Halloween Erotica – Descent Unto Silk’s

It’s Halloween, and I thought I’d write a bit of short, sharp erotica to freak you out and turn you on at the same time.



“Tegan… can you hear me?” 

Her eyes are a flickering amber bonfire. Silk’s is a blur of shadows because of it. Nothing happening yet, so she’s relying on her instincts. Her instincts, and the woman whose voice now lives in her head.

“Nod if you can hear me.” 

Tegan nods her head, sips her drink. The burn of the alcohol is piss-weak compared to the building fever embers in her body. Slowly the flames lick their way outward from her core. She’s learned to control the fever. But still, the power which has nestled inside her terrifies her as much as it arouses her.

Or maybe terrified and aroused have entwined. Maybe her emotions are as much of a blur as the shadows in front of her.

It started with the voice. Her voice – her Guardian, although Tegan couldn’t possibly know that at the time. The only thing she did know was that her body was betraying her in a way no medical textbook would have ever deemed possible.

Except it wasn’t a betrayal.

It was something much, much more complicated…

Her cunt throbs. It always does. Her body is wetness and heat. Need is what drives her survival. Need is what helps her see tonight, and all the other nights and days of her new life.

She is anchored to her corner spot. The throbbing bass and sound waves of voices vivid as they always are when her eyes glow and people become shadows. Temporary loss of one sense, constant amplification of the other four.

“Breathe deeply. I can sense your heart quickening. Breathe. Let the energy flow – don’t let it tangle. And look again. Deeper.” 

Shadows flit around, the sound  of drunken stumbles and sloshes like a concerto of white noise. She’s patient. She’s waiting for the shadows to clear. And they will. She might still be new to this, but she’s just about figured out how to channel the energy in a way that isn’t as frantic and unfocused as it was when this all began. All she could see was shadows and lights then.

But now, it’s light – singular. And light singular is sitting at the bar, tall, dark and handsomely looking her up and down. His features are clear, almost luminescent against the shadows of Silk’s other revelers.

She feels herself moving, lifted away from her little corner and directly into the path of the Light Singular. Who introduces himself to the good Dr. Tegan Byrne, asks her if she’d like a top-up of whatever it is she’s drinking. He’s polite, which is good. Asks her if she wants to sit with him, is kind to her…

Good. Very good. For him more for her.

Because Succubi don’t take too kindly to the rude. And as much as the first touch of his hand on her thigh makes the fire inside her just a little less fierce, it would be less enjoyable fucking him with the knowledge she may have to do something very, very bad to him afterwards…

This is a short companion piece to my story Becoming, which you can read in Dirty Flash Fiction (a Sexy Little Pages anthology of dirty flash fiction). 

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Short Fiction ~ Drowning


She couldn’t remember the last time they’d fucked.

For that matter, she couldn’t even remember their last kiss, their last touch or anything remotely intimate passing between the two of them.

Was their relationship as dead as the flowers on the kitchen table?

Friday night and she was alone in the vast emptiness of their house. Despite the size of it, it felt like the walls were about to come down on her. Trapped in a domestic lie.

Elle locked herself in the bathroom and slowly undressed. She stretched her naked body and stood in front of the mirror, looking into her own eyes. Half the woman she was, a shell of the better days of their relationship. Bags under her eyes from five AM starts and being woken up by the sound of his infernal phone ringing non-stop.

Why did she do this to herself?

Why did she even look in the mirror anymore? It scared her. It wasn’t her staring back at her.

Elle turned on the taps, filling the bath with comforting hot water. It had become her Friday night ritual, a bit of alone time so she could cope with the leaden emotions weighing on her shoulders. She watched as the bath filled and wondered if she’d be brave enough to call him out on his bullshit, to tell him that it was obvious that everything was going nowhere, fast.

He wouldn’t listen, of course. He was too much of a stubborn shit to ever face the facts.

Elle slid into the warm water and let it surround her. And for a while, she felt at peace. Even when she slid underwater, for the briefest of minutes, it didn’t feel like she was drowning. It felt like she was floating.

And when she came back up again, her lips curled in a small smile.

She’d work up the courage somehow.

But for now, there was only this bath and this body.

And that was enough to make her feel better.

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Finessing Sex – A Snippet of Fiction

In a break from the usual proceedings (being the duty of recapping my Eroticon 2013 experience) I wanted to treat you guys to something I wrote during KD Grace’s excellent Finessing Sex session. After we had covered all bases, doing a short character sketch and setting a scene, we were asked to write a short scene in the space of ten/fifteen minutes.

