Thursday, March 31, 2011

The Great Outdoors - volume 2

By Lucy Felthouse (Guest Blogger)

Buy Now!

This book is the second in a series. It wasn't originally intended to be a series, but the first volume suddenly took off and start selling lots and I was getting lots of positive comments. It seemed something in the book, particularly the Scottish woodsman character, Greg, was resonating with people. I was really pleased that people wanted to read more stories from me. So I penned this second short volume and put it out there. If it does even half as well as the first I'll be very happy!


Back by popular demand - more stories involving the great outdoors.

In A Date to Remember, Zoe is on the worst date of her life. Then something happens to make her change her perception of Nick forever.

The second tale, In Pursuit of Anna, follows on directly from Fun in the Forest, a story featured in Vol 1 of this collection. Anna takes off after their encounter, but Greg decides he's not quite finished with her yet...


Zoe felt wet splashes on her face. Looking up, she grimaced at the sky, which was dark with ominous-looking clouds. Typically, they were nowhere near decent shelter, having wandered into a park.

Nick, dull as dishwater but still a gentleman, ushered Zoe into the slight shelter of some trees. Removing his coat, he hoisted it over their heads and tucked Zoe under his arm, keeping her warm as well as dry.

And not a moment too soon. The spatters of rain quickly turned into torrents so violent that they bounced off the ground. Instinctively, Zoe snuggled closer to Nick. The temperature had dropped and their breath was visible in the air. The pair stood silently, awestruck by the force of Mother Nature.Zoe felt Nick shift, and she looked up at him. He was looking at her, a lopsided grin on his face.

"What?" said Zoe.

"It's amazing, isn't it? Makes you feel kind of insignificant."

They both looked back at the rain, which was still teeming down, heedless of their plight. After a few silent seconds, they shared another glance. Their breath mingled together under Nick's coat and Zoe was suddenly very aware of how close together their faces were. Especially when Nick bent down to kiss her.

Zoe surprised herself by not freaking out when their lips touched. Even more so when he slipped one hand round the back of her neck, pulling her closer, while the other still held the coat over their heads. She reasoned with herself; he was a good-looking guy. And it had been a while. One little kiss wouldn't hurt.

Opening her mouth to admit his tongue, Zoe started to think perhaps Nick wasn't that boring, after all. He was an extremely good kisser, slow and sensual. She put her arms around his waist, pulling their lower bodies together. It soon became apparent that he was enjoying this just as much as she was. As his erection pressed against Zoe's hip, a delicious heat grew in her groin. Rain always made her horny, so snogging under a tree in a storm was bound to do funny things to her libido.

When Nick manoeuvred them both round so she was pressed against the tree, the last thing on her mind was getting her coat dirty. He pulled away from her mouth, only to start kissing her neck, jaw line and even having a little nibble on her earlobe. Zoe felt juices trickling into the gusset of her knickers and her clit ached for attention.

The tiny bit of sensibility left in Zoe's brain made her wonder if anyone could see them. Since Nick's jacket still covered their heads, she had no idea. She figured even if anyone could see them, their faces were obscured so they'd never be recognised anyway.

Nick clearly had no such qualms. He moved a hand down to undo the button of her jeans and looked at her, as if for permission. She smiled and soon his fingers were easing into her pants, seeking her pussy. His fingers were cold as they reached her labia, causing her to gasp, then giggle. Nick grinned, looking into her eyes in the gloom created by their makeshift umbrella. He fixed her gaze as he parted her lips, dipping his fingers into her sopping core.

Bio: Lucy is a graduate of the University of Derby, where she studied Creative Writing. During her first year, she was dared to write an erotic story - so she did. It went down a storm and she's never looked back. Lucy has had stories published by Cleis Press, Noble Romance, Ravenous Romance and Xcite Books. She is also the editor of Uniform Behaviour - Steamy Stories About Men and Women in Uniform. Find out more at

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Colors of the Moon

By C. Sanchez-Garcia (Guest Blogger)

Stories of strange love from Whiskey Creek Torrid.

Buy Now!

Kwaidan” are a great tradition in Japan. These are ancient ghost stories, which are passed down from generation to generation, embodied in Noh and Kubuki plays, and lately in modern Japanese Horror cinema such as “The Ring”. The most famous of all the traditional kwaidan-shu is the tale of “Mimi Nashi Hoichi” or “Hoichi the Earless”. This is the story of a buddhist monk who sings and chats stories accompanied by the Biwa, a Japanese lute. Hoichi encounters the restless dead and barely escapes with his life. I love these old stories and was determined to write a series of erotic folk tales from Asia and other countries, and the novella “The Color of the Moon” is the eroticized retelling of this most cherished of all Japanese ghost stories.


In Sanchez-Garcia’s first book of stories, love takes strange and deadly twists of passion and madness for a musician-monk and a lonely noble woman in eleventh-century Japan; and in the near future, where a man seeks a last chance at redemption with a desperate machine built for love.


Shoji stood up and held out his arms. Hirome inventoried her work, taking time to touch up spaces she had missed. Shoji had become a living text of sutras. His shaved head was covered in the words of the Lotus Sutra, in Kanji she didn’t know how to read. His ears, neck, throat, shoulders and shaved arms were filled with marching rows of stark images. His back, waist, ribs, chest and belly. The backs of his legs. His round strong buttocks, she had taken her time with those. The insides of his thighs. His ankles. His feet. She turned him around.

How do I look?”

Like a strong and beautiful book,” said Hirome. “You make me wish I knew how to read.”

Would you like to learn?”

Oh, yes.”

When this is over, I can teach you. But it will take time.”

It’s all right if it takes time. You can stay here longer, as long as you want,” she said, caressing the Kanji paintings on his chest. “I don’t want you to leave. If you stay, I’ll paint you this way every year in remembrance.”

Shoji noticed his cock beginning to swell and rise again as she touched her work on his skin. It had not been painted yet. “I think there is one place left.”

She stepped back and looked down. “Oh!”

Can you?”

You could if you wanted to.”

I like it when you write it. I don’t wish to embarrass you, but anyway it’s easier to paint it when it’s stretched out hard.”

I see,” she said. “Well, Ichinori said we must cover everything.”

She kneeled down in front of him. His thick and risen cock was level with her face. She cradled it gently in her fist and gave it a little squeeze. Shoji sighed and closed his eyes, and let it rise freely as it wished. She caressed it to make it stretch out all the way, fully strong and hard. She began to paint.

