make the next move, pushing him onto his bed and unzipping his flies, revealing the outline of an erection that makes me wonder how I managed to forget how glorious a thick and hard cock looks. I’ll run my hands through the damp dark curls in which it nestles, knowing that even if I never see this guy again at least I’ll have the scent of him on my fingers for a few more hours.

He’ll grab a condom and he’ll let me roll it over his penis, and he’ll watch in awe as I lower myself onto him, the feeling of him inside me being almost enough to make me come on its own. And I will fuck this man, this tall and wiry artist for hours and hours until I’m sated enough to remember what an orgasm feels like after eight long and lonely months. I will fuck him hard because in this moment hard sex is the only way, and the right way, and the oh-so-ridiculously-blissfully-good way.

Actually, I’m lying. In the moment our hands meet I don’t just know because I have yet to master the ability to see into the near future. But what I do know, when I leave his house several hours later with my body burning and wetness still slicking my inner thighs is that something has changed. And that Mark Tamblyn, sweet and hot and blushing red all over from the sheer athleticism of our shared bedroom antics, is the catalyst. For what, I don’t know yet. More hard sex? Something new and romantic, an adventure for the ages with me as the intrepid heroine?

I don’t know yet. But what I do know is that I somehow will end up at the coffee shop for another round of cake porn because I have completely forgotten how hungry I get after sex.

Especially if it’s that good.

I hope you like it. Because it’s not the last you’ll see of Anna Triplett…

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[S]excerpt Sunday : 72 Hours

Because it’s Sunday, and I’ve been incredibly busy writing lots of fiction stuff this week, I thought I’d let you in to what I was currently working on. Which is difficult because I’m currently working on about three short stories at the same time. Ain’t that always the way it goes, ey?

The three shorts will be included in a solo collection I’m putting together, which I’m hoping to release somewhere early next year. It hasn’t got a title yet, so I’m currently referring to it as That Collection Thingybob What I Am Doing. Just rolls off the tongue, really.

Anyway, this is a sexy (and unedited, so sorry for anything that doesn’t look or sound right!) excerpt from a story called 72 Hours. It’s a story about a tourist in New York City who, through a twist of fate, is reunited with an old marine fling of hers during Fleet Week and rediscovers her intense feelings for him. Only problem is that she’s got 72 hours before she goes back to Britain and no clue as to whether she’ll ever see him again…

From 72 Hours

by Jillian Boyd


Four years ago, I spent the summer in Brighton on a romance writing course. I’d been so excited about it for months and when I got there to find that, even at 25, I was the youngest person there and nobody seemed particularly interested in striking up a conversation with me, I wasn’t worried. I was there to learn and enjoy writing under the sunny skies of the seaside after all.

A week into it and I was baulking from the loneliness. I took a long walk along the pier, wondering why this walk along the pier was the most enjoyable thing I’d done all week. I joined the queue for a soft serve ice cream, right behind a shaven-headed guy who looked annoyingly broad shouldered from where I was standing. Then again, at that moment, everything looked like it had the potential to annoy me. I sighed deeply, which caused the man to turn around. The first thing I noticed about Jason Rowan was just how kind his smile was. The second thing I noticed about Jason Rowan was just how much his voice sounded like a three am tumbler of whiskey that I badly longed to take a sip of.

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Erotica: Flirt Merchant

Girl biting bottom lip
Girl biting bottom lip
Girl Biting Lip – image from

A piece of short form erotica, inspired by a trip to the pub. Enjoy.

Flirt Merchant

Don’t think I can’t see you standing there, drying your glasses. I can practically feel your eyes on me, peering from just around the corner of the bar, straining to get a better look at me. God, you’re so predictable. You do this every week – I’m starting to wonder if I make you lose your nerve.

It’s so blatantly obvious you want to ask me out. Either that, or you just fancy a dirty quickie in the dark of the alley behind the beer garden. I don’t mind – I’d do either one of them with an equally big grin on my face. You are fucking gorgeous. I wonder if you realize that, ever since you started working here, you’ve made several women (and men) almost faint at the mere sight of you. You probably do realize it – in fact, you probably relish it and welcome it. You grin at them, you play along and flirt with them like the massively muscular flirt merchant you are.

I do like your muscles. They look unreal under that tight black t-shirt of yours. Do you “always come first” as your t-shirt says tonight? I bet you don’t. I bet you’re a gentleman. That underneath your tough exterior is a man who knows how to make ’em come and make ’em come over and over again before he even considers pumping his dick towards his own climax. I bet your stamina is the stuff of legends.

It must be – we’ve played this game of eye-fucking for weeks now. Neither of us giving in, both of us creaming at the thought of what could be. What would happen if one of us took the plunge? Let’s say if I come up to you, start talking to you, making small talk-y chit chat… would you dive in? Would you ask what you wanted to ask? Would you tell me to meet me out back in a couple of minutes? Would you make me wait, catch me off guard and pin me up against the wall?

