My latest erotic romp is available for pre-order! #MILF #Erotica #HEA

Happy Sunday! Well, I’m happy, at least. My brand new erotica title, The Slut Strikes Back, is now available for pre-order. Release date is next Saturday, July 11^th? But if you’re in the mood for some X-rated fun, why wait?

You’ll find the blurb and an exclusive X-rated excerpt below.

Blurb

“Find someone else to satisfy your needs.”

When her husband complains about her constant sexual demands, MILF Lauren Gordon is shocked and hurt – and determined to act on his instructions.

Lauren has never strayed outside the bounds of her marriage, but now that she has permission, she unleashes her voracious libido on her gorgeous girlfriend next door, the UPS delivery man, and anyone else who strikes her fancy.

Her husband called her a slut in order to shame her. Lauren wears the title with pride. When he comes home to find her gang banging her son’s buddies from the college wrestling team, he realizes he’s made a huge mistake. He wants his slutty wife back. But once you’ve freed the genie, you can’t put it back in the bottle.

If you love wild adventures of wanton women, you'll love The Slut Strikes Back.

Exclusive Excerpt

The lone staff member came out from behind the counter to bring her sandwich.

“Thanks,” she said, looking up. He loomed over her, a big guy, maybe late twenties, with a shaved head and a gold stud in one ear. He wore tight jeans, a polo shirt with the shop logo, an apron that hid his crotch, and a knowing smirk that sent a premonitory shudder of pleasure skittering down to her loins.

“Enjoy,” he said, his eyes flicking from her face to her tits and back again.

Trying to ignore his presence, she dove into her lunch. Instead of returning to his station, the guy leaned against a nearby table, folded his arms across his broad chest, and watched her eat.

She finished her wrap in record time, without tasting a bite. All she could think about was how her nipples ached and her clit throbbed. Under the spotlight of his leering gaze, she felt hot all over. Juices welled up from her pussy, dampening the cotton skirt that separated her bare buttocks from the chair seat. When she got up to leave, would there be a wet spot?

As she wiped her lips with a napkin and gulped down the last of her water, he approached her once more to gather the tuna-smeared sandwich wrapper and other debris. His hands were as large as the rest of him, hairy on the back, with blunt, fat fingers. Lauren couldn’t help thinking about how those fingers might feel, pushing into her cunt.

He tossed her trash in a nearby bin, then held his fingers to his nose and inhaled deeply. “Bet you smell something like this.” He gave a lewd chuckle. “In fact, I think I can smell you from here.”

Lauren wanted to sink through the floor. At the same time, she was so turned on that she felt faint.

He probably could smell her. She was certainly wet enough. He stood over her, grinning like some demon. Instinctively, she shrank back, drawing her arms up in front of her heaving breasts in a futile attempt to preserve her modesty.

“Oh no you don’t!” He snatched her wrists and spread her arms wide. “You’re not gonna hide those beauties from me.”

“Leave me alone.” Her quavering voice sounded unconvincing even to her own ears.

“You sure that’s what you want?” When he released her wrists, her arms fell limply to her sides. A sudden pinch to one nipple kindled a fierce bolt of pleasure-pain. “Me, I think you want something else.” Grabbing her hand once more, he pulled it under his apron and curled her palm over his rock-solid erection. “I think this is what you want.”

He felt huge, so massively swollen she wondered how he’d ever get his zipper down. Saliva gathered in her mouth. She licked her dry lips.

“Give it a squeeze,” he ordered, his voice lower and more seductive. “That’s all for you, babe. You want it?”

No, she wanted to assert. What came out of her mouth was a whimper of need.

He reached out to fondle her breasts through the thin fabric of her blouse, flicking at the nipples with his thumbs. She kept her hand on his astonishing cock, transfixed by lust, unable to form a coherent thought. She should get up and leave. He wouldn’t stop her – would he? She might be a slut, but this, this was too much, too blatant, too dangerous. Meanwhile her nips sparked, blood pumped through her clit, and her pussy wept.

All at once he stepped back, untied his apron and tossed it onto a chair. Now she could see the fearsome bulk of his cock, straining against his zipper. He skewered her with an insolent stare. She felt utterly transparent.

“Last chance, slut,” he growled. “If you want my dick, get up off your ass and get yourself into the toilet.”

