The Burnt

I’m burnt out.

Simple as that. There’s no point in me weighing my words or giving this post a funny little introduction. Because there ain’t nothing funny about this. Those three words can’t, to me, be spun into something they’re not.

It’s important for me to write it down as plainly as this. It’s important in times like this, when health both mental and physical are collaborating to create a giant and painful fog around me, that I write it down like this. It’s like sending myself a semaphore message though the fog – a Norman-from-Bake-Off-esque missive in written form, which I can come back to and read so I can remind myself that this is what’s going on.

It helps. Just like I use Spoon Theory to express how this feels to others, this is how I express myself to… well, ehm… myself. I am burnt out. And it’s okay to sit down and re-evaluate for a second. Take breaths. Relax shoulders. Rest and sit with self in some weird form of peace.

I’m writing this down now because in the last few days especially, I have been angry with myself for not “being more productive”. Full on, red-hot, how-dare-you-you-silly-shit rage. Which in itself is completely anti-productive as it sends you into this weird cycle of apologising to yourself for no reason as you go into overdrive trying to keep up with doing everything this anger is telling you you’re “meant” to be doing but aren’t doing. “Meant” to be doing is the key here – because your brain will start making shit up that really isn’t essential or time sensitive or something and then it’ll start shouting at you because this thing that isn’t of the essence/deadline-sensitive is something you should have already done. Twice.

I’m burnt out. Day job, tiring brain, tiring body, Weird Cycle of Shit I’m Supposedly Meant To Be Doing.

So, yeah.

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Release Day – Sacred and Profane: Priest Erotic Romance

Sacred and Profane Cover

Sacred & Profane: Priest Erotic Romance

edited by Torrance Sené

Ten stories of temptation, romance, and blasphemy featuring Sonni de Soto, Piper Denna, Torrance Sené, Charlotte French, Bronwyn Green, Leandra Vane, Mira Stanley, Jordan Monroe, H K Carlton, and Jillian Boyd.

Not even men of the cloth are exempt from God’s greatest gift: Love. In Sacred and Profane: Priest Erotic Romance, you’ll find stories of clergymen stepping outside their vows, pastors weaving divinity into their seductions, nuns and parishioners confessing to their body’s every earthly desire, and more.

Are you aroused by the blasphemous dance of sex and religion? The dangerous edge of eroticism contained within submission to something beyond oneself? The taboo juxtaposition of holy and sensual? Then Sacred and Profane welcomes you.

Purchase: Amazon US | Amazon UK | Smashwords | B&N | Kobo | iBooks

Release Date: 17 January 2017

Length: 60,220 words / 186 pages

Available in Print and Digital

Publisher: Sexy Little Pages




It’s always exciting to have a new anthology coming out which has one of my stories in it. In the past I’ve been kind of (okay, extremely) shite about alerting you to when that happens, but I’ve made a promise to myself to be better at this sort of lark.

Perfect time to start! Sacred and Profane: Priest Erotic Romance contains my story Down on My Knees… and in all honesty, it was a story I never thought I could write. The call for submissions Torrance had written was mightily tempting, but there was a niggling doubt in my mind – I usually stick into my safe corner of contemporary London-based erotica. Also, I know absolutely bugger all about priesthood apart from what Tiffany Reisz’s Original Sinners series told me. Surely this was one not meant for me to try for?

But then, on the way home from work, an idea sprung in my mind. Just a little one. Along with a large and quite determined “OF COURSE YOU CAN TRY TO WRITE SOMETHING FOR THIS ANTHO, YOU NUGGET.”

And so I did. I’m very proud of this story, and this anthology, which contains stories by AMAZING folks such as Leandra Vane, Bronwyn Green and Sonni de Soto. I can but hope you buy and enjoy. Meanwhile, here’s a little bit more on my story, along with a teasing little excerpt…



Blurb for Down on My Knees

Opened and awakened to the earthly lust that lie within her, Sister Josephine is unable to move on from her desires and the priest who stirred them in her one night. When they meet again, will either be strong enough to escape their attraction?


