Call for Submissions: Dancing with Myself – Stories of Self-Love Erotica

Surprise! I’m editing a new anthology for Sexy Little Pages!


Editor: Jillian Boyd
Submission Deadline: Midnight (UTC+1), 31 August 2017
Heat Level: from romantic to filthy
Word Count: 4000-6000
Payment: 50% royalties split equally among participating authors

For this anthology, I am on the look-out for your sexiest and most creative masturbation erotica. Flying solo or playing with a partner (or partners)? Fingers, hands, toys, whatever else is suitable? A quick fumble under the sheets? A private show for a willing watcher? It’s all welcome. Use your imagination, and inspire some friction with your fiction.

A HEA is welcome but not a hard requirement. I’m looking for a range of heat levels, with a word count between 4000 and 6000 words. Bring me diverse characters, sexualities, genders and abilities across the spectrum – I’m especially welcoming submissions from/about POC, LGBTQI and non-binary peeps.

Genre of the book will be contemporary, so for this one no historical, futuristic or paranormal stories.

Usual Sexy Little Pages restrictions apply – no paedophilia, no necrophilia, no incest or pseudo-incest, gratuitous violence, bestiality or fan fiction. More details on this are available on the submissions page or in the FAQs.

Email your story to , putting ‘SUBMISSION:” followed by your story title in the subject line. The body of the email should include the story’s title, a brief synopsis or blurb, word count, and your pen name.

Story should be an attachment in doc, docx, or rtf format. Please use standard manuscript format or something closely resembling it, but no headers or footers.

Times New Roman, 12pt, double spaced, first line of paragraph indented.

We want the focus to be original content, though we may include one or two previously published stories that are no longer available elsewhere. If that’s the case, please note it in your cover email.

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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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“Hot Tahiti” – for Charlie Powell’s Lippie competition

Last year, the gorgeous and awesome Charlie Powell held a short story competition in which you were to write a short piece of erotic fiction using the name of a nail varnish as your prompt. This year, she’s putting a twist on it.

I’m not a big wearer of lipstick, so instead of my own collection, this competition will be based around the names of classic MAC lipstick. It’s simple – if you want to enter, you drop me a DM, I’ll select a lipstick name for you at random and you write a piece of erotica using that lipstick name as a title. Sound familiar?

Oh, you know I had to get in on that. Plus, Charlie is donating £1 to the charity Refuge for every story entered (up to £30). How great is that?

The lippie name Charlie gifted me with? Hot Tahiti. It’s a magical place, that.

_ _ _ _ _


The roads grief leads you down can be strange. Inside the walls of my flat, I lose track of time because there’s no need for time with her gone. In those last months and weeks, all I cared about was time because I didn’t know how much of it, of us, was left.

The TV becomes my timekeeper.  Just another noise alongside the non-ending cliché chorus of “How are you, really?” and “You’re so brave.”

Except the TV is a noise that doesn’t seem to question the ways I’m grieving her. The TV doesn’t judge me for not doing it properly, as if there’s any way to properly grieve the woman you thought fate had planted into your life until the end of time. The TV doesn’t make it sound like there’s some sort of manual on how to be a good mourner – one that I, according to some bastards, apparently wasn’t handed staight after the funeral.

The TV becomes my timekeeper and, after several months, my faithful companion. I trust TV because it doesn’t judge – it just happens at me. If there was some way to make a reasonable case for never getting off my sofa again, I would be shouting it from the rooftops.

“You’re so brave.”

Sod that shit. I’d rather be a cowardly hermit than ever go outside without her again.


Sometimes she comes to me in my dreams, and I get fooled again by the warp of reality. I wake up bathed in sweat and clutching at the empty side of my bed. I wake up hard, my cock straining as much as my heart at how our sex replays itself in the middle of the night.

It’s like being trapped in a limbo, reliving the same encounter night after night and waking up to silence. But if I am truly honest with myself, this would be the one encounter I would gladly relive for the rest of my days.

It isn’t the memory of some landmark night, like the first time we fucked – weeks and weeks of sexual tension culminating in a torn shirt, scratches on my back and the feeling of floating on air. Nor is it the memory of the last, desperate, agonising night of passion before the dark ghost of her illness commenced its endgame. Instead – funnily enough – it’s the memory of  just another Friday night…


“Is this a bit too much?”