For this scene, I resurrected Elin and Jase (remember those buggers?) and completely restyled them, because God knows they needed it. At the start of the scene, imagine our leading lady (short, redhead, big boobs) in the buff, if you please.

Here we go.


“Excuse me?” I say, my jaw nearly unhinging from the shock.

I have no time to contemplate just how wrong this whole shebang is because Jase pushes me against the cold, hard brick wall and silences me with an all-devouring kiss.The impact of the wall against my back makes me cry out in pain but slivers of pleasure build up in my stomach as he unzips his jeans and reveals his cock, proudly erect.

I’m momentarily lost for words, the worry of Jade returning from the market protruding in my mind but as he kisses me again, pressing his dick against my hip in the process, I lose the will to care.

My pussy is so wet, it has taken over my headspace and all I can hear is the words “Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him” on repeat.

He opens me, not just my pussy, every metaphorical inch of me. His breath hot on  my neck, his hands rough and calloused on my breasts, his moans, his guttural “I must have you now” moans and finally, blessedly, his cock inside me.

I am fucking Jade’s boyfriend and I don’t give a shit.

After all, she never did.


Comments welcome. I am here all week and I also do requests. Try the steak, it’s lush.

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The Busker

I saw a man this morning.

He was a scruffy fella, with a dark stubble and a cheeky grin. 

Played the fiddle like his life was on the line, down in the depths of the Piccadilly tube station.

Watched him for a while.

His eyes were filled with passion, and he asked for no money, only the ears of the commuters.

He sang of long-lost loves and the open seas.

The Ides of March and small reveries.

And with his rhymes, he expertly plucked my heartstrings. 

Our eyes met for but a second.

But I could see a world of stories in them.

And at that point…

I fell in love with the world again.

The little treasures,

big love,

passion, lust and happiness.

All in the fleeting words,

of the busker at Piccadilly Circus.


Inspired by Seth Lakeman and his fiddle.

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And He Dances Too

Apologies if this is rubbish. Just figured I’d try…

This one’s for The Doctor. x


He takes my hand.

Unsure of what he’s doing, but still he takes it. Assumes the position.

I giggle, because of his determination to hold on to the Sonic Screwdriver, like a little safety blanket.

“Stop giggling!” he grumbles. “I’m only doing this for you, you know.”

“Right, and why did you insist on wearing a fez again?”

“Oh, you know why. Now, come on. Show me how to tango.” 

“Are you sure you’ve never done this before? Have you never been a tangolero in your past lives?”

“Well… there was that one time… with Piazolla…” he says, pursing his lips while deep in thought. “And a gorgeous lady… what was her name again? But anyway, that ended ugly, so let’s never speak of it again, now teach me how to do this.”

And, slowly, but patiently, I teach him the steps. Our legs tangle and turn, and I realize that The Doctor is actually a really lovely… whatever he is.

And he dances too.



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I was prompted by the wonderful Ms. Rebecca Bond to write some angsty erotica. I don’t know if this is what she had in mind, but I hope she likes it. The prompt was “frame”, which apparently inspires her a lot. Let’s begin.


I can’t fight it anymore.

The pain is too overpowering. I want to go to bed and I want to sleep until this somehow magically goes away.

But mum won’t let me. She is intent on holding my hand and squeezing it until it evaporates from the sweat her hand is giving off.

“It’s going to be alright.” she whispers over and over again. “Gregor wouldn’t want you to cry.”

Gregor wouldn’t want my mother invading the privacy I so desperately need either.

“Mum.” I say, trying to get her out of that trance-like state all parents seem to go in when their child is experiencing heartache. She’s still not listening. “Mum!”

“Ssh, dear. You can cry if you need.”

I know she’s well-meaning and that, but she’s getting on my tits.

“Mum. I’d like to go to bed now, please.”

“Oh sorry, darling. Am I bothering you?”

“I just need to sleep now, okay?”

It still takes a while before she lets go of my hand. This is insane. It’s like she’s grieving him more than I am. And she never even liked him!

We say our goodbyes and she reminds me (yet again) that it’s okay to cry. Like she’s hell-bent on reminding me that Gregor is dead and gone and buried. As if I need any reminder. The entire fucking house reminds me of him.

I breathe him in with every turn I take. I see him in every picture frame. My husband. My everlasting one.