Shoji felt the intolerable tickling of the brush along the tip of his cock, and her fingers handled it lovingly, wantonly, painting the tip, until it swelled and reddened under her brush. And then the shaft, pulling on the skin like silk over warm steel, to tighten it as she worked. She painted down to the root, stroking it lightly to keep it stiff, blowing on it to make the ink dry faster. She painted the root of it, where the hair had been shaved away. She cradled his balls, pulled them down to stretch the skin taught and painted all of it. She painted under them.

Oh look,” she said. “I painted this part wrong.” She rubbed the tip of his cock vigorously with her hand, and seeing the ink remained, she placed it in her mouth and licked off the ink. She looked up at him intently as his knees sagged and he moaned. “There. It’s off now.” She spat out the ink.

Holding his hardened cock firmly in her fist, she painted the characters again. “Oh, another mistake.” She took it in her mouth and licked off the ink again.

Bio: At this particular time in a wandering, often bizarre and unexpected life, C. Sanchez-Garcia is living quietly in eastern Georgia where his personnel library is bursting the walls of his little house. He stubbornly believes in passion, god, sensuality and spirituality and that a good love story is life’s finest medicine for melancholy.

He is the author of the erotic novellas Mortal Engines, and the Color of the Moon, and the anthology Coming Together Presents C. Sanchez-Garcia. Several of his short stories have been published in the “Mammoth Book of Erotica” series and the “Coming Together” anthology series, as well as in the Erotica Readers and Writers online gallery and permanent archives. If you would like to meet the author you will find him on Facebook as Christobal Sanchez-Garcia and at the Oh Get a Grip writers blog where Sanchez-Garcia’s blog appears hell or high water every Wednesday.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Two Erotic Anthologies from Freaky Fountain Press

Bad Romance
Edited by Robin Wolfe

Buy Now!
For Bad Romance, I succumbed to my fascination with dysfunctional relationships. I never tire of exploring dysfunction, of dissecting the ways that two or more people can bring out the worst in each other. Adding elements of lust and love to a dysfunctional relationships ratchets up the intensity; people continue to pull each other down, and yet they can't seem to break away...and oftentimes they don't want to break away. During the months we spent preparing for and then working on this anthology, songs like Eminem feat. Rihanna’s “Love The Way You Lie” and Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance” dominated the airwaves. The former covers the dynamics of abuse; the latter explores the overwhelming desire for self-destruction. Were they bits of erotic fiction rather than songs, both would be perfect fits in this anthology.
There can be so many reasons for staying in a bad relationship: the fear of being alone, feeling addicted to the one we love, the intensity of volatile emotion that makes us feel alive. We know they will hurt us; we know they will leave us wounded and lost. And yet we don’t walk away… because when the pain is this irresistibly pleasurable, how can we?
Excerpt from “Bleeding Red” by Jeanette Grey:
I want to ask about the show he is leaving behind -- about the paintings and the people. His precious dealer and his pretty, pretty fucks. There are so many girls who are sticky and wet for his art and for his sneer, and I want to make him tell me why he's hurting me instead of them.
But I know.
None of the others will let him do to them what I will.
None of the others will let him break them.
Pushing open the door to his studio, I am assaulted by the stinging scent of turpentine and bleach. It almost makes me retch, it's a scent I know so well. Without letting go of me, Red reaches up to turn on a single spotlight, a warm glow filling crevices even though everything is cold. I let my gaze move around, catching three easels and countless canvasses and palettes, brushes and knives and tubes of paint. I remember the feeling of the oils as he spread them slickly across my body, his hands making art of the ugliest of skin.
But there's still no way to paint beauty within.
I close my eyes against everything, only to feel a thumb at the hinge of my jaw, his fingers curling hard around my neck. "No hiding, Spyder. Open those pretty little eyes," he says. "Show me all the sick shit running around inside that head of yours. Show me what you want."
I shake my head and squeeze my eyes, chanting in my head that he knows. Of course he knows.
"Show me."
I can't.
"Show me."
I can't bear to hear him tell me 'no.' Not again.
At my wince, he chuckles and lets his other hand slide up my thigh, knuckles pushing roughly against the place where my stockings are soaked. When he speaks, his voice is loud and firm. "Open up, sweet thing. Don't make Daddy pry you apart." My body begins to shake as he rubs me harder, his movements harsh and the scrape of his teeth across my cheek too familiar.
Giving another shred of myself away, I let my eyes and legs drift open. "Good girl," he murmurs. But I'm not. A good girl would be anywhere but here.
For a moment, I meet his gaze. There's no remnant of the Red that I remember in the near-black of his irises. There's none of the tenderness he used to use as he stripped and fucked and destroyed me.
There's no promise that he'll put me back together when he's done.
"Take off your clothes."
Everything in my body is shaking as he steps away, and the contrast between us couldn't possibly be clearer. Settling on a stool beside an easel, Red's movements are fluid and easy as he peels his shirt off, leaving me to stare at lean muscle and ink and skin. Dressed only in black leather pants and the boots I can still almost taste, he moves his hand to run along the hard line of his cock, stroking his thumb over the head.
"Naked, Spyder," he reminds me. The hand that isn't pressed against his cock rests on a little table, picking at brushes and palette knives as if he has nothing better to do, his eyes moving from the paints to me and back again. "I want you naked."
Bio: Robin Wolfe spends her days attempting to civilize a couple primates, and her nights reading or writing. She’d prefer to do both simultaneously, since there’s so many ideas that need to be written and so many good books that still need to be read. Unfortunately, she hasn’t yet figured out how. Perhaps it’ll happen one of these days. She’s a queer kinky freak with a lust for dancers, and she’s quite happy that way.
This Is The Way The World Ends
Edited by Catherine Leary

