How I got into writing Erotica

HOW I BECAME A WRITER OF EROTICA

(First published on Sue Howe's Blog)

Some years ago a woman I knew through a writing group I used to attend submitted a story to Black Lace and had it accepted. It was published in one of the Wicked Words collections. I read the story and others in the same anthology and I realised I could probably write it. That's not to say it's particularly easy to write but I felt sure I had the right mind-set to produce saleable work.

So I gave it a go.

I wrote The Celibate and sent it off to Kerri Sharp at Black Lace Books and within a very short time I had an acceptance. Wow, I thought, my very first erotic story got snapped up!

So I wrote another one.

The Black Lace Wicked Words series was only published three or four times a year so while I was waiting for the next submission period, I sent my latest story off to For Women. I was astonished and immensely gratified to find it was accepted as well.

So I wrote another one. And another one. And... well, you get the idea.

I looked around for other markets for erotica and sent pieces off here and there. Everything I sent off got accepted, except a short story I entered for a Cosmopolitan competition. Cosmo rejected it because it 'contained illegal activity'. Not illegal sexual activity, I hasten to add, but an account of a break in. In this story, Collar and Cuffs, a young burglar is accosted by the the raunchy lady of the house with predictable consequences. It was later published by Scarlet Magazine, who obviously weren't as fussy about the depiction of crime.

I started writing an erotic novel a while ago but didn't finished it (yet!) as I found there was a ready market for short stories and they were much easier to dash off. I've been thinking recently I should get to work on it again. Got to keep my public happy!

Some of the magazines I wrote for are no longer in existence sadly, so the print market has narrowed. Another market has arisen with the rise of online publishing, but the financial rewards are not as high and the quality is not always as good.

This is why I decided to publish some of my previous work as an ebook, The Stiletto Heel and Other Stories. It is available from Amazon for Kindle and Kindle Apps.

So, erotica provides me with my best writing sales and seems to be likely to keep on doing so for the foreseeable future.

Sex, it seems, sells.

For tips on writing erotica, see my other blog.

The Stiletto Heel and Other Stories UK

The Stiletto Heel and Other Stories USA
The Stiletto Heel and Other Stories Germany
Also available at amazon.fr, amazon.es and amazon.it.

Sexy Excerpt from Thriller

Sammy leans across and kisses the blue veins in her wrists. A pulse throbs where the leather thongs cut in. She moans. He kisses her lips, bites them lightly, tasting the blood from her mouth.

Moving down her throat, across her shoulders to the pungency of her armpits, he kisses, licks, nips. Her breasts harden beneath his hands, the nipples stiffening into peaks. He could spend hours like this, days, years, eternity.

‘Pussycat,’ he whispers into her navel.

Her belly rounds softly, sloping to the damp mound of her sex. He tastes her. She moans again. Breathing in her musk, tasting her salty-sweetness, he lingers, exploring the tender folds and hollows. Her legs are spread wide, her ankles tied to the bedposts. Her right foot twists and turns in its bindings, rotating like a creature trying to break free. He watches it squirm, sees the toes clench, then presses his face back into her groin, nuzzling – right thigh, left thigh, middle...

A mewling sound gurgles in her throat and he moves the gag back into place. No one must hear.

From:

DON'T LOOK DOWN  for USA

Festival Frolicks - Another Excerpt

Work in Progress - an excerpt to be going on with!

'Everybody seems to be pairing up.' Tonks tapped her foot rapidly to release some pent-up energy. When she was as wound up as this, sex was her tranquilliser of choice. Looked like everyone else was of the same mind.

Jason slid an arm around her shoulder. 'You're getting your nervous twitch again, Tonks. Does that mean what I think it does?'

Tonks shivered at Jason's touch. Right now she would shiver at any man's touch. 'Your observation skills are pretty hot tonight,' she said.

'You're pretty hot tonight, yourself.'Jason brought his lips close to her ear. 'Why don't we leave them all to it and go backstage for a while?'

Tonks closed her eyes, desire rising in her like sap in the springtime. Jason Stanley wasn't the prettiest ribbon in the box but he had something. She knew what it was, too. It lived inside his jeans.

'Backstage?' she said, acting coy. 'Whatever for?'

Jason raised an eyebrow. 'Come with me and I'll show you.'

'Well, I suppose I'd better follow the Director's instructions,' said Tonks demurely, 'like a good actress should.' It wouldn't be the first time she'd made out with Jason. It wasn't anything serious. Just a pleasant occasional fuck. Something to relieve the tension. 'Sure your mother can handle George if you're not here to protect her?'

'It's the possibility of her handling George that bothers me.' Jason scowled down into the auditorium again. 'But I don't suppose they can get up to much down there in the stalls.'

He took Tonks' hand and they sauntered innocently through the hardboard French doors, feigning an interest in the construction of the box set. Then, slipping through the blacks, they hurried down the narrow passageway at the back of the stage.

Fumbling in the dark, Tonks pushed at a swing door, held it open for Jason then let it swish quietly closed again. Her heart beat rapidly at the thought of the illicit pleasures to come. Even if what they were about to do wasn't all that illicit, sneaking off like this made it seem as though it was. The darkness and the distant sounds of the party added a frisson of danger. She felt like a naughty schoolgirl heading furtively off to the bike sheds for a session of cigarettes and lovebites.

At the end of the corridor the men's dressing room was squeezed between a store cupboard and the lavatories. Stepping in front of her, Jason opened the door and led Tonks inside. The stale smell of maleness hit her as she entered the cramped room. Sweat, smoke, greasepaint - semen? What did those guys get up to in here? Jason flicked on the harsh white light and took her in his arms.

