Bound for Trouble, bound for you?

A Christmas giveaway! I've got a story in here called Monthly, semi inspired by that cool werewolf film about the sexy woman who locks herself in her basement once a month and turns into a wolf. She might well have been French. Sort of set the bar for me for lycanthropy as a metaphor for female sexuality.

 Anyway, that's an aside (though if you can remember what the film is called, please tell me). This woman isn't a wolf, she just likes being locked in the basement every month or so. This is a story in which she Gets Caught and wrestles with her oh no, is kink wrong!? demon.

 I think about this a lot. I have a friend who considers herself modern and accepting, but she's routinely scathing and scoffing about anything kinky. One of these days I'll ask her what she'd do if she'd never been able to come to anything but the kinks she dismisses so readily. Would she go to therapy? Aversion therapy? Like people who try not to be gay? Or would she find ways to accept herself and her needs. Ponder ponder.
I also wonder about the way we laud athletes and the agony they put themselves through, for the sake of a challenge, of endorphins, of a win. What would you rather do, have a severe spanking, or run a marathon? Which would be more damaging to your body, I wonder. Which would make you cry more. I tell you this, I'd have another unmedicated labour in a flash before I ever attempted to run a marathon. And as for the spanking...

 But back to the comp. Leave a comment, think of something that's not illegal but that's tougher than a spanking, and I will pick a name after Christmas. And if it's only Charlie J Forrest, it's all good! :)

Editing

I got a very complimentary comment today on my story in Kristina Wright's Steamlust.

I agonised over that story. Mostly because it needed to be romance, and I was struggling with that a bit. But Nikki Magennis helped me get it right by making excellent suggestions, and I was able to do what was needed. I think a lot of the things that I was complimented on were down to Nikki's salient points.

It's tough, the editing process. I can't recommend getting someone to help you with it enough. Others will see things, ask questions, suggest things and pick at holes - when left to my own devices I tend to just change words to other words and dither over commas. With this one, as with others, I tied myself in knots trying to do what Nikki suggested - at first, my reaction to the notes tends to be, 'What? How?? YOU change it!' I wrestled with this one, and arghed a lot, and nearly didn't do it. I'm glad I did, though, I love the book, and I love the story, and if I'd any gumption I'd have written a prequel novel by now, but ... oh well.

So - I think that editing help allows you to write stories you are really proud of. Nikki helped me, yes, and I'm delighted at her input, but at the end of the day, it's me who decided how to act on those suggestions and adjust the story... I don't feel like it's any less my story. I think it's a skill in itself, being able to rework something, decide what advice is right and what you don't need, take out bits, write endings... it's what we do with edits that makes us writers, as well as what we write in the first place. It may be a painful process... but it's a good one!

I don't want it to be forgotten, so here's a little nostalgic view of Nikki's beautiful trailer for Steamlust. Joy!

wolves and silicon boyfriends

I love my friend Cassie. Last night we were watching Wolves , a film I had mixed responses to, and afterwards I showed her the male sex dolls that are hitting the market for $7,600 at the moment.

A semi-serious, semi hilarious conversation ensued, including her gems suggesting that if there was a Jason Momoa-shaped one, the credit union would sign off on that loan in a heart beat and also that she would imagine there'd have to be an intervention (Alright, Vida, it's time to get off him now... No! Noooo!).

I suggested my two issues after the cost would be where to keep it and how to hide it from my kids - she gestured darkly towards the large wooden chest in the corner. But I don't want a vampire plastic lover, really I don't.

I love my friend, I really do. We laughed and coughed a lot. And ate Indian dinner, and drank wine.

Wolves had so much potential but the question about why special effects and costumes still default to the 'Mr.Badger' style wolfman/woman endures. Sigh. Also, reports of the porny sex scene where the characters start changing as they get it on were grossly (and disappointingly) exaggerated.  A film I really wish I could steam in and rewrite.

In other news, I told Cassie about CAKESHIFTER and she begged me to write it for her for Christmas. I just might. Might even put it on Amazon, too! 

A long-winded post about fat-shaming and sexuality

A while back a colleague's post from his timeline came up - a share of a picture from a website called 'The LAD Bible'. One of these cheap, aimed-at-young-men sites that shares the best and worst of the web at any given time. They call out some stuff like men's shit texts from dating sites and share videos of cute dogs from around the net - nothing new or remarkable, really.

But in this case, my colleage, whose post came up on my work-facebook timeline, was sharing his disgust at a picture of a young woman from the LAD Bible facebook page. She was in her late teens, most likely, maybe early twenties, and she was plump-ish. I wouldn't go much further than that. She had long, thick, brown hair, a nice face, if wearing a slightly aggressive expression, and she was wearing a Wonder Woman leotard that was a bit too tight for her. She had one foot on a coffee table, and was leaning forward slightly, I think, in a vaguely aggressive pose. The leotard was wedgie-ing her, and one of her ass cheeks was hanging out. It wasn't massively flattering, but then it wasn't the worst thing in the world either.

My colleague was full of disgust for this woman. He and his friends were revolted. Appalled. Angry that this photo was there for them to look at. How dare she. They were full of ire and outrage and revulsion, oh yes. It was great fun for them.

I felt shit. On various levels. Because it was sexist. Because it was mean. Because it was so 'the Internet'. Because it was so body-negative. So unevolved. Such misdirected rage. And because I'm so fat, too. I'd love to look like that girl. Ok, I might not be tempted to put myself about in a too-tight leotard even if I did... but who knows what I might play around with in the privacy of my own home? It made me feel horrible.

The next time I saw said colleague, I brought it up, in the staffroom. At first he thought I was joining in, and warmed to the discussion of how disgusting it was. Said colleague is a shortish, plumpish guy. Young still, kind of cute in a boyish way. Not bursting with self confidence - wears jumpers in all weather, for example.