Fuck. I’m a widow.

My legs feel like lead as I make my way up the stairs. Have these always been so… incredibly massive before? I can’t tell. Everything seems twice as hard these days.

I crawl into bed, under the soft and downy sheets and every inch of me wants to drift off, were it not for me catching the eye of the picture on my nightstand.

I take the frame in hand and study it. It’s taken by the seaside… I don’t remember where. Brighton? Blackpool? Either way… we seem happy in it. Gregor looks like… well, like Gregor. Before the cancer. Or was this during? Fuck, I don’t know. 

Then it hits me like a brick in the face.

This was Greece.

Our last holiday together. How could I forget? We thought it would be a laugh to go to Mykonos for the summer and get lost in the gay bar scene. He wanted to live before he died, he said.

Oh God. The beach.

I close my eyes and drift off to last summer. If I concentrate, I can feel the Grecian sun warming my skin all over again. The grains of sand between my toes, the lapping of the water against our naked bodies.

That was the last time we made love. 

In the afternoon sun, under the jetty… all around us, people were moving. But time stood still, as we greedily devoured each other, taking in every inch. His warm, taut body on mine. Beads of sweat and a chorus of giggles and desperate cries of ecstasy.

His mouth on my breasts.

His cock inside me.

His continued whispers of undying affection in my ear. Even his breath tickling me. 

We cried and laughed together, on that patch of beach.

And now I had no Gregor. No evidence of how happy we were, apart from his smile, in that picture, in that frame.

I close my eyes and surrender myself to the night and the memories.


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Next To You (Wake Up #5)

We draw the veil on the Wake Up-series with this last installment. Let’s see how this one plays out. Enjoy, and thanks for reading.


There is no greater pleasure, than waking up next to you.

Watching the morning light flicker on your skin,

dance off your freckles and light up your face.

Watching you make faces in your last throes of sleep.

Pouting your lips at an imaginary suitor,

your eyes flitting open and closed.

Your breathing steady,

your every curve flowing in the light of early dawn.

It makes me weak in the knees, 

to wake up to a vision of almost-perfect.


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Angel Face

This is a short piece of fiction I wrote earlier this week. I don’t really think it’s done yet, and needs some scrubbing up, but I’m going to post it anyway, because I’m proud of it. Enjoy.


I still remember that first night. People always say they do, that it was magical and special and imprinted on their mind forever. Yet ask them about the little details that made that night so memorable, and they come up short.

I don’t. I remember all of it.

I can still smell the heavy scent of smoke hanging in the air at the bar. We’d stumbled out and into a taxi, holding each other for dear life and giggling our pants off.

There were kisses everywhere. At the bar, in front of the bar, in the taxi, in front of his house… The bitterness of his lager lingered on his tongue and he smelt like he’d smoked a full pack of Marlboro, but I didn’t give a toss because it was him and I wanted to drink him in.

We fell down on his worn and dusty sofa and made love in a haze of passion and alcohol.

Whatever happened to those two people? Why are they now living like ghosts?

Where had our love gone?

I couldn’t sleep. Another night of tears and silence had made me weary, so I paced around the house, drinking that ridiculously strong coffee he always brings.

I sat down at my desk and scribbled down page after page of incoherent thoughts, trying to make sense of what was making me feel so numb. Each angry, ink-blotted page brought me, frustratingly enough, to the exact same conclusion.

I think I’ve fallen out of love with the love of my life. That spark, that electrifying spark that kept us together was gone. We’d changed. We both loved people who didn’t exist any more.

The ticking of the clocks drove me insane.

I sat in the room, watching him sleep. My Angel Face. His dark blond hair, so messy. The hair I’d ruffled and entwined my fingers in countless times. The face I loved so much, now blotted with nasty stains of sorrow.

He looked like an otherworldly being. So still, so perfect. I willed myself to love him like I loved him before. Every fiber of my being wanted to fight.

But when first light hit, and Angel Face opened his eyes, I knew we had lost.

And he knew too.

His face was pale and silent tears trickled down his cheeks.

I walked over to him and sat down on the bed. Wiping the tears away, I whispered the only thing I could whisper.

“I’m so sorry.”

He took me in his arms and whispered back, “I know. Me too.”

We had loved each other with an unbridled passion. We had loved with hearts and minds and souls and loins.

We had loved.

And as we lay there, in the dying moments of him and me, I wished with all of my heart that we would love again someday.