'Jason! kill the light. I look like I'm auditioning for the Bride of Dracula.' Tonks covered her face to hide her reflection from herself.

Jason flipped the switch again and drew back the heavy curtains, allowing the sodium orange light of a streetlamp to spill into the room. He pushed her down onto the old divan that stood against the wall.

As her head touched the rough moquette, another smell assaulted Tonks' nostrils - sweet, sickly but not unpleasant. She reached behind her and felt the smooth silk of Mickie's pyjama bottoms, redolent with aftershave and deodorant. She smiled in the darkness. Good to know that he, too, had been afraid of having the true odours of his body detected when they were in bed together.

She had drenched her crotch and armpits in perfume every night, fearful lest any hint of pheromone leaked out. But tonight she had showered and washed the perfume off, so Mickie's aftershave hit her full on instead of mingling imperceptibly with the olfactory camouflage she used herself. Tucking the pyjamas under her head, she settled back. They were softer than the rough divan and made an excellent pillow.

Jason lowered his wiry frame onto her. 'Oh Tonks,' he murmured, 'will we ever see each other again?'

'Sure,' said Tonks, 'all we have to do is put the light back on.'

'Oh you know what I mean.' His denim-encased erection was rubbing against her thigh. 'The theatre world is so fickle. A month or two in rehearsal, a couple of weeks performance, and then it's goodbye. We will keep in touch, won't we?' He nuzzled her ear and lightly kissed her neck.

'Jason,' she hissed through her teeth, 'just fuck me, will you? I'm out of my mind for it.' And she was, too. Inside her tight jeans her crotch was damp with anticipatory juices. She undid her zip and wriggled underneath Jason until she got the jeans over her lean hips and off one leg.

Jason slid his long fingers into the flies of his black-black 501s and slowly undid the buttons. 'You'll just have to wait for it,' he said. 'Timing is all. As an actress you should know that.'

He pulled off his black t-shirt, his pale body jewelled by the orange light, his profile - large nose, full lips, bobbing Adam's apple - silhouetted against the window pane. Slowly, he drew his legs out of his jeans and knelt over her.

Pulling her own t-shirt over her head, Tonks lay back so he could take her small breasts in his hands. Her inner thighs were sticky with the wet warmth of vaginal secretions. Her face was hot. Encircling Jason's prick with one fist, she pulled him towards her.

'Timing!' he scolded, and slid down her body until his thick dry lips met her lower wet ones. Then he lapped and lapped and lapped, until she came in a rippling wave of ecstasy, the flush of orgasm spreading from her breasts to her brow. Only then did Jason lift his head and prepare to slide inside her.

Festival Frolicks - Coming Soon!

Meanwhile read The Stiletto Heel and Other Stories

Erotica du Jour

Erotica du Jour

Take a look at these images. Lovely!

Don't forget to come back and read some of my stories though.

Excerpt from Novel - Work in Progress

This is the start of a new erotic novel set in the world of theatre. Actors Mickie and Tonks are playing Gerrard and Clara.

PROLOGUE


ACT III

An old brass bed gleams in a pool of light, the bed linen is blindingly white, the eiderdown a rumpled pink satin. GERARD and CLARA sit up in bed gazing into each other's eyes.

GERARD: Darling, I can't believe the moment has finally come.

CLARA: Oh Gerard...

He bends towards her, takes her in his arms and kisses her tenderly. Her long hair cascades over the snowy pillows like a tumbling golden waterfall.

CLARA: Be gentle with me.

GERARD: Darling I've waited so long for this moment, I won't let anything spoil it.

He caresses her soft breasts and, protected only by the wispy lace of her nightdress, her nipples rise
involuntarily to meet his touch. Unseen beneath the covers he pinches one roseate bud hard.

CLARA disguises her wince as a look of virginal expectancy.

'You Bastard,' she whispers, 'I'll have a bruise the size of a plum either side of my tit now.'

'Shut it, bitch,' he says, through clenched teeth, 'they'll hear you.'

CLARA reaches across his penis - encouragingly firm inside the red silk pyjamas - and cups his balls, which are hugged, soft and warm, by his tight scrotum.  Balls have barely dropped yet, she thinks, digging her nails in hard. Case of arrested puberty here, I reckon. That would account for a lot.

GERARD hisses and gasps.

CLARA: I'll learn from you, darling. I'll make you happy, I promise.

GERARD: (Through gritted teeth) Sweetheart, we have the rest of our lives to love, and learn. I'll be your teacher.

CLARA: And I'll be your willing pupil.

The red velvet curtains swish slowly together; there is a smattering of applause. When the curtains open again GERARD hops out of bed, surreptitiously rubbing his crotch, to take his curtain call.

