Tag Archives: erotic fiction

I’ll think of it as a mixtape, shall I?

Younger readers are, of course, excused for not knowing what the old bat’s on about this time.  Thing is, I do have one particular clear memory from nearly 40 years ago, of sitting in the garden of a hotel somewhere in Wales with pen and paper, absolutely labouring over the order in which I was going to record the various songs I was currently obsessed with onto a C60 cassette when the holiday was over. I gave all my compilation tapes titles, and drew cover illustrations for them, and all sorts.


It’s on my mind a bit just now as I am similarly labouring, and obsessed, about the order in which to place the stories in the Who Thrilled Cock Robin anthology. I have eight fabulous stories, all inspired by or based on different folk songs.  (Well, to be brutally honest, I have seven and a half as I have not finished my own – or at least my Other Self’s – contribution yet). They are gloriously diverse in theme, pairings and tone and I am desperately trying to get the order just right, like any band struggling over the tracklisting of their latest album. Even though I am fairly well aware that many a reader will look at the contents page and and decide to read the contribution of his/her favourite author first, no matter whereabouts it comes in the sequence. I’m trying not to find that prospect as infuriating as I suspect bands do when their sweated-over sequence is randomly overruled by the shuffle function on someone’s iPod. I am now on about the 40th arrangement of story titles and therefore not fully responsible for my actions.

Actually, perhaps the way to make the final selection is to play all the songs the authors picked, and structure the contents page as though it were the cardboard sleeve of a mixtape…


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Tomorrow is Erotic World Book Day – who’s coming?

Given how many writers spend most of their time staring out of the window and/or crying as the deadlines approach (no, it’s NOT just me, OK?), it’s utterly amazing and wonderful how quickly Emily Dubberly, Rebecca Black and Cara Sutra pulled this together.

By way of celebrating the wonderful world of erotic fiction, there’s going to be an online party tomorrow night, with masses of prizes to be won, an anthology of erotica to be launched, and hopefully lots of money to be raised for sexual health charity Brook.

So don’t miss out, come and play with us all tomorrow night from 7pm (UK time).

Oh, and most importantly (to me, anyway) one of the prizes is a signed copy of Spring In My Step – to win it, you have to be there.


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Recommended Reading: Sapphic Smut

If you’re bord with bastard billionaires or just fancy a change from heterosexual romance, check out the new Smutters anthology, full of girls together outrageously (yes, I am old enough to remember Miss Pamela and co). It contains one of my stories, as well.


Light hearted, sexy Sapphic smut is the theme of this erotic anthology, edited by Lucy Felthouse with assistance from Kev ‘Mitnik’ Blisse.

From coffee shops to exotic Indian adventures to cosy cabins in France, Sapphic Smut has it all. Fun with sugar, naughty spankings, seductions by strangers, seductions by friends, cougars and even a twist on a fairy tale abound in this exciting collection of lesbian stories from erotica’s finest authors.

This delicious girl-on-girl anthology contains stories from Lucy Felthouse, Kay Jaybee, Louisa Bacio, Sallyanne Rogers, Vanessa de Sade, Tabitha Rayne and Elizabeth Coldwell.

Amazon: http://mybook.to/sapphicsmut

Other links: http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk/published-works/sapphic-smut/

Editor’s Facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/lucyfelthousewriter


Alana really couldn’t believe how flat Holland was. She’d been told by many people, but somehow, she still wasn’t expecting a place that made Cambridgeshire look like the Peak District. Her view from the train as she travelled from Schiphol airport to Amsterdam’s Centraal Station was unimpeded. Not so much as a hillock was visible.

And now, here she was, standing outside the station with crowds milling around her. A mixture of tourists, businesspeople and natives. She herself was a combination of two of those groups—she was here on business, but she’d deliberately extended her trip so she could spend a couple of days exploring the city. She had a day either side of her meeting, the boring part a filling to a sightseeing sandwich. Though, despite the boring tag, the meeting definitely wasn’t a bad thing, it was an appointment to cross the ts and dot the is on a very lucrative deal—certainly the trip was worthwhile.