Buy Now! For as long as I can remember, I have held a special love for dystopias of all kinds. I devoured them in my growing-up years and they filled my imagination with images of human struggle set on a sparse stage---early in my life, I saw the apocalyptic story as a device to peel back the layers of human existence, plunging deep, searching for a way to lay bare the core. Then one day it occurred to me: where, in all of these humanity-driven dystopias, is the sex? Not the familiar we-must-save-the-world sex, but the real sex, the raw stuff triggered by the gritty unpleasantness of day-to-day survival, the desperation, the rage, the primal love, the defiance? When it came time for me to choose the theme for this anthology, apocalyptic sex was a natural choice.
Sex at the end of the world.
A taste of apple on your starving tongue. You shiver. Will you fuck for it?
Transcendence or death? Angel or demon? Will you flee the immolation or will you embrace it?
Here, in the ruins, it’s all the same.
These are the last days.
Come with us.
Excerpt from “Sparks” by M. Birds
They eat protein bars, tightly packaged in plastic, and Colby stretches out on hardwood flooring, hair clean and reeking of lavender. She feels strangely attractive, the kind of person that might be kissed on balconies. It is a sensation she is not used to, and it makes her dizzy.
Vina sits on the couch, watching.
“They’re called fire climax pines, you know,” she says after a moment. “The trees you were talking about.”
Colby did not know that, but she feels Vina’s gaze all down her neck and arms to the tips of her bitten fingers.
“You tired?”
Colby forgets how her mouth works, which Vina obviously takes as an affirmative.
“You can have the bed. I’ll take the couch. You’re the guest.”
“Of course,” Colby says back, but it isn’t what she means to say. Her tongue feels huge, swollen in her mouth. She wants to tell Vina that once the people are all dead, the world will be silent and green and covered in fire climax pines, and it will be beautiful, even in the silence.
“And I’m an excellent hostess.” Vina’s stomach hangs over the copper button on her jeans, a small fold of brown flesh. Colby tries not to stare, but she can’t stop.
“Of course,” she says again.
“Of course.”
In the strange bed, her dreams are hot and red and wet, like petals.
Vina wakes her up by biting into her throat. Vina wakes her up bound and gagged, bent in half and dripping wet and wide and ready. Vina pins her hands over her head, even though Colby says no, begs her no, she’s not like that, she doesn’t like that and oh god don’t –
Colby wakes up and there are things inside her, round and warm and pulsing, and Vina is knelt between her legs, fist twisting, hands clenching, “you love it, don’t you, you fucking –”
Vina holds Colby’s face between her hands, bodies slick with sweat and liquid against each other. Vina holds Colby’s face between her hands, and whispers against her mouth, “you beauty–”
Vina wakes her up and they are on an island.
Colby has never been on an island. There is water for days around them, blue at every angle, every side. The sand under her body is wet and cold, and there are seashells and sky and so much water.
“I wish I’d met you years ago,” Vina leans over her, and the sky is so bright it hurts Colby’s eyes and she has to look away.
“You did meet me years ago.”
Vina laughs, her mouth small and shaped like a heart, and Colby leans up to taste her smile (and there is water on all sides, moving like hips move, like bodies move, up against skin that is more than skin, that is also home).
“Wake up now,” Vina whispers, and Colby wants to and doesn’t want to at the same time (she is an island and Vina is the ocean).
“Wake up,” Vina says again, and Colby opens her eyes, emerging weightless and salt-covered and wet…
Bio: Catherine Leary lives in New England with her two cats, her aging parents, and a whole mess of books. She is fat, feminist, kinky, and queer. She once traveled all the way to Oxford, Mississippi, to stand on Faulkner’s grave, because deep in her secret heart she longs to be Cormac McCarthy and William Faulkner’s love child—the one that ran wild in the bohemian streets of Eros with a typewriter, a mercurial imagination, the vague memory of a tryst with Hemingway, and the taste of chocolate-coated chili peppers burning on her tongue. She likes to sleep and she loves to dream. She puts on her Pink Siamese mask and prowls through the forgotten halls of fandom.

Monday, March 28, 2011

The Perfect Submissive

By Kay Jaybee (Guest Blogger)

BDSM Erotica from Xcite Books

Buy Now!

The plotline for The Perfect Submissive came to mind after re-reading a short story (Seducing Laura), I’d penned for the dear departed Black Lace which never made it to publication. Even as I wrote it, huddled as usual over a coffee and a pile of toast in my local cafe, I’d wondered about turning the tale of professional bondage and seduction in a posh hotel into a novel. Real life, work and more work intervened however, and Laura was left to gather dust within my pile of notebooks until early last year, when I came across her again quite by chance.

I love to write stories with added spanks, whips and slaps, so when I reread the tale and saw its potential for a whole catalogue of educationally delicious punishments, I was sparked into action. Suddenly I could visualise the imperious Mrs Peter’s, and knew exactly what affect she would have on a young impressionable female, with no clue as to her own sexual powers. A few scribbles of my black biro later, and the other lead characters were born; the most important of all being Jess Sanders, a woman destined to become the perfect submissive.


Hidden behind the Fables Hotel's respectable facade, five specially adapted rooms wait; ready to cater for the kinky requirements of its guests. When Mrs Peters, the mistress of the hotel's exclusive entertainment facility, meets the new booking clerk, Jess Sanders, she instantly recognises the young woman's potential as a deliciously meek addition to her specialist staff. All it will take is a little education. Under the tutelage of the dominatrix, Miss Sarah, Jess learns to cope with her unexpected training schedule, the increasingly erotic chill she experiences each time she survives a new level of correction, and a truly sexy exercise routine. Temporarily distracted from her intimidating rule over Fable's top floor by an enigmatic artist, Mrs Peters begins to plan how she can secure his obedient assistance, in grooming Jess into the perfect submissive...


If he hadn’t had his neck bent, his face to the floor with respect for Miss Sarah, who greeted him with a sharp ‘Good Morning’, Jess judged he would have been quite tall. And he was young; not the sweaty, aged bank manager Jess had conjured up in her head, but a man in his late 20s or early 30s, with a shaven face, short spiked ginger hair, and well built limbs. He was dressed as a servant, perhaps a stable hand. Jess was automatically reminded of Lady Chatterley’s Lover. Gulping against her dehydrated throat, unwilling to see the sex that she was sure was about to follow, the clerk dropped her eyes, only to have her chin roughly jerked upwards by Mrs Peters.

‘No, child. You will observe. You will learn.’

A patina of panic gripped Jess. Every hair on the back of her neck stood to attention. Until that moment it had been unreal. She hadn’t let go of the hope that at any minute someone was going to turn around and say, ‘OK, Jess, it’s just a joke. We play it on all the new girls. Let’s grab a coffee.’

No one did though. No one was saying anything. The suffocating quiet of the room was broken by the newcomer, who apparently totally oblivious to his audience, was pressed to his knees by Miss Sarah. His head lowered, he was left were he was as the lady sat in the wing-backed chair, her back straight, her chin tilted, her clear eyes filled with disdain as she studied her supplicant.

Jess tried to turn her head away for a second time, but again, had it sharply wrenched back to the scene unfolding before her. She felt incredibly hot despite the general chill of the room, and wished she could take off the thick jumper that was so essential in her cold little bookings office.

Miss Sarah stood again, her abrupt movement making Jess jump and Mrs Peters smile with sardonic approval.

‘You know why I have called you here, Master Paul.’

‘Yes, my lady.’ The words were spoken with humility, but Jess heard every word. It was like being in a theatre watching someone dictating well rehearsed lines.

‘I believe I’ve had to speak to you before about your time keeping. Twice before in fact.’

The man’s eyes remained dipped, ‘Yes, my lady.’