Excerpt from Down on My Knees

Just under my right knee, visible only when you really looked for it, was the raised remnant of a scar. It didn’t hurt me… physically. But in my mind, every time I took to my knees to pray, regardless of whether I was alone or with the other sisters, its presence always took me back to that night. The night Campbell found himself at the crossroads between the two sides.

The one night we had together.

I was there in my mind now. In flesh, I was kneeling on a hassock for a moment of silence away from the din of the picnic. But in spirit…

My eyes were fixed on the large, ornate cross above the altar, on the stillness of Christ the Lord. But my thoughts drifted back to that one night.


PS – please consider supporting the Patreon of the wonderful publisher which helped make this book a reality, Sexy Little Pages. Also *SHAMELESS PLUG* please also consider supporting my own.

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On High Heels – for Kink of the Week

“But the truth is, I want to be some woman’s work boots, not her high heels.”
“Work boots?” What was sexy about that? And did women have work boots?
“Yeah. You know, the boots she pulls out when she wants to get down and dirty, hiking or gardening or boating or painting the kitchen. The ones she relies on and trusts and lives her life hard and good and on her terms in. Her favourites.”
― Erin McCarthy, Hard and Fast

I make absolutely no secret about the fact that I am a short-arse. It’s right there, in my Twitter bio along with the fact that I wear glasses as both are two home truths in my life. It can get mightily inconvenient at times, and I often find myself wishing I had Mister Fantastic-like stretching powers just because it would make certain things a little bit less of a kerfuffle.

You’d think then, that I’d be a sucker for a pair of high heels. And I am… kind of. Not in the way you might think, anyway.

For my graduation, I got a pair of high heels from my mother to wear, as a present. I don’t even remember why I was so excited to get them because excitement quickly gave way to terror visions of tripping over a mic extension cord and falling on top of of our head of year. Still, I wore them and graduated without any major trippage occurring. In the years since, I’ve only owned one other pair of high heeled shoes. Both pairs were gorgeous, both pairs in the end only got a few outings.

Aesthetically, I fucking love high heels. Done well, they’re like tiny feats of architecture. I refer you to Rebel’s post on this subject, and the picture of her amazingly detailed and gorgeous Iron Fist shoes – I mean… LOOK AT THEM. Hours of delicate crafting, right there.

But personally, I don’t think I’d ever invest in a pair again. There’s a couple of reasons for this:

  • I have arthritis in my knees and even though I’ve often said on this blog that my body is an entity I am still learning to suss out, I am pretty fucking confident on matter of keeping whatever structure my knees still have in tact for as long as I can;
  • The idea that some people really think you’re less of a woman if you don’t wear high heels pisses me right off, especially (in my situation) for the reason mentioned above;
  • The few times I have worn them, they’ve never felt right to me;

High heels and I, we’re always going to have a complicated relationship. However, boots are a different matter. A pair of sturdy, chunky boots on my feet seems to have the same effect as a pair of high heels can have on others. I walk taller. Stand stronger. Feel like I can navigate my way through life (and London) with some form of confidence.

I trust in my boots like some trust in their high heels. They’re my favourites – the ones I rely on. But that doesn’t mean I won’t ever stop admiring a beautifully crafted pair of heels.

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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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Due to the line of work I’m in, I didn’t really stop working during the holiday season. It felt strange to see all the days blur into one. To temporarily forego the actual names of the days in favour of Christmas Eve, New Years Eve, and so on. Even stranger still to jump back to plain old Tuesday.

Strange, but kind of nice. As the clock ticked over to twelve on New Years Eve, it felt nice to just breathe for a second. Celebrate that this lovely, but stressful period was drawing to a close. And reflect on what lay ahead.

One step at a time, one day at a time is my motto for this year. It has to be, considering my previous motto (DO ALL THE THINGS DO THEM NOW OH MY GOD wHy AM I sO TIreD) wasn’t exactly doing wonders for my mental health. Nor was it doing wonders for my libido. The mind is insidious like that. It’s like my depression had been talking at me about my sex life for so long that I eventually had to go “sure, why not”. The same old drone became so fucking boring that in the end my mind just flicked a switch turning off my sexual needs and wants.