After watching the insanity for another minute or so, she began to head away from the station, wheeling her small case along with her. Already armed with a guidebook and a decent map, she knew where she was going. Her map-reading skills were excellent, and she made the short walk to her hotel in less than twenty minutes. Anywhere else, she’d have gotten a cab, but it appeared they were a rare commodity in this city.

She’d checked in, dumped her bags and freshened up within another ten minutes, and was back on the street.

An online acquaintance had sent her a bunch of information for her trip—about the best museums, interesting things to see that might not be in guidebooks, and details on transport. It appeared that Amsterdam was unlike London, Paris and Rome, in as much as it had trams as its preferred mode of transport, rather than underground trains. Only one Metro line ran through the city, north-to-south. Everywhere else was utterly dependent on trams, bikes and being on foot.

And fuck, there were a lot of bikes. They zipped here, there and everywhere, not always staying where they were supposed to be, it seemed. The slim Dutch people atop the bikes were oblivious, just concentrating on getting where they were going.

Alana searched for the nearest tram stop, and quickly discovered she needed to be on the other side of the road to head in the right direction.

Crossing the road was a chore in itself. A dice with death. She’d thought Rome’s motorists were insane, but at least they were fairly predictable. Here, she was faced with crossing a road that held a cycle path, a tram line and a lane for cars. Shifting down the pavement, she stood at the conveniently placed crossing. It still didn’t make things much easier, but at least she could mingle in with the crowd. Traffic was much more likely to stop if it was going to hit a crowd of people than a single pedestrian. Right?

By some miracle, she reached the opposite pavement unscathed—except for her nerves, which were shot—and approached the tram stop. As if by magic, a tram arrived, and it was the correct number. Things were looking up.

After a few minutes, she realised that public transport in Amsterdam was nowhere near as easy to navigate as in the other major cities she was familiar with. There, their Tube or Metro stations always had plenty of large, unmissable signs telling you where you were. Piccadilly Circus, Anvers, Piramide. Here, it seemed you were left to your own devices. There were announcements on board the tram, but they were in Dutch—a language which she knew very little of—incredibly muffled, and pretty much drowned out by the sound of the tram’s motion and its passengers.

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Recommended Reading: 50 Shades… of Green!

Don’t panic! Come back! This is nothing whatsoever to do with reworked crap TwiShite fanfic. Instead, it’s a pretty good anthology of stories on the theme of sex’n’gardening, and I’m very happy to be a stop on this book’s blog tour.


Over to Sandra Knauf…

How Fifty Shades of Grey Inspired Fifty Shades of Green


Let me say right off that I’m an admirer of E. L. James, the author of Fifty Shades of Grey. Any woman who makes it big in publishing, or any artistic endeavor, or any business for that matter, is worthy of admiration just for that. Further, I’ve seen her interviews. She seems cool! She seems fun. I like her. I feel we could hang out together.

But I didn’t “get” her book.

While I’m all about different strokes for different folks, there are some of us who find the whole dark/damaged/domineering prince thing worrisome. I’m one of them. That’s not our fantasy. We don’t want to be a “submissive.” We know our love alone won’t heal the wounded (the wounded have to want to do their own work). And, damn it, we don’t think it’s sexy to be told what underwear to wear. We’re grown women, for goodness sake! Equality—in the board room, in government, and in the bedroom. That’s how we get off.

So that’s why I scratched my head and squirmed in a not-good-way when I read some parts of James’ book. Women like this? I thought. Why?

The idea for Fifty Shades of Green started off as a joke. I wanted to turn the other Fifty Shades on its head, make the female the warped billionairess who was hot to spank, tie up, and control her virginal, less-monied, less-successful-in-every-way boyfriend. Since I’m a gardening freak and an environmentalist, I imagined her as a leader of some industry that was saving the planet—maybe solar power or green housing or electric cars. (She’d drive a Tesla.) She’d have a magnificent garden. A sexy outdoor paradise. It would be full of gorgeous flowers and vines and places to swim naked and secluded spots for BDSM sex . . .