‘I’m afraid that, as this is not the first time there has been cause to reprimand you, the punishment will be more severe this time.’ Miss Sarah didn’t sound afraid at all. Her cut-glass voice sounded triumphant as she towered over the man, who seemed to be getting smaller, as if he was shrinking against her tone.

With a rustle of the petticoats hidden beneath her bust hugging dress, Miss Sarah turned from her client and began to search through the desk drawer. Jess held her breath; positive she knew what Miss Sarah was searching for. It has to be a wooden ruler. Jess had read enough erotica to know how these scenarios went. It was almost text book. She wondered if she should have been disappointed, but the hardening of her nipples told her otherwise, as did the tell-tale twitch beneath her skirt.

Determined to keep her unbidden arousal secret, Jess privately admonished herself for being so susceptible. She averted her eyes from the woman at the desk, but Jess couldn’t bring herself to turn them from the manservant. He captivated her. So strong, so masculine.

What makes him want to come here and be controlled like this? Why does he pay to be humiliated?

‘It’s fascinating, isn’t it?’ Mrs Peters seemed to be reading her mind.

Jess felt goose pimples sprinkle her flesh as her employer continued to speak in whispers, her warm breath tickling Jess’s ear, ‘He’s a strong young man. He is good looking. He could dominate any girl he chose, and yet here he is, getting his rocks off by crouching in obedience before a powerful woman.’

Bio: If you need to find Kay on any weekday morning, then she's usually to be found in the far corner of her favourite cafe, with a large black coffee in one hand, and a ballpoint pen in the other.

After five years of compiling stories and poems, and reviewing other peoples work, she says without doubt, that there is NO going back. Once writing has you in its power you are at its mercy for life. It doesn't pay well, it leads to constant disappointment, and it takes over every other thing you do - but when the publisher says "Yes," and the occasional unexpected royalty cheque arrives in the post, it suddenly all seems worthwhile, and she loves it!

You can find more information on Kay's website:

Sunday, March 27, 2011

The Birthday Present

By Suzanne Graham (Guest Blogger)

Erotic romance from Total-e-Bound.

Buy now!

My husband and I met as international exchange students at a university in England. For spring break, we traveled to Tenerife in the Canary Islands where we had one of the best vacations of our lives. Writing The Birthday Present gave me the opportunity to revisit the lovely feelings of being on that beautiful island again. In case you’re wondering…other than the location, all other details are fictional.


Book One in the Gifts of Desire series

A special birthday present shows Amanda how something new can be so exciting.

After eight years of marriage, Amanda is bored with sex. She's still in love with her husband, Tom, but their sex life has become a predictable routine.

While on vacation in the Canary Islands to celebrate Amanda's thirtieth birthday, Amanda and Tom meet a sexy British couple who want to give Amanda a special birthday present.


At our hotel, we stopped at the pool bar for a final drink before going up to our room. The air was full of the heavy, intoxicating fragrance of night blooming jasmine. A band was playing on the small stage near the pool. The music was slow and sensual with a Latin feel. Several couples were dancing on the patio.

Tom got me a lime margarita and a beer for himself. I took a sip of my drink and noticed it had more than the usual amount of tequila in it. I took another sip, enjoying the floating feeling in my head from the alcohol and our recent make-out session on the street.

We walked to an empty cocktail table where we could stand and watch the dancers. The couple dancing closest to Tom and I had their bodies pressed against each other, swaying to the rhythm of the beat. They were more nicely dressed than some of the other couples who wore beach clothes. The woman was wearing a red strapless dress and the tall, well-built man looked good in a black silk t-shirt and khaki pants.

In the dim glow from the candles around the patio, I was surprised to see the woman was fondling the man’s penis with her hand down his pants. The man had his hands wrapped around her buttocks and was slowly savouring the taste of the woman’s jaw, neck and bare shoulders.

I felt wet heat gathering between my legs as I watched the couple making love on the dance floor. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the erotic sight, and I wondered if I had turned into a voyeur as well as an exhibitionist.

When the band broke between songs, the couple drew apart a few inches, and I recognised them from earlier in the day at the pool. They walked towards our table on their way to the bar.

Good evening,” Sabrina said. “Are you having a good evening?”

Mark walked close behind Sabrina with his body pressed against hers. Probably to hide his raging hard-on, or maybe he was just enjoying being snuggled up to Sabrina’s lush ass. He gave me the impression he was self-assured enough to not be embarrassed to show he was aroused in public.

Yes, we are having a great night,” I said. “Tom took me to a wonderful restaurant down by the beach for dinner.”

And now we are having a drink to celebrate Amanda’s birthday,” Tom added.

Oh, I love birthday celebrations. We’re going to have to do something special for you, Amanda,” Sabrina said. “Don’t you think so, Mark?” She looked up over her shoulder at her husband.

Mark gave me a slow smile. “Yes, I think we should do something special for Amanda.”

Before I could reply, the band began playing a song with a salsa beat. Mark’s eyes were still on mine. “First, I want to dance with the birthday girl. If you don’t mind, Tom?”

Help yourself. Amanda loves to dance, but I’m not too quick on my feet,” Tom said.

Without asking my permission, Mark picked up my hand and tugged me towards him. He led me a few feet away from the table and placed his large, warm palm on the small of my back. I placed my free hand on his wide biceps. I had to restrain myself from stroking my hand over his arm and shoulder and down his beautiful pecs. I wanted to touch those hard, defined muscles that I could see outlined under his snug-fitting black t-shirt.

Mark looked into my eyes as he began to move with me backwards and forwards to the pulsing rhythm of the salsa. His gaze was intense and direct, and I couldn’t look away.

I like your dress tonight,” he said, before leading me into a quick underarm turn. When I faced him again, he added, “I especially like what you’re not wearing underneath it.”

My face flushed, and my nerve endings tingled from the heat of his gaze on my body. How could he tell I wasn’t wearing panties? Could he feel the lack of a waistband with his hand on my back?

I thought I would try something new.” My words came out a little breathy.

He leaned next to my ear and whispered, “Yes, new can be exciting.”

My knees went soft at the possible implication of his words. Was he suggesting he be my ‘something new’? I didn’t think Tom would be too pleased with that.

Mark pulled me in closer to his firm body and his prominent arousal pressed against my belly. Was that from me or leftover from his dance with Sabrina? I felt a little giddy thinking I could affect him that way with my leaner, less curvaceous body.

With his muscular arms wrapped around me, I felt small and feminine. He was so big and dominant. I shivered with pleasure as I thought how easily he could overpower me and take me right here if he wanted. Whatever he initiated, I was ready to participate.

Are you cold?” he asked. Before I could reply, he said, “I’ll have to see what I can do about that.”