Then he realised I was saying it was awful how nasty he and his friends had been. He protested that she'd submitted it - forced it on him for his comment, I guess. I thought that was possible but not necessarily true, it being where it was. I wondered when he was going to post his leotard pic. As I popped out of the room to get something next door I said something I shouldn't have - I said 'You're not as nice as I thought you were.' I only meant it a little bit jokily, but the more I think about it, the more I think it's true. When I came back in, he said to me quite defensively that the topic 'wasn't relevant to anything' and I realised I shouldn't have brought it up in the staffroom with others around. I'm a little surprised by that, to be honest, but I get this social stuff wrong so often - so I apologised for that. Later I went to fb and sent him a message apologising again and explaining that his post had made me feel really bad and I was going to unfollow so as to avoid seeing others like it, and also so I wouldn't intrude on it in that way. I also said I'd rather save my disgust for worthier subjects like war, or racism, or sexism, etc.

He's blanked me since, today he was in to cover the class I share and barely talked to me when I said something about it. This guy is training to be a primary school teacher.

Here's the thing. I'm sensitive about this because I spend my life in fear that I'll disgust someone. I listen to my fit, handsome, sweet colleague talking about how fat girls in leggings are disgusting, how they shouldn't wear them. How hard it is to look at women who look like that. And I sit there terrified of the space I'm taking up, whether my ass is adequately camouflaged, mortified that people are looking at my fat fingers as I hand them something. I'm terrified of revolting people. I'm ashamed I haven't fixed myself. At the same time my shame is challenged by the idea of body positivity, and of not being defined by what you look like. The Internet, despite trolling and Photoshop and all, has been helpful. Showing larger, older bodies that are beautiful, because of, not despite. People who love themselves and are loved despite looking 'normal' instead of modelesque. Other people cheering that on. People calling others out, supporting each other. This!

But this normal little Irish guy, who's going to be teaching chubby pre-pubescent girls, maybe, is out there with his attitude. It scares me. It shames him, I think, in my eyes at least, but it still manages to shame me too.

Someone posted a search term to their blog they'd read today about removing socks seductively - a niche fetish, I thought. Socks... just not so sexy. I was going to say something in return about whether the original searcher would find the pressure rings around my ankles sexy. But then I looked at them and was confronted with such an unappealing sight, red grooves cut into my water-retaining legs that look more in need of  support tights than socks at all... and I felt full of shame and revulsion and realised that it wouldn't even be funny, just gross, to make that comment. Fat isn't sexy. Sometimes it really isn't, despite all the body-positivity the Internet has to offer. It's ageing, it's defeminising, oh, how could anyone love a cankle? Not me, in truth.

And seeing yer man and his attitude today makes me feel shit all over again. For his judgement. For my own self-hatred. For all of it. Oh, it's not right yet.

this week's ridiculousness

Last week I came up with the idea of writing a Romance series called CAKESHIFTER about a man who can transform into any sort of cake, and regenerate endlessly, so you can comfort-munch on him while he holds you in his muscular, cakey arms. And his massive Romance-sized cock squirts vanilla creme.

I thought that was hilarious, in my own special way, but nobody really agreed with me. Perhaps you can't throw a pebble on Twitter without hitting someone who writes shifter romance these days, and I offended everyone. Don't get me wrong, I like a good bit of animal magnetism as much as the next girl

oh yes I fucking do

but there's a lot of it about, in varying degrees of brilliance. We all like cock and cake, I thought, so... but nope. Not a giggle. Ah well.

This week's silly innovation came to me courtesy of my Lelo Ina, as was loved hard in my last post.
Masturbation's all well and good while it's happening, but I would like someone around to marvel at my afterglow. I'd also quite like to learn where the stop button is, so said afterglow isn't marred by excessive vibration in newly sensitive places while I writhe around in comedy alarm, pulsing through the different settings as I try to turn it off and down, all of which are unwelcomingly high-volume once you've come. Ooch. Such dignity.

So yeah, here's what I want. I want a human shaped Soraya. Made of that same smooth, warm, velvety silicon, but manshaped, with posable bendy arms and a padded chest. And a posable cock and clit-vibe! And his nipples can be the controls! This is such a good idea! A life sized vibe that cuddles you after! Yeah, I know it's weird, and it would probably cost five squillion euro (maybe I can have a complementary proto-type?) but damn. I'd just have to work out how to hide it from my kids.

Ok, so I suppose this isn't that different from a sex doll. I'm a bit scared to google what they're looking like these days. Sophisticated, no doubt. I still really like my idea, though.

I know we can do better than this!

And now, having sown the seeds of the manvibe, I shall whoosh away, to look at the picture of Jason Momoa some more... 

For the love of Lelo

I'd lusted after a Lelo Ina for ever so long. Since I saw its smooth flowing design and watched a couple video reviews, I was left feeling avaricious and yearning, a Cinderella figure unable to afford the attentions of Prince Charming.

I've had a couple vibrators, though not a rabbit style one, and I have to confess, the vibrating aspect has never really done that much for my clit. My g-spot's more appreciative of a bit of vigorous vibrating attention, but my clit's always been a bit meh about it. Still, though, I felt like the Ina might be the missionary to change its, er, mind.

I visited a friend recently, and when I spoke of my wishes, fairygodmother-like, she pulled one out of her box of toys. She said it never did it for her, despite Lelo's assertion that it fits the 'curves and contours of all women', the ear bit, or 'external pleasure point' was too stiff, and just hurt her vulva, pressing in too sharply against it and her clit. Me being the unsqueamish girl that I am, was all alacrity to accept the offer of a hand-me-down.

But, when I used it, I was disappointed to find the same thing. The smooth silicon surface is so tempting, the vibrations so powerful and convincing, but when I fully inserted the body (shaft?) of the toy, the clit attachment just hurts. Not in a fun way. The gap between shaft and rabbit ears is too small (you can see in the pic that it'll bend outwards, but it doesn't really do that comfortably when you've got it inside you, it presses back in very firmly) and the pain and  vibration together felt a bit alarming, and I was left saddened. All my years of longing come to nought? The magic slipper fails to fit...

Today, though, I took it out to play with it again.  There has to be a way! I thought. And I found it. So simple - just a slide and a dip of the shaft of the toy over and into my vagina and held at an angle lets the external part push up and down against my clit without the pressure that hurts down the shaft of it when the toy's inserted all the way. And the vibrations carry just fine where they need to go. As someone who's used to needing to work up to things quite a bit, and can find orgasm elusive, I was taken aback by how fast the on, around and up and down clit stimulation zapped a fast and fairly furious orgasm through me, leaving my clitoris literally vibrating with buzzy aftershock and me laughing out loud in disbelief at the shattering of my naivety. My vibrator virginity is dispatched.