The boyfriend would be made to do gardening work in the nude. Weeding for hours on his hands and knees . . . choosing a switch from a favorite flowering shrub for a lashing . . .

Friends thought the idea was hilarious, so I knew I was on to something. But I thought: did I just want to turn the tables? Changing genders would still keep it a pretty one-dimensional, predictable story.

Then I thought, what about a collection of naughty gardening stories? Not just one woman who takes charge of her life and sexuality, but many! It would not be limited to BDSM or even to male/female relationships.

I sent out a call for submissions and the dirty stories poured in. They came from all over the United States and a half-dozen other countries. The most talented writers’ imaginations were revealed in stories of off-the-charts deliciousness. A book was born.

I hope you’ll check out a sample, or, better yet, buy a copy of Fifty Shades of Green for yourself or for all your gardening friends. We think it’s fun, imaginative, and very, very sexy. And it might even inspire you to garden.

—Sandra Knauf



Excerpt from Fifty Shades of Green, “The Pulse of the Earth”


As the publisher, and the one who chose all of the stories in Fifty Shades of Green, I adore them all. However, the story of the priest/healer and the injured trader by Evey Brett, has a very special place in my heart. –SK

Andreas gritted his teeth. Cleaning the burns was painful, and now that his skin was healing the process was agonizing. “I don’t suppose you have more of that tea.”

“It’s too addictive; we can’t use much. I would be a poor healer to fix one problem only to leave another in its place.”

Andreas supposed that was true, but it didn’t make it any more bearable. He bore it as long as he could before begging Brother Jacinto to give him a break. The priest did, but all too soon started again.

By the time it was over, Andreas was breathing hard and covered in sweat. He bit his tongue to keep from screaming and swearing inside a house of worship. Brother Jacinto sliced the pad of a prickly pear cactus and laid the insides against the burns. The juice cooled the worst of the pain.

Brother Jacinto cleaned up his supplies with the same finesse as he doled them out. “Your burns are healing well. The discomfort should ease in another day or two.”

In a way, the good news disappointed him. The faster he recovered, the sooner he would have to leave. His heart ached at the thought of never seeing Brother Jacinto again.

“I expect you’d like a bath.”

His gut tightened at the thought of just how he was going to receive that bath, but he was tired of feeling filthy. “Yes.”

Brother Jacinto pulled back the sheet, dipped the sponge in the water and began. Whether it was because he couldn’t see or because Andreas was attracted to him, the gentle touch roused a response he’d be better off forgetting.

The water was cool as it sluiced over skin sticky and salty from sweat. Andreas fixed his gaze on Brother Jacinto, amazed at the placidity in his face as he worked. Yet, he was disappointed. It wasn’t right to expect anything from a priest he barely knew. Brother Jacinto had probably taken some vow or another to remain chaste. It wasn’t possible to have any sort of relationship, but that didn’t mean Andreas couldn’t fantasize about one.

He had no control over his body’s reaction when Brother Jacinto sponged between his legs. His cock was as stiff as a rod and utterly appreciative as the priest ran the sponge from base to tip and back down, tucking into the crevices around and beneath Andreas’s balls. Andreas closed his eyes, glad Brother Jacinto couldn’t see the heated embarrassment that must be creeping over his face.

The pressure in his lower body built to an unbearable level. Andreas breathed deeply, trying to still the tide of desire flooding him, but failed. Climax struck hard and fast. Spasms clutched his cock as he spilled himself over Brother Jacinto’s hands. Andreas groaned, half out of relief, half in shame from the inability to control himself.

Yet, despite the mess, Brother Jacinto’s face didn’t change. He continued to sponge Andreas clean with no apparent disgust or disapproval, and too soon, Andreas was washed and covered. “Thank you,” Andreas said. It wasn’t enough for everything the priest had done, but it was all he had to offer.