He spun me out away from his body. When I came back to him, he slipped his muscular thigh between my legs and wrapped his arm around my back, holding me pressed tight to him. We moved in a hip-swaying rocking motion with my bare clit rubbing against the fabric of his khaki pants. The friction was pushing me close to an all-out orgasm. I could feel my wet arousal soaking his leg, and all I wanted was a little more pressure on my clit to reach my release.

His eyes locked onto mine and the corners of his lips turned up in a knowing smile. I flushed but couldn’t take my eyes off him. He had complete control of the situation and me. I felt like I had stepped into my erotic daydream from earlier in the day. He could claim my body as his to pleasure as he desired, and I would be completely at his mercy, as he demanded his satisfaction. A dizzying wave of desire swept through me as I waited for him to grant me permission to have my orgasm.


Suzanne Graham has always been an avid reader and diary writer. After inheriting boxes of romance books from her aunt, she decided to try putting her own stories on paper. The Gifts of Desire series were her first erotic romances to be published.

Suzanne and her husband are the proud parents of three boys. In her spare time, you can usually find Suzanne on the living room couch reading romances to escape from the overwhelming testosterone in her house.

Visit Suzanne at

Saturday, March 26, 2011

Opening the Writer’s Vision: Go Someplace

By Kat Duarte (Guest Blogger)

Recently, I discovered Artist Toolbox, a half hour show on PBS hosted by John Jacobs who interviews artists working in the fine arts, entertainment, writing and fashion. The last show I caught focused on Sam Gilliam, an African American abstract painter. Jacobs’ final question to Gilliam was, “What advice do you give them [young artists] so that they move ahead?” “Go someplace,” Gilliam answered, “so that you learn something that is not right in front of you. I guess...the sense of real success in any media is difference. So go somewhere so that you are not the same and so that you have something to actually add.”

The painter’s words made me think about the old adage: write what you know. When I was younger those words made me think I had to travel the world to be able to write well. It brought to mind romantic notions of living on the Left Bank in Paris, driving cross country on a motorcycle, becoming a journalist and covering wars in foreign lands. How else could I write what I know and still write about exciting adventures and exotic places?

I never found the courage (or time or money) to indulge in my romanticized visions of the young writer abroad. Mine was a more practical approach. In college, I convinced my parents to let me study abroad. I lived in Salzburg, Austria for one glorious semester and was able to take side trips to Vienna, Paris, Prague and London. I even took a ferry from Ostend, Belgium to England and saw the sun rise on the White Cliffs of Dover. I’ve drawn upon those experiences to create settings and characters for my work, but still I long for the chance to travel abroad again—if only to get me out from behind my computer for a bit of fresh air and exercise!

These days, though, the unkind economy has put my hopes of world travel on indefinite hold. Curtailed plans aside, I can still find ways to go someplace different than what’s right in front of my face. The first thing I do when I sit down at my computer in the morning is navigate to the Monterey Bay Aquarium’s website and live webcams. I watch the sunrise in California while I begin my writing day, spot the occasional seal sunning herself on the rocks and even listen to the sound of the waves and seabirds. (It’s a recorded loop, but still helps me to relax and ease into the writing rhythm.) The aquarium’s kelp forest cam is a favorite for de-stressing. At the end of my day, I switch over to the sea otter cam. Nothing beats watching those fur-faced cuties for fun. Thank goodness for the Internet making virtual tourism possible!

Writers, of course, don’t have to rely on physical travel to write about other places or times and still write what they know. It’s the imagination, some decent research, and our observations of human nature that, twined together, become the place and people that fill our pages. Nothing beats actually visiting a place, of course, but even then the gaps need to be filled in with research and imagination. And just where, when and how will I be able to travel to a world where magic is more common than technology or, say, thirteenth century England? No matter how optimistic I try to be, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to visit another planet in my lifetime. Ditto for the faery realm or an alternate reality. By traveling the roads of my imagination, I usually do end up going to Gillian’s “so that you learn something that is not right in front of you.” Hopefully, if I do my job as a writer well enough, the imaginary beings and worlds in my stories might end up as that type of someplace for others, too.

BIO: Kat Duarte is a writer of paranormal erotic romance and loves all things otherworldly, including science fiction and horror stories. In college, she studied art in Europe and briefly explored the British Isles. She’s a Chicago girl, born and raised, but recently moved to Indiana where she lives with her dog Rosie and her cat Gondor. In her spare time, she love to putter in the garden, eat Chinese food, and have lengthy discussions with her friends on the important topics of Joss Whedon’s Firefly, Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, and everything else scifi or fantasy.

Available at Eternal Press:

"Angel Gets Her Wings" - Heart warming holiday adventure with a wannabe cherub.

"Rise of the Wolf" - Danger and erotic romance under the Hunters' moon.

"Goldie and the Three Bares" - Amorous Midsummer Night adventures of an archeologist and an archfay.

Kat Duarte can be found at:

Cafe Lotti blogspot

Friday, March 25, 2011

Coming Together Presents Remittance Girl

By Remittance Girl (Guest Blogger)

A altruistic erotica collection from Coming Together

Buy now!

For many years, as a member of ERWA, I admired the work of both Alessia Brio, as a writer and a publisher, and Lisabet Sarai, as a writer and an editor. When offered the opportunity, I jumped at the chance to collect some of my best short stories into an anthology for a great cause, the American Civil Liberties Union. To me, the essence of a free and a healthy society is its ability to defend free speech and to allow citizens to express themselves, no matter how they choose to do it.


This book presents seventeen erotic stories by the mysterious and reclusive Remittance Girl. Open the cover and enjoy incredible tales of twisted desire and overwhelming lust, intricate and perfect as some Chinese jade carving. Proceeds benefit the ACLU.

From the short story "Dark Garden"

"Next time, don't bother with the knickers. Alright?"

The bed jostles as he climbs onto it, pressing one knee between mylegs to part them. I lift my head to look back at him. I want to tellhim there is going to be no next time. That this is the last time.

"Alright," I whisper instead.

His hand shoots out, grabs a handful of my hair and forces my head, my face back down into the rumpled linen. "Don't," he growls, suddenly angry. "Don't look at me."

Even as the words have left his mouth, his other hand has pushed between my thighs, and his fingers are digging into the sodden fabric at the front of my panties. He knows exactly how to make me raise my hips in avoidance of the pain, and he persists until I have to use my knees to gain some relief. Only when my ass has risen to the height he requires, does he relent. The cruel fingertips that have been digging into tender flesh are suddenly replaced by a cupped, closed hand that smooths and squeezes me until I start to gasp.

"You're so fucking ready for me, girl."

"I know. I am." I consciously make myself say the words; the least I can do is avoid hypocrisy.