Lila had gingerly stepped into the living room of our apartment, dressed up to the nines for the engagement dinner of a friend of a friend. Neither of us were chomping at the bits to go, but still, Lila liked to make an effort. And my God, she looked every inch like a preternatural goddess in that beautiful red dress of hers.

“Joe. Seriously, your eyes’ll fall out if you keep staring like that. Is this too much for the dinner? I mean, I know it’s not the actual wedding but I don’t really fancy upstaging the bride to be just by wearing red. Do you like it?”

I couldn’t help staring. Lila, three years into our relationship, still had the power to render me entirely speechless, whether with her intelligence, humour or beauty. She was never too much. She was all I’d ever wanted from life itself and in that moment, I wanted her badly. I wanted to take her in my arms and carry her to our bedroom and still find the marks of her delectable-looking lipstick on my body the next morning.

So I did.

I pulled her to me and kissed her, hard. She tasted like sunsets and Mai Tai’s and dreams of a life lived less rushed. The soft red on her lips smeared as she kissed me back, grabbing me by the hips and pressing her pelvis against mine. One kiss and already I was embarrassingly hard for her, needing her, not giving a shit about what time it was and how much time we had before we had to leave for the dinner.

“I take it that’s a yes, then?” she breathed, before grabbing me by the hand and pulling me towards the sofa. She hiked up the hem of her dress and wriggled her knickers off, beckoning me closer.

“Oh God, yes.”

“We’re going to be late for the dinner, Joe.” she said, less a warning, more a tease. I chuckled, undoing my belt and unzipping my trousers. The chuckled turned into a gasp as Lila wrapped her lips around the head of my cock, leaving her red lipped mark and making me ache for her.

Time didn’t matter in that moment. Nor did space, or the rest of humankind. There was only the feeling of Lila’s warmth, of her inner walls clenching around me and her hands under the hem of my shirt. Nothing else mattered apart from being alive and in love and in sex…


Sometimes I wonder if I’m a sick fuck for masturbating over the memory of her. But when those dreams happen, and I wake up drenched in sweat and hard and desperate for a release without tears, it’s the only thing I can think of.

It was just another Friday night, but it will be the one seared into the depths of my soul exactly because of that. Some people choose to remember milestones and special days. I choose to remember just another Friday night.

I remember shifting down the straps of her dress to reveal her soft, round breasts. I remember the feel of her nipples, pebbling at my touch. I remember the moment my cock slid inside her wetness, the sounds she made, the friction against her clit. Those lips, in that shade of red…

I remember all of it, replaying it like a reel of old film as my hand wraps around my shaft and I jerk the need out of me. I hear my own echo bouncing off the silence, crying out her name, remembering her lipstick and the words she said to me when we finally managed to peel ourselves away from each other.

“Hot Tahiti.”

“Seriously? I don’t understand why they give lipstick names. What’s wrong with a number?”

“Lipstick’s a fantasy, baby. You need to give it a name because you can’t fantasise about a number. Besides, this one spoke to a very particular fantasy of mine.”

“That fantasy being?”

She stayed silent for a few seconds, lowering her voice so the taxi driver couldn’t make her out.

“Getting hot… in Tahiti. With you.”

Back then, it had almost been enough to make me come in my trousers. But now, as I come sticky and hot over the palm of my hand, it’s the thought of that unfulfilled fantasy, that unfulfilled life that makes me cry anyway.

I am not brave, because right now, try as I might I can’t see a way of living without her. Even though I’ve been doing so for four months, every single day is just another sting, another corner of hell.

I am not brave because I know that, buried under a pile of mail and receipts and junk in the bedside drawer is a letter from Lila. I know that inside that envelope, along with the letter, is a ticket to Tahiti. I know that she never had the chance to explain why she wanted to go there, and I know that the answers are in that letter. I know she wants me to go.

I am not brave because that would mean I can live with the pain of not having her with me.

I am not brave. Not yet.


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My WiFi, My self?

One curse lifts, another settles in…

I don’t know if I mentioned this on the blog back then, but back in February the charger for my netbook suffered a rather major malfunction. This – because sods law, ‘innit – happened about a day before I was meant to start editing Spy Games. So, after a lot of screaming into a pillow, I managed to get work done by engaging in a time share of ILB’s netbook lead, which worked on mine.