CLARA, adjusting her nightdress, joins him. Hand in hand with THE MAID, in her frilly white apron, JESSUP, in butler's tails, JIMMY, in tennis flannels, and LYDIA, the Bright Young Thing, they bow and smile. The curtains swish closed again and the house lights go up.

~~~

'Thank God that's over.' Tonks pulled off the long blonde Clara wig and chucked it in the props box. Ruffling her short brown hair into its usual spiky disarray, she reached for the cold cream. Off came the pancake, the cupid's bow lips, the dewy-eyed make-up.

Slipping out of the flimsy nightgown, she examined her right breast. Sure enough, there were red blotches the size of Mickie's thumb and forefinger, on either side of her nipple.

'That bastard, Mickie,' she said to Carol, who was at the mirror wiping the Lydia-look off her face. 'Thank God it's the last night and I never have to get into bed with him again.'

Work in Progress : Stonehenge

A snippet from a work in progress - one for the next collection of short stories:

He slid his arm around her and leaned in to her neck. She lifted her head, exposed her throat to his warm breath. He breathed in the smell of her and she of him. Noses snuffling each other's napes and ears and throats, they explored each other like animals. Getting the scent of each other, learning the warm musky odours, the sweet stale sweat of bodies not yet washed but not unpleasant.

She caught the perfume of marijuana on his clothes, of incense, and patchouli. She wondered if he could detect the sandalwood oil she annointed herself with daily. When he sighed in some kind of ecstasy, she thought he must.

He touched the skin beneath her ear with his hot lips. Drew them, dry and trembling up over her raised chin as she tilted her head back, eyes closed. The sun burned red through her eyelids, dazing her, drugging her. She was no more than a mass of sensations: warm skin, tingling nerves, trembling groin.

When he caught her mouth with his she tasted honey and hot tea. Eyes still shut, she returned his first gentle kiss. They leaned against each other, propped up by each other. Josy felt her legs go numb beneath her, pinpricks in her toes. When he pushed his mouth against hers more firmly, she answered with her own forceful lips. Swaying and rocking together, they explored mouths and tongues and teeth.

When he pushed her down onto the spreadout cloak, she did not resist. When he lowered himself over her, his shadow blocking the sun, she knew it was right. Relaxing, she lay back and he covered her with his body. The feel of him, the weight of him, the wanting of him, crowded her senses. Midsummer day. The high point of the year. A magical time.

More Fantastic Photography from Ellen Rogers

Read the Article

FREE STORY FROM PARTNER SWAP

Free-story-from-Partner-Swap

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My Totally Crazy Love Life by Laurindo Jones

My Totally Crazy Love Life by Laurindo Jones
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Chocolate Ice-Cream!

And she’s still guzzling and gobbling and I’m staring at the ceiling trying to figure out what to do about the dribbles running down my neck and into my hair, when finally  -  thank the lord  -  she grabs hold of little Johnny  -  who by now is hot and red and fit to burst through having had to wait so long  -  and rams him into the ice cream tub and kind of swivels it round on him and it feels like I’m being fucked by an ice-maiden  -  tight and hard and cold  -  and by now all the hair on my body is standing up on end and even my goosebumps have got goosebumps, when  -  aaaaah  -  she pulls the tub away and slides her hot mouth around my ice-lolly and sucks him warm again. And, boy, is she enjoying it  -  her tongue is going this way and that way and all over the place, into every little crack and crevice, licking out that ice cream.

From: Finger Lickin' Good. The Stiletto Heel and Other Stories.

The Stiletto Heel - Excerpt

He pulled up short in front of me, jerked out of his reverie, jerking me out of mine.
 ‘What the…?’ he said.
 I looked into his eyes and saw they blazed with anger.
 ‘What the hell are you doing, standing there in the dark?’ he said.
 ‘Oh do forgive me.’ My words were heavy with sarcasm. ‘I’m practising for a wet tee-shirt competition. How do you think I’ll do?’
 If the state of my nipples was anything to go by, I’d win it for sure. And from the way his gaze settled on my breasts, it was obvious he thought so too.
 ‘I just fancied getting as wet as possible tonight,’ I went on. ‘With any luck I’ll catch pneumonia and have to spend the rest of the month in bed.’
 ‘Are you crazy?’ he said, dragging his eyes away from my tits and looking at my face at last. He stared at me as if I was a mad woman. I began to feel that I was. Mad with cold. Mad with annoyance. Mad with desire.
 He wasn’t much taller than I was, but then I was wearing skyscraper heels. His face was feverish, despite the rain, his eyes flashing with irritation. I was sure that whatever he did, he would do with passion.
 ‘Of course I’m not crazy!’ I pointed to my trapped foot. ‘Can’t you see my heel is stuck in the grating? And these damned straps are impossible to undo from this angle.’
 His eyes followed my finger. ‘Oh.’
 Oh. That’s all he said. Oh.
 I tapped my uncaught foot impatiently. ‘Well, do you think you could help me get it out before I freeze to death? Or are you going to stand there staring at my feet all night?’
 First my breasts then my feet. What was he? Some kind of fetishist?
 He smiled then. Smiled and my heart flipped over. It’s not that he was handsome in any conventional way. His nose was a little larger than it should have been, his lips full and thick. And his eyelashes were far too long for a man.
 ‘Beautiful shoes,’ he said. ‘Where did you get them?’
 ‘Never mind my shopping habits,’ I snapped. ‘Just get my heel out of this drain, will you?’
 He considered me for a moment his lips pursed, then he smiled again and I melted inside. Crouching on the wet pavement he took hold of my ankle. His hands were cold and wet but they were certainly as firm as I’d fantasised.

Read on.

COLLAR AND CUFFS - sample

The Stiletto Heel and Other Stories


