Thursday, 28 July 2016

Flexibility and Freedom by Lucy Felthouse (@cw1985)


Hi everyone,

One of my editors emailed me recently to ask about my writing schedule for the rest of 2016 and early 2017. I admit, I drew a bit of a blank. Not because I'm not planning on doing any writing - quite the opposite - but because I don't have a schedule. 

People that know me might be surprised by this - I'm often touted as the Queen of Organisation. And I am, really. But not necessarily when it comes to writing. Yes, I hit deadlines if I have them, and get stuff turned around fast when needed, but knowing what I'm going to be writing in a month's time, let alone any further out, rarely happens.

Honestly... for me, this is a good thing. As much as a big part of me would love to have the whole books in all major bookstores and supermarkets thing, huge launch parties, reviews in national newspapers, and the yummy royalties that would go with all that, it would mean giving something up. Flexibility and freedom. Right now, unless I've committed to something particular, I can write what I want, when I want. Just this week I've switched WIPs because I decided to have a go at writing a story for an anthology one of my publishers is putting out. If I was under a strict schedule, with specific dates I needed to have a book to a publisher by, things like that wouldn't be possible. But because my writing time and schedule is my own, it means I can write the short story, then skip back to the other WIP. Or maybe change to something else altogether, if another opportunity comes up.

Obviously I can't write for every opportunity that comes up, or even every one I'd like to. I just don't write quite fast enough for that. But I do assess what opportunities look best for me and my writing, and which ones excite me the most. And, as I say, much as I'd like the increased income that would go with a stricter, more traditional publishing career, at the moment, I love being able to write what excites me - nothing more, and nothing less.

Because that's what it's all about, isn't it? Yes, I also love being paid for what I do (not to mention I need the money to, you know, eat and stuff), but if it was a grind, if every word was a struggle because my heart wasn't in it, then that would be depressing. And there's enough of that in this world. So I'm sticking with happiness, and my heart being in it :)



Happy Reading,
Lucy x

*****

Author Bio:


Lucy Felthouse is the award-winning author of erotic romance novels Stately Pleasures (named in the top 5 of Cliterati.co.uk’s 100 Modern Erotic Classics That You’ve Never Heard Of, and an Amazon bestseller) and Eyes Wide Open (winner of the Love Romances Café’s Best Ménage Book 2015 award, and an Amazon bestseller). Including novels, short stories and novellas, she has over 140 publications to her name. She owns Erotica For All, and is one eighth of The Brit Babes. Find out more about her writing at http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk, or on Twitter and Facebook. You can also subscribe to her monthly newsletter at: http://eepurl.com/gMQb9

Thursday, 21 July 2016

Eclectic Writings from Victoria Blisse Inspired by my Time in a Writing Group

Photo taken on my way to Writing group. Proving I'm dotty!


I’ve recently had the pleasure of attending a writing group which has been an inspiration and introduced me to new friends. It started as a favour to a mate really but I ended up really enjoying myself. It was really fun to write completely out of my comfort zone. Okay, erotica might not be comfortable for many to write but after 12 years it’s like second nature to me.

So I thought today, to celebrate my last day at Writing group (It meets on the other side of the city and as much as I love it, it’s a long way to go) I thought I’d share my collected works inspired by the dreaded pot of doom (a lucky dip of story prompts) and various writing exercises. Hang on tight people, it’s going to get eclectic in here!