And then got that switch jammed for A Very Long Time Indeed.

So, in life as in my sex, that’s going to be how I’ll try to roll from now on. And already it’s kind of working. Taking baby steps has already made me feel a bit better, a bit more relaxed about my body and about being touched. I’m wanting to work on getting back to masturbation first – that’s a jolly one that I maybe didn’t actually talk about last year come to think of it.

I think that one’s actually borne more out of being too tired to even take my shoes off at the end of the day, let alone go to town on myself with fingers and vibrator. Maybe it’s a mix. Part mental health, part tiredness, with a glazed cherry of are you fucking kidding me though on top.

One step at a time, one day at a time. That’ll do for a resolution.

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

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The Laid Bare Erotica Reading Challenge 2k17

First things first: happy New Year, dudes! Welcome to 2017! And welcome to this…


Yep, I’m kicking off this year in style. The Laid Bare Erotica Reading Challenge 2k17 is a reading challenge anyone who reads this blog is welcome to take part in. Chart your progress on your own blog, tweet about it (#LaidBareReading), Facebook about it…

My aim is to get more people reading not just erotica, but erotic romance and sex-related non-fiction. It’s not a numbers thing – it doesn’t matter how many you end up reading, all that matters is the reading itself and what you take away from it.

So, here without further ado, the Laid Bare Erotica Reading Challenge 2k17 master-list…


– An anthology of erotic short stories by various authors

– A collection of shorts by one author

– A Chuck Tingle Tingler

– A book by an author new to you

– A bonkbuster

– A book by Anaïs Nin

– An erotic story inspired by a fairy tale

– An erotic poetry collection

– A book written before 1950

– A book written by a POC

– A book written by an LGBTQ+ person

– A book of LGBTQ+ erotica

– A book by an author you talk to on Twitter

– A parody

– A sex memoir

– A book of non-fiction about sex/relationships

– A book available on Project Gutenberg’s erotica tag

– A book which isn’t erotic fiction but does include a notorious sex scene

– A book in your favourite subgenre

– A book in a subgenre you haven’t tried yet

– A book you love and want to re-read

– Any of the books/stories mentioned in Desire: 100 of Literature’s Sexiest Stories

– A second chance read

– A Mills & Boon romance

– A book which came out in 2016

– Belinda Blinked 1

– A story translated from another language

– An older volume of Best Women’s Erotica

– A Black Lace Quickies collection

– A book with a title beginning with V

– A book with a cover that appeals to you (no matter the title or subgenre)

– An audio book

– A book which pushes your boundaries

– Wildcard book

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Rounding Up


This year, I:

  • Got some more awesome stories written and published (with more to come early next year);
  • Ran a quite literally feverish session on writing inspiration at Eroticon, as I was still recovering from a chest infection;
  • Sat enraptured on the front row at the brilliant Charlie Powell’s awesome talk about writing sex and disability, at the same event;
  • Did not get stuck in such a colossal traffic clusterfuck that our coach had to take a massive diversion through scenic Bloody Nowhere, like last year, on the way to Eroticon (which, *yay*);
  • Delved into Project Emmanuelle and tackled the Natasja Vermeer era with increasing despair;
  • Speaking of Emmanuelle and despair… This is how the project kicked off – not with a bang but with a human hoover;
  • Celebrated five years of writing this blog and of being an erotica writer;
  • Celebrating twenty-six years of being a low-key human disaster;
  • Did a lot of soul searching about the last five years of writing this blog and what I want to do with it in the future;
  • Learned some harsh truths about our little community;
  • Read my words out loud at several cool events;
  • Had severe blips in my libido;
  • Discovered and went heart-eyes for a whole new manner of awesome people, artists, things and interests;
  • Spent a lot of time crying and angering about this fuckstick of a year;
  • Spent a lot of time plotting on how to fight the fuck back.