As soon as my key penetrated the lock, I knew someone was in the flat. It couldn’t be Marje - she was on early shift this week. Maybe it was one of her pick-ups. Closing the front door behind me I tiptoed across the hallway, my heart hitting my ribs like an over-enthusiastic xylophone player. Some of Marje’s boys can be - well, let’s just say she’s not afraid of a bit of rough.
 The living-room was empty, as were the bathroom and both bedrooms. I was beginning to think I was mistaken, when a sound came from the kitchen. Creeping down the hallway, I pushed the door open and peered in. He stood beside the sink, his back to me, his attention fixed on whatever he was doing. His grubby jeans hung low on his hips, hiding a no doubt pert behind in a loose fold of denim. His white tee-shirt was stained at the armpits, his tousled head bent over his task.
 ‘Problem?’ I said, strolling into the room.

 He jumped like he was practicing for the Olympics and swung around. Flattening himself against the sink, he splayed out his arms and gripped the bench top. His mouth hung open and he gagged out some sounds.
 Should I be pleased I’ve knocked him speechless? I wondered, or annoyed he finds the sight of me so terrifying? I don’t usually have that effect on men. Generally they find what they see more than acceptable.
 ‘Hey, I know I’m tall,’ I said. ‘but I’m no ogre.’ His mouth slammed shut and a little pink tongue came out and gave his lips a quick lick. Cute or what? His blue eyes were startled and he surreptitiously wiped his damp palms on his jeans. It was then I noticed he’d cut his hand. ‘That looks bad,’ I said, like sympathy’s my middle name. ‘Here let’s have a look.’
 The wound was deep but clean so I made a tourniquet with a tea-towel and rummaged in the cupboard for the first-aid box. Still eyeing me warily, he clung to the sink. He trembled as I patched him up with sticking plaster, a metallic odour of sweat rising off him like steam. Beads of perspiration jewelled his forehead. I inhaled deeply as though breathing in the most exquisite perfume.
 ‘You need something hot and sweet inside you,’ I said, leading him to a chair. ‘Tea?’ When my breast brushed his bare arm accidentally, the shock that ran through both of us could have blown every fuse in the house. ‘Or maybe you’d prefer brandy?’ The bottle was still on the table from last night’s session. Marje could put the booze away when she tried; I was no slouch either, come to that. Well, you’ve got to have a drink now and again in our line of work.
 That pointed tongue of his came out and gave his lips another licking. If only it was my lips it was lubricating - I won’t say which ones. I had an urge to lean forward and suck it into my mouth. Instead I poured a couple of slugs into the sticky brandy balloons - he didn’t look like a guy who would worry too much about an unwashed glass. ‘What’s your name?’
 He picked at the plaster on his hand as if he’d never seen one before. ‘Joe … John … Ja...’
 ‘Make your mind up, kiddo,’ I said, saluting him with my drink. Listen, if they want to be cagey about their names, that’s fine with me. I give the odd false monicker myself from time to time. I patted his thigh. His muscles were taut as high tension wire. This boy was disturbed about something - and his nervousness was turning me on. My crotch was moistening by the minute.

Want to read the rest? Go here:  The Stiletto Heel and Other Stories


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Barbie
xxx

HONEYMOON HOTEL - Excerpt

Sara lay across the rumpled bed, her body as smooth and white as the icing on a wedding cake. Her nipples were roseate swirls, iced gems decorating the upper tier of her breasts. Carlo slid his hand beneath the snowy lace of her suspender belt and extracted the skimpy thong with one tug. The bustiere - a froth of silk - had long since been tossed to the carpeted floor. The dress lay in the gilt arms of the Louis Quinze chair. It fitted her so perfectly it could almost have been made for her.
  ‘I knew coming to this hotel was a good idea,’ she sighed. ‘If only it could always be like this.’
  ‘Let’s just enjoy it while we can,’ said Carlo. ‘Let’s not worry about tomorrow.’ He bent down and slipped his tongue inside her.
Outside, beyond the marble balcony, the sea sparkled and winked. A breeze fluttered the gauze draping the French windows and ruffled Sara’s hair. Carlo’s breath also ruffled her hair - the hair cushioning the mound of her pubic bone.
  ‘We have the whole summer ahead of us, anyway,’ Sara went on. ‘Dozens of glorious afternoons, just like this one.’
  ‘Can’t believe my luck,’ said Carlo, licking her clit. ‘Never thought I’d meet anyone like you.’ He blew softly, cooling the hot aperture between her legs, the volcanic vulvic fissure that seethed and threatened to erupt in a lava flow of splashing juices. He lapped at the first oleaginous seepings and Sara spread her legs wide, abandoning herself to his suckling. She was the sweetmeat; he the insatiable gourmand. The vast bed was the platter upon which she offered herself.
  She shivered as Carlo stroked the smooth camber of her belly. He insinuated his long fingers around her waist and underneath her and unhooked the catch of the suspender belt. A thrill ran through her as Carlo’s warm palm cupped her right buttock.
  ‘I do like a good handful,’ he said, his fingers splaying out and gripping the cleft of her behind. He toyed with her there for a moment; Sara gasped and braced herself, but Carlo was only teasing. He withdrew his hand and slid it down to the tops of the ivory silk stockings. Slowly he fingered the rubber nodules of the suspenders, rolling them between his fingers like nipples. Then, with a quick flip he had the first one undone. Inserting his fingertips into the stockingtops he traversed the column of her thigh until he reached the rear suspender. Flip! And it too was loosened.
  Carlo peeled the cobweb of silk slowly down her to her ankle. Sara squirmed in anticipation, impatient for him to get on with it, yet not wanting him to rush. Through half closed eyes, she watched him roll the stocking over her curling toes then raise it to his face to breathe in her perfume. ‘You’ll have to let me know the things you like,’ he said. ‘We’ve a lot of catching up to do.’

Read more of HONEYMOON HOTEL here (USA) or here UK

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Some Ebooks You Might Enjoy!

  The Bumble's End 

Crime/Dark Humour

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    The Land Beyond Goodbye 