—Evey Brett


Blurb and buy links


Fifty Shades of Green is a garden of naughty delights!
Within our pages you’ll discover:
– Virile gods and their mortal conquests.
– A community garden’s secret (and very dirty) fertility ritual.
– An Edwardian dominatrix living out her sadistic garden fantasies.
– Student/teacher lessons in horticultural hotness.
– Young lovers seeking the help of green witches.
– A beautiful, blind priest who helps an injured traveler.
. . . and so much more.

Peek inside the garden gate.

(You know you want to.)

A dozen racy tales await.

Fifty Shades of Green is a collection of twelve delicious and erotic short stories with gardening themes. What you’ll find in these pages is hotter than the hottest pepper on the Scoville index of heat! And smart, not smutty. Well . . . maybe a little smutty.

To Buy Fifty Shades of Green (it’s on sale, just for you):


Amazon.com UK

Amazon.com US


Author Bios and Links


Sandra Knauf has been a featured “Colorado Voices” columnist for The Denver Post and her humorous essays have appeared nationally in GreenPrints, an Utne Reader award-nominated garden writing journal. She has also been a guest commentator on KRCC’s (a NPR affiliate station) “Western Skies” radio show. In addition to Fifty Shades of Green, her publishing company has published six volumes of the garden writing journal Greenwoman, a young adult fantasy/sci-fi novel, Zera and the Green Man, and other works.

Sandra Knauf’s Greenwoman Publishing website

Sandra Knauf’s Flora’s Forum blog

Evey Brett, the author of “The Pulse of the Earth,” has numerous sci-fi/fantasy and paranormal romance e-books published with Loose Id, Ellora’s Cave and Carina Press. She also has fantasy and erotica stories forthcoming with Lethe and Cleis Press.

Evey Brett’s website

FREE Sample Stories!

To sample two free stories from Fifty Shades of Green visit our Garden Shorts website.

If you sign up for our newsletter you will be sent “Seed” (our sexy story about a community garden’s secret fertility ritual).

To read “Phallus Impudicus,” (a tale about the horny god Pan’s visit with a lonely gardener) just click on the Fifty Shades SAMPLE! tab


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Teaser Time: Ex Retreat

It’s not out yet but just to get your anticipatory juices flowing, here’s the cover and info on Elise Hepner’s latest…


Warning: This book contains a geeky, secretly insecure but overly cocky handy-man with a penchant for pleasing, a dominatrix in training who’s on the rebound, and enough smut to strip a couple layers off your soul. Plus there’s mac n’ cheese with a smattering of self-actualization for good measure.

After Chloe Barrons’ fiancé cheats on her via webcam, she begrudgingly accepts her Type-A mother’s offer of a spur of the moment luxury spa weekend. But things don’t play out quite from point A to point B when she arrives drunk and disoriented on the front porch of a deserted North Carolina beach house. From the very start she’s caught off guard by Noah Knightly, a sinfully sexy, self-proclaimed commitment-phobe who’s a handyman for his sister’s relationship rehabilitation center—a rehab where Chloe is the sole guest during off-season.

But faced with temptation, to stay guarded she’ll have to call the shots.

Noah Knightly shouldn’t have taken Chloe’s reservation. But in need of a second pair of hands to fix up the beach house, he throws all his sister’s rules out the window. Soon he worries that maybe he’s bitten off more than he can chew: each day Chloe cracks more of his cocky façade bringing down his guards to reveal a stuttering geek who has a hidden will to please her in any way possible.

With no way to ignore her pain, Noah sets himself up as a guinea pig to prove to Chloe that not all men are created equal—in or out of the bedroom. As Chloe comes into her own through every sexual session, Noah needs to decide if he’s man enough to accept the one thing he never thought he wanted—love.

Bio: Elise Hepner lives with two spastic cats and a very supportive, slightly crazy husband. There is never a dull moment in the house, unless the caffeine runs out, which it never does. She’s a multi-published erotica author with Cleis Press, Ellora’s Cave, Xcite, and Secret Cravings Publishing.