The anthology got finished in the end and I dismissed it as something that would never ever happen again, especially not right at the point where I started work on the two anthologies I’m meant to be editing simultaneously.

And I was right, because the charger’s working swimmingly.

It’s our WiFi connection that’s gone to shit.

It’s hard to not feel like there’s a bit of a curse on my editing career. It certainly felt that way when, after a long day of training for my new day job, I came home on Wednesday to a rather distraught ILB, who hesitantly conveyed me the message.

I know very well how, as a blogger and writer, I depend on my WiFi connection. I can promote my shit, look up new calls for submissions, talk to my friends, and write this goddamn blog. A blogger without WiFi (or whichever internet connection you have) is… well, a wee bit lost.

I know this as a blogger and a writer. I just didn’t realise how much an editor relies on WiFi (or internet) as well. For a number of reasons, such as…

  • For the sake of basic common courtesy towards the people who have taken the time to work their ass off on a story to submit to you.
  • For keeping them in the loop in case something changes, or a deadline is pushed back.
  • For telling them that yes, they’re in or no, terribly sorry.
  • For having an email-log of what’s been submitted to you.
  • For having extra copies of the stories in that log, just in case something happens to your computer.
  • For talking to your authors, for bouncing ideas about promo back and forth.

I’m from the last generation to remember when WiFi (and, for a short time, the internet) wasn’t a thing. So yeah, I accept it’s a pretty bloody great privilege to have a connection available to me. I’m also disconcerted to watch myself flailing about without internet as a Thing to Keep Me Busy. I’ve got a tonne of as-yet-unread books, knitting needles and yarn, actual uninterrupted writing time at my fingertips and all I can think about is checking Buzzfeed for updates on PigGate.

And I got to thinking.

Maybe I want my WiFi connection to be a distraction.

Maybe I relish flitting between writing a hot-as-fuck shagging scene and laughing my arse off over Vines of cats thinking they’re cheetahs.

Maybe the idea of having uninterrupted writing/knitting/reading time scares the shit out of me for some weird reason. Maybe this is life’s way of telling me that IM DOIN IT RONG and I need to reassess my attitudes towards my own work.

Or maybe this is just another thing which happens sometimes and slightly inconveniences your life for – at most- a couple of weeks. I don’t know. All I know is that there’s a library with free wifi nearby and it will do for now. After all, flailing isn’t going to edit these anthologies.

Hey! Have you got your tickets to the sexiest event to hit London this autumn? Get 20% off your tickets to Sexpo UK with the code Boyd2015! See you there!


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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 World Book Day (Or Why I Write Erotic Fiction)

If you haven’t guessed from the many tweets and Facebook posts and blog posts and articles going around, today is Erotic World Book Day (the naughty offspring of World Book Day, devised and knocked together by the brilliant minds of Cliterati’s Emily Dubberley, erotica writer Rebecca Black and editor and techy genius Kevin ‘Mitnik’ Blisse in a staggering five weeks flat). The double aim of #EWBD is both spreading the word about the awesomeness of all shades of erotic fiction and raising some money for sexual health and wellbeing charity, Brook.

Over the past four years, I’ve talked a lot about why sex fascinates me. It’s pretty much the cornerstone of my blog, my mantra/slogan/reason of operating – I am, essentially, a massive nosey parker when it comes to sex. I want to know everything. Knowledge is my driving force. And, to me, there’s no better way of absorbing knowledge about something you want to know about than to write about it.

Writing erotica makes my brain work brilliantly – I like thinking about the why of a chance meeting, the how of a seduction or the when of a tongue on a clit or a cock. I like making connections, letting the basic plot points connect with twists that make me grin because I know that I’ve found another connection and each one gets me closer to writing the moment where the chemistry sizzles and ignites and bodies entwine.

The afterglow is the bonus. The cherry on top of my saucy Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte.

Erotica is not an easy genre to write in. Despite what a lot of people might think, it’s a genre filled with delicate complexity and beautiful hints of dark and light. Much like sex itself. It’s not something you can knock up in a couple of hours and then clock off and go for a pint. It’s not a genre entirely populated by alpha-male billionaire doms, gay dinosaurs, heaving bosoms and – in one disturbing recent case – sentient gay dresses. Erotica is a genre with plenty, plenty of nuances. You want a bit of hot romance? You got it. BDSM your thing? There’s plenty. Lover of literary lusts? Have a sip of that cup. Want to read about sexy shifters, hot vampires, time travel, steampunk, zombies, cowboys, or just someone who could quite possibly be the woman sitting next to you on the bus? Guess what? Boom, it’s there. Lesbian, gay, bi, Trans*, Queer, questioning, intersex, ace? There is erotica for you, my friend.