There was no conscious decision. One minute she was cringing in her chair and marveling at his cock. The next, she was on her way to the unisex rest room, with him following close behind.

The facility wasn’t particularly small, but he seemed to take up all the space. He kicked the door shut and locked it. “Bend over,” he commanded. “Hold onto the sink. Yeah, that’s right.”

Lifting her long skirt, he flung it over her head to bare her naked lower parts.

“Whoa, you are a slut!”

He landed a quick, hot slap on her butt, then probed her with those fat fingers, just as she’d imagined. She felt her juices spill out over his hands and down her thighs. She didn’t care; she was beyond shame.

“You’re desperate for it, aren’t you?” His palm connected with her other cheek, the sweet sting sending fiery tendrils down to her core. “Well, I won’t make you wait.”

* * * *

Reserve your copy today!

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1031285

Amazon: (coming very soon) 

 

For Love or Money

Some of us write for love. Some of us write for money. Either way, we authors are hungry for reader approval. Perhaps there are some out there who toil away for the pure sake of their art and who honestly don't care whether anyone reads their books or not, but nobody I know personally falls into that category.

As for me, I want to be loved far more than I want to be rich. I want the people who pick up my books to be swept away into the worlds I create – to live, breathe, suffer and lust right along with my characters and to feel satisfaction, even joy, when my story winds to its close. Positive reviews send me to the stars, not because they'll increase my sales (they probably won't), but because they suggest that I've succeeded in seducing at least one reader.

If you worry about your readers' opinions, though, then you can't help but think about market sentiment, which after all aggregates their views. Then you find yourself making choices based not on what you want to write, not on instinct or on passion, but on your perceptions of what is likely to sell. And that truly is a slippery slope. There's a thin line between adapting to the market and self-censorship.

Much of what I write these days gets labeled as erotic romance. I constantly have to sit on my characters so that they'll behave according the expectations of this genre. In particular, no matter how tempted I am to introduce F/F interaction into my stories, I have to resist. I frequently find my heroines wanting each other, but I don't dare let them consummate their desire because it will alienate my audience. Both my readers and my publishers have told me in no uncertain terms: the majority of people who buy and read romance actively dislike any depiction of Sapphic sexuality.

For example, I remember the experience of writing The Ingredients ofBliss, which includes some fairly wild BDSM ménage scenes (M/F/M). Halfway through the book I came up with a kick-ass secondary character, a female police detective named Toni. It soon became clear that Toni had her eyes on my heroine Emily. In love with Toni myself, I desperately wanted to see what would happen if I allowed her to express her interest in a physical way. Emily could easily have been open-minded enough to go along. Instead, I ended up including only the faintest hints of mutual attraction – and then my editor wanted me to scrub those as well. (She objected to some of the other extracurricular sex, too.)

Why is there such a bias against F/F relationships in the erotic romance world? Especially when the majority of readers are female? I took a poll once, in the guise of a contest, to find out how my small coterie of fans felt about F/F fiction. The responses ranged from “It just doesn't interest me” to “It's icky.” (I'll admit that one or two replies indicated an enthusiasm for lesbian stories that equals mine. The population for this impromptu survey was after all a self-selected set of people who already like my work!)

I can live with the “doesn't interest me”. After all, my husband has zero inclination toward BDSM, even in fiction, in vivid contrast to my own fascination with power exchange. The “ickiness” factor really bugs me, though.

This isn't sexual conservatism or general homophobia. A big slice of my readership adores gay male erotic romance, especially when the heroes are tall, handsome and intensely masculine. These readers fantasize about such men themselves. It seems only natural they'd expect such men to be drawn to one another.

In contrast, I have the creepy feeling that many women don't find their own bodies attractive enough to be erotically appealing.

That's an ugly, scary thought. I hope it's not true. Given how mercilessly the media beat us over the head with images of impossible beauty, though, I can't rule it out. Most of us don't measure up to the artificial ideal, no matter how much money we spend on cosmetics, clothing and gym memberships. Meanwhile, we're told that anything outside that ideal is unacceptable. Our hairy pussies are disgusting; we'd better go get them waxed. A tummy that's not flat as a board, breasts that are too big or too small, flat feet like mine that can't handle the high heels required to be truly gorgeous – we're conditioned to dislike our physical selves.

