Thursday, 27 July 2017

New Novel from Lucy Felthouse (@cw1985)


Mallory Scott is an espionage operative, working for the British government. She’s travelled all over the world, often going undercover and infiltrating criminal organisations in order to extract the intelligence needed to dismantle their operations and bring the perpetrators to justice. Given her usual targets are terrorists, people-traffickers, drug-traffickers and arms dealers, her latest assignment should be relatively simple. A small group of Brits is raking in serious money in the diamond-scamming business—and although their MO is theft and forgery, rather than hurting people, they still need to be stopped. But up until now, they’ve proved elusive—no one can catch them in the act, or find a shred of evidence against them.

That’s where Mallory comes in. She follows the group to Amsterdam, planning to get her claws in to one of the gang. Luck is on her side, and within twenty-four hours she’s lunching with Baxter Collinson, the youngest—and most handsome—diamond thief. What she’s not expecting, however, is to get on with him quite so well. Attraction bubbles between them—and for once, on Mallory’s part, it isn’t an act. For the first time in her career, Mallory struggles with what she must do.
Can she ignore her heart for the sake of her career?

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Mallory Scott spotted the people she was looking for as soon as she walked into the hotel bar. Hell, she hadn’t even needed to search; they were being so loud and obnoxious they were practically screaming for attention.

Stupid, in Mallory’s opinion. If you were running an international diamond scam, surely you’d want to keep a low profile? But no, apparently these guys didn’t give a shit. Not only were they screaming for attention—and getting it, she noticed, as other patrons of the bar shot them the occasional glare—they were also projecting the fact that they were filthy rich. They were supping on the most expensive champagne money could buy and demanding oysters and caviar be brought in. The overwhelming arrogance made her blood boil, but she consoled herself with the fact that by the time she was done with them, they’d be taken down by more than a peg or two—they’d be at rock bottom.

Heading for a table in a position where she could watch them, but remain partially hidden behind a pillar, she shook her head. She could hardly believe they’d kept their multi-million-pound enterprise going for so long. If they ran their operation as sloppily as their current behaviour indicated they might, it was a miracle indeed.

Not that it mattered. They could be running the tightest ship ever known to man, and she would still find a way to take them down. It was what she did. For years now, she’d been successfully infiltrating illegal operations of varying kinds, then gradually dismantling them from the inside. Before the criminals realised what was happening, it was too late—their wrists were practically in the handcuffs, their arses on their way to jail.

This project was different from the ones she usually handled. Her past takedowns included terrorist plots, kidnappings, drugs, people-trafficking… that kind of thing. She’d been involved because sending in police or military personnel wouldn’t work. Not in those particular circumstances. To be truly effective, Mallory needed to infiltrate the organisations at the top, gain their trust—or at least enough trust to allow her to snoop—and acquire evidence of their involvement to ensure their convictions. Otherwise, rushing in and stopping the terrorists, saving people and so on, important as that was, would only affect a tiny part of the organisation. It was vital to dismantle the whole thing, from the big bosses and the money men, right down to the minions doing the leg work.

An added bonus to this approach was that the victims of these organisations, as well as being saved, would know that justice had been served to those that hurt them, and the knowledge that they’d never get the opportunity to do it again. It was dangerous but fulfilling work, and Mallory couldn’t imagine doing anything else. She loved the adrenaline rush, the challenge.

And the challenge element was precisely why this job was different. In as much as it wasn’t supposed to be particularly challenging. Intel gathered over the past year had pinpointed the what, the who—though they couldn’t yet put faces to names—the where and the how, and that had been done covertly, without the need for an undercover operative. All that remained in this case was to find out the when, so they could be caught in the act. It should have been simple, really. But the group was careful, exceedingly so. One of their number was a hacker, meaning that trying to access their emails, internet search histories and voicemails, or tap their phones without being detected was almost impossible. They were smart.

Which meant the only option remaining was the old-fashioned approach.

A honey trap. It was Mallory’s mission to attract the attention of one of the men in the group—hell, even one of the women if any of them swung that way—and slowly, slowly cultivate and exploit their relationship in order to get the information she needed. Then boom, another international criminal enterprise would bite the dust.

Which brought Mallory to her current position, dressed up in ludicrously expensive designer gear and half-hiding behind a pillar in the bar of Amsterdam’s most exclusive hotel. Someone less experienced than Mallory might have found the idea of staying out of sight ridiculous. The aim was to get the attention of one of the gang members, after all. But Mallory was at the top of her game, the very best of the best, and she knew damn well that putting in a little groundwork early on would pay off in spades. Before she did anything, before she so much as batted an eyelash in the direction of the gang, she needed to identify her target. It was pointless trying to eye-fuck with a bloke from across the room, only to discover he preferred men, or was happily married and the faithful type. That would attract the wrong kind of attention. When she did get noticed by the group, she wanted it to be for the right reasons, and on her terms. If they caught even so much as a whiff of her deception, it would be game over.

