Project Emmanuelle – Sexual Spells

Sexual Spells title

OK. I’m not going to lie. I’ve said it on Twitter and I’ll say it again here: this one nearly did me in. This is probably the fifth time I’ve restarted writing about Emmanuelle: Sexual Spells and I am determined to make it the one that sticks because I desperately want to move on and finish the Vermeer era.

Why did Sexual Spells nearly do me in? Why was this one in particular the one that caused me the most sweats so far (and not in a YE GODS THIS IS SEXY kind of way)? Because, my friends, this is the one where The Private Collection just goes off the rails and stops even remotely trying. To make sense. To have a coherent plot. To even have Emmanuelle as someone who actively participates in that plot.

This is Sexual Spells. Buckle up, motherfuckers, and let’s ride this pony home.

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Step In The Right Direction

It’s a Saturday night and I’m parked at our desk, scheduling the week’s tweets for Dreams of Spanking. Half of me is sweating on how to phrase the tweet for a particular scene, half of me is sweating because it’s a flurry of hot as hell spanking action dancing in front of my eyes (and a little bit of me is also sweating because of the stifling and indecisive mini-heatwave going on). I get that familiar wriggle, that one where my body’s temporarily wrested the control from the weevil in my brain and is making me very aware of the spark of a need catching fire. The need to be spanked, to feel his hand and hear the sound and let my body luxuriate in the feeling that it is being listened to.

Pleasingly, and surprisingly, it’s my body that keeps hold on the controls. It may or may not have something to do with the fact that, at some point, I hear the front door thump shut and see Irish Ladd jump in the back of a taxi with his mates who’ve come to pick him up for a night out. Empty room to the left of us, empty room to the right. Stuck in the middle, with plenty of opportunity to not give a single fuck about the noises being made.

So I grab that opportunity by the collar and strip off, leaving on just my t-shirt. I drape myself over the bed, telling him as best as I can what I need right then.

And he obliges gladly. He starts off slow, but I love a good slow start. Plenty of time to build up, really get the heat flowing. And it flows, setting my body alight in a way only he can. Making me wet in a way that I’ve not been for such a long time, opening me up and rendering me giddy with the need for an orgasm.

“Wow, you’re… you’re really wet!”

“Really?”

“Yeah… amazing…”

I can tell this time’s different from the way my voice is no longer controlled, measured. In its stead is a natural huskiness, a pleasure-cottoned slur of sound and words.

“… Can you get another finger inside me?”

He can.

He can, without effort, get three fingers deep. Three fingers which I pulse around as I frig myself to an orgasm so thunderously gorgeous, so wet and sloppy and wonderful that when he tells me that my come’s drenched the sheets, I’m ever so slightly amazed at remembering how good it feels to be completely in my body and out of my brain.

Heck, I’m still amazed right now, as I’m writing this. Amazed, and more than a little bit giggly. Step in the right direction? I can but hope…

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Wicked Wednesday #221: Read It and Weep

I could write epic poetry about how important books are to my life. Not just as a writer myself, but as a person who has at various points in her life turned to the written word for escapism, inspiration, knowledge, a laugh much needed, catharsis craved. I read voraciously – fuck, I’m reading right now, in between writing this and bumbling around online. As this week’s Wicked Wednesday theme is reading (it’s fundamental, don’t cha know?), I thought I’d forgo writing flash fiction for once, in favour of some idle musings about reading and books (with recommendations added in for good measure).

How I read

As a writer, I’ve found that keeping my reading choices as broad as possible (so, not just keeping to erotica as my be-all-end-all genre) has helped me to improve my craft so much. Bits and bobs of inspiration, whether it be a new way of telling a story,  or a jumping-off point for a plot, come and tack themselves on the notice board in my Memory Palace. It’s much the same with film, one of the other major cornerstones in my life. Atmospheres, words, moments, all sticking in my head like raw material. Fabric waiting patiently to be stitched together into a quilt of story.

As a person, outside of what I do when I’m doing writer-y stuff, books have been so important to me throughout my life that, if you asked me when this love for the written started I’d probably ehhhmmm… myself inside out. I’ve always read. I’ve always loved losing myself in stories, both fictional and (later in life) fact. As someone who has spent most of her adult life battling depression, reading is one of the things that still gives me relief. It makes the endless feedback loop of shite in my head come to a momentary halt. It makes my morning commute way less painful. It makes my heart sing to hold a book, it makes me giddy to come across something and think YES YOU, I WILL READ YOU NEXT.

Both points of view feed into each other, as much as they can stand separately. I read to enjoy both as a person and as a writer. It just means that as a writer my brain will be attuned slightly differently to the book in front of me.

What I read

Would you be at all surprised that my answer to this would be “fucking anything that I like the look and sound of, mate”? Because it totally is.