The Girl with the Yellow Ribbon
It stays with you, life, love, longing. No matter what you do, how far you go, how you change.
She haunts my dreams, the girl with the yellow ribbon in her hair. 
She runs through green grass, arms flung wide, eyes sparkling with mirth and the yellow ribbon trailing behind her, golden curls bouncing on her shoulders below. Sometimes I hear her laugh, sometimes the scene is silent but I always wake up with a longing deep in my soul which meditation only masks but doesn’t take away.
I can sit for hours, cross legged, eyes closed, letting the elements whirl around me. Here, on my island. No one will disturb me. There is no one else here. Wildlife will carry on regardless around me. Bees buzz, birds sing. Sometimes a bug will walk over me instead of around, it doesn’t move me. I centre myself. Wiping away pain, fear, regret to find the inner sanctuary of peace.
Some days I find it within a few short hours, other days I sit and I sit and the agitation remains. On those days I do the hard, physical work I need to keep me alive, here on my island away from anyone. I live in a cave, my heat source and my oven is the fire I make up each night. I eat only what I can forage or what kindly fishermen leave for me when they want a big catch.
It is strange the human need to do something, to find something to put their hope in when all hope is lost. I can’t encourage fish into nets, nor would I want to but the men of the sea bring me supplies because when all hope is gone they can use it as a practical prayer to a God they barely believe in.
But just in case, they do it. And if the big catch comes, no matter when, they remember the food they left for me, the little monk on the island and they connect their act of kindness to a random act of the sea, of life, of God. It works for them, it works for me. It is the way of things.
As is the dream. Every night I see her, blue eyes sparkling, mouth wide with a smile, dancing across the grass. 
Sometimes I only glimpse her from the back. The yellow ribbon dancing, standing out from the corn coloured strands of flowing hair. Some nights I’m chasing her, some nights I’m held still, I can’t move, some nights I call to her, hold out my arms and beg her to come to me. She never does.
I had a life before the island, filled with success, abundant excess, all I could buy, all I could consume, all I could take.  More was my desire, more was my need, more was what I strived for but I could never have what I really wanted. A child.
Barren, I tried everything to conceive but all my wealth was not enough. All my hope, all my prayer, all my fervent wishing. None of it worked and when my life became so full of things I got bored. I gambled, drank and abused my body. It wasn’t giving me the one thing I wanted so I filled it with hate until the hate spilled over and out into the world. No friends, no family left, I was alone.
I tried all the religions, looking for the answer. I never found it, not really. But in Buddhism I found myself. I found the strength to let go. To love me. To change. My path led me to this. An island bought with immense wealth but lived upon in poverty. I live to survive and survive to live and my soul finds rest.
Except at night, when she haunts me, the girl with the yellow ribbon in her hair, the child I can never have.


Everything Must Go


Everything must go.
All you think, all you know
just perceptions in the wind,
lightly to your conscious pinned.
Veiling like swirling snow,
waves battering to and fro,
weeds choke plants that grow.
Everything must go.
All you want, all you need.
Leave greedy desire,
cast into consuming fire.
Scatter them like seed.
Bending like a reed,
the burning ache to succeed.
Everything must go.
All you covet, all you crave,
only holds you back,
You just see lack.
Don’t rant and rave,
don’t be boring and behave.
Just be brave.
Let everything you know, go.
And find peace.

The Conman, his lover and the Goldfish


Chrissy flutters long lashes and passes him a bag containing an orange fish. The man grins, cheeks flushed red and wishes goodbye to the centre of her cleavage.
“You were a little coy,” her lover tutted as the bell on the door jangled, “you could have sold him more carp.”

I’ve got you under my skin
                  
The echoes of memories flood back. I try my hardest to keep them under control or they’ll take over and I’ll end up the crazy old woman who talks to thin air and keeps a jar of ashes on my dining room table. Nope, I’m not going to be that person, my love.

We danced to that song (the Frank Sinatra version) when it was fresh and we were young, oh so young.  I knew from the moment you put your arms around my waist that I loved you. It was like a bolt from heaven and when we kissed that just sealed the deal. Your lips were so gentle and so strong and I held onto your wide, masculine shoulders and let myself fall deeper in love with you.

We had our ups and downs of course, there was that Bitch Katie Summer who was desperate to get her claws in her. You were a good man with a suit and a good office clerks wage and she wanted out of the factory, she didn’t want you really, just wanted your status and your job. I don’t recall that day with much fondness just a certain satisfaction in the sting left in my palm once I cracked her round the face with it. She left you alone from that moment, scared that I’d curl up a fist the next time I heard her talking about you with such sordid, vulgar intent.