General Fiction

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Tips for Writing Erotica for Women

Writing Erotica for Women

by Barbie Scott

Ten Top Tips

• It may seem obvious but erotica needs to be erotic. It must be sensual, exciting, arousing. Be brave – write about what arouses you. After all, if something turns you on, it will turn others on as well. 

• Never forget that an erotic story is still a story. There must be characterisation and plot. There should be tension, build-up and denouement. Of course there’ll be sex – but there must be more than this. The depiction of cardboard cut-outs banging away is not erotica. 

• Erotica must entertain. It must be sexy and fun– but take note that’s ‘fun’ not ‘funny’. Amuse on the journey towards the act by all means but when your characters get down and dirty, focus on the serious business of sex. Make your reader smile, but not burst out laughing.

• Let your reader enjoy the sexual exploits of a daring female protagonist. Your heroine should be sure of herself and know what she wants. She’ll be in full control of her desires and the satisfaction of them – even if she voluntarily relinquishes that control to her lover. 

• Write from a woman’s point of view. Though a male point of view is sometimes acceptable in women’s erotica, the focus should always be on the female – her desires and the satisfaction of them are foremost.

• Read your target publications to find out what’s been done before and do something different. Some erotic scenarios have been overworked to the point of exhaustion – sex with the stranger who turns out not to be a stranger, sex with a ghost, art and theatre settings, the milkman, the postman, the meter-reader … the list goes on. Be fresh and lively and avoid the obvious.

• Check your target publication to see what level of erotic language is acceptable. Most are happy with the use of four-letter words but some prefer a less direct approach. Avoid the overuse of Latin terminology. Erotica should sizzle but it doesn’t require repeated descriptions of bodily parts. 

• Bear in mind that the greatest female erogenous zone is the mind. Most women prefer to read about what is going on in the characters’ heads, or their emotional states, or their heightened physical arousal, rather than about the hydraulics of the act itself. So set the scene, let your words conjure up an image, an idea, a possibility. The depiction of the brute act of sex is far less erotic than the anticipation of it.

• Be outrageous. Be transgressive. At one time erotica gave off a whiff of the taboo. Now – after Sex and the City and such like – it’s out and proud. Threesomes, group sex, gay experimentation, transvestism, transsexualism, S&M, bondage – these are now the stuff of soap opera and Sunday supplements. So let your imagination fly!

• There are still some absolute no-nos, however. Scenarios involving children, animals, blood-letting, and serious harm or death, should be avoided. So make sure all your characters are consenting adult humans and are there because they want to be there. Consider featuring condoms and lubrication to promote safe sex. 

So keep it upbeat, entertain and above allhave fun writing it!

~ ~ ~

The above article appeared on ABC Writers' Checklist Blog The Writers' ABC Checklist Blog

Condensed from Writing Short Erotica : Words with Jam Feb 2010

Definitely Worth a Read!

                             Get it here!

Train Ride - Sample

‘Follow me. Hold tight.’ Tomas swung his lithe frame out of the door and round the end of the carriage. He hauled himself onto the rusty ladder that ran up the back of the train and his desert boots disappeared upwards. I took a deep breath. Oh shit. Taking off my leather sandals, I stuffed them down the front of my dress. Then I tucked the skirt up into my knickers like rompers. The Indian youths watched me, their dark eyes full of amusement and doubt.

‘Well, here goes.’

I swung myself out and grasped the metal rungs. Moving faster than a rat on a wheel, I scampered upwards, terrified of falling to the track below. When I got to the top my knees were trembling, my heart pounding. Oh the thrill of terror! Tomas and I knelt face to face on the rusty roof, laughing, our sweating hands clasped.

‘You see?’ he said, eyes sparkling. ‘Easy.’

Slowly, I released his hands and looked around. The plains stretched for miles, khaki coloured, dry. The sky was a flat expanse of blue, cloudless, vibrant. And the air, though hot, was fresh and sweet with the spicy, perfumed, exotic smell of India. The train chugged past a stream where women in saris the colour of red and yellow peppers were washing clothes. They straightened their backs to stare at us and we waved to them, happy as children.

I hooked my sandals around an air vent and pulled my dress out of my panties. I felt Tomas watching me and glanced up.

‘Up here, we are alone,’ he said, looking away into the distance. He shaded his eyes with his hand as the glare of the sun bounced off the bare earth.

‘So we are.’ I settled myself more comfortably on the curved tin roof. Cinders and smoke from the old steam engine drifted past. The train swayed from side to side with a lazy, soothing motion. ‘Fresh air, space, peace,’ I said, and I too gazed into the distance.

Suddenly Tomas leapt on me and pushed me down flat, his muscled torso hot and heavy on top of me.

‘Hey,’ I said. ‘How about a little sweet-talk first?’

He rolled off me as fast as he’d rolled on. ‘Hoist,’ he said, pointing to a wooden structure the train had just passed under. ‘For dropping mailbags, I think. We could be knocked from the train by such a thing.’ He took my hand. ‘You think I jump on you?’

I turned my face towards him. ‘I wouldn’t have minded.’ Our eyes met. Beneath us the train swayed and rattled. The metal roof was pleasantly warm. ‘Since we’re already lying down,’ I said, ‘why don’t we make the most of it.’

The train throbbed and juddered. The sun was hot but a breeze cooled us. Tomas kissed my moist forehead, my blazing cheeks. His lips were dry and warm, his cheeks soft with boyish beard. Lazily I turned my head so he could nuzzle my neck, my ears. A man in a field paused to watch as the train chugged past. He had a small elephant on a lead. In its curling trunk it held a thick leafy branch.