Erotica may not be an easy genre to write in – god knows that a lot of people want to also make you believe it’s The Wrong Genre to write in – but goddamnit I wouldn’t trade what I’ve got going for anything in the world. Sure, I’d love to diversify and write across the board in genres as far as the eye can see. But erotica will always be my true love. Because it makes me think, because it makes me work and because it never stops both sating and firing up my curiosity. Erotica and I, we’ve got a good thang goin’. And no matter what happens, no matter how many adversities this genre may yet face in the future, I will make it my business to keep that good thing going for as long as I have the fight in me.

Erotica is worth your time. Erotica is far more than just one particular trilogy. Buy erotic fiction, support the authors that have put so much effort in to making this event happen and, most of all, find something that truly rocks your boat. It is my wish for you that, on Erotic World Book Day, you discover something (or someone) new.

One way to do that (and also give some money to the lovely folks at Brook) is to get your hands on a copy of An Intimate Education: A Charity Anthology for Erotic World Book Day. 22 very good – not to mention, very speedy – authors contributed to this amazing anthology full of hot safe sex. Who knows, you might find your new favourite author lurking between the digital pages of this book?

Happy #EWBD everyone. Thank you for supporting the genre and buying all our books. It means the world.


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It’s My Fourth Blogiversary! Giveaway and Thanks.

Jesus Christ, four years? Has it really been four years since I took to this blog for the first time to tell you the story of my first ever visit to a sex shop? Did I really make the in hindsight very ill-considered decsision to take my mother along on this visit, which resulted in such fun moments as listening to her ask a shop girl which one of the many vibrators on display “was the most pleasurable”?

In case you were wondering, the one I ended up with felt a bit like the vibrator equivalent of opening a big, pretty box on Christmas day and discovering a series of boxes of ever decreasing size inside, until you end up with an envelope containing an IOU for one present. But with orgasms.

A lot has happened in those four years. A lot, which is something I’m not going to even bother trying to recap in one blog post because it’s pretty much all on here in the archives if you want to trace me back to where I started this whole thing from. I will say this: whether you’ve been here with me from the beginning (God, the embarrassing beginning) or you jumped on board at any point in the past four years and decided to stay, thank you. You’re good people, all of ya.

And because you’re good people, in honour of this most esteemed occasion, I’m hosting a celebratory giveaway – up for grabs are two copies of a delectable new anthology I’m in called Appetites: Tales of Lesbian Lust. It’s edited by the wonderful Ily Goyanes and published by The Liz McMullen Show Publications. My story is called Kicking The Habit, about dealing with the one ex you just can’t seem to let go.

To win a copy, all you have to do is comment below with your email address and, in honour of the subject of my very first post, tell me about a terrible sex toy you’ve owned. I’ll pick the two lucky winners on the 21st of February.

Thank you all. Here’s to at least four more years of this Lady Laid Bare business.

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Erotic Flash Fiction – Observer of People

They were standing near the doors of the Tube carriage, a few steps away from where we were sitting. It was late in the evening, half of the carriage still filled with people who’d just come back from the same concert as us. Something about the way she looked at him caught my eye. And I recognized that look pretty damn well.

Part of being a writer is being an observer of people, I think. It’s part of the instincts you start honing as you go along. You become more aware of body language, of expressions and inflections. That instinct is not something you can turn on and off at will. It just happens. You learn to read between the lines, and what I was reading, half-dazed and hearing a bit fuzzy from two and a half hours of auditory onslaught, was pure lust.

And it inspired a little flash fic drabble (… esque thingy), which I hope you’ll enjoy. (For the sake of this drabble, I’m going to pretend they attended this concert as well…)

Observer of People

by Jillian Boyd


He liked it when she danced. In a crowd of hundreds, in a room full of smoke and sweat and heat, watching her dance made him feel like they were the only two people there. Watching her move, her hips undulating to the hypnotizing rhythm of the suited snake dancer on the stage, her movements matching his. All he wanted right there and then was to grab her by the wrists, pin her to the wall and spread her open.