She’s driven by her tea addiction and a tiny stuffed turtle her husband picked up from Disney World that sits on her desk and “supervises” her work.

When not writing (which is rare), she’s watching countless hours of reality television, playing the Sims or shopping online. Plus there’s that odd obsession with the color purple. Everything is purple. Visit Elise at her website http://www.elisehepner.com to keep up with her naughty ramblings, random tidbits and future work.

I have a newsletter where you can sign up for sneak peeks, contests, giveaways, new release news and other fun things: http://eepurl.com/pW8Sj

Website: http://www.elisehepner.com

Twitter: @EHepner

Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/elisehepner

Blogger: http://celise91writer.blogspot.com/

Facebook: Elise Hepner

Instagram: Elise_Hepner

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Justine Elyot’s World of Submission

Out In The Open

Hello, readers, and thank you to Sallyanne for giving me this platform to talk about my new book, the third and final instalment of the His House of Submission trilogy.

One of the themes of Her World of Submission is the repercussions of being ‘outed’ as kinky. It seems rather timely, in a week when a woman lost her job as administrator of a childcare centre in Kent, for having written an erotic novel. Do we dare to admit anything so intimate to a judgemental world? And what happens if we do?

Her world of submission

Jasper Jay and Sarah Wells have their relationship flaunted in the national press, after a rather indiscreet episode in a public square in London. For Jasper, it’s water off a duck’s back. He works for himself, in an industry where attention-seeking of all kinds is endemic. He knows he will get away with it – and will even be admired for his prowess.

For Sarah, it’s more complicated. She has no problem with being Jasper’s acknowledged partner. But the nature of their D/s relationship is something she had hoped to keep private. Her employers – the trustees of a museum – may well be less impressed by her flaunting of herself in public.

She is nervous of contacting old friends, for fear of what they will think of her. But she is lucky enough to have one very sympathetic friend – sympathetic because she is in a similar relationship of her own. In fact, Sarah’s friend is Rosie from Kinky, and when the two friends and their masterful lovers spend some time together, Sarah’s dread of her outed future begins to recede…

Here’s an excerpt:


I pulled my suitcase on to the parquet and shut the door behind me.


Perhaps he was out. But his car was in the drive and he wouldn’t leave lights on in the house before leaving – it was just such an un-Jasper thing to do. Maybe he was chopping wood in the kitchen yard? Now that I’d like to see…

My mouth already watering, I passed through the back kitchen and looked hopefully into the yard, but there was no strapping axe-wielding man to be seen with shirtsleeves pushed up his arm and an honest sweat gathering on his brow. Worse luck.

I returned to the Hall and called out again, but without much hope of a response. As I did so, something glittering under the tree caught my eye and I noticed a parcel in holographic wrapping paper lying there.

Was this my Christmas present?

I knew I should wait until he was around to share the exchange of gifts, but I was too intrigued not to pick the box up and take a closer look.

There was a card on it. I looked for Jasper’s writing, expecting it to have the conventional ‘To Sarah, Merry Christmas, love Jasper’ format on it, but it didn’t. It said, ‘Open me now. Don’t wait.’


I looked around, convinced now that I must be being watched. Would Jasper have put a hidden camera somewhere? On the stairs, on the wall, in the tree?

I obeyed the directive on the tag and began to unwrap the parcel. Inside the paper was a box and the box contained a pair of brown leather cuffs with buckles and rings. Slightly disappointing, as Christmas presents go, but there was another card inside and I picked it up, my heart skippy with excitement.

‘Put on the cuffs. Find your next gift in the drawing room.’

I buckled up the new cuffs around my wrists – they were comfortable and felt luxurious; obviously the best quality, which was typical of Jasper.

In the drawing room, there was still no sign of the man himself but I soon found the next box, a flat rectangular number that took up most of the chaise longue it had been placed upon.

Inside it, wrapped in layers of silver tissue paper, was a tiny filmy black lace babydoll nightdress, more like gossamer than lace in fact. It came with a pair of hold-up stockings and a frilly garter but nothing else. A card fluttered out when I unfolded it.