Only I could do that. I hear the words’ reverberation on the air, the whispered sweet nothings of the night we consummated our marriage to the raunchy and rude demands that came as we grew to know each other’s particulars. Our lives gently overlapped, you finished my thoughts let alone my sentences.  You had your chores, I had mine. You had your joys, I had mine. You had your friends, I had mine.  But I was always the happiest when I was with you, my other half.

I’m not thinking about the end, no, no. I did enough of that at the time. No, I remember you the way we met, laughing easily, smiling widely and taking care of me.  Or how you were that night of our Ruby Wedding where we danced again to our song and made the children and their kids feel queasy with the public affection.  Ah, those were the days, my love, those were the days that echo in my heart.

I’ve got you deep in the heart of me,
So deep in my heart that you’re really a part of me.
I’ve got you under my skin.

Save a space for me in Heaven, my love, I’ll be there soon. I can’t wait. I’m too old now, my knees don’t work and my ears don’t hear and I feel lost and confused without you. I know you’re just in the other room waiting for me, I’ll be there soon, my love, I’ll be there soon.

From Here to Maternity

From here to maternity seems such a long way,
I'm trying and trying each and every day.
My husband is lagging,
His ardor is sagging,
But we'll make love tonight come what may.

An invite back then was all he'd need,
Before eagerly sowing his seed.
Now I must ask,
don stillettoes and latex mask
If I want trouser snake to be freed.

Having sex used to be fun,
not so much now I really want a bun
in my oven.
All the good lovin'
Comes out a bit over done.

It'll be worth each and every try,
when we first hear our baby cry.
He'll dote on the kid,
Be glad that he did
Not let the opportunity pass by.

From here to maternity isn't so far
We don't need no help, thank you, ta,
We'll keep copulating
Continue the mating
Until I'm filled with a new little star.


Dear Pen Pal,

It was an umbrella, a simple umbrella but it turned my life around.

If I said it hadn’t been a good week, that’d be an understatement.

I always stand out from the crowd, ripped jeans, stretched ear, pastel pink hair and the audacity to have been born a black man too. Mostly it makes no difference, people might stare now and then but I am fabulous, darling so I don’t let it get to me. But the other day when I was bullied and abused whilst waiting for the bus I went home in tears.

“Good God, mate, look at that!”

Those words will haunt me for the rest of my life.

“An example of all what is wrong with this country in one disgusting package.”

They weren’t drunk, they weren’t high, they were rude. I don’t like recalling the incident. They called me names, asked me questions, tried to pressgang the others waiting at the stop to join their side. Some did, others stayed silent but I fought my battle alone. And they hit me. Not with any force, not in a way that left bruises on anything but my soul but they pushed me down, pulled my hair and only stopped when the bus arrived. No one asked me if I was okay, no one stopped to offer me a hand or a word or anything.

I picked myself up, brushed myself down and stood in the rain for the next bus.

But the damage was done. I was shaky, sad, scared to leave the house. Each day was a battle with myself to just do what I had to do. Because those moments of hate, those words of disgust had taken control of me.

Then today, it was raining. It’s Manchester, so that’s not so surprising. But it was full on lashing down and as the summer sun had been shining when I went into work for my afternoon shift I hadn’t thought to wear a coat. So I left the café at six o’clock with nothing but my work shirt and trousers and lingered in the porch in vain hopes that the deluge would stop. I felt in that moment like the weather was a reflection of my life.

Depressing, cold, harsh. Sunshine lost.

“Here you go, mate,” a voice broke through my melancholic wonderings.

I looked up, startled.

“I’ve got my mac, I don’t need it. You take it.”

There was nothing that stood out about the guy, but his smile. Genuine and large.

“Are you sure?” I asked and the stranger nodded.

“Oh, aye. You need it more than me.”

And with that he pressed the bright red brolly into my hand, pulled his hood tighter and walked on.

“Thanks, mate!” I yelled after him, he turned a hand and waved a reply but didn’t stop to look back.

I walked to the bus stop, sheltered by my new red umbrella and smiled all the way. My heart lighter than it had been for days, my eyes damp with tears of gratitude buoyed along by the generosity of someone I would never really know.

