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.

Good.

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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[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 lovethispic.com

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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