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.


Take a look at her blog too.

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.

  Read more like this!

WELCOME!

Take a look at my Kindle page where you can read a FREE excerpt on your pc without downloading any apps. You can also read some reviews.

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Read a sample from The Stiletto Heel and Other Stories
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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