What would you say?

Would you tell me you’ve been watching me? That you’ve been straining in your trousers, under that apron of yours? That all you’ve wanted for weeks was to fuck my sodden pussy and make me come so hard I’d tremble for days?

And what if it was the other way around? Would you let me take control? Would you let me ride your hard cock and tame your wild stallion ways? Would you let me do all the things I’ve been wanting to do to you, the things I’ve fantasised about doing to you late at night while I’m in bed with my hand between my sticky pussy lips?

Would we make each other squirm with pleasure?

“Can I take your plate away for you?”

Wrapped up in my deviant, delicious thoughts, I hadn’t noticed you sauntering up to me. God, you’re even more gorgeous up close.

“Yes, thank you. That was a lovely meal.”

“Lovely meal for a lovely girl.” you say, winking. And then you’re away again, whisked back into the fray of the Friday night at the pub. I can’t deny there’s a sudden twinge in my chest – this was the moment, you know. Either of us could have jumped at the chance.

I start to think this back and forward game of flirt-fuck tennis was all a summery dream when I notice the small piece of paper lying in place of my plate of fish and chips.

I get off at ten. I’m suspecting I’ll be getting you off by eleven. 

I can’t help chuckling. My eyes catch yours as I bite my lip. “Cock” I mouth.

And as you tap your watch, mouthing “not yet…” I can’t help feeling slightly victorious.

If you liked that piece, or want me to write more snippets of erotic flash fiction on this blog, please to let me know in the comment section! Also, you know, if you just want to say hi…

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To Minxy Malone, Thanks For Everything

Recently, I found an article on The Frisky asking people what the first book that they masturbated to was. It got me in a bit of a thinky-backy kind of mood, and even as I’m typing this, I’m scanning my brainbox for books I used to read to get aroused.


That’s what I did for a long while. Just read books, look for the dirty bits and read them over and over again until I got aroused. Nothing really came of it, other than a, quite frankly, very frustrating hunt for more dirty bits in other books. Seriously, once I figured out the books which tended to have a bit of fumbling in it, I was at the book store more frequently than anyone I knew.

Which is a sad thing, really. People should read more.

But anyway. The main problem with my modus operandi was that it felt like I’d bought up the entire store’s stock of romance novels after a while. We’d usually only get translations of books, and the lust does tend to get lost when taken out of the language it is originally set in. Or so I think.

The first book that got me properly hot under the collar (but, amazingly, didn’t yet prompt me to masturbate) was Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl by Belle De Jour. I bought the book on my first ever holiday to London, in despair of it being our last night there. I lay on my bed in the hotel room, opened it up, and started reading.

And then there was that opening line. “The first thing you should know is that I’m a whore.”

That first line drew me in so quickly that I kept reading for a very long time indeed.


The first book that I masturbated to… I think it was a collection of erotic stories written by famous female writers. It was edited by Imogen Edwards-Jones and called In Bed With. You had people like Adele Parks and Esther Freud contributing, but under assumed, “x-rated” guises (a combo of their first pet and first street they lived on, I think, which made for names like Pom Pom Paradise and Tutty Monmouth….).

It was a total eye opener. Well, it was at the time. It wasn’t a very good book, I think. But it did make me broaden my horizon… because one of the stories (“Twice Shy”) addressed two subjects that I didn’t even know I would find arousing. I’d always been squeamish about anything to do with anal sex (thank you very much for that, Sex and the bloody City) and even more so about spanking. So, I was more than a little hesitant to even read this story at first.

Again, in hindsight, it wasn’t particularly an erotic masterpiece, but in the end, I got off on it. More than a few times, in fact.

So, those were the two instrumental ones. I’ve since had a lovely string of stories lead to an even lovelier string of orgasms (KD Grace’s Vegging in Best Women’s Erotica 2010 comes to mind…). And, of course, I’ve taken up writing erotica myself.

But you can bet your sweet behind on this: I don’t think that me writing erotica would have even happened if it wasn’t for those (and many other) books.

The fucking awesome orgasms that happened from reading them? Bloody lovely bonus.

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Fiction – Embracing The Cliché – Part One

I wrote this story a while back, and since I’ve not yet found a home for it, I thought I’d share it with you dudes. Aren’t you lucky. Read part one after the jump (no naughty bits just yet…)

Journalist Kristina is deep in the shit. Literally. Whisked away from the comforts of London and dropped on a farm in a rural town in the States with a camera crew and an entirely unfit wardrobe, Kristina’s job is to follow a cowboy around on his daily duties. 

Said cowboy is not best pleased with this. Daniel McKillop is a surly, brooding bastard. Who just so happens to be ridiculously sexy…


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