"Fuck, yes." He groans a knowing approval.

He kneels close behind me. The fabric of his trousers is rough and scratchy on the exposed skin of my left upper thigh. Pressing closer, I can feel his erection against my ass cheek as he teases himself, fully clothed, against it.

His hand slews sideways, and his fingertips curl under the inside leg of my panties, pulling the crotch aside. Thick, blunt digits skim into my cunt, parting the swollen, wet lips.

It becomes impossible to stay still or quiet. Growling like an animal, I push my hips back. Want to feel something, anything inside me. But even as I do it, I know he won't give me that right now. This is the game we play: I beg and he refuses.

While one hand torments me, the other follows the line of my spine, from my tailbone up the center of my back, dragging the hem of my silk blouse with it. I know what's coming. Even before his dripping fingers have withdrawn, I steady myself and tense my muscles.

When the first blow comes, it's so fast, so sharp, I don't have time to make a sound. Instinct locks my hips so my knees won't give out and my jaw clenches tight. I've paid for my eagerness; his hand is wet and the sting is worse. If the smack hurts him, he doesn't let it show. Instead he pauses, watching my skin turn crimson. Only when it does, does he hit me again.

The second slap is as hard as the first, and this time I yelp. The sound pleases him; the covered cock pressed against my unslapped cheek twitches. A few more hard spanks and the tears start, hot and wet, soaking into sheet under my face.

I don't hold back. Sobs ascend from some riotous place in my belly, at first stale and hesitant like something shut up in a closed place for too long. But then they emerge louder and freer with each successive burst of pain, as if every blow scythes away another choking tendril.

This is our transaction: the culling of my creeping, strangling vines of confusion for his love of the pain he inflicts in the process of culling them.

When he's heard enough, he stops. His breathing laboured, he bends over my upturned ass and presses his lips to the burning skin. The heat of his mouth intensifies the sting, but the same hand that has beaten me returns between my legs to revel in the strange quirk of my nature. My cunt has also wept, so freely that the inside my thighs are slick and the juices have soaked into the tops of my stockings.

"Want my cock?" he murmurs against my seared flesh, lifting his mouth only to pull my sodden panties down my legs

I take a staggered lungful of air and nod. "Yes I do."

He backs off to unzip himself. That's all he ever has to do because he doesn't bother with underwear. Then he's back between my legs, sliding his thick, pulsing cock along the moist skin of my inner thighs.

"Well, that's good. I want your cunt. Or should I fuck your ass?"

This is always the question he asks while guiding himself between the lips of my pussy. I never answer him and, for some reason, he never chooses my ass. Perhaps because that's the location of pain and now he's focused on pleasure? I've never understood it, but I know, with absolute certainty, that it wouldn't matter what I said anyway; he'll choose the orifice he wants.

And so he does, easing into me with surprising gentleness considering what has just passed. Still, the penetration makes my cunt ache. I'm wound up, tight from the pain and it takes my muscles a while to accommodate him.

Instead of holding my hips, he reaches beneath with both hands, gripping the tops of my thighs in a way that forces my pelvis to spread. My inner architecture is changed, and as he begins to thrust, the head of his cock pushes hard against the end of my passage. And again there's pain, deeper now. It gives birth to guttural, strangled noises that escape my throat, even when the hurt leaves me breathless.

My mind is solely focused on the way he swells inside me, the way his fingers dig into my thighs, the way his hot skin presses against mine, still smarting from the spanking. When I'm empty of all thought, when he's fucked the last existential, angst-ridden worry from my skull, my body takes over.

Chemicals stream from synapse to synapse and trigger a storm of mindless pleasure. My muscles obey, contracting like anemones in a warm current. I flood around his punishment and begin to orgasm.

Bio: Remittance Girl writes and woos orchids in an obscure Southeast Asian country. You can find more of her work on her blog at

Thursday, March 24, 2011


By Pepper Sinclair (Guest Blogger)

An erotic novel from Whiskey Creek Torrid.

Buy now!

Most of our books contain bits and pieces of our lives even though we write fiction. Searchers is based on something that happened to me: how inferior I felt to my best friend, how I craved the male attention she got everywhere we went, and how I found a blessing that still fills my heart with sweet memories and one large secret. Even from mistakes come lessons learned, and Searchers captures mine.


Married for seven years to her high school sweetheart, Rick, and mother to three-year-old Brandon, Katie Franklin feels life is passing her by. The only place Rick’s willing to take her is into the bedroom. That isn’t enough.

On a girl’s night on the town with her sexy friend, Irene, Katie meets handsome Joey Arnold, who casts an approving glance in her direction. It’s been a long time since Katie’s felt desirable.

What starts out as an exciting affair of passionate sex soon turns into love and a very complex situation for Katie. Joey brings out the beast in her, but can she be cruel enough to break Rick’s heart and take Brandon away from him?

She has some difficult decisions to make in so little time. Will she choose incredible sex with Joey or work to save her marriage? Come to Searchers and find out.

Excerpt (Unedited)

At the path’s end, Joey led her to a secluded cove where he spread the blanket across the moonlit sand. The tiny grains glistened like broken pieces of glass and lit a walkway that extended for as far as Katie could see down the beach. A refreshing sea breeze picked up the ocean spray then caressed her face with a fine mist.

The inlet hadn’t been visible from above. "How did you find this place?" she asked.

"I used to come here when I was a kid. Mom always loved the beach - I guess that’s where I get my love for the ocean. It was a place we came as a family and did what we all enjoyed. Mom and I waded out into the ocean and let the waves carry us back. No matter how far down the beach we drifted, we never lost sight of Dad lying underneath our big multi-colored umbrella while reading the paper or listening to his portable radio." Joey fell silent and stared out to sea. “You know, I miss those times."

He turned and smiled at Katie. “It was also my favorite make-out spot when I was in high school, but I haven’t been here for years."

The tension running along her shoulders eased at hearing she wasn’t just one in a string of women he brought here. "So this is where you took your girlfriends. I feel honored to grace your special hideaway."

Katie giggled as she curtsied before him.

He took her hand and pulled her into a close embrace. Her breasts flattened against his broad expanse, enabling her to feel the pounding within his chest. Placing her palm against his shirt, she mentally counted the pulsing beats. "Does your heart always race like this?"

He gazed into her eyes with such lust, she knew he wanted her. "Only with you, Katie. You make me wild."

So much time had passed since she saw eyes filled with desire, she discarded any reservations. The pulsing in her body moved to the juncture between her thighs. Her breath came in wisps.

"Then show me just how wild, Joey."

Strong hands cupped her buttocks and pulled her against the length of him. His erection poked against her thigh, not where she wanted it. She adjusted her stance in order to enjoy the ramrod hardness of his penis.