We kissed for an age, tongue on tongue. We ran our hands up and down each other’s bodies eagerly. I don’t know if it was the heat, the danger or the exhibitionist streak in me, but I was melting with desire. I was so horny I wanted to rip Tomas’s tee-shirt off him in frustration. When at last he slid his hand up under my dress I yelped with pleasure. Gently he hooked his fingers over the elastic of my white cotton panties. He inched them down over my hips, my hot thighs, my shaking knees, right down and over one foot. They dangled from my ankle, moist with sweat and juices.

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The Stiletto Heel and Other Stories UK

The Stiletto Heel and Other Stories USA

My New StilettoPhone

Poolside Service - An Excerpt

 ‘I’ve watched you for weeks,’ he says.
 ‘I know,’ I say.
 ‘I know you know,’ he counters, and we both smile, our eyes locked, his blue gaze searing mine.
 Then he steps back slightly to look me up and down, the expression on his face appreciative, arrogant, relaxed. He knows he has me; he can take his time. I’m at a disadvantage, naked to the waist while he’s still fully clothed. He strokes my abdomen, sliding his hand beneath the clinging black swimming costume, the tips of his fingers halting at the top of my pubic bone. I shiver in anticipation. A fraction further and he could touch the silk filaments of hair that nestle there. I don’t shave there, I don’t wax. I like the softness of my bush, the tendrils that curl sometimes beyond the high-cut legs of my one-piece.
 His eyes snap back to mine as though he’s testing me, watching my reaction. My eyelids are half-closed and I sway slightly, my body in an ecstasy of expectation. He slides his hand over my hip and right around me, gripping the globe of my behind, smoothing his palm over it. With his other hand he yanks my swimming costume down to my knees.
 I yelp softly at the suddenness, the shock. The wet costume drops to the floor and I step out of it and kick it aside. Now I am vulnerable, completely bare. I should be cold but the warmth of his closeness makes my damp skin steam. I am passive, unresisting. Or so he thinks. I can see in his eyes he believes I am his plaything, that he can do with me what he will. For a while I pretend it’s true.
 He pushes me back, down onto the wooden bench. ‘Spread your legs,’ he says, and I do. He folds my towel beneath him and kneels between my thighs. ‘Don’t make a sound,’ he says. ‘Whatever happens, whatever I do, don’t cry out.’
 He lowers his head and nuzzles his face into my sex. His cheeks are soft with just the hint of stubble to provide a seasoning, like a pinch of chilli in a bland cream dip. I reach to his head to fondle his hair.
 ‘Grip the bench,’ he says, his voice muffled. ‘You’re going to need to.’

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Tantric Celebacy - from The Celebate

The orgasm was total. It wasn’t confined to my cunt but spread through all my tingling limbs, my torso, my head, my mind. My face was scalding.
   My chakras danced in orgasmic delight as a freight train charged up my spine. I rolled in ecstasy as if I wanted to escape from so much pleasure. I jerked and juddered. It felt like all the openings in my body, even the pores, were being fucked at once. I was making love to the universe and the universe was making love to me. I loved everybody in the world and was loved by them in return.
   Bliss flooded me, warm, soothing, surging waves of it. Ida and Pingala curled around Sushumna, just as they were supposed to. Kundalini shot up my spine with such force it sent bells ringing in my head. The spiritual semen jetted through me and ejaculated from the top of my cranium in a starburst of golden drops.
   And at the moment of orgasm, I left my body. My spirit shot out through the top of my head in a rush of energy, burst through the  roof, and soared into the fresh crisp air.
   Hovering above the frosty garden, I looked down on myself. I could see the steamy greenhouse, the tendrils of the grapevine, the old armchair. And I could see myself, prone, an orange-gold aura glowing around me. I hadn’t intended to go off like that. I had meant to open up the ajna chakra, the third eye, which grants clarity, but I had gone for the big one, sahasrara, the lotus flower, the crown.

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The Stiletto Heel and Other Stories - UK
The Stiletto Heel and Other Stories - USA
The Stiletto Heel and Other Stories - Germany

Chocolate Dreams! Another Excerpt from Finger Lickin' Good

So I try a little nibble at her bud and she writhes and thrashes some more and if it wasn’t for the fact that she makes no effort to stop me, I’d think she was in agony, but no, I guess it must be some kind of ecstasy instead and by now she’s beating the bed like she’s a professional wrestler going for three falls and a submission, only I’m not in the mood to give any quarter and I keep at it and keep at it until she makes a hissing sound, like she’s about to explode and when I come up for air I can see she’s really red in the face and her eyes are open and a bit wild and vague like she doesn’t know where she is and I think, ‘Right. Now it must be my turn,’ so I kneel over her and tempt her with my prick, just tapping it lightly against her mouth, which is half open anyway, but she looks so shagged out, even though no actual shagging has taken place, if you get my drift, that I take pity on her and settle down beside her and just suck her left tit for a while ’til she gets her breath back, and blow me if she doesn’t say  -  still panting a bit from all the previous effort on my part - ‘I could go a Mars bar right now,’ and I think, ‘Yeah, right, I’ll just nip over to the all-night garage and pick you one up, love,’ but instead I say, ‘I’ve got something here you can chew on if you’re hungry,’ and I show her my dick.
 ‘We’ll have to get some of that spready chocolate stuff, so’s I can smear it all over you then lick it off,’ she says, and I’m like all agog at the thought of that ’cos it sounds a jolly good idea to me.

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The Stiletto Heel and Other Stories - Amazon UK
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I love Stiletto Heels...