Just not each other.

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Messy Love (Wake Up #4)

I was sort of inspired by a dear friend of mine, who does a bit of baking on the side. He also happens to be an excellent wordsmith, and I admire him from top to toe. So, this is for him. Hope he likes it, and hope you like it.


His house smells like a bakery.

A very chaotic and messy bakery at that. I’d noticed it when I came in, in the early hours of this morning. His counter had a coat of flour and dough sticking to it. There were several cakes and pies cooling on the kitchen table. And he tasted like the frosting on the brightly colored cupcakes he fed me in bed that night.

We made messy love on his counter top. Against his doorway, with bits of dough sticking to our hands and the sweetest sugar on his lips. In his bed. His warm and soft bed, where I still found myself at midday.

I was roused by another smell, this time the distinct scent of fresh croissants in the oven. 

Tiptoeing my way towards the kitchen, I inhaled deeply. Fuck, I forgot to ask him. Is he actually a baker?

If he was, he’s an unconventional one, for sure.

I found him in his kitchen, naked apart from an apron with the time-honored favorite “Kiss the Chef” emblazoned in swirly red letters on it. I couldn’t help giggling my arse off.

“I can not believe I’ve found the actual Naked Chef.” I said, as he turned, blushing pink all over. 

“Hi. Yes. Right. I’m naked and I’m baking, so I’m a chef. Right!”

His sudden attack of nerves was quite cute. Last night, he seemed like the pinnacle of self-confidence, from the first words in the bar to the last kiss in the bed. But now, he was all shy. I didn’t blame him. I’d be blushing down to my arse too if I was caught baking naked by an equally naked person.

“Good morning. Did you manage to get some shuteye?”

“I did. You’ve got a lovely bed.”

“Thank you. Ehm… these should be ready soon. D’you like them with butter?”

“Oh, yes, definitely!”

“Good, good.”

He fell silent, and seemed to be concentrating more on the hazy light in the oven than on me.

“Are you alright, Simon?”

“Oh, I’m fine. Really, fine. Fit as a fiddle. It’s just that I don’t often get a beautiful naked woman watching over me in my kitchen. Should we have sex now, should we wait for the croissants and eat…. I don’t know. Your nakedness confuses me.”

I giggled again.

“How about I just watch you for now? We could take advantage of our naked status later on.”

He smiled. “Good. You are stunning, by the way.”

“Thank you. You’re hot.”

Nothing more was said. I sat down on a kitchen chair and watched as he frosted, baked, grinned and joked with me. 

And I hoped that later on, we’d make more messy love.


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It’s With Love (Wake Up #3)

(author’s note: The third in the Wake Up Vignette series. Improvised at 4 in the morning. Let’s see where the words take me. As always, enjoy…)


“Give me a reason not to kick you out of bed, right here, right now.”

He takes a drag of his Marlboro Light and the scent of his nicotine-stained breath fills the air. I can’t tell if he’s quietly contemplating my question, or just taking the piss out of me.

“Because you invited me here.”

“Believe me, I’m starting to regret that.”

I look at him, trying my best to … what am I doing? I can’t exactly stare him out of bed, can I? Plus, he’s completely right. I was the one who let him in. Opened the door, opened the bed and opened my legs.

If only I could open my heart for him again.

Asshole. Wanker. Tit-weasel.

“How about because I’m a great fuck?” 

“Well, aren’t you firmly blowing your own horn there…”

“No, I do believe that it was you firmly blowing my own horn earlier.”

I take the pillow in my hands and scream into it. How could I possibly have forgotten how fucking exhausting and frustrating this man is?

“I will give you ten seconds to think of an actual good reason.”

He raises his head and stares at the ceiling. I have to refrain from punching him in the shoulder. This is the guy who normally never contemplates anything. All of a sudden, he has to think.

“Because we both love waking up next to each other like this. Because I still think you’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen, in both mind, body and soul. Because I still love you. And you still love me.”

He puts out his fag in the ashtray next to my bed and cuddles up to me. 

“What makes you think I still love you?”

“I don’t have to think. I know. Deep down, I just know. The way you touch me, the way you kiss me. It’s with love. And that says enough.” 

I take a deep breath. Musk and cigarettes and sweat and sex.

And I realize that this is us. And it still feels good.

I take his hand and entwine my fingers with his.

“Stay with me?”

“You don’t have to ask.” he says, kissing me on the forehead.

It’s with love.



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