How many women do you know who truly love their bodies? And how can you love another, naturally imperfect woman, when your perceptions are colored by these constant messages of female inadequacy?

Of course, there is a market – possibly growing – for F/F erotica and erotic romance among lesbians and bisexuals. In those books, though, market wisdom suggests you should avoid any straight sexual interaction. This literary segregation really annoys me. My characters tend to reflect my own omni-sexuality. I want to write about women with men, women with women, men with men, multiples and chains, in the same book (as I did in my first novel fourteen years ago, when I was still a marketing innocent).

Anyway, there's nothing I can do about market pressures, except to resist the urge to self-censor and try to remain honest. When I'm tempted to let my female characters explore one another, I should yield. I'll never be a best seller, so what have I got to lose?

Just for the fun of it, I thought I'd include an excerpt from the very first F/F scene I ever published, in my debut novel Raw Silk (which is going to be re-released, newly edited and expanded, soon!)  My heroine Kate is in the process of learning about submission from Gregory, who owns a sex bar in the Bangkok red light district. He brings her to the bar, disguises her as Asian, and “forces” her to participate in a live sex show.

****

Gregory handed her a silk kimono. ‘Put this on, and wait behind the curtains until you hear the music. After that - you'll know what to do.’

‘I know that you won't disappoint me, Kate,’ he added. Then he was gone.

Standing in the dim hallway, Kate fought the urge to run. She fantasized about sex in public places, she acknowledged; she had enjoyed the risk of discovery in her recent, outrageous experiences with Somtow. This was different. How could she fuck a stranger, surrounded by strangers, who were watching purely for their own entertainment? Being discovered in the midst of passion was one thing; deliberately exposing the most private of acts to public view was something else altogether.

She had no choice, she told herself. Marshall had required this of her, and she was bound to obey him. She knew she was lying to herself, though. Mixed with her trepidation was a secret, shameful excitement.

The first wails of the saxophone reached her from beyond the curtain. She recognised the tune. Kate pulled the kimono tight around her, swallowed hard, and stepped into the spotlight.

In the brightness, Kate could see nothing. She moved toward the stage, feeling light-headed. It seemed that she floated up the stairs.

Her partner awaited her.

It was the sweet little vamp who had been Uthai's companion in the previous performance. A woman! Gregory was diabolical.

The Thai woman caught her eye. Kate saw kindness in her face, and amusement. Slowly, she began to untie her robe; Kate did the same. The silken fabric slid from their bodies at the same moment. A low murmur rippled through the audience.

The woman held out her hands to Kate, beckoning, inviting. Kate glided across the stage, the music reaching her despite her fear. They clasped hands, standing face to face. We could be sisters, thought Kate. They were exactly matched in height, and like her, the young woman was more generously endowed than was typical for a Thai

Still holding Kate's hands, her partner encircled her and kissed her, open-mouthed. Kate felt a shock at the woman's soft lips and probing tongue. For a moment, she struggled against the invasion. However, her arms were pinned at the small of her back; though seemingly gentle, her partner was remarkably strong.

Perhaps Gregory has instructed her, thought Kate, surrendering to the strange and delicious sensations of the woman's kiss. There was a faint taste of peppermint. The woman drew back and smiled at Kate.

‘Please,’ Kate whispered. ‘You'll have to help me, tell me what to do. This is all new for me.’

‘Mai khaojai,’ the Thai returned in a whisper. ‘Pood pasa Angkrit mai dai kha.’

Kate knew little Thai, but she understood the gist. Her lovely companion spoke no English. They could communicate only with their bodies.

The woman's hands were on Kate's breasts now, stroking and fondling. Her touch was unlike anything Kate had known, delicate yet focused, savoring both the smooth skin and the swelling flesh beneath. Kate's hands hung at her sides, awkward. Her partner's nipples, pert and upturned, seemed to wink at her. Come, don't be shy, they seemed to say. We long for your touch. Hesitant, Kate cupped the twin mounds in her palms, felt the silkiness under her fingers. So strange it was, like caressing herself, but with an extra spark. After a moment, she brushed her thumbs ever so lightly across the woman's nipples. Electricity ran up Kate's spine, as the Thai stiffened and then relaxed, throwing her head back and thrusting her breasts forward.