My own favourite blog post of the year:

“What Matters” – or how ILB and LLB spent Valentine’s Day in their own special way.

Favourite erotica/romance of the year:

I have to confess that I didn’t read that much into my own genre this year, which I am become shame about, I’m so sorry. HOWEVER THO! Two books I did read, and fucking loved:

A Gentleman in The Street by Alisha Rai – genuinely wonderful, eloquent, genius Alisha Rai. I adore her brain.  This book (which came out in 2015 but landed on my doorstep in early January) is excellent and also DIRTY AS FUCK and made me blush quite hard on a bus more than once. I’m looking forward to reading more of her stuff in the next year, and especially her upcoming Hate to Want You with Avon Books.

The Bourbon Thief by Tiffany Reisz – Hoo boy, this book fucked me up. In a good way. A very good way.

Favourite general books of the year:

This year, I fell hard for: The Girl With All The Gifts by M.R. Carey – The Woman who Ran by Sam Baker (who I also met, as she was chairing Marian Keyes’s book launch, and who is fucking lovely) – Sofia Khan is Not Obliged by Ayisha Malik – The Most Wonderful Time of the Year by perfect human Joanna Bolouri – It’s All Absolutely Fine by Ruby Elliot of Ruby Etc. fame – Adulthood is a Myth by Sarah Andersen of Sarah’s Scribbles fame – Mad Girl by Bryony Gordon

and, like, a million other books I can’t think of right off the bat. There are so many awesome folks (some of whom I got to know on Twitter this year) who are blepping a book into the world next year as well, and rest assured, I can not wait.

Some things which made me a happy:

  • My lovely friend Steven introduced me to Off The Menu;
  • My Dad Wrote a Porno – in general, but also the live tweet along the day the last episode of season two went live;
  • Rogue One;
  • The Wicked + The Divine was back in full force this year, and I am so *heart-eyes* for this comic it’s ridiculous;

So, next year then…

As I mentioned in my list at the start, I’ve done a lot of soul searching about this blog. And in the end, I decided to look to another, WaaaaYYY more famous blogger than myself for inspiration – this blog, or at least the way it’s sort of been for the past few years, is done. As well as having too many painfully bad memories from the early days, there’s just something that’s not clicking anymore. Something that needs to change.

So fuck it. I’m changing it.

And what it is, you will find out in 2017.

Peace out, and see you there.

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Project Emmanuelle – Jesse’s Secret Desires

jesse-binocularsI have a confession to make. This post has been sitting in my drafts for the better part of two months. I’ve started it, re-started it and scrunched up the virtual paper so many times. You think Sexual Spells was bad? You ain’t seen nothing yet.

Welcome then, dear reader, to Jesse’s Secret Desires. Schrödinger’s Emmanuelle film. It both is and isn’t one. How, you may ask, is this possible? Let’s find out. 

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Take Care – a self-care post

I was inspired to write this after reading Girly Juice (Kate Sloan)’s excellent post on strange self-care in a time of terror.

Self-care (or coping, as they are sometimes one and the same) as Kate points out, is unique from person to person. What works for you might not work for me, and vice versa. With that in mind, here’s some of the shit that’s helped me in the past two weeks – hopefully, some of these bits will inspire you to do what you can do for yourself or even help you with finding something new.

I love you.  You matter. I’m with you in this fight.


Confession – I am not the greatest when it comes to drawing things. And I’m also not the greatest at allowing myself to do something for me. But that mindset took a bit of a shift recently, when I discovered the work of Ruby Etc.

Her stuff made me pick up pencil and paper, and lemme tell you, I’m still shite at drawing but fucking hell it feels nice to just let go and doodle what I can’t put into words.

Challenge (and general retro TV)

This is a very UK thing – there’s a channel called Challenge which is basically a treasure trove of UK game show repeats. The other day, I watched a Wheel of Fortune celebrity Christmas special in which they all wished me a happy 1989.

It’s similar to watching random episodes of old TV shows. A visual comfort blanket in the form of Tequila and Bonetti or ER.