As I walked that short distance, the hate lost control and love took the lead.

 I might not always carry an umbrella, but I will look for those in need and offer that kindness that changed my life today to others. That is the power of good, of light, of positivity.

It’s the little things that make a difference.

I hope that these words will inspire you too, my friend, so the love will spread to the other side of the world.

Sincerely,

Fabulous Me.

Just Before by Victoria Blisse

My heart beats, dull and throbbing, soundless to him but oppressively deafening to me. The dreariness of  depression flits with elation, as I look for a sign in the insufferable gloom of self-doubt that it will happen.

 Alone in front of him, the terrible chasm between us is mere centimetres in reality but I feel a sickening need pulling in the dark depths of my desolate, rolling stomach. Leaves of arousal fall in a dark shroud of melancholy, like a wind shaken tree in autumn, the stirrings low and hideous. Shadowy and uncertain, which way does the gale blow? Will it drop the leaves to sit decayed and rank in my soul forever or will the iciness of the unnerved storm blow them into him?

The seconds stretch out tedious, tense, thick. The dreary monotony of time ticking on, torturing me in the moments just before our very first kiss.


This piece was created by taking the semantic fields from an extract of The Fall of the House of Usher by Edgar Allen Poe and giving them a positive twist.

Dull, dark, soundless, autumn, oppressively, low, alone, dreary, melancholy, insufferable, gloom,  desolate, terrible, decayed, rank, depression, hideous, iciness, sickening, dreariness, unnerved, shadowy


And one more, which is dark and sad...so you've been warned!



No Words Left


There was always something to say. From that moment we met, yelling over the too loud music in that student dive. I couldn’t look away from your eyes and you tried really hard to look into mine and not into my brazenly bared chest.
On the first date, sharing a pizza and sipping on coke. When we talked about all the things we loved and found out things we had in common. Aversion to fruity pizza toppings, a need to straighten skewed pictures on the wall. Yes, even when in a public restaurant and you had to lean over other diners to do so. We both adored all things horror, especially films and that led to our second date where we got in trouble for talking over the movie. The old couple in front weren’t much happier when we snogged our way through the rest of it, either.
We didn’t stop talking, not even that first night we slept together, when you told me in detail how beautiful I was, how soft I felt and how much you loved me. We laid in bed, tangled limbs, setting the world to rights, seeing a future with us in our dream careers, with a big house, several children and even more dogs. Greyhounds, our agreed favourite.
On our wedding day, we wrote our own vows, read them with hesitant voices, looking between sheets of paper and each other’s faces. We smiled, kissed, laughed and danced. Ate cake and called each other Mr and Mrs for the next week, sipping cocktails on our honeymoon.
Our words changed when we moved in together, they got more practical. We became experts in DIY, you taught me how to unblock the sink and we talked and talked until we could afford our first TV.
We weren’t expecting our first child, we did more than just talk in our TVless days and apparently I wasn’t as careful taking my pill as I should have been but we painted her a nursery, bought her all she needed and loved her, oh how we loved her. There was no way to know she wouldn’t grow up, that she’d not even see a full month of life on this earth. When there was a break in the flood of grief filled tears we talked and talked about why and how and we couldn’t understand. I’ll never understand.
You bought me a puppy and I remembered how to smile, how to live, how to survive with a hole in my heart. When you were working, long hours, late nights, I snuggled with my hound and told him all the things I longed to tell you. But you weren’t there.
I went back to work, to get away from the silence by talking all day, trying hard to sell to abrupt, irritated voices over the phone. Struggling to meet sales targets, struggling to find normality in a world of madness where a mother had no daughter and it seemed everyone expected her just to deal with that. Even you.
I didn’t even have my dog to talk to any more. He’d gotten out, chased a neighbour’s cat into the middle of the road and the car couldn’t stop. I blamed you for that even though I wasn’t sure it was you who hadn’t turned the key. It might have been me.
The talking became shouting as we became too tired to even try any more. And trying became too difficult as every month the pregnancy test stubbornly said no. Each one bringing back the grief of losing her. At first you would hold me, talk to me, tell me it was all going to be fine. Then you began to avoid me at that time, not wanting to deal with yet another breakdown. Not wanting to deal with me.
Discussions turned into rows. You wanted to change the nursery into a study, so we could both work towards the dream careers we wanted. I couldn’t believe you were so quick to remove the only connection we had to our baby. I wondered how you could be so uncaring and you wondered how I couldn’t want to move on.
I wanted us to go to couples therapy and you said we should talk to each other instead of talking about each other to a shrink. You talked about me to your mates at the pub and I talked about you to myself. You went out more and more, I stayed in, signed off work by the doctor, wanting to hide away. To not feel, to not care, to not fight.
And then you told me you were leaving. You packed your bags. I asked why, I begged you to stay. I promised you I would change, that I’d move on. I said that I didn’t want you to go. I’d do anything to preserve our relationship.
You said it was too late for that. Our relationship was broken beyond repair. You couldn’t live in the past anymore with me. You told me you had to move on. That you had moved on.
You had found someone else.
Someone who’d listened to you talk.
Someone you had a future with.
I screamed, I yelled, I threw a vase at you.
You walked out of the door.
Several months later you came back. A chance to talk, to arrange and make things work.
I cried, I pleaded. I told you I’d forgive you, that I’d take you back but I didn’t want it to end this way. Taking you to the second bedroom I showed you that the nursery had gone. It was an empty room with cream walls. A blank new canvas.
You shook your head and left me with the paperwork.
Sitting, staring at the space I need to fill with my name, the signature that will destroy the love that we shared.
No words left.
Only heartbreak.
A bottle of vodka.
A strip of pills.