The music changed, moved into a bridge, and the Thai woman regained control. She half-danced with Kate over to one of the poles, so that Kate was leaning back against it. Then she sank to one knee in front of Kate and used both hands to part the hair hiding Kate's sex.

Panic rose again in Kate's throat. With the spotlight in her eyes, she could not see the audience, but she heard their hot breathing. This passionate dance was too private for their gaze. Yes, she wanted this woman, but she would not, could not, allow herself to be so taken under their crude inspection.

Then thought was erased by sensation, as her partner's tongue swept through her sex in one long, hard stroke that ended with a flick to her clit.

(If you happen to be one of that rare breed of readers who loves F/F erotic fiction, by the way, I urge you to pick up a copy of HerOwn Devices, my collection of lesbian erotic stories.)

Sunday Snog #175: Clean Slate

My snog today comes from “Clean Slate”, one of the stories in my new collection of lesbian erotica, Her Own Devices. It’s short, but very intense!

Don’t forget to visit Snog Central for links to lots more luscious Sunday kisses!

“You're so wet, chica!” she purred. I was. Her fingers slipped and slithered in my depths like eels in the ocean. “I'm wet, too. I've dreamed about this, about you...since the first day you shed your clothing and showed me your marks, I've wanted to strip you bare and make you writhe...”

“Oh...oh...oh!” I was beyond words, though some distant corner of my mind still observed, commented, analyzed. As though impatient, she pushed the panties down around my thighs, then plunged her whole hand into my sopping pussy. I ground my clit against her knuckles and spread my legs as wide as I could. Elastic cut into my flesh, but I didn't care. I opened myself to her clever fingers, wanting more, more―more of the fierce heat she coaxed from my snow-pale body, more of the pleasure that she woke everywhere she touched.

She nipped at my shoulder, where the anesthetic had started to wear off. Pain sliced through me, a startling contrast to the sweet heaviness pooled between my thighs. I turned my head and she fastened her ripe-plum lips on mine, forcing her tongue into my mouth, still twisting my nipple and stabbing at my clit. She smelled like orange blossoms. She tasted of espresso. She pressed her pelvis against my bare ass. The starched fabric of her lab coat rasped against my cheeks. I could feel her dampness, even through the layers of cloth. I felt her want, a mirror of my own.

Somehow we ended up on the tiled floor. Under her coat she wore tight jeans and a purple tank top without a bra. Cradling her full breasts in my pale fingers, I suckled first one taut nipple and then the other while she struggled with her pants. I ran my tongue up along the outside of one luscious mound, to the sensitive spot under her arm. She stiffened and moaned. I heard tearing fabric and understood that she was as desperate as I was.

I straddled her, pressing my lightly furred bush against her black thicket. Skin on skin, at last! My juices mingled with hers as we rubbed our mounds together. Our rich, musky scent hung heavy in the sterile room. I leaned over to capture her mouth, letting my pea-sized nipples graze her more opulent ones.

She relaxed and let me take the lead. I wanted to devour her. I had to hold myself back. I kissed her ferociously, for a long time, until I could tell she was having trouble breathing.

“Want...to...taste you...chica,” she gasped when I finally released her. I could only grunt; I was too deep into my lust to speak. I nipped at her earlobe, then swung around so that my cunt was in her face. She spread me wide with trembling fingers.

The first sweep of her strong, hot tongue gathered me and drew me to the pinnacle. The second stroke pushed me off. My body took flight, arrowing up into clouds of pure pleasure then tumbling downward to burst against her face. Everything poured out of me, the darkness and the fear and the shame, flooding her eager mouth.

Sunday Snog #149: A F/F Kiss from Exposure

I've been working all day on my lesbian witch story - it started as a short but it's up to nearly 10K words and I still have at least two more scenes to write. I don't know where this is coming from, but it's fun.

Anyway, since my mind has been dwelling on the charms of the female sex, I thought I'd share another F/F kiss from Exposure.

After you've finished her, click back to Sunday Snog Central for lots more delicious kisses.

I’m prepared this time, when her mouth meets mine. Somehow, I expected this, from the moment I heard her voice on the phone. She probes almost tentatively at the joining of my still-closed lips. I open and suck her tongue into my mouth, tasting lemon and butter this time, I will not be taken. I will not be passive and vulnerable.