So she would watch, and wait. Then as soon as she decided which one of the group was going to be her new boyfriend, she’d move in for the kill. Figuratively speaking, of course. Killing wasn’t her job. She was capable of it, and over the course of her career had ended more than one life in self-defence, or in order to protect others, but she was no cold-blooded murderer.

She was something much more dangerous; something that no one ever saw coming.


Author Bio:
Lucy Felthouse is the award-winning author of erotic romance novels Stately Pleasures (named in the top 5 of’s 100 Modern Erotic Classics That You’ve Never Heard Of, and an Amazon bestseller), Eyes Wide Open (winner of the Love Romances Café’s Best Ménage Book 2015 award, and an Amazon bestseller), The Persecution of the Wolves and Hiding in Plain Sight. Including novels, short stories and novellas, she has over 160 publications to her name. She owns Erotica For All, and is one eighth of The Brit Babes. Find out more about her writing at, or on Twitter or Facebook. Sign up for automatic updates on Amazon or BookBub. Subscribe to her newsletter and get a free eBook:

Thursday, 20 July 2017

What Women Want

I fell unexpectedly into writing erotica and erotic romance. I don’t mind saying that it was a scary
journey in the beginning. My first novel, The Initiation of Ms Holly, was both one of the hardest and one of the easiest things I’d ever written. It was an erotic fantasy romp that took me to places in my imagination I would have never thought were even there, places that embarrassed me, intrigued me, even frightened me. What was much more difficult that the writing, though, was the allowing those words, those dark kinky images from my imagination to go out into the world for everyone to see, and to tell the world that yes! I wrote them! I wrote every one of them, and I want you to read them. But once that initial hurdle was crossed, what I felt most about that strange and unexpected beginning was empowered. I felt as though my voice was being heard.

There’s an old tale that rears its head in multiple places in multiple forms, but the two most memorable are The Wife of Bath’s Tale in the Canterbury Tales, and The Wedding of Sir Gawain and Dame Ragnell. In both stories a knight is forced to marry a hideous hag. On their wedding night, the hag offers her bridegroom the choice to have her beautiful in their marriage bed for his eyes only and hideous during the day, or to have her beautiful during the daytime for the eyes of the world while reverting to a hag at night. In both tales the knight leaves the choice to his bride, and by doing so, she rewards him by always being beautiful. When I first read these stories, I remember thinking how interesting it was that the true beauty of a woman comes through when she has a voice, when she gets to choose. There’s nothing beautiful about victimhood, nor about being powerless. And when our voices are not heard, we are powerless.

I’ve often shared this story since I began writing erotica and erotic romance because erotica and romance are places where women have a powerful voice. I don’t think it’s any surprise at all that most erotica is written by women and for women, nor do I think it’s any huge surprise that more and more men are reading it as well. I also don’t think it’s a surprise that romance is by far the best selling genre, nor that at long last, it’s being given more of the respect it deserves. Wise men, as the stories tell, listen to women’s voices. Wise men want to know, understand and make space for what women want, because wise men know that what’s good for women is ultimately good for them too.

In the years since Ms Holly, I’ve written some pretty kinky, pretty dark stories, stories that at one point in my life I would have been embarrassed to read, let alone write – stories that I would have been afraid to write because … well what would other people think about me. The fact that I have confidence to write about sex, to write about women’s sexual fantasies, the fact that a fabulous group of women like the Brit Babes and the Brit Babes Street Team even exists is a celebration of the reclaiming of women’s voices. I think that’s also a part of why erotica is such a powerful genre on the one hand, while on the other, one that’s not taken as serious literature.

One of the most disturbing questions being asked in the post 50SOG world, and one of the most important is, does erotica feed societies stereotypes? I would suggest that the media and the publishing industry’s controls on erotica, controls that are not placed on any other genre, is a way of reinforcing society’s stereotypes, a way of controlling women’s voices. While it’s a given that ‘boys will be boys’ and they’ll fantasize about all sorts of filthy things, our own fantasies and our desire to express them through erotica, or porn written and directed by women, must be controlled ‘for our own protection.’

Sadly the idea that the only truly ‘good women’ are either virginal innocents or good mothers and dutiful wives is not something that got left behind in the 19th century. The restrictions placed on the erotica genre alone reenforced the idea that if we’re given free rein with our fantasies and our creative voice, as the weaker sex, we might not be able to tell the difference between fantasy and reality. Worse yet, we might find that we’re not satisfied with the roles that we should aspire to. The media is full of what we should look like, what we should want, how we can best please. But if we make the choice, if we let it be known, as Dame Ragnell did, what women really want, what we really fantasize about, how we really view our sexuality; if we own the fact that we are a product of evolution, a part of nature, that we do have fantasies that may involve bondage, submission, transgressive sex, or even just good old fashion romance, then we once again find ourselves dealing with the mind-set of the 19th century.