He gazed down at her and smiled. "Do you want that?"

"Yes…yes, I do. I want every bit of it."

Like candle wax melting in the sun, they oozed to the blanket below. His hands worked methodically until he’d removed her clothing, then his own. The cool ocean breeze caressed her bare skin and turned her nipples into stone. The slight smell of fish drifted in with each wave.

Joey bent and sucked one hardened nub into his mouth and lapped at it with his tongue, then pulled away. He straightened and leaned back on the balls of his feet. Naked astride her, his chocolate eyes assessed her from head to toe, and he licked his lips like a chef satisfied with his best recipe. His words were barely audible above the wave crashing on the beach. "Katie, do you want me to make love to you, or do you want me to fuck you?"

Her mind raced. Was there a difference? They had made love, at least that’s what she considered it, but now she felt naughty and adventuresome.

"Fuck me, Joey. Fuck me hard." Her preference tumbled out.


He pushed her knees apart and insinuated himself between them. Bending his head, he buried his face between her legs. His fingers held her womanly folds apart as he dove deeper into her moist recesses. His tongue searched for and found her pulsing knob. As if using a straw, he suctioned the very strength from her body.

She raised her hips from the blanket and twined her fingers through his wavy hair, holding his head against her core until her own crashing wave subsided. "Oh, baby. That was wonderful," she said, fighting to find her breath.

Joey wiped the wetness from his mouth against the back of his hand. "That was just the start. Now it’s your turn, Katie."

He reclined alongside her, but propped himself up with his elbows. His erect penis stood at full attention. Her exhaustion quickly passed as thoughts of what was yet to come enticed her to take hold of his silky cock.

Katie closed her fingers around his girth and slid her hand up and down the length of his satiny skin. Her tongue licked at the tip of his penis and probed the small opening in the end. His gasp stirred her onward.

She lowered her open mouth over his waiting shaft, delighting in the way it massaged the sides of her throat. As her lips and tongue savored his manliness, her own body reacted to his pleasure. The place where his mouth had just been, now pulsed with desire to be filled to the brim. She sucked with all her might, circling him with her tongue and nipping gently with her teeth. She wanted to bring him the same pleasure she had just enjoyed.

His breath quickened. "Oh! Suck me, Katie. Ewww, yes." His hands grasped both sides of her head. Suddenly, her mouth filled with his sticky cum forcing her to swallow several times. His body went limp.

The salty taste lingered in her mouth, and she curled up beside him. "How was that?"

"Lady, you can do me anytime." His forearm rested across his brow, his breathing fast and loud.

Bio: My pen name is Pepper St. Claire and this is my first and last "erotica" offering. Writing this genre is more difficult than any other for me since I'm a "behind the door" kind of gal. Now that I've revisited this story, I feel inspired to re-write it and make it better, as I've made a few minor alterations in my excerpt. I hope you'll forgive the few improvements...tags following instead of preceding, eliminating a few word echoes, adding some missing quotations.... This was written in 2004 and I've learned a ton since then and also become quite proficient at editing. Also, I'm going to have a new cover, which is why I've included an image of Joey's cove instead of a proper book cover. I truly hope you enjoy the bit I offered, because the book delivers a message I really would like to share. You have to read Searchers to find out what it is.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Missing in Milan

By Elizabeth Coldwell (Guest Blogger)

Erotic romance from Total-e-bound

Buy now!

When I saw Total-e-bound were looking for novellas with an Italian hero and setting, I knew I finally had the opportunity to set a story in Milan, a really beautiful city where I spent a fantastic weekend, packed with shopping, sightseeing and fabulous Italian football, with my partner and a good female friend of ours several years ago. The title came immediately, and once I had it, I then had to decide who was missing and who was searching for them. The storyline took me into romantic suspense territory for the first time, and I had great fun creating a heroine who’s vulnerable and in need of help, but still retains some feistiness, and a hero who’s charming, intellectual and hot – but who may have some unwelcome secrets lurking beneath the surface.


A weekend in Milan with her student sister, Charlie, should be a welcome break in Laura’s stressful life. When Charlie fails to meet her at the airport as arranged, Laura isn’t too concerned at first. After all, her sister has always been impulsive and forgetful where she is cautious and thoughtful. But when she goes to Charlie’s apartment, only for the landlady to tell her she hasn’t seen Charlie for several days, Laura begins to worry something sinister has happened.

With the aid of Gianmario de Rossi, Charlie’s personal tutor, begins to probe the mystery of Charlie’s disappearance. But how much does the handsome, intelligent Gianmario know about what’s really happened to Charlie, and by giving in to her impulse to have wild, passionate sex with him, is Laura being lured to a similar fate?


Kicking off my boots, I tucked my feet underneath myself. “Thank you for everything you’ve done. You really didn’t need to, considering all that my sister’s ever been to you—to all of us—is a right royal pain in the backside.”

That’s when the stresses of the day finally hit me. My anger with Charlie at having put me—and Gianmario, for that matter—through all this combined with my fear that something really terrible had happened to her, and I burst into tears.

Hey, it’s all right.” Gianmario pulled me into an embrace, making soothing noises as he stroked my hair. Pressed against his shoulder, I breathed in his woodsy aftershave, underlain with something muskier and more masculine. The smell was as reassuring as it was arousing.

I lifted my face towards his, but whatever I’d intended to say was forgotten as our eyes met. Behind the lenses of his glasses, his pupils were deep pools of desire. He bent his head, his lips brushing mine. That was all it took.

He cupped my face in his beautiful, versatile hands. His tongue traced the contours of my mouth, softly and surely drawing me in. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been kissed with such passion, such authority, and my body was responding, my pussy growing wet and my nipples pushing hard against the cups of my bra.

I pushed his hair away from his forehead, noticing a small, crescent-shaped scar above his left eyebrow as I did. I broke the kiss long enough to ask, “How did this happen?”

He chuckled. “I was climbing a tree when I was a little boy, and I fell. I was always doing things like that. I used to drive my mamma crazy. She said I loved danger too much.”

Gianmario kissed me again, and now his hands were moving over my body, pulling the hem of my top out of my jeans so he could stroke the bare skin of my stomach. Our mouths were locked together, my hands twined in his hair. I felt as though my body was waking after a long sleep, coming alive and being reminded of its full potential to give and receive pleasure.

Keen to see the physique he was hiding beneath his sensible plaid shirt, I fumbled with the buttons. “Slow down,” Gianmario murmured in my ear. “We have all night.”

But I can’t wait,” I replied. “I want to see you naked.”

Then let’s go somewhere we can really stretch out and be comfortable.” With that, he picked me up in his arms, carrying me through to Charlie’s room. I was struck by his strength, wondering what he did to keep himself in such good physical shape.