Okay, but seriously, narrow it down a bit

In fiction: sci-fi, fantasy, romantic comedy, thriller, YA.

In non-fiction: biographies, works on sex and relationships, works on feminism, works on mental health, comedy, investigative journalism, histories of film

In comics: Marvel, Image Comics, stand-alone graphic novels, Kate Beaton, Noelle Stevenson, Matthew Inman, Allie Brosh, Erika Moen.

Online: any long-reads that pique my interest

Offline: my house is basically wall to wall copies of Total Film/Empire/SFX/Sci-Fi Now

And in erotica?

Themed short story anthologies (anything that catches my eye, again), erotic romance, thrillers (think Kristina Lloyd and Tiffany Reisz).

Most recent read

Last Call at the Nightshade Lounge by Paul Krueger (which is great).

Most recent thing what you wrote yourself?

Stuck with You: A Short Erotic Romance.

Recommend me something!

Right, I could sling titles and names at you all day, but these are off the top of my head.

– Carrie by Stephen King

– Mad Girl by Bryony Gordon

– Furiously Happy by Jenny Lawson (also Let’s Pretend This Never Happened)

– Any of The Oatmeal collections (drawn by Matthew Inman)

– Hark, A Vagrant!/Step Aside Pops by Kate Beaton

– Hyperbole and a Half: Unfortunate Situations, Flawed Coping Mechanisms, Mayhem and Other Things That Happened by Allie Brosh

The Wicked + The Divine by Kieron Gillen and Jamie McKelvie

– Sex Criminals by Matt Fraction and Chip Zdarsky

– Patsy Walker AKA Hellcat! by Kate Leth and Brittany Williams

– Anything you find online by Hayley Campbell

– The Diary of a Teenage Girl by Phoebe Gloeckner

– Bad Feminist by Roxanne Gay

Drawing Blood by Molly Crabapple

– A Gentleman in the Streets by Alisha Rai

The Psychopath Test by Jon Ronson

– Let it Shine by Alyssa Cole

Seriously, I could go on for a while.

 

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

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World’s Least Satisfying

It’s hard to remember the last time – or any time – I had such an unsatisfying wank as the one I did the other day.

Himself had gone off to the North for the weekend, on an adventure with a few mates. We were house sitting at the time, so my only company for those two days was a cluster of cats. Now, I spent most of that weekend either at my day job or in front of the telly doing my other job, with one eye on the Olympics. The rest of the time, I was seemingly permanently clouded in a haze of tired and achy.

Maybe, in hindsight, a wank wasn’t the right solution after all. My brain managed to convince me it was, though, because my brain can quite often be a great big dickweed.

Go on, it said to me. It’s late, you’re mildly comfortable… 

And? “It’s late” and “I’m mildly comfortable” are not reasons I should be masturbating. In fact, considering I’d dragged the duvet downstairs and had my netbook perched on my lap and a cat precariously close to my face, comfortable wasn’t so much a thing I was as a lie in general.

I wasn’t at all comfortable because I was bone-tired and walking through the endless, boring as fuck mists of a depressive episode. The kind where Nothing has a capital N and you’re existing in a constant state of low-key fed up with your horrid mind.

I also wasn’t comfortable because there was another cat, perched in front of the TV, glaring at me rather openly. As if to say I know what you’re contemplating and I don’t like it one bit, you weird human.

But still, I gave in to my brain and slipped my fingers down the waistband of my pants. And to be honest, I wish I hadn’t. I wish I’d have just gotten on with what I was doing. It felt forced. It felt like I was doing it for the sake of reminding myself that yeah, I do still have a wank, thank you very much. It wasn’t a bad wank, but it was a wank that, if it were a film, I would have seen it through to the end but gotten up at the start of the credits and grumbled about it being a waste of my bloody time.

That’s not the wanks I want to be having. And I hope to fuck I find out what’s going on there, because I do not want masturbation to become another task on an endless tick list.

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Project Emmanuelle – The Sex Lives of Ghosts

Last time on Project Emmanuelle, we had an altogether more chilled time with Brittany Odell and her radio talk show antics. Sure, actual fucking nymphs showed up to waft around Emmanuelle’s bedroom but still.

This time, we’re dipping into rather more ethereal waters as Emmanuelle’s summer house turns out to be haunted by the ghost of a baron and his two lovers. Can the spell of the supernatural mend the relationship of the three friends Emmanuelle has staying over? Is Emmanuelle still looking for this David chap from the last film? (Answer – No.)

And, most importantly, how long will it take for you to get utterly freaked out at the baron’s haunted, faceless portrait?

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Slicker Than Your Average

I like writing stories set in the summertime. To me, there’s something about the change of seasons from the blushing days of spring to the all out glory that a summer can be that somehow mirrors the blossoming of a sexual connection between two people. I like the idea of heat from the outside assisting in generating heat from the inside.