One of the best part of being an erotica writer is that I do get to choose, that I do get to stand up defiantly and say what women want – or at least what this woman wants. Maybe by doing so I, along with all the Brit Babes, can empower other women to do the same. I want to be free to view the darker sides of who I am, the animal side of myself, the parts of me that don’t go away just because
the 19th century mindset tells me I shouldn’t feel that way. Erotica is a powerful way of legitimizing our fantasies, our desires. It’s a powerful way of voicing loudly that we know our own minds, and our own bodies. We want to explore the depths and the richness of what women want, what women can create. We want to more fully understand what it truly is that makes us beautiful, powerful and dangerous. When we let it be known what women want, we become a force not only to be reckoned with, but a force necessary if we’re ever to move beyond the 19th century mind-set.

Thursday, 6 July 2017


Lily Harlem here, and wow do I have a treat for you today!

The BRITISH BAD BOYS boxed set is FREE for a few days only! What are you waiting for, grab your copy of this hugely popular boxed set NOW and be swept off your feet by heroes who are bad but oh, so good!

Includes my story ROUGH 'N' TOUGH starring a wild Irish traveller who is as kinky as he is sexy.


Monday, 3 July 2017

The Little Death - A Guest blog by Monique Roffey (@MoniqueRoffey13)

The French call orgasm la petite mort, ‘the little death’, and indeed it has something to do with dying, of an opening, a brief giving up of the self and complete surrender of the ego. That’s just one name for orgasm and I love the drama and truth of this name, for this brief spasm of joy. Theories, theories, I like words and names and theories about sex, especially when they come from writers and teachers I feel inspired by. The great Osho said: “The longer intercourse lasts, the more the experience of the superconsciousness – the egolessness and timelessness…begins to take place.” Bless him, he died tragically, and vilified, of course, like many sex gurus, but he did say many sublimely true things and that was one of them. It seems both Osho, an Indian guru, and the French were on to the same thing. The way sex can kill us, die off the ego and then - what? Then, peace comes. That deep bliss right after the ahh, the ‘yes ‘of a good cosmic fuck. Of course we all know it. That’s why we chase it, to be with the bliss; it’s a type of seeking towards this opening and death and many of the tantric writers (Feuerstein/Odier et al) teach that this chase for sex is really a seeking towards the divine. The fuck is mostly driven by the male phallus, generally, or by a strap on. But what about the deep bliss of a non-phallic fuck? The bliss which comes after hours of tender, rich yoni massage, for example, when the giver is in service, only. Then, if you are a lucky enough woman to be on the receiving end of such a gift as a yoni massage, the deep, deep bliss, the ‘little death’ arrives in waves of body swamping and replenishing orgasm; then, indeed we die, and the ascent into superconsciousness is all the more profound. Bliss.
            Talking of cosmic fuck, my new novel, The Tryst is partly about a couple who have given up on finding this bliss with each other, this journey towards ‘the little death’. Towards a mutual and intimate surrender.  This is generally because it takes a kind of fine tuning in to each other to get there. Many couples, fraught with simply trying to live their lives, care for kids, pay the rent, get to the gym,  have little time to tune in to each other, to find the space for this type of connection. Sex can become the dull simple stuff,  ‘penis in vagina only’, good enough, most times, for men, but something many women recoil from at the end of a busy day. Bill and Jane are a couple in a stalemate affair; they love each other, but the bed has gone cold. Then they meet Lilah, a predator, half human, half lilatha, a siren with a penchant for hunting couples like Bill and Jane. But Lilah is also out of balance.  The novel explores how we all need to integrate both instincts, sex and our very human heart. The ‘little death’ is at the centre of our sexual relations and keeps us bonded; it is a surrender, an ego fall into a new awareness.


The Tryst, (Dodo Ink)
By Monique Roffey

Before lunch we had sex again on the kitchen floor. Quickly, this time, me riding him. Oh, I like to be on top, to be the domina, the one who hostesses the show, who stages all the stunts with human males. I am the party thrower, the orgy mistress. I gave him a good fuck, massaging his cock with the muscles of my cunt, and the energy of him rose upwards through me and lit me up. This Bill was made to fit me and I was made to fit him; somehow I’d stumbled across him, this Adam. At first glance he was just a primary model: Husband, Father, the Average White English Male. Homme Vanille. Marks and Spencer Man. Nothing remarkable. Nicely castrated by the middle class feminists, cured of any alpha tendencies. He had been trained not to be dominant. Isn’t that what feminism has done, it has laughed the alpha males out of town. Masculinity is in crisis, say the clever ones these days. Feminism equalised women in the workplace and put men in the shed, where I found Bill. The male alpha doms went underground, thousands of them, to Internet fetish sites and their private dungeons and the like. There, many of my sistren operate, daemon-killers like me. Professional Dommes. Strangulators, ball kickers. Experts in humiliation, bestiality, fucking men up the ass with their strap-ons. Torturing testicles till they turn blue. We Lilatha exist in the shadows, in the twilight; we are around if you look for us. Many men do, those who like to submit. And they keep quiet when they find us. Few imps, like me, stalk the pavements in full view. That’s my kink, to fuck The Innocents, men like Bill. I like to dominate