He laid me down on the bed. “We can’t do this on my sister’s bed!” I exclaimed, still clinging to the hope that, unlikely as it was, she might come home at any moment.

His grin was irresistibly wicked. “I told you, I love danger too much.”

Bio: Elizabeth Coldwell lives and writes in London. She worked on the UK edition of Forum magazine for over twenty years, learning all about the fascinating world of human relationships and sex in its many and varied forms. Her short stories and novellas have been published by numerous imprints including Black Lace, Cleis Press, Ravenous Romance and Total-e-bound among others, and her time-travelling, body-swapping, packed with horny rock musicians novel, Someone Else’s Skin, is available from Xcite Books. She can be found at The (Really) Naughty Corner,, when she isn’t following her beloved Rotherham United home and away or whipping up some of her legendary Yorkshire parkin.

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

It All Starts TOMORROW!

I'm off on my annual trip back to the U.S. tomorrow morning. But I've arranged for you to have lots of entertainment while I'm gone.

I've booked more than two dozen fabulous authors as guests here at Beyond Romance, for my Sizzling Spring Excerpt Festival. Every day I'll feature a different cover, author, blurb and excerpt.

And to make things more interesting, I'm having a big contest. First prize is a package of three of my current print books, autographed of course. Second prize is a single print book, and third prize is an ebook. I'll randomly draw the winners after I return on the 20th of April.

What do you have to do? Simply show up, read, enjoy and comment. Every time you leave a comment you're entered to win. The more often you visit, the higher the chance that you'll be one of my winners!

By the way, the author who generates the most comments will also get a prize. So stay tuned to your groups and email lists, so you can help your favorite authors win!

See you in April!

Sunday, March 20, 2011

Newsletter Contest Winner!

Just popping in to announce that Desta was the winner of my quickie newsletter contest. I just sent her a copy of Truce of Trust. Thanks to all of you who participated!

Let this be a lesson - you never know when I'll decide to run a contest! In this case, I announced the contest in the emails I sent to Lisabet's List and other romance Yahoo groups.

Meanwhile, if you haven't yet checked out my March newsletter, go to right now! As usual, you'll find information about my new releases (including two fabulous covers), free reading and all the details on my upcoming month long blog contest.

What are you waiting for? ;^)

Saturday, March 19, 2011

Why I Write Sex

By K.D. Grace (Guest Blogger)

I watched my husband get out of the shower and dry himself the other morning, something I’ve seen a thousand times before, and I was moved by the physicality of him. And no, this isn’t going to be a ‘too much information’ sort of post, so relax.

Human sexuality is such an amazing thing. No matter what we say or do we’re all moved by each other’s physical bits, and certain physical bits move us more than others. The physical sexual self sometimes attracts us, sometimes disturbs us, but it always makes us feel something.’

In response to my observations, my husband waxed scientific, as he has a tendency to do. He reminded me of biology and the basic urge to procreate. He reminded me that the need we humans have for long-term relationships is because we need someone to stick by us to raise children, and human children take a long time to raise. I know the biology, and I know about hormones and pheromones. I know about oxytocin and dopamine and other cool stuff that makes us feel good when our physical contact becomes sexual. It’s chemistry. It’s biology. It’s the way the genes make it to the next generation. Yes biology drives us. I get that. And sometimes biology is a bitch. I get that too. And yet… I am moved.

I can’t think that I would write sex and take such pleasure in the writing if I wasn’t moved, deeply moved, and I don’t mean in the moist undies sort of way … though there is that.

We humans are masters in the art of deception, masters in the art of disguise. We are the ultimate chameleons. We know exactly how to hide our true selves from our fellow human beings. And we do it most of the time. No doubt my very smart husband could tell me exactly why that is from a scientific point of view. But for me, it’s a part of what makes teasing it all out on the written page so damn much fun. Humans are masters of disguise and deception until they get down to the rumpy pumpy, then sooner or later, the deception fails and the disguise slips and we are naked animals at the rut, exposed and vulnerable. Let the story begin!

Not much happens in the story with the defenses up and the disguises in place. Enter sex, and everything happens. Even after the sex is over and done with, the story is irrevocably changed because of the act. And what happens next is a crap shoot. Every writer’s dream. When sex enters the story, anything can happen. Sex brings about love and tenderness and bonding and connectedness. It also brings about jealousy and anger and possessiveness and despair. Sex pretty much covers the gamut of the stuff good stories are made of. Leave it out and the story will be bloodless, and the characters thin on the ground. Put it in, and the sky is the limit.

My characters are most deeply themselves when they’re having sex, or when the raw need for it is driving them. I don’t think that’s any real surprise, since we wear our humanity on our sleeve – or lack thereof – where sex is concerned.

On the level of basic biology, we may be able to reduce human sexuality to the relentless drive of the selfish gene to reproduce itself in the next generation, and that in itself is startlingly, bleakly beautiful. But on the level of the story, which is the level of the human heart, sexuality bursts into a kaleidoscope of endless emotions and feelings and needs that are played out in myriad ways. And when sexuality interacts with story, we get ring-side views into the human psyche laid bare. Our characters show themselves for who they truly are, no matter how hard they try to hide. And the harder they try to hide themselves, the more their true nature is revealed. Strangely, the closer we get to the animal nature that drives us all, the more clearly focused, the more finely honed the view is of what makes characters who they are.

It’s because I’m moved by our physicality, it’s because innate maleness or femaleness by its very nature cries out for intimate contact that writing sex is such an enthralling, multi-facetted task. Humanity viewed through sexuality is viewing who we are from the inside out and back in again. When sex happens, all of those archetypal pieces of the human puzzle fit together in high definition, surround-sound clarity. But only for the moment, then they are once again swept away and subsumed into the milieu that’s everything else, and we dust off our disguises, wrap ourselves in our defenses and move on. Ah, but the stories, the wild, delicious stories that come from those few moments of chaotic, breathless, rutting clarity are a writer’s wet dream come true.


K D Grace was born with a writing obsession. It got worse once she actually learned HOW to write. There's no treatment for it. It's progressive and chronic and quite often interferes with normal, everyday functioning. She might actually be concerned if it wasn't so damned much fun most of the time.

K Ds erotic romance novel, The Initiation of Ms Holly, published by Xcite Books, is now available everywhere.

Her erotica has been published with Xcite Books, Mammoth, Cleis Press, Black Lace, Erotic Review, Ravenous Romance, and Scarlet Magazine.

Her second novel, The Pet Shop, also published by Xcite Books, will be available in October 2011.

You can find her website at She's also on Facebook and Twitter.