‘Put these on. Come to the office.’

Surely he had to be watching? I felt intensely self-conscious, despite the silent stillness of the room, as I pulled off my boots, stepped out of my jeans, unbuttoned my shirt. I was strongly conscious of undressing for someone, even though there was nobody there. I tried to be graceful and seductive instead of taking it quickly, imagining Jasper’s eye, his face, his intent concentration at all times.

The babydoll was barely there against my skin, just a little gauzy web over my breasts and belly, so short that it left the lower half of my pubic triangle exposed.

I tried to smooth it down so it might cover more, but there was no use. It was supposed to be this short. I sat on a buttoned velvet stool and eased on the stockings – carefully, because they were so sheer a sharp look would probably ladder them.

Dressed and ready for action – but not the kind of action in an action movie – I tiptoed on my stockinged feet over to the office.

I felt so sure that Jasper would be in there that I knocked first.

No direction to enter, or to wait, followed. I knocked again, then turned the handle.

No, he was not there.

On his leather swivel chair was another box, of a stout, square variety.

This one proved to contain a little silk-embroidered case inside which lay a pair of shining silver balls. They jingled when I took them out. Of course, I knew what they were. I hadn’t studied the historical evolution of sex toys for nothing. But, strangely perhaps, given our no-holds-barred relationship, I’d never yet experienced them in play.

A label was stuck to the inner lid of the case.

‘Insert them,’ it said. ‘And walk (carefully) up the stairs to the master bathroom.’


The book is available now from various outlets, including the HarperCollins website (and apparently I get higher royalties if you order it from here, but don’t let me twist your arm…): http://www.harpercollins.co.uk/9780007579488/her-world-of-submission


To start the trilogy at the beginning, go to His House of Submission: http://www.harpercollins.co.uk/9780007491599/his-house-of-submission


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Impertinent Questions: Kristina Lloyd

Last week I took part in the online Kinky Cocktail Party to celebrate Kristina Lloyd’s new book Undone. After she’d had a few dodgy concoctions, she was happy to answer my questions…

Undone_kristina_lloyd 300


What are the best and worst things about being an erotic writer? Best bit: lying around in your jim-jams having obscene sexual fantasies and referring to it as ‘working’. Worst bit: people assume you’re a crap writer.

What was the first book you read that turned you on? Virginia Andrew’s Flowers in the Attic. I devoured the whole series and can see some of its themes echoed in my own writing today: the Gothic; dark secrets; hot but deeply unwise and morally dubious sex . (Nb. brotherfucking is not feature of my work!)


Which fictional character(S) do you wish you had created? Cassandra Mortmain in Dodie Smith’s I Capture the Castle. And Heathcliff.


Do you prefer writing novels, novellas or short stories, and why? I’ve only recently made a decision on this, and it’s novels. I love having a big project on the go and living alongside a story for several months. I’ve only written one novella and found it both difficult and deeply unsatisfying. So I’d put that one firmly at the bottom of the hierarchy and short stories would come a close second to novels.



Kristina Lloyd writes erotic fiction about sexually submissive women who like it on the dark, dirty and dangerous side. Her novels are published by Black Lace and her short stories have appeared in dozens of anthologies, including several ‘best of’ collection, in both the UK and US. She lives in Brighton, England. Her latest book, Undone, is published 11 September, 2014.

About Undone

When Lana Greenwood attends a glamorous house party she finds herself tempted into a ménage à trois. But the morning after brings more than just regrets over fulfilling a fantasy one night stand. One of the men she’s spent the night with is discovered dead in the swimming pool. Accident, suicide or murder, no one is sure and Lana doesn’t know where to turn. Can she trust Sol, the other man, an ex-New Yorker with a dirty smile and a deep desire to continue their kinky game?

Buy links: Amazon UK paperback :: Amazon UK Kindle :: Amazon US Kindle :: Amazon CA paperback :: Amazon CA Kindle




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