I know this doesn't seem like a big deal to you vibe veterans out there but - if I may overshare a second - one, while I can make myself come ok, I tend not to be able to relax enough to let anyone else make it happen. So the feeling of something taking over my clit and popping an orgasm out of it so quickly and easily was quite revelatory. And also two, I've been on a low dose of an SSRI for some time now and while it stops me crying all the time, it also dismisses my libido summarily and makes it really hard to come sometimes. I'm taking a little break from it, thinking maybe I can welcome the tears for an interval and maybe enjoy the release they might bring - and also welcome the feeling of my body working like it's meant to and, god knows enjoying the release of some convincing orgasms at the same time - so I think that helped.**

Many thanks to Lelo, and many thanks to my kind benefactor, to whom I somewhat inappropriately dedicate this morning's orgasm.

**Not only is this not medical advice, or advice at all, I've no aspersions as to the fact that if it were, it would be extremely bad advice. Talk to your doctor before changing your dose or coming off meds, etc. Obviously.

smooch monster

sexy ass cookie withholding smooth talking mother fucker

Ok, so, if Tom Hiddleston was my Dom, and I was Cookie Monster, things would go exactly this way. Sex, cookies, it's kind of all the same.

THIS SO HARD FOR MONSTER! PLEEEEASE! TAKE PITY ON MONSTER!

I'm sure none of you wanted to know this, but now you do.

It's Kristina!

Everyone, Kristina is here, hot on the heels of Snoggy Sunday. She's going to tell us about the style of her new release, Undone, which I thought worked perfectly, and allows her to lead us around by the nose as she likes (at least, that was my experience). Don't you love this cover? Unf.

Undone: writing about writing

Undone is told from Lana Greenwood’s perspective in the format of a diary or journal narrative. I tend to write female characters given to introspection and analysis, and this choice of narrative allowed me to foreground that without, I hope, detracting from the hot, sexy action.

Lana starts committing her thoughts to paper after a man is found dead following a threesome with herself and guy she’s recently met, Sol Miller. Eager to protect their privacy, Lana and Sol agree to keep the kinky encounter secret from the police. soon, Lana suspects sol may be implicated in the death but even so, she can’t tear herself away from their developing relationship. Her journal is a bid to retain control as her emotions threaten her stability, and to keep a record of events to help if she’s called in for questioning.

In one sense, Lana’s writings form a diary: entries are dated and the point is to note the day’s events. but they are partly a journal too because the point is not merely to record events but also feelings.

Using this format presented some interesting challenges and opportunities for me as a writer. Relating events via diary entries meant I didn’t need to close off or continue scenes as I might do with a more conventional chapter structure. I could have small sections focusing on Lana’s troubled mind along with diary entries which resembled more typical scenes. Diary entries sometimes stop or start with Lana fretting about the past or the future, or about Sol or her own behavior.  The content of the entries doesn’t always correspond to the date of the entry, as Lana struggles to find time to keep track. At times I remind readers this is a diary they’re reading while at others, I hope the story takes over and its method of presentation recedes into the background.

I used a similar framing device in my third novel, Split, told from the point of view of Kate Carter. The whole novel is effectively Kate explaining to her boyfriend, via a journal, why she’s fled their life in London to take up a job in a remote puppet museum on the Yorkshire moors. For the most part, the story takes precedence and readers soon forget Kate’s initial motivations for relaying her tale. By contrast, in Undone, Idon’t allow my readers to forget for too long that Lana is writing her story. The dated diary entry format helps but also, Lana, particularly in the early part of the novel, is quite conscious of the act of writing and story-telling.

Below is a snip where one entry ends and another begins. The action here starts with Lana, having detailed the intense, troubling sex she had with sol in the woods on the morning the body is discovered, recalls their post-coital tranquility.

“We edged together and he wrapped his arm behind me, pulling me close. I lay sideways, my head on his chest, and draped a leg across his. he twisted a finger in my hair. I listened to his heartbeat pumping in his ribcage. The filtered sunlight was strengthening, dabbing my skin with warmth. Leaves stirred around us while birdsong fluted and fluttered. After a few minutes, sol’s breathing slowed. His legs twitched as he drifted towards sleep. He stopped toying with my hair. We dozed for twenty minutes or so. I slipped in and out of consciousness, tired but too uncomfortable to relax fully.

I’m remembering the scene as I write this, and it’s as if I’m gazing down on a couple of time-travellers who’ve pitched up in another era, naked and lost. The woodland looks so restful, the sleepers so at peace. She’s pale, blonde and slender. He’s dark, broad and powerful, holding her close, even while he sleeps.

The woman lying there seems a different person to the woman writing this journal. It’s late. I need to stop and try to get some sleep. I swam thirty-six lengths today. It doesn’t seem to have tired me as much as I’d hoped.

Friday 4th July

I’ve made some good decisions in recent years. Today, I feel the need to remind myself of these as self-recriminations pile up in the wake of too many bad decisions. I swear I can feel Sol on me after Wednesday, still holding me down. It’s been two days since he visited me. He’s become a constant presence in my psyche. Everything I do, even this now, writing my journal in an empty bar, feels like an act of resistance against him, a fight to be free.

I do not want to be consumed by a man, to be lost in the chaos of lust and love. And yet the pull to abandon myself to such disruption is enormous and terrifying.”

If you’d like to know more, please hop over to my blog for an excerpt from Undone, and check out the other stops on my sexy September blog tour.

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.

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? 

amazon uk paperback :: amazon uk kindle :: amazon us kindle :: amazon ca paperback :: amazon ca kindle

I'm just going to add one little thing to this, a song that goes awfully, awfully well :) Vida xx

A Snog For Sommer

Hello, smooch fans. Welcome to Suffused with Heat and thanks for coming. This lovely little fundraiser has made me question whether there is much kissing in my stories, and wonder why the hell not, seeing as I think kissing might just be the best part of all of it. Of it all.

I was out in the most remarkable evening this evening, and a delightful thought for a flash for you came to me. So here it is, just for you, just for Sommer.