In real life, summer’s effect certainly made a good go of it. When the sun first started to hit in earnest a few weeks back, I noticed the change in myself.

My mood slowly lifted. My general depressive funk from the last few months took a back seat, if only for a while (note- yes, on the back seat, but it’s still there, and still an awful bastard). And my libido, oh man. My libido was like a little angel/devil hybrid sitting on my shoulder, whispering utter filth in my ear.

I’d like to imagine, by the way, that this little angel/devil hybrid is actually Alice Clayton, considering I’ve been heavily into a Clayton reading binge.

Summer. Yeah. I got into it. ILB got into it. We got handsy and frisky and all kinds of naked, wrapped up in cuddles where the comforting warmth of him glowed right through me. There were orgasms, there were giggles, and all was well. I am a pale, freckly sort with a dependence on factor 50 who works in a place which is never any less than sauna-level hot. I’ve gone on record plenty of times grouching about how I don’t enjoy this kind of heat.

But… I think that’s actually a bit of a lie on my behalf. Only a bit. Or maybe not a lie. Just an underestimation of how a good lashing of summer could make me feel a bit better. The kind of loveliness with the occasional breeze. The kind where you can walk and bask and just for a moment marvel at the little bits of beauty in the ugly stuff.

It’s one of the other reasons I like setting stories in summer. It’s a gorgeous season, blooms and colours everywhere. Tiny moments of happiness can become wonderfully large in these halcyon days. With sex, momentary touches and kisses can spark such an insatiable fire. Sweat beading on foreheads, the glistening of skin…

Having said that, there has been something distinctly unsexy about the past couple of peak summer days. It’s like that The Oatmeal cartoon about microwaving butter – too much? Then nope, you don’t get to do sexy times because you won’t even have the energy to lift a finger, let alone fingering. Sexy moans and groans are replaced by moans and groans as a means of conversation, often punctuated by pointing and nudging your head. You feel like a human Pritt stick.

Still. When it comes to writing erotica set on days like these, I’m allowed to play around with the truth just a teeny bit, right?

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Project Emmanuelle – Sex Talk

Last time on Project Emmanuelle, we hit an early highlight (or not, depending on your tolerance for crazy sauce) as Emmanuelle faced off against Dracula himself, in a battle of sexual wits. Also, some other guy was involved and managed to trick an entire hen party of Emmanuelle’s mates into very nearly joining his army of the sexy undead.

By comparison, Emmanuelle The Private Collection: Sex Talk is a lovely, tranquil sea of calmth. It is the Paracetamol to your heat-related tension headache.  It is the Sunday morning Frasier double bill to soothe your Saturday night hangover.

In that it has a radio talkshow and its host central to the plot, as that’s what the Sex Talk of the title refers to.

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Wicked Wednesday #215 – At Night

This is a piece of short erotica written for this week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt – “Night World”. If you want to see the accompanying picture, shot by Molly Moore, visit this week’s page here.

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At night is when I think of him the most. When I miss the way he touches me, talks to me, whispers love into my ear and on to the surfaces of my skin. At night I miss him the most because nights have a sharp air of loneliness about them. The dark, illuminated by amber dots of streetlights, is a harsh mistress. It teases you, taunts you with the empty space next to you in bed.

I look out of my window, down into the little cobblestone backroad where the Friday night stragglers and Saturday night lovers pass and lean against the brick wall for support when they kiss or try and get their bearings through the haze of alcohol and whatever they might have been sweetly smoking. The pulse of lust glows through the streets, the summer heat having its way with the minds and libidos of the lovers of this city.

My lover never leaves my mind. Summer heat or not, he’s always there even when he isn’t there for me to hold and taste and inhale. He’s there when I let my hands slip between the folds of my labia, dipping into the ever-growing needy wetness and stilling the throb in my clit with the strum of my fingers. He’s there in little words or moments that make me smile to myself because they make me think of his voice or his laugh.

He’s there when I spot them, at an hour of night where most of the city has given up and gone to bed. They’re giggling, staggering, pawing at each other with a lust that’s messy and almost teenage in its wantonness. I can see her, backing against the metal of the doorway across from my living room window, a doorway to a storage room at the back of the pub on the other side. I can see him, kissing her all over, her moaning with the joy of new lust, new love or just something for the night only.

Whatever it is, it makes me ache for him. So far away, only available through webcam pixels and laptop speakers. So far away and always so close.

At night is when I think about him the most. When I wish with my heart and body and soul that the day where we can be as messy and lusty and carefree as the two people outside my window is now.

Abscence. Heart.

At night is when I feel it grow fonder.

Louder.

Needier.

At night is when I feel it.

And how I wish, I always wish the daylight would break right then and there. Another day ticked off the endless waiting list. Another day closer to wild and carefree.

But until then, the view outside my window, late at night, will have to do to keep me company. To remind me that I am not alone in wanting.