Nail polish

Red lipstick is self-care. And so is nail polish. In any colour, really.

Scary media

Whether in book form or in film form, horror can be helpful with alleviating anxiety for some of us. It’s a genre I’ve turned to time and time again (along with sci-fi/fantasy) for a strange kind of comfort. Hit me up for recommendations, if you’re feeling getting lost in something spooky.


Film. The other love of my life. The day after the referendum, I went to see The Secret Life of Pets. In the last week, I’ve barely held it together through Arrival and Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. Film is, along with music and books, essential. I could write for the rest of my life and far beyond that about how film matters, but for the purposes of this post I’m keeping it simple. It matters. Entertainment is not (and will never be) a mere trivial distraction from outside shit.

Hot chocolate and a book to read

Speaks for itself.

The “My Dad Wrote a Porno” podcast

I have gone on record on Twitter as saying that My Dad Wrote a Porno basically saved my life, and that is no fucking lie. If you’re new to it, MDWAP (for short) is the brainchild of Jamie Morton who, after discovering his dad had written and self-published a hilariously bad erotic novella called Belinda Blinkeddecided to share his misery and embarrassment with his two mates Alice Levine and James Cooper. And also the world, in podcast format.

ILB and I started listening to MDWAP not long after the referendum. It was a laugh we both sorely needed, and we binged season one at a breakneck speed, finishing in time for the start of season two. It is horrifying, cringe worthy, hilarious, wonderful fun;

Let me know if you have any unconventional self-care methods, if you want any horror recommendations or if you’ve joined in on the fun with My Dad Wrote a Porno. Similarly, let me know of any fundraisers, charities, people and places you want to give a signal boost to or come on here to talk about.

And I will say so again: I love you. You’re not alone. You matter.

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“I Can’t Find It!”

Oh god, I’m such a fucking potato.

Himself and I were on a date at the cinema last night. One that was a bit fraught, considering most of what we’d planned went a bit wrong. Down to the fact that, as we were heading towards the exit afterwards, we were confronted with a massive downpour. Eventually, we made it onto a bus.  It was late. We were tired and cold. So conversation wasn’t exactly flowing. It was more of a “let me cling onto you like a loving limpet” kind of moment.

I mentioned something about making a t-shirt with an inside joke between us on it. Like, I don’t even know why exactly. I just did because when we’re both tired it’s like our brains sync up to hammer on the ULTRA RANDOM button. So, I mentioned this particular inside joke. And I said something along the lines of “but which one would you put on a t-shirt for me?”

He thought it through for a second. Then his face lit up.

“Where is it? I can’t find it! Oh God, IT’S GONE.”

Have you ever, in the heat of a sexy moment, blurted out something so ridiculous it just follows you around perpetually? A something that occasionally gets brought up by your partner and makes you wish you’d never ever spoken, ever in your life? This is what that is for me.

Lemme rewind.

*spoopy, squiggly flashback effect*

This happened about three years ago. I may have written about it then, but fuck it, I’m writing about it again. We were in the midst of some ferociously good foreplay, the kind that makes you lightheaded and giggly and slowly replaces any kind of logical linear thought with the words WOOHOO SECKS YAS GOOD on a loop.

So it was that I went in to give him a blow job. Well, I wanted to. And I was going to. But… weirdly enough, I couldn’t immediately find his cock. Which was quite the achievement considering he was rock hard and also RIGHT FUCKING THERE.

I panicked. I legit panicked because my brain can be a cheeky little shit sometimes. Especially in the heat of a sexy moment. But this was peak me being a shambles. In a thick haze of lust and libido, my brain had successfully convinced me, for a few seconds at least, that my boyfriend’s cock had vanished into thin air.

Three years on, and I still am a bit mortified by it. Just a little. The words, mostly. I actually had to ask him what context this happened in, as I couldn’t for the life of me remember.

Well, I do now. And yeah, after a bit of a duff night, remembering it was a slight bit of a laugh which I needed. An embarrassing one, but a laugh nonetheless.

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