I love stiletto heels. I’ve got a hundred pairs. I’ve got them in shiny black patent, I’ve got them in silver, I’ve got them in scarlet. I’ve got them in leopardskin and lizardskin and zebra print. I’ve got them in velvet, satin, suede and leather. If you’ve seen a particular style in the shops, the chances are I have the exact same pair at home.
    I like my stilettos to be sharp and pointy and high. I love the way they make me walk - the way they make my luscious hips wiggle as I teeter along the street. I love the way they make my buttocks tense inside my tight skirt, the muscles hard as tennis balls. I love the way they make my legs look long and slender, my calves firm and rounded, my thighs taut and sculptural.
    I love the little imprints the heels make in bare floorboards, the way they stab through old linoleum like a cock deflowering a virgin. I love the way they get caught in the gutter forcing me to wait to be rescued by some passing hunk. That’s happened to me before - more than once.
   The last time it happened I was wearing my newest red patent pair - the ones with the spiralling band that curled around my ankles to keep them in place.

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The Stiletto Heel USA
The Stiletto Heel UK

Extract from The Love Machine

A small lift took us up unnumbered floors - two perhaps? three? four? I felt cramped, crushed between the two large men, who stared silently over my head. Sweat began to gather in my armpits. When the lift stopped and the door slid open, the first man gripped my elbow and escorted me out. The reception area was quietly carpeted, hushed, elegant. A young woman sat at a curving desk which carved the room in two. Miss K, I presumed. She wore a blonde wig piled high on her head and winged diamante glasses. Her lips were scarlet; her nails blood-red. She did not smile.
     ‘Delivery for Doctor J,’ said one of the men.
     The woman picked up a white telephone and murmured something into it. The oppressive silence of the room seemed to thicken as she listened to the response, the receiver pressed against her ear. My entire body was now damp with perspiration. Surreptitiously, I rubbed my stocking soles against my legs. The soft carpet would show the imprints of my feet, I felt sure.
     The woman turned her back on us - my captors and I - and looked at a flickering computer. She tapped something into it and said over her shoulder, as though in afterthought, ‘The Doctor will see you now.’ Without granting us the courtesy of a further glance, she raised a red talon and pointed to a door which, until then, I had not noticed. Set flush into the wall, it was almost invisible. I held my breath as it slid silently back to reveal an elderly man waiting on the other side.
     At last, I stood face to face with the diabolic Dr J.
     There could be no mistaking him: the white coat, the gold-rimmed spectacles, the fob watch. He was a walking cliché - wild professorial hair, eyes gleaming with an enthusiasm just this side of madness, fingernails well scrubbed. I had heard all the rumours, all the stories. The man who stood before me could be no one else.    

From: THE LOVE MACHINE
Read the rest at The Stiletto Heel and Other Stories - UK      
or  The Stiletto Heel and Other Stories - USA

See larger image - erotic lingerie

More from Ellen Rogers

Beautiful images from Ellen Rogers.

Ellen Rogers Photography - strange, ethereal, erotic

Just have to share these wonderful images by photographer Ellen Rogers.


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A snippet from a work in progress:



More wonderful bustiers

The purr of the zip as I slide it down, exposing the white skin of her back. The soft click as the zipper crosses the end stop and the creak and crumple of the black leather as the basque falls open. She sits up clutching the cups of the bustier -- white hands, scarlet nails -- unwilling to let it drop and reveal her perfect breasts.

I let my gaze drift upwards across her milky throat to her face. Shy, wary, ready to startle like a deer, she bites her scarlet lower lip with her little white teeth. I reach out and tease a strand of her burnished hair. The curl stretches straight then springs back when I release it. Her smile widens as the curl bobs and settles. If I take her now the moment will no longer be to come; the anticipation will be over.

  So I delay.

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Another FREE sample - Finger Lickin' Good! by Barbie Scott

FINGER LICKIN’ GOOD

My eyes are rolling back in my head because she’s got my prick in her mouth when suddenly she whips it out and starts telling me about this dream she’s had where she was drinking a cup of hot chocolate and it was all thick and creamy, not like your average cup of cocoa, more a Charbonnel & Walker experience, and my eyes are still rolling about in my head wondering why she’s telling me all this when she could be using that open mouth for more pressing business and she’s still going on about this choccy drink and how she had to lick really hard to get the smooth coating off the insides of the mug and I’m going, ‘What?’ and she’s got this dreamy look in her eyes and she’s running her tongue around her lips in a way that’s making me writhe with frustration and I want to grab her head and shove it back over my cock so she can take up where she left off, which was rimming the helmet with these little flickering feathery lick-lickings that were driving me wild and I knew, if she proceeded in her usual manner, she would soon progress to thrusting the tip of her tongue into the eye of my dick, which is right now opening and closing like a goldfish gasping for air  -  well, that’s what it seems like but in the state of arousal interruptus I’m in, it’s possible I’m hallucinating.
  Anyway, she’s still telling me about this dream that’s obviously been a real turn-on for her, ’cos she’s going into considerable detail about how she had to scrape this creamy chocolate coating off the mug with her tongue and how she savoured every last scrap and how it was orgasmic when she squeezed the froth of it through her teeth and I’m just about screaming, ‘Yes, yes, do it to me,’ when she lies back flat on the bed and says, ‘Your turn,’ and I’m like, ‘What? You’re kidding me?’ but no, there she is splayed open ready for me, so I think, ‘Okay, I’ll give her what she wants and when she’s happy, she’ll get back to the job of doing me.’

From FINGER LICKIN’ GOOD, The Stiletto Heel and Other Stories

FREE Short Erotica

