Sunday, 24 July 2011


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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Monday, 11 July 2011


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

Tuesday, 5 July 2011

Get me! I have a QR Code Now!

This one is for non-UK residents who buy from
Scan it with your phone if you have a QR reader.

Of course, it's not necessary here but it will appear on my business cards soon!