He was such a sweetie, Mattie, with his silky black hair and wide, laughing mouth always smiling hello, happy to see me. His owner was pretty cute too, young, bearded, dark blond hair falling onto his shoulders. He was as sweet as his dog, always friendly when our paths crossed, ready for a chat. Mattie's happy bark tended to lift my day when I heard it echo across the grass as he raced to meet my shaggy little mutt Dexter. They would race and roll and yip and tumble and Shane and I would laugh at their antics and look on fondly like proud parents at the playground. 

It took me a while to remember his name - For some reason, I can remember the dogs' names more easily than their humans'. I'm not sure what that says about me. But after a few meetings when our walkies schedules had seemed to have aligned, those chance meetings fast became something I looked forward to. 

Last week I went out on a Saturday evening. Oh, it was beautiful. We walk on a hillside above the sea, along a grassy path. In the Spring the gorse scents the air and the whitethorn bushes are in full flower; now it's Autumn and there are ripening berries all around, little wild, white lilies peeping from thick foliage and evening mist that lies thick in the bowl between the mountains that lead down to the bay. Tonight the mist spread out to sea, blurring the horizon and holding the colours of the sunset above it - the sky was fluffy with purple clouds and streaks of pink over the mountains. Mist lay all around, the air was thick with it, fragrant and completely still. Everything glowed, the moisture in the air caught the light of the sun as it slid behind the mountains. The trees seemed to be giving up their secrets into that still, damp air. 

As I walked in this magic evening I was glad of the solitude, the silence of this evening. It felt altogether fairy tale like, part of a fantasy adventure. There is such pleasure in being out of doors, somewhere beautiful - nowhere does it feel more like being in your own narrative. But when Shane rounded a corner, and Mattie leapt through the long grass towards Dexter with a joyful woof, I felt my heart jump happily too. We approached, and smiled  greetings, and exchanged mutual opinions on the magic of the night that was in it. The sunlight was waning, dusk threatened. And then some spell of the green scented, purple misted evening settled around us, and when Shane leaned in to pull a bug from my hair. His fingers lingered on the strands, I reached up to touch his arm, holding him there. 

  'Oh,' he said, bending his head to me. 'Oh, it would just be perfect if...' 

And I stroked my fingers over his soft lips, drew them over his cheek and the short, rough hair there. He closed the distance between our mouths, brushed my lips with his. I tasted his breath and reached up closer to catch his full lower lip, to tease another beautiful, endless second before turning the moment into a real kiss. A point of no return, where nothing could be claimed as accidental, intentional kiss. His hand rested firm at the base of my back and pulled me closer and his tongue touched mine. As soon as it did, the mist filled my head, that perfect dizziness enveloped me while my blood rushed south to throb in my abdomen and leave me wanting so much more. I swayed and pulled back, to touch my lips to his again, once, twice. To bite at his jaw so gently.

 It was nearly dark, I realised, as I opened my eyes. The dogs were sitting quietly, staring at us in confusion. It was time to go. We walked towards the gate as we had done so often before, but this time Shane reached down without a word, and took my hand. 

If you go to this site, you can see 50 plus other writers' exerpts and donate whatever you like towards helping Sommer worry about one less thing and showing her we care about what she and her family are going through. I'd donate a book, but given that I live in Ireland, I'd rather just send the postage straight to her - but if you leave a comment, I'd be happy to draw a name to send a story to on file. Just comment and leave your address, or send it to me at vidabailey@gmail.com and I'll send the lucky winner a choice of Torn, my F/m story from Love at First Sting,  Girls' Night Out from Morning Noon and Night or The Sweetshop Owner's Daughter from Sommer's own Dirtyville anthology. 

Diamond - guest post by Justine Elyot

Without further ado (or rather, further lateness on my part), here is the inimitable Justine Elyot, to talk to you lovely people about her shiny new  book, Diamond, a novel packed full of heroism, satisfying villainy, and romance. 

Diamond

Are trilogies still the in thing? They certainly were when I was asked to write this one by the gang at Black Lace, and I hope they will continue to prosper while the Diamond Trilogy plays out.

My original inspiration for this story was the idea of a kind of modern Lady Chatterley's Lover, with Lady Chatterley as a working-class girl made good rather than an aristocratic wife, and Mellors as a fugitive hiding out in her attic.

My Lady Chatterley is Jenna Myatt Diamond, who has made a fortune as a talent-spotter in the Simon Cowell vein after promoting her rocker boyfriend to stardom when they were both teenagers. She is not an ignorant, innocent flower but the pressures of her life have meant that she has put her old ideals of what love and sex should be on the back-burner while her career took over. Meanwhile, her rock star husband turned his attentions elsewhere…

One nasty LA divorce later, and Jenna is taking a year off in her home town, the former Nottinghamshire mining community of Bledburn. (Not so far from Eastwood, where D H Lawrence grew up…)

She has decided to spend that year renovating the crumbling old home of the locally hated Harville family. Little does she know that the crumbling attic of the crumbling home contains a surprise…

Here's an excerpt:

In many ways the place hadn't changed. Not in every way – the high rises were gone, replaced with nests of tiny newbuilds. The pit head was a museum now, and there was a ring road encircling the town, keeping it in, separate from the old coal mining landscape that had been its life blood - as if to say 'This isn't part of you any more'.

The signs of modernity were calculated to comfort, but they didn't do much for Jenna's mood and she found herself in uncertain spirits as she parked the car and wandered down the lone pedestrianised street that made up the 'town centre'.

Perhaps this had been a mistake, she thought, looking into the shop windows  - those that weren't boarded up. The only businesses that seemed to be flourishing on this wet Wednesday afternoon were the bookmakers, the pound shops and the glorified pawnbrokers that had sprung up on every corner.

A big chain pub with a happy hour that lasted until teatime was full and bright, as if its façade of good cheer had sucked everyone off the street and left it empty. She thought about going in and getting a nip of something to keep the shivers off, but there was no guarantee she wouldn’t be recognised, and conversation was the last thing she was after.

The high street drifted into nothingness, the old covered market abandoned now, just a shed earmarked for demolition. She stepped under its dark old awning and tried to remember it the way it was: the smells of overripe fruit and veg, meat and fish all competing to hit the back of her throat the hardest. The little stalls full of knitting wools or costume jewellery or model making kits. The slow crowds of old ladies in five layers of clothing and kids in tracksuits. And at the centre of it all, Smash Records, where she had spent every Saturday afternoon. Where she had met Deano.