ANTIPASTI

by Barbie Scott

Padua railway station, the tracks shimmering in the heat haze though the morning is young. Workmen, brown skinned in blue boiler suits stand in the shade of the café tossing grappa down their throats, fortifying themselves for the day. They follow these with cups of bitter espresso, and smoke lustily.

I sprawl on a bench in the sunlight, my grubby t-shirt, jeans and trainers telling the world what I am: student traveller, backpacker, dirty girl. An approaching train thrums the rails of the upline. But I’m going down, down to Venice and the coolness of the canals.

Drowsy in the heat, I don't notice her at first but when she strolls past me, her shadow lingering on my body, I look up. She walks on, an advertisement for Italian womanhood: hair a dark rope down her back, cream linen suit, bare brown legs that start who knows where and end in Gucci sandals.

I follow her with lazy eyes as she saunters, golden fingernails tap-tapping at her big straw bag. When her shadow crosses me again, I shiver. A waft of Acqua di Parma tickles my nostrils and begs me to follow. I don’t, but my eyes do.

When she passes a third time, I am ready for her. I smile a lazy invitation and she sits down beside me.

‘Travelling?’ she says. I nod. ‘Where have you been?’ I reel off a list of previous destinations: Split, Sofia, Belgrade, Athens, Stamboul.

‘Where will you stay in Venezia?’ she asks, her hand grazing mine.

I shiver. ‘Something will turn up.’

‘Come back here,’ she says. ‘Tonight, after you see the sights.’ She pulls a leather notepad out of her bag, scribbles down a phone number. ‘Call me this evening.’ She smiles, her lips full. ‘You remind me of me. When I am a girl.’

I tingle. Me  the unwashed scruff that I am  remind this glorious creature of her younger self?

‘I have travelled too.’ Her deep brown eyes are liquid in reminiscence. ‘Often I had no bed for the night and I was bedded by others. I wish to bed you.’

I blush like a teenager. Is her English letting her down  or does she mean exactly what she says?

She rests her fingertips on my left breast. My hot nipple freezes at her touch and rises up, stiffening. Leaning towards me, she catches my earlobe with her bright little teeth. Her breath is warm on the nape of my neck. People pass by, oblivious of the drama unfolding and she slides her hand down my body, wriggling her fingers under my waistband, down, down to my pulsating sex. When she touches me there, I shudder, gasp. ‘This is just a taste,‘ she says. ‘Antipasti. The full meal will come later.‘ I relax under her caresses and soon a dampness stains my jeans.

The rails sing as my train approaches. ‘Think about it,’ she whispers.

Then she is gone, clip-clopping down the platform. I swing my backpack into the nearest carriage and do as she says: I think about it. I think about it a lot.

~ ~ ~
Copyright: Barbie Scott 2011

Antipasti will appear in my next collection of short stories later in the year.

In the meantime, read my current collection.

NEWSFLASH! Antipasti (and the rest of the meal!) is now available as DINNER WITH DANIELA

Top Tips for Writing Erotica

I'm guest blogging today at the wonderful Writer's ABC Checklist.

Read my tips on writing erotica along with lots of other great writing advice.

Thanks to Lorraine and Maureen for giving me this opportunity.

Barbie

Another excerpt for your delectation!

‘Delivery to go Dr J, I believe?’ the first one said, his finger stroking the damp gusset of my briefs. I was transfixed with terror - delicious, tremulous terror. I gawped up at the man but, of course, I could not see his eyes. I knew they always wore dark glasses. Dark glasses, dark suits, and neat, professional hair, so slick with gel, the colour was indiscernible. They were interchangeable - six feet tall, broad-shouldered, passive of feature, their faces carrying only a hint of what they could - would? - do to me. For a moment I thought they would fuck me right there in my own hallway, with the front door open and people passing by on their way home from work. But no, that wasn’t what I had ordered. De luxe means just that. I was going for the big one. The luxury deal. It was expensive but I knew I deserved it.
           Removing his finger from my crotch, Number One smiled briefly. Then they took an arm each and escorted me forcibly to their vehicle. I was glad I had already fed the cat. The de luxe could take quite some time, I had heard. They pushed me into the back of the gleaming black limousine and closed the door. There were no handles on the inside and the windows were blacked out so I could not see where I was being taken. I sank back into the leather seat, shaking violently. A glass partition separated me from my captors; I could just make out their chiselled profiles as they exchanged glances.
           Then we were off.

From: THE LOVE MACHINE, The Stiletto Heel and Other Stories

Thank you ebook buyers!

Big kisses to all those lovely people who have bought my ebook.  Mwah!

A Sample to be going on with ...

She shivered as Carlo stroked the smooth camber of her belly. He insinuated his long fingers around her waist and underneath her and unhooked the catch of the suspender belt. A thrill ran through her as Carlo’s warm palm cupped her right buttock.

‘I do like a good handful,’ he said, his fingers splaying out and gripping the cleft of her behind. He toyed with her arse for a moment, the tip of his middle finger circling the tight bud of her sphincter. Sara gasped and braced herself, but Carlo was only teasing. He withdrew his hand and slid it down to the tops of the ivory silk stockings. Slowly he fingered the rubber nodules of the suspenders, rolling them between his fingers like nipples. Then, with a quick flip he had the first one undone. Inserting his fingertips into the stockingtops he traversed the column of her thigh until he reached the rear suspender. Flip! And it too was loosened. Carlo peeled the cobweb of silk slowly down her to her ankle.
From: HONEYMOON HOTEL: The Stiletto Heel and Other Stories

The Stiletto Heel and Other Stories

Hi Gals and Guys

My first collection of erotica - The Stiletto Heel and Other Stories - is now available as an ebook for Kindle. And you can get a free sample before you buy!

Buy it at amazon.co.uk   UK   and  amazon.com  USA

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