And a tiny, baby bootee.

Thursday, 14 July 2016

Disturbing Sex - Sizzling Orgasms

I have no idea how many fictional orgasms I’ve created for my characters over my years as a writer, but with National
Orgasm Day coming soon (You see what I did there) I’ve been thinking about the written climax. I did a mental inventory of the most memorable fictional “cum shots” I’ve penned and discovered that many of the ones that topped my list were disturbing. They were disturbing in that the sex leading up to them was not exactly hearts and flowers and chocolate truffles. It was never my plan that the orgasms resulting from disturbing sex should be among the most sizzling, but that they were made me stop and wonder why those scenes were so often the ones that made me twitch in my knickers. 

That we’re aroused by things that disturb us is … well, it’s rather disturbing, actually. Why aren’t we happy with filthy hearts, and flowers and smutty sweetness and light?  Why is it that often the more uncomfortable the fictional sex makes us, the more aroused we get. I got groped by a stranger once on a bus in rural Croatia. As upsetting as the experience was, it didn’t stop me from revisiting it in my fantasies a million times and wondering what would have happened if I’d been bold enough to let the whole scenario play itself out. The incident has inspired my fiction more times than I can count. 

Let’s face it, there’s something about sex that’s frightening. There’s something about sex from which we’re never quite sure we’ll recover. Don’t believe me? Just look at how desperate conventional religion is to control sex; just look at how highly regulated erotica is compared to any other genres; just look at how disturbed the general public is by the sex act – even the sex act between two consenting adults. There’s absolutely nothing else that disturbs us quite like sex does – not even graphic violence.  And if the sex is of dubious consent or transgressive in nature, then often our dark unconscious finds it even hotter still.  

I personally think sex disturbs precisely because it arouses us. It elicits an animal response in us that nothing else does. That response is no more a choice than is our stomach grumbling when we’re hungry. That it exerts that much control over us, that we can so easily and so completely abandon ourselves to it without any certainty of what the end result might be, frightens us. What exactly is it we fear? If I had allowed myself to enjoy the fact that I was aroused on that bus, it wouldn’t have turned me into a “slut.” It wouldn’t have turned me into anything that I’m not already. It certainly wouldn’t have made me a bad person.  When I’m being honest, I have to admit that there’s something seriously hot about being disturbed, and just maybe what makes it so hot is that it forces me to face desires I’d prefer to deny. 