She made a sharp about-turn and walked swiftly to the end of the street and into the residential area beyond, her umbrella charging before her like a weapon. Densely-packed terraces gave way to more spacious environs within a ten minute walk and soon she saw the church tower that confirmed she had taken the right route and was near her destination.

She decided to walk through the churchyard rather than keep on the straight path – something about churchyards in pouring rain encouraged contemplative peace, and she was in need of it. Among the lichened stones bearing names of people who had breathed their last centuries before, she stopped and looked up at the sky. Its grey threat was not the best omen for a day on which her life would change.

But she didn't believe in things like that. She believed in making your own luck. She had made hers, and now she could afford to buy the house that had fascinated her since childhood. And if she didn't get a shove on, she'd be late to pick up the keys.

There it stood, just the other side of the churchyard, mostly hidden behind a high yew hedge. The grounds of Harville Hall had been the scene of many a childhood exploration, ever since the family had abandoned it during the miners' strike, when she was five. She and the other kids from the estate had used its ever-more-overgrown gardens and woodland for innumerable games of A-Team and Robin Hood. She had never managed to get inside the house, though, because the walls had bristled with alarms and those new cameras that filmed you. The big red spray painted 'TRAITOR' on the side gable hadn't been washed off for years.

Of course, it would be long gone now.

She went to stand by the padlocked front gate, looking up and down the street for signs of the keybearer. The house had been lived in again since its abandonment, but little had been done to it in the way of renovation. Although structurally sound, it had a blank, neglected look.

Within half a minute, the door of a shiny red sports car parked up the road had opened and a man in a very smart dark blue peacoat stepped out and strode towards her. Having no umbrella, he held a leather satchel over his head to keep off the rain and he grimaced at her as he drew level. The grimace did nothing to disguise his handsomeness, though. Jenna was pleasantly impressed and couldn't help giving him one of her brightest beams back.

'Hi,' she said. 'Jenna Myatt.'

'Thank God for that,' he said, holding out the hand that wasn't occupied with the satchel. 'Lawrence Harville. What a day. Shall we step inside? Or I could hand over the keys in my car, if you prefer?'

The book is available right now from Amazon

oh for feck's sake

So... people keep inventing devices to make birth easier. Never mind that a woman might be happy on all fours on the floor, or squatting, or pulling on a rope, or leaning on her bed or her partner, or floating freely in a pool of warm, analgesic water...

No, we must have machines and gadgets and devices. There's been a version of a birth stool around for thousands of years, as you can see if you google image it. A simple device that supports a woman and lets her baby come out. But in Ohio, they've come up with the startling idea of the 'birth machine' chair, also termed the 'Relaxbirth' -

Mmm, comfy? Except, wait, I have to say, it reminds me of an orange juicer.

Or even:

Seriously, doesn't this woman look like she's about to be juiced?

Here's another thing that anyone who knows about birth might notice - see how she's sitting right on her coccyx? Well, not to preach, but in pregnancy, women's joints and ligaments soften so that their coccyx can move right back and out in order to make space for the baby to pass. If you've lain on your back during labour, you'll know how horribly fucking painful it is, compared to say, leaning forward, as the baby scrapes along all your nerves and the bumps of your spine. Pushing a baby over a coccyx that's stuck curving in is difficult, painful, and dangerous. That's why birthing lying on your back was such a god awful idea. Doctors like it for access, but it has bad results. This picture seems to me to be all about access for the practitioner, not about helping the mother let the baby out the easiest way possible. She's sitting on her coccyx. Nooo, Relaxbirth, NOOOO!

Someone once told me she thought the idea of giving birth on all fours was 'undignified'. Such brainwashing has gone on. A leading and influential obstetritian here has stated that gravity is irrelevant in delivering babies. Really? Really? The world went mad a long time ago, strap yourself into the Relaxbirth and do what you're told.

Anyway, why am I posting this little rant here, instead of other places where I usually rant about stupid and destructive anti-woman and anti-baby birth practices? Eh? Well, it's because I wanted to post this photo as a final association, and I didn't want to upset anyone's tender sensibilities, because it is quite disgusting... but I couldn't help thinking of it.

Feather beds

I just saw this on a groupon offer, and I have to confess, it gave me a twinge of arousal.

Lookit. It's a goosefeather and down mattress topper. That would be so fucking comfortable. Like the shed full of feathers in Jemima Puddleduck. Comfort!

Warmth! Cuddliness! The sleepy bliss of snuggling into that... my daughter keeps telling me of the women she's read about who've fallen in love with (and married) edifices - the Berlin Wall, the Eiffel Tower (thrusting, eh?). I can imagine myself developing quite the relationship with my bed. It may be happening already, especially since I got a body pillow. Mmmm, boyfriend pillow. An ecstacy of comfiness.

Unfortunately, I've come to realise that my lifelong love affair with feather duvets and pillows isn't an acceptable one. I'm a vegetarian, I don't like the idea of animals suffering torture for my comfort, and the reality of the first picture is a bloody one.

Live plucking is fucking disgusting. They do it to Angora rabbits too :(  At least the fox killed the birds before he plucked them, presumably. But as a vegetarian, even that doesn't sit too well with me. Battery farming... hmm. 

I've harshed my own buzz here. I do love sleeping in feathers. That bed turns me on. The words 'feather bed' fill me with bliss. You would think in our modern world we could invent a synthetic feather substitute that isn't petrochemical or otherwise nasty, that felt the same without ripping something bloody and tipping it back out into a barn, possibly to die of shock before the next time... c'mon! 

I don't really know what to do with the stuff any more

I read this post on 'to pube or not to pube' by Cara Sutra, and started writing this in the comments, 'til I realised it was one of those comments-that-are-blog-posts.

 I agree that it's very hard to say what our 'natural' preference would be, away from the pressures of fashion.

I remember being horrified by my first few pubic hairs, and cutting them off, in a sort of, oh god, what the hell are these, they're not meant to be here! sort of way. Maybe if I'd seen my mother naked more I wouldn't have felt like that? They would have just felt like ... mine?