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

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Night Night

Masturbation is awesome. You don’t need me to tell you that, most likely. But I enjoy preaching its virtues because it really does help with lots of things – for one, it relaxes you. For two, as I re-discovered last night, it’s a rather good sleeping aide. And god knows, I needed a good, solid night of restful sleep because I’ve been losing so much over the last few weeks. More than anything, I wanted my brain to shut the hell up for a few hours so I could let my body catch up on the recovery it needed.

I don’t remember how I came to think about it – maybe it was because we’d just finished watching Emmanuelle The Private Collection: The Sex Lives of Ghosts and there was a residual twinge of arousal still holding on to me. Or maybe because I couldn’t for the life of me think of any other way to calm my brain down. It was a swarm of thoughts clouding the corners of my mind – and from that swarm came the tiniest notion that maybe, just maybe, masturbating was the answer to making the swarm disperse. Masturbating for pleasure, yes, but more than that, masturbating to make myself feel better. Healing through my own orgasm.

“I feel like having a wank.”

I said it into the dark of our bedroom, a while after we’d turned off the lights. Both of us were still awake, restless and insomniac as we are, in the midst of a conversation about something I can’t quite remember but was probably incredibly geeky.

“Okay. Any reason?”

“No. Just feel like it. Fidgety.”

“Right.”

I didn’t need to elaborate on it. I didn’t need to explain why. I just rolled onto my back, continuing our chat. He did the same, pushing the duvet aside.

“Are you wanking too?”

“Yeah. Might as well.”

So we lay there. Side by side, the silent sounds of our mutually shared pleasure and healing filling the room.

I ended up sleeping until midday. I can’t say it was a particularily restful night’s sleep but I slept. And for now that’s fine by me because in this hellish new landscape of the world, rest is what helps us heal.

 

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Neighbourly

I’d asked him, just before I left for the shops to get something I’d managed to forget to buy twice already that day (ceterazine, because my subconcious really wants me to break out in an angry field of hives, apparently).

“Will you light some candles and make the room a bit… sexier while I’m gone?”

Or something of that ilk. As I walked to the supermarket, weaving through the aisles until I’d found the allergy pills I’d been looking for, I pondered on our sex life from as of late. The other day, after a joyous and wrecking wet orgasm given to me by his skilled hands and fingers, we’d (for the first time in a while) fucked – without me so much as having an inkling of Bad Shit™ on the brain or outside interruptions mattering for all of it. This, of course, felt like a glorious thing for me. And with that in mind, I felt in fine fettle as I opened the door, to be let in to a dark, candlelit room by my naked boyfriend, hiding behind the door so as to not be seen by the people who I’d just let in to the house.

They were old friends of the Irish guy occupying the room next to us, friends who’d come down for the weekend to stay over. During the course of the next 48 hours (and to my knowledge, still as I’m writing this post) they in turn met up with some more mates for a pre-drink session in the empty room downstairs, went off clubbing and slumped back in at 3.30 the next morning, sat in his darkened room shooting the shit for most of the next day, left for another party sesh and arrived back at the same time.

And it was as those mates trickled in, loudly and very much present, that I asked my boyfriend to massage me, before spanking me with one of my thick knitting needles.

Now, I’ve mentioned countless times before (or maybe I haven’t, in which case – forgive me for thinking I had mentioned this and also, the more you know) that I’m kind of daftly afraid of people hearing us having any kind of moments of sexual pleasure. Our room is quite securely locked, so there’s no way anyone can just walk on in. Nor are the walls as… well, cardboard as they were in our previous place. I can hear murmurs – and occasional snores – but there have not been moments where the walls have vibrated because someone’s watching a Vin Diesel movie somewhere in the house.

There are only two things that could be of worry to me here – one being my own weird, twisty, turny brain. The other being our IMPOSSIBLY SQUEAKY BED.

Funnily enough, it was the first, not second one that caught me in this case. And it was entirely down to the fact that, whenever we’re engaging in any kind of spanking (which is rare, exactly because of this – and also many other factors) I become hyper-aware of noises. Specifically, the noises being made by hand hitting flesh, reverbrating around the room. I have absolutely no idea if anyone can hear the slightest from outside, but the idea that someone may hear us is enough to scare the bejesus out of me.

So, imagine being scared by the idea that one person currently in the vicinity may hear you and your boyfriend having spanky sexy funtimes. Now, imagine about ten people consistently meandering up and down the stairs, lingering outside your door and having merry conversations while you’re trying your very best not to freak out and to enjoy what’s happening to you. But you can’t really enjoy it because you slowly but surely become convinced that, somehow, everyone in the street can hear you.

Got that mental image?

Good.

Now imagine the same, but with the spanking replaced by my muffled groans into our duvet as he uses the Doxy on my clit in a way that still makes my head spin when I think about it.

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