Sometimes the sex is disturbing because it’s with the wrong person. Who doesn’t want a seriously good villain to f*ck their brains out first, then they can count the cost later? Who doesn’t fantasize about a good shagging by a stranger whose face they never see, whose name they never know? Who doesn’t fantasize about rough sex, inappropriate sex, sex they have no control over? Perhaps this is why we’re so in love with shifters and vampires and other supernatural beings – they are a safe receptacle for forbidden sex, for disturbing orgasms.  

Erotica writers dare to take disturbing sex, sex that comes from our deepest fantasies and write it. Anything written is suddenly far more real than it is when it’s safely tucked away in our unconscious. And when someone brings it up into the realm of conscious consideration by fictionalizing it, giving it a name, then we’re suddenly confronted with the fact that, yes, we are aroused by it, even as we’re disturbed by it. We then have to ask ourselves what that fact says about us as people? 


To horribly paraphrase Carl Jung, what we admit and bring into conscious thought is far less likely to kick us in the arse when we least expect it while sailing naively down the river of denial. So much of becoming whole and well-rounded people is accepting who we, all of who we are, the light along with the dark. Often what disturbs us most is what we most need to embrace in order for that to happen. 

Is that my psychological analysis? Hell no! That’s just my long-winded way of saying that reading about other people’s disturbing sex can be a real panty scorcher.

Here’s a disturbing little snippet from my latest release, Landscapes. I hope you find it as hot to read as I did to write. 

Landscapes Blurb: 

Vampire, Alonso Darlington has a disturbing method of keeping landscaper, Reese Chambers, both safe from and oblivious to his dangerous lust for the man. But Reese isn’t easy to keep secrets from, and Alonso wants way more than to admire the man from afar. Can he risk a real relationship without risking Reese’ life?


Landscapes Excerpt:

It was nearing dawn when Talia returned to our accommodations smelling of sex, as I knew she would if she were to obtain for me what I wanted. By then my blood burned in my veins, and my body felt too close to me, as though the flesh that I dwelt in suddenly conspired to crush me with its demands. And though I knew that Reese Chambers could not have refused her even if she had come to him as a toothless, foul-smelling hag, I hated her that he had poured himself into her body while I had been left with only my fantasies kindling my lust to an inferno. 

Though my need was such that my flesh was fevered and my cock an insistent throb, until she returned, I held myself contained within skin that felt too thin. When she saw the state that I was in, she pulled the heavy drapes with an efficient tug, then with a nod of her head, motioned me to follow her down into the basement room that had been prepared for me. When she turned to me at the foot of the bed, before she could opened her kiss-bruised lips to speak, I took her mouth, starving for the first taste of him, the taste of his saliva, the taste of his blood, mixed with hers. She’d bitten him; he’d bitten her back. He was rough, and he liked to be treated rough, but he kept that to himself. He was embarrassed by it. His lips were slightly chapped from so much time in the sun and wind, and they’d slid against hers, suckling and stroking and pressing until her mouth opened to his. With ravenous laps of my tongue, I tasted him in her mouth, and she held back the moan of response, so I could hear the echoes of his groans, heavy with need he’d not satisfied in awhile, and I felt kinship in my own unsatisfied needs. Images of him flashed through my head. Christ, his eyes were green, dark green like the evergreen forests of the north, and he kept them open when he kissed her, taking her in with his eyes. 

I shoved aside the silk of her low bodice exposing her breasts, breasts that his hands had cupped. My nipples peeked to sharp aching points at the feel of his calloused thumbs raking, pressing and releasing. I breathed in his scent on her breasts, burying my face in her cleavage, licking the taste of salty, slightly picante maleness, sniffing and tasting until I could stand it no more. In one violent jerk, I tore the dress all the way down and shoved it off her shoulders, away from the flesh he had licked and kissed and mounted. I cried out at the feel of him, weight on one elbow, knee spreading her thighs, fingers opening her heaviness, anxious to penetrate, anxious to relieve his need. And then, with Talia free of

clothing, Reese Chambers’ essence filled the room. Talia’s panties were still wet with his semen mixed with her humid desire, and I tore them from her and forced her onto her stomach, onto her hands and knees, so that it was not her face I saw, but his that I imagined. With hands on her hips, I raised her bottom in the air and spread her still swollen, still slippery folds with fingers made awkward by my arousal, letting the scent of his hot bread and honey release intoxicate me. Then I buried my face in her snatch and, as I ate his lust from her, I knew him. 