As a teenager in Ireland in the early 90s, I just 'had' pubic hair. It wasn't the kind you couldn't hid under a swim suit or knickers, so that made it easier to accept. The boyfriend I had from 17 and who I married also had pubes, it was just what people had. I'd never come across anyone who shaved or waxed. He liked it. He didn't really like the idea of bareness (which I'm a bit sorry about now, as I think that might have been fun, here and there...). We just got on with it, it was what people had.

It's only more recently in my 30s I've been more aware that people do stuff about it now as a routine thing. Can I be arsed, as someone who's single and not dating? Well, speaking of arses, it WAS easier to ignore before my 30s. Why must we grow crack-hair, why, why? Funny, I remember being 17 and getting a ticket signed by Gail from Belly who wrote 'Always keep your butt-crack shaved!' And I remember thinking, 'what does that mean?' Now I know... sigh.

The expense... the pain... the ingrown hairs and razor burn. I dunno. They need to design something better, preferably a device that allows me to tell my body exactly what to do, including my puffy thick angles, broken veins, fat distribution, boob direction, etc. etc. 

Master of the House

Stories of gentry and kinky sex - who better to write them that Justine Elyot?

I started reading this under the slightly confused impression that it was another in the His House of Submission series. It isn't! So, don't look for Jasper, as instead we have Joss, her old flame, who's introduced to us through a series of flashbacks. There's a masterful sense of the sinister around Lucy's memories of their childhood and teenage relationships - it's hard to tell what happened, and the suspense is  very effective.

Lucy is a strong and sympathetic character and the details of her life and reactions are quite real. She's not perfect and has plenty of concerns and insecurities.

The story ends with a slightly fantastical twist, that is actually just fun, if a little unbelievable. The choices the characters end up making are conversely far more rooted in everyday reality. Again, there's a bit of a Jilly Cooper roundup in the ultimate chapter, but after a story of summer byways and Lords and their country piles and pints in the pub by the river, it fits remarkably well, and ends with a laugh. There's everything to enjoy in this story. 

Cupcakes, Armour, Ink, Wings: Helena Hunting

Some years ago, in a daze of Twilight fanfiction, I read a story by a Canadian writer that captivated me completely. I've waited a long time for it to get published, and it's now out in a series of beautifullly illustrated books.

Here they are

Cupcakes and Ink

Clipped Wings

Inked Armour

Cracks in the Armour

Between the Cracks - free right now!

I had a little trouble because the original epic tale has been edited into something manageable, and there's bits I missed as I was reading, little scenes that were my favourite. And some of the characters subtly changed. Helena's answers to my probing questions explain why that is - ultimately it's a great edit, and a brave one more realistic, much tighter.

I can't separate the stories into individual books, really, as for me they're all one. They're full of utterly winsome characters, and the tension comes from grief, friendship, trauma and romance mixed together. The inclusion of the world of body modification makes an interesting and appealing back drop.

I just love these books, they'll always be a favourite of mine.

Here's Helena, with some answers to my questions!

1. So this story is the end result of a MONSTER edit! How was that process for you, I can't imagine how you managed it all. How did you decide what major changes to make? I do think the story is far more credible with the new antagonists.

I macheted about half the original manuscript, which was something that definitely needed to happen. Some of the process was challenging and there were scenes that were difficult to cut, but necessary in the end. Initially, I started going through the manuscript one chapter at a time and editing from within. By the time I got to chapter nine it became glaringly obvious that my writing style had changed over time and the approach I was taking wouldn’t be effective.

My very good friend Alex worked through the outline with me for both books. It took about a month, but the outlines made it so much easier to weed out the scenes that were no longer essential to the story. After that, I stopped referring to the original draft for the most part and I just started writing from scratch. It was quite an intense process, but definitely one I’m glad I went through. 

2. I love that you're still writing more Chris and Sarah - will you ever be able to let these characters go?

Eventually, yes. As the first full length novel I’ve ever written, I think these characters are close to my heart. All of the characters, whether primary or secondary have a story to be told, Chris and Sarah included.

3. Did you intentionally make a plea for acceptance for the tattooed and pierced people of the world? Is that something that bothers you, or was it just part of the characters' natural struggle?

Social constructs, while often required, are also constraining. I feel like body modification is highly misunderstood form of art. I wanted people to view it through a different lens. In many cultures the art of body modification is a norm, not a deviation from it. If we can look at it as a vehicle for artistic expression rather than something “other”, I think it’s easier to understand what motivates people to commemorate their life milestones in the form of ink.

4. I'm assuming you've left fanfiction behind now, but tell us a little bit about how you see it being valuable. I see so many writers sneering at it - but I think it's an incredibly positive thing. 

Without it I never would have found an audience, or the motivation to move forward with my writing. I’ve met some very incredible women through fanfiction, and they’ve been supportive through this process. Fanfiction gave many indie authors the opportunity to share their words in a safe, accepting forum, and to develop and hone their writing skills. So much of the fandom are embracing, encouraging and positive. I’ve been very fortunate to have been a part of that.

5. So - what's next for Helena Hunting?

I’m still writing and I’m hoping to share more soon!

a kiss

Waking, and sifting through the long, slightly exhausting tumble of my bank holiday morning dreams, I unearth... a kiss. I was looking at your photos, a bent head, a bicep, all bathed in soft light, and then magically there was kissing instead, a memory, a dream-shift, I don't know, but I remembered the soft, slow touching of warm, wet tongues and  your fine blond hair grown long enough to whisper over my forehead as we kissed. 

Tabitha Rayne Taking Flight

I wondered if Tabitha meant Shooting the Shit with Vida Bailey, or if she thinks I'm less waffly than I really am - but I do really agree about the ability of eroticists and sex writers to connect honestly, and of internet people to connect instantly - but anyway, I love her title, and I'm delighted to welcome her to Suffused with Heat to hear about her new novel, installment two of her futuristic apocalyptic trilogy. 

Cutting the Crap with Vida Bailey!

Or getting down to the nitty gritty – still sounding a bit harsh? I don't meant to :D

Vida has kindly let me come over to shout about my new book – but before I do, I wanted to have a chat about how we communicate with each other.