I grab her shoulders and pull her against me. My mouth is rough on hers, mashing her lips against her teeth. My tongue probes rudely.

She likes my forcefulness. I can feel her melt beneath me as I push her back against the cushions. She sighs when I pull my mouth from hers and nip at the flawless skin of her neck. I let my hands wander shamelessly over her body, its curves and hollows hardly hidden by the light crepe of her clothing.

isn’t wearing a bra. Her breasts are compact against my palms, the nipples poking smartly through the cloth. I give them symmetrical squeezes and she moans, squirming and rubbing herself against me. Guess I’m her type, too.

like that. I don’t trust Francesca but her lustful behavior is so at odds with her proper exterior, I can’t help feel some affection. Not to mention answering lust. My silk panties grow wetter every time she whimpers at my touch. She is slumped against the wrought iron back of the bench, her thighs splayed open in a most unladylike way, her ankle-length black skirt bunched up to her knees.

Bending closer to her, I take one of those pert nipples in my teeth and at the same time slide one finger through the cleft between those thighs, under the skirt. I find no panties, only bare, shaved skin, slick and soaked. My cunt swells and seeps with matching desire. Her pelvis jerks forward at my first touch. I stroke her, lightly, but she grabs my hand and tries to push it into her. Liquid gushes around my fingers. A musky perfume rises from her, mingling with the floral scents around us.

It all floods back, what I learned from Layla during our brief, incandescent affair. My fingers know exactly what to do. Francesca is desperate, twisting and writhing, reaching for release. I rake the tip of a fingernail across the rigidness of her clit and her back arches in response. 

Almost, almost there. “Stella...” she moans. “Please, Stella.”

She seems to have no connection to the prim, well-coifed widow who wrung that orgasm from me two days ago. As for me, I’m enjoying having power over her. At this point, I bet she’d do anything I asked, sexually. I could make her kneel in front of me and I could force my hairy pussy into her face, and she’d lick me till I told her to stop. The image creates delicious spasms in my cunt, but I don’t follow through with the notion. I don’t want to give myself up to her, not again, not this time.

Sunday Snog #148: The Late Show (F/F)

My snog today is from my F/F short story The Late Show, coming soon in Best Lesbian Erotica 2015. The kiss is barely there - but there's enough emotion in this excerpt, I think, to carry a snog.

When you're done here, click over to Victoria Blisse's Sunday Snog page and sample some of the other wonderful kisses on offer.

 

The powerful cycle whipped around the corner and raced through the shadowy streets. I hung on for dear life, my arms around Haley's waist, my chest pressed against her warm back. I tried to ignore the effects of her closeness. I shut out the quivering pleasure set up by the engine's vibrations between my splayed thighs. Enough sex tonight, I told myself. Enough.

I couldn't see much, but after five minutes I knew we were going in the wrong direction. For one thing, we were climbing.

“Hey!” I yelled. The wind whisked my voice away. “Where are you taking me?” I pounded my fists against Haley's back. She paid no attention whatsoever. She might have been made of granite.

When the engine died, I snatched off the helmet. “What do you think you're doing? You think this is funny?”

Haley shook her head. “Not funny at all, Di.” Something in her tone froze my indignation.

I looked around. “Broad Hill. I haven't been up here since...” The town stretched below us like a set of toys, glittering and unreal.

“Yeah. Me neither.” She stepped toward me.

“Haley, please...no.” When she gathered me into her arms, though, I didn't fight – not her at least. I only fought myself. Her kiss was gentle as mist.

“I'm leaving tomorrow, Di. Come with me.”

Oh God. Her scent. Her voice. The flow of hard muscle under her sun-bronzed skin.

“I can't. You know I can't. I have a child, Haley...”

Her hands wandered over my curves, waking pleasure everywhere they touched. “We're good together, Di. We always were.”

“Yes, but ...”

“You made the wrong choice last time. Not everyone gets a second chance. Choose me, baby. I swear I'll make you happy.”

She cupped my pubis through my skirt, waking echoes of orgasms, recent and remembered.

“You deserve this, Di, after all the shit he put you through.” With a simple tweak of my nipple, she rekindled the fever.

She was right. I deserved better. I'd had better and I'd thrown it away for social status and acceptability. I'd thought that Haley was just a fling. I was so, so wrong.