He was Cumbrian born and bred, and his accent was the soft lilting sound of the fells. He was a landscaper and a
gardener by trade. His hands held the magic of the earth and his mind conceived ideas for beautiful outdoor spaces; those he liked best were patterned after Renaissance and medieval gardens. He was homesick and heartsick. He’d gone to Surrey to work with his father because the money was good. But his father had died recently and he had returned home to Cumbria. He didn’t care if he had to work in a pub or muck stables. He wanted to be home. He missed the people and he missed the fells. He missed the simpler, more honest rhythms of life. He was shy, even a bit reclusive. He read voraciously and widely, he liked astronomy and he was afraid of snakes, though it embarrassed him to admit it.

He hadn’t had sex in a long time, and found it better to have a wank session than a meaningless encounter. The facts of him, the details of his life raced at me in a flood I consumed ravenously with each lap of my tongue.

As I ate Talia I felt the shape of his face, the curve of his chin, the rise and fall of his chest as he had done the same. I felt the soft tuft of bronze curls nestled between the hard rise of his pecs and the courser, deeper curls that caressed his testicles and his cock when it was at rest, but it hadn’t been at rest. How many times had he taken her? He was thick enough to fill her and the friction of him inside was delicious and maddening. The shape of him – I wanted to caress the shape of him, with my hands, with my mouth, and the taking of his essence from Talia was an act of ripping away something that should have been mine. As I bruised her arse with kneading fingers and, as I licked the last of his release from her, she managed a breathless moan. ‘Take the rest. God, Alonso, take the rest, and release me.’

Monday, 11 July 2016

Special Guest: SJ Smith (@sjsmithauthor @sinfulpress)



The Pitfalls of doing what I do


I still think of myself as a newcomer to the world of writing, and I’m still learning new aspects to the craft every day. Not just the technical side of constructing words into sentences into paragraphs, but also the practical side – what can I put in this book that will make it appeal to readers and hopefully shift a few units?

When I reread my first draft of Peeper I realised I’d included way too much Welshness; too much comment about Welsh life, Welsh idealism and Welsh politics. Not only did this slow down the plot, it was also grossly unnecessary, and I made good use of the delete key to get rid of it all. Who the fuck would want to be lectured to about a small country they’d probably never heard of, in what was supposed to be an erotic novel?

I had to think from a potential customer’s point of view. If I went out and bought a pornographic magazine and discovered that instead of photographs of beautiful, naked women, it contained a series of patronising lectures about the social history of Yorkshire, I’d quite rightly want my money back.

There’s a side of me that strives to be an artist – to be taken seriously as a good writer, but there’s also a side of me with a mortgage to pay. If I have any hopes of ever making a living from what I like to think of as my vocation, then I need to create a saleable product. I need to refrain from badgering people with my opinions and my pretentious beliefs that I am somehow delivering something highbrow. Let’s be honest; the only reason folk buy erotic books is to get a sexual thrill.

But I can’t just ignore my calling and write what I would consider to be dismal books about downtrodden women getting liberated by sexual affairs with rich men. Surely there’s room in erotica for a plot? For a narrative that delivers an adventure, rather than a description of a series of fucks? With Peeper I attempted to mix erotica with a simple detective story, give the sex a backdrop to carry it on its way. How very foolish I was; I had inadvertently strayed into what the publishing industry describes as ‘cross genre’.

Personally, I don’t like the word genre. I find the concept of limiting yourself to a single theme to be repressive and dull. Did Shakespeare or Dickens write in a genre? Should A Clockwork Orange have been rejected because Burgess mixed social comment with science fiction? Publishers and retailers like to keep things simple; to have clearly defined sections in their catalogues in which to advertise their merchandise. They hate people like me, because they don’t know what box to drop me in.