I was lucky enough to attend Eroticon this year and met up with some of the fabulous people I chat to all year online. It is a completely unique event in my life as it is where I meet other erotic writers and find myself free to talk uncensored about my writing. It is a liberating experience as the erotic, spiritual erotic and artistic erotic are things that occupy my mind space...ooo... let's say 75% of the time (probably more, I edited it down a little). To find all these beautiful eloquent normal people at ease with their expressive side is just amazing. I'm not saying I don't have this in my 'real' world, but just on a different plane.

So, one of these people I happened to meet, is my delightful host, Ms Vida Bailey. We ducked out of one of the sessions to go and grab some sun and buy souvenirs (we both don't get to England much...). As we sat in the sun drinking our coffee, we fell into easy deep conversation about life, spirituality, the erotic, death, apocalypse – all the good stuff. We even connected over a scene in True Detective  – which sounds trivial but it blew my mind.

It's an awesome piece of acting. “I can smell the psychosphere...”

So how, I hear you ask, does this fit in with my new book? (Come on, you knew this was coming!)

Well, in one of the scenes in Taking Flight where the leading couple have had to go into hiding, they meet another couple who take them under their wing and teach them how to survive in the wilderness – some sexy shenanigans ensue of course, it is an erotic novel after all, but they have agreed do never share their true identity. To do so may risk their safety.

The good thing that this brings up is that they have no baggage, no explanation for their existence is required. They are all in the same situation, with limited knowledge of each others 'real' life so they are very much experiencing the here and now. It means during conversation, they can explore any topic unhindered by expectation. They can talk philosophy, spirituality, love, death, transcendence. In other words they can get straight to the point.

I found it fascinating that I had the same feeling in Eroticon. We were all there – unhindered by our daily life. So the most  outrageous, creative and erotic discussions were had.

Here's a little excerpt where Deborah ponders this very thought.

Deborah brought the past few days—could it be weeks?—to mind. The discussions the four of them had around the fire each night were philosophical, theological, sexual, scientific—never personal. Neither couple had inquired about the other’s situation or reasons for being there, exiled in the wood, or ventured their own story. It was like the code of the forest. It actually freed up a lot of space for getting right into the debates on life, existence, and all the good stuff. Deborah had found it scintillating and refreshing and had relished the talks. Marcus, though, seemed to have gleaned a lot more about the sexual spiritual side than she had. While she’d been thinking about the existence of God, he’d been wondering about fucking. She smiled to herself; she could only think after the best, most intense orgasm of her life that one of them had been the fool all this time, and it wasn’t him.

“So how do we do it?” She racked her brains and could only conclude that he must have been having private talks with Birch while they’d been out together hunting. She had to ask him. “Are you and Birch fucking?”

“Are you and Hazel?” His response was lightning fast, and she had not been expecting a counter-attack.

She blushed to the very roots of her hair.

“No!”

“But you want to, right?” he asked, boring into her with his stare.

“No!” She was shocked. They’d never had an exchange like this before. It felt like it was rocking their foundations. “Well, yes— God, I don’t know. Maybe?” She dropped her head into her armpit in horror at her admission.

He lifted her face so gently it made her weep. “Me too. I wanted Birch.” He paused to correct himself. “I want Birch.”

She sobbed.

“But only with my body. I’ve never felt like this. It feels like a freedom.” As he spoke his eyes lit up and she could feel his heart quicken beneath his shirt. “This is what our society is, a polyamorous one. I’ve never thought it made sense before until I met these two. Birch has taught me the beauty of it. It doesn’t diminish our love, it makes it stronger.”

“I still don’t understand.” She was sobbing, but their fingers were laced through each other’s as they spoke.

“Well, here’s the theory...” He sat up cross-legged and Deborah did the same. “If we manage to make the unity bond—that is, come together so hard our spirits could slip past physicality and into each other’s, even just for a second—it means that it will happen again with every orgasm we have. Even by ourselves, or with different people, a part of our spirit will always meet at that point. It’s a beautiful thing.”

Deborah did her very best to suspend her disbelief long enough to agree that, in theory, it actually was a beautiful thing.

Tiny snippet

“If we part ways,” he started but Deborah pressed a finger to his lips, she didn’t want to hear it, speaking it might make it true. He pushed her hand from his face and held it at his chest, his woozy gaze fixed on hers. “Deborah, if we part ways, I’ll find you. I’ll find you at the meeting point. Do everything you can to come. We are more than the physical.”

If that has whetted you appetite for some more sexy dystopian shenanigans – here's the blurb and all important buy links:

Taking Flight by Tabitha Rayne
The prequel to A Clockwork Butterfly
Genre(s): Futuristic Erotic Romance
Price: $4.99

Lovers on the run in search of a bond that transcends all else.

Dr. Deborah Regan is a scientist working on a cure to the poison that's killing the male population and destroying the natural world. But when she makes a breakthrough in her research, it becomes clear that the authorities have no intention of finding a cure, and now that she's getting closer to an answer, she's a threat to them—a threat they need to deal with quickly.

Deborah and her partner, Marcus, flee to the forest where they meet another couple on the run. Birch and Hazel show them how to survive in the wild and teach them the theory of ultimate unity. They believe that by finding sexual nirvana at the point of intense orgasm, they will break through the barriers of physicality and become one.

It soon becomes apparent that Deborah has an aptitude for falling into this trance-like state, and she manages to bring Marcus on her journey. Their spirits can indeed join together at the meeting point, suspended in time and space while they climax.

When Birch and Hazel become jealous of the young couple's ease at reaching ultimate unity—something they've unsuccessfully tried to do for years—they betray Deborah and Marcus to the authorities. As they are separated, Marcus begs Deborah to continue to search for the ultimate sexual unity, because he's convinced that no matter where they are, this connection will allow them to meet again on a spiritual plane.

Will this metaphysical union be enough for a couple so deeply in love?

Content Warning: This book contains apocalyptic peril and graphic sexual content, including m/f and f/f sexual interaction, along with BSDM

Note: This book has been previously published.

Bio

Tabitha Rayne has been told she is quirky, lovely and kinky – not necessarily in that order or by the same person. She writes erotic romance and as long as there’s a love scene – she’ll explore any genre.

Her short stories are included in anthologies from Cleis Press, Ravenous Romance, HarperCollins Mischief, Xcite, Oysters & Chocolate, Burning Books Press and House of Erotica. Her novella, Mia's Books won a Reader's Choice Award with TwoLips reviews. Taking Flight is the second book in The Clockwork Butterfly trilogy from Beachwalk Press.

Tabitha also has a passion for art and takes great pleasure in painting nude ladies.

TabithaRayne.co.uk

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Thank you for hosting my bletherin' today Ms Bailey x x

shriek!

Apparently we're in the midst of a 'Pandemic of Porn!' Where? Where is it all? OH. It's on the internet. And everyone is on the internet. Your four year old's watching porn right now. 

Sigh. 

I dunno, I guess this is true. Teenage boys don't know women grow pubic hair and find the idea disgusting when they're told about it. Everyone thinks boobs are eternally round and huge and bouncy. 

It's funny... for all this porn watching, no one seems to be watching the good porn, do they? Crash Pad series, anyone? Nah, clearly not. No one's reading Susie Bright, either, are they, despite all this internet access. 

I dunno. My kids know women have pubes because they've grown up seeing mine and their dad's every so often. The body image you communicate to your kids about will have a far greater effect on them than porn will... if you teach them stuff. If you talk to them. If you guide them to positive sources of sex education and self-image construction. 

Or you could say nothing, let them loose on the internet and bitch about their fucked up view of the world. 

Ach, it annoys me. I saw some porn as a teen, and I know for a fact it didn't bother me in any way. Now I only saw quite classic porn, discovered in my parents' (remarkably unstashed) stash - it was sort of... innocent, in a way? I think erotica shaped my desires an awful lot more than porn did, if truth be told, and left me a bit unsatisfied with the vanilla fumblings I encountered. I don't know, perhaps porn gave me an unrealistic view of how easy anal is - but that was before the internet and the thing is, it's as easy to find a 'Beginner's Guide to Great Anal' as it is to find Unrealistic Anal Gangbangs, so meh to that. If your kids are old enough to search for porn, they're old enough to research and read around a little. How will they know to? Because you help them. 


I know there's shitty porn out there, I know there's a lot wrong - but the more popular and recognised porn becomes, the more pressure on porn makers to be ethical there will be, the more money will be available for better quality set ups. Consent is becoming a by-word, etc. Though, from what the performers are saying, the internet is killing porn as it was - it's getting harder and harder to make money now - the tube sites are scooping up all the punters for free. And if this is the case, doesn't it suggest that the pandemic of porn is hurting porn performers and producers most of all? 

Brit Babes post

A quick link to my Brit Babes guest post that went up today. I rambled about the role of fantasy in sexy fiction, and the weirdness of editing our own desire. 

that wink, at the end...

I've always been a bit intrigued by this guy... I used to worry about him a little... why did he want to cover himself up, become this walking death's head? But the video of him covered in make up and looking 'normal' relieved me - I think he looks far more beautiful with his ink... and damn, that wink he does at the end of the vid speaks directly to my cunt :) 

Easter Overshare

Things I'd love/things I miss

I'd love to get put over your knee. I'd love to have you leave the house with the smell of my cunt drying on your fingers, subtly scenting your day. I'd love to lock your wrists to your ankles and open you up with slick, gloved fingers and watch you squirm and buck and beg to have your cock touched. I'd love to have you hold my wrists over my head, and be pinned under you while the hardness of your cock presses onto my clit, grinds against my soft, fat pussy while you kiss me. 

I'd love to be kissed again, the lean in, the tentative touches of lips and tongue, a tongue driving into my mouth while your cock pushes against me, to have my face sting from spit and bristle... I'd love to kiss you, stretching up to reach. You're so tall. 

I'd love to click my fingers and have you drop to your knees... 

I'd love to have my wrists stroked, I'd love to kneel for you, feel your hands in my hair pulling me onto your cock, I'd love to have the taste of you, the silk of you on my tongue. I miss it, so. 

I'd love to have my jaw pressed open, your thumb pushed into my mouth while you hold my face and reach up my skirt and slide your fingers into me.

I'd love to slide my hand over your ass, between your legs while we're out and waiting to come home, walk home knowing you're hardening at the promise of what's to come, and feel that answering fist inside me pressing, and your hand on the back of my neck, making me wet.

I'd love to have someone hold the weight of my breasts for a minute, squeeze the pain out of my shoulders, scratch the marks of my clothes off me, tie me up and make more. I'd love to feel arms about me that press me against a heartbeat, I'd love a shoulder to push my face into just for a while. I'd love to be held by someone tall and strong and let myself feel safe, just for a while. And to carry all that home with me, hold it in myself and feel that feeling of peace, of happiness. A little respite. 

I have so much to ask. 

-- 

Porn is funny sometimes

'Mistress smothers slave using her cellulite stricken ass cheeks'

It's a little poem. 

dream

I ended up in a communal changing room, wandering around, trying to find a free shower. Or one not under construction. You were there too, except I think you were called Simon. We chatted, and I finally gave up my efforts to cover myself with the slightly-too-small-for-me towel and got comfortable being dream-naked too... at which point you giggled affectionately at what you called my 'cute, granddad ass'.

I woke up feeling... unencouraged.

My subconscious is not my cheerleader.

books in the post

I'm working this afternoon instead of this morning, which is a bit of a drag, but right now I'm sitting in bed with a clutch of books around me, courtesy of Cleis Press and some review copies. I've a beautiful book on veggie growing, and two feel the fear and do it anyway type books that might encourage me to ... get out of bed, or at least do something more productive therein. And I've Alison Tyler's Twisted, which I failed to submit to, which makes me sad, as there's a lovely ToC of accomplished writers, and the first story by Jax Baynard is just ... it's excellent. The voice, the detail, the writing style... it makes me very happy, as it's just completely opposite to the lazier style of story I might sometimes indulge in... sex scenes without much behind them, no writery balls. I don't really know how to describe what I mean, but I know this story has both delighted me and put me to shame, and stalled my current up-against-a-deadline plan in its tracks, because I don't want to write something nothingy, or twee. I want to write grown-up, like this story. It's called Foundation Stone. I don't know if the rest of the book could possibly measure up, if it does, I may have to quit altogether. Reviews to come...