She could feel he was aching for her. His need made him glow, even in the harsh strip lighting of the crowded Tube carriage. Her own ache crawled through her skin like ivy vines across delapitated buildings. She knew he could see it in her eyes – they’d been together for that amount of time you need before you stop needing words and start using your senses because somehow you just knew. You’d become as much of a lover as an observer.

She liked observing him. Standing inches away from him, her leg between his and eyes firmly planted on each other, he ate her up with his eyes. A lingering bite of the bottom lip, the swell of her pussy lips and his cock, the strain of nipples hardening against a bra that had way outstayed its daily welcome. She counted off the names of the stations that seperated them from throwing him down on the bed and straddling him.

And as they waited, impatient, aching, she leaned in to him and whispered what she’d planned.

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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]Review – Chemical [se]X

Cover for Chemical [se]X, edited by Oleander Plume.Chemical [se]X

Edited by: Oleander Plume

Stories by: Malin James, Tabitha Rayne, Dario Dalla Lasta, Jacob Louder, Annabeth Leong, Ella Dawson, and others

Published by: Indie/Self-published

Out now

What’s it about?

Author Oleander Plume puts on her editing hat for this collection of concept erotica. What the hell do I mean by “concept erotica”? I mean that all the stories in the anthology stem from a concept created in Plume’s titular story Chemical [se]X, which opens the anthology. In the story, scientists at a confectionery development lab discover a potent herb from South America might just be the key to creating the ultimate aphrodisiac. They quickly decide to make it the key ingredient in a new range of chocolate truffles, and as the anthology unfolds, the effects of the discovery of the herb and the creation of the truffles ripple through the veins of every subsequent story.

The chocolate truffles (named [du]X, due to their ducky shape – which is referenced in Dario Dalla Lasta’s story of the same name) are the ties that bind these stories together. From bringing the desperately craved heat back into a stale relationship (The Connection by Jade A. Waters), to giving one woman the power to take control of her fraught affair with a married man (Bittersweet by Malin James) to helping a lovelorn bachelor connect with his new flatmate in the most delicious way (Flat Warming by Exhibit A). It’s one of the most original concepts I’ve seen in erotica so far, and it brings together a tonne of talent, from the established (such as the wonderful Annabeth Leong, whose novella The Alleged Savage closes the anthology) to the extraordinary up and coming (like Ella Dawson, who makes her publishing début with Friendly Neighbourhood Drug Dealer).

As in most erotica anthologies, not all the stories will be to your taste, but all the stories do have something that will draw you in and keep you reading. Much like the chocolates that are this anthology’s driving force, you can’t help wanting another bite. Chemical [se]X is breathtakingly original, daring and funny as fuck. A true gem, and hopefully one of the starting points of an erotica indie publishing revolution.

The story line-up

Chemical [se]X  – Oleander Plume

The Connection – Jade A. Waters

[du]X – Dario Dalla Lasta

Bittersweet – Malin James

The Dinner Guest – Tabitha Rayne

Thursday Threesome/Birthday Foursome – Jacob Louder

Chocolate Covered – F. Leonora Solomon

Flat Warming – Exhibit A

The Commute – C.E. Hansen

Dinner For Three – L. Maretta

Friendly Neighbourhood Drug Dealer – Ella Dawson

The Stranger – Tamsin Flowers

Coffee Break – Oleander Plume

The Alleged Savage – Annabeth Leong

A little taster…

from Bittersweet by Malin James

I study Iain’s strong, broad back and wonder if I should stay for one last fuck. My head is all for leaving, but my cunt…my cunt wants a final go. Absentmindedly, I pop a truffle in my mouth. It’s smooth and dark with a spikey, citrus finish. Not at all what I’d expected—more bitter than sweet. Not really to my taste. And yet…each receptor in my mouth shivers. My body’s responding as if I’d drunk too much champagne.

I barely notice when Iain pockets the phone and smiles. It’s the sort of smile that promises five minutes of his time. Then he kisses me hungrily, a preliminary kiss. Our kisses are often like that—his taking, mine giving, reminding him who he’s with. But he doesn’t want reminding, and his mouth goes hard and sharp. The chocolate’s barely melted when he takes it from my tongue.

Where to buy


Amazon UK

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