Clearly I still haven’t learned my lesson. I like to think my latest novel The House of Fox is entirely beyond categorisation, and I hope it causes headaches to those who love to compartmentalise. It’s entirely sexual, yet isn’t really erotica; it’s funny, but isn’t really a comedy; it has supernatural aspects, but isn’t really horror. I have delivered the book I always wanted to write. The pitfall to this is obvious; nobody will buy it; I have shot myself in the foot, once again.

*****


The House of Fox excerpt:

“Jane!” Dylan called from the stage.

She kept her gun trained on Donna a moment longer, relishing the fear that had wiped away that look of smugness, and then turned to face him. “Dylan the Dick.” She readjusted her aim, pointing the muzzle at his crotch. “Soon to be Dylan the Dickless if you give me any trouble.”

He smiled. “I’m sensing you have some anger management issues, young lady.”

Jane did a double take, incredulous he could be quite so dumb. “Oh what a great idea, Dylan: Hey, let’s make jokes at the expense of the lady who has a gun trained on our prize shlong. That’ll certainly prove you aren’t the moron everyone claims you are.”

“Have people been saying I’m a moron?” He rolled his eyes. “Not that old chestnut.”

“It’s a well known fact you have more dong than ding.” She cocked her head to one side. “Which is what got us all wondering – how could someone as retarded as yourself possibly manage to put this little insurrection together? It’s patently obvious you’re merely the puppet, so if you want to spare yourself an eternity of agony, start naming names. Who put you up to this, Dylan?”

“Funnily enough, the person who put me up to it also provided me with this.” He held out his hand to show her a silver device sandwiched in his fist. “If my thumb lets go of this button, a V bomb will take out this entire level and we’ll all spend eternity in agony.”

Jane took a step back and waved away the encroaching militia. Her bravado died pitifully inside her chest. She should have known it was too good to last.

“Looks like the moron stole a march on the Fox Girls.” Dylan waved the silver device in the air. “Guess that makes you pretty stupid, huh?”

“Put it down,” Jane shrieked, raising the muzzle of the gun level with his head.

“Put it down? Okay, I’ll put it down.” Dylan bent forward, making as if to drop the device on the floor.

“Stop!” Jane backed up another step, panic bubbling at the realisation she’d fucked everything up. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“You think so? Do you know what a V bomb is, Jane?” Dylan’s twisted smile mocked her to the core. “It’s a very powerful piece of black witchcraft that essentially turns every vagina within a hundred yard radius into a hydrogen bomb. Your little ginger quim will explode with the force of ten Hiroshimas, blowing you and everyone else within a mile into a billion pieces in the blink of an eye.”

Jane stared at him, trying to work out if he was bullshitting or not.

*****

The House of Fox blurb:

After a drunken night on the town, four friends awake to find themselves in the House of Fox, the ultimate brothel in the universe, where every sordid fantasy becomes reality.

But all is not as it seems.

The House of Fox harbours many dark secrets, and factions are plotting against one another.

The four newcomers must choose their friends carefully and take care not to lose their minds on the thrill ride of perversion that will carry them to the ends of the Earth and beyond.

The Great Voyeur in the Sky is watching . . .

Buy from:

Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/House-Fox-SJ-Smith-ebook/dp/B01GF44M0S

Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/House-Fox-Sinful-Comedies-Book-ebook/dp/B01GF44M0S

Barnes and Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-house-of-fox-sj-smith/1123824728?ean=9781910908044

Apple: https://itunes.apple.com/gb/book/the-house-of-fox/id1126014781?mt=11

Kobo: https://store.kobobooks.com/en-us/ebook/the-house-of-fox

*****


Author bio:

SJ Smith is a neurotic recluse who lives in North Wales. It has long been his dream to become a full time filth monger.

Links:

Twitter: @sjsmithauthor

Blog: http://sjsmithrants.blogspot.co.uk

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/SJSmithWriter/

Publisher: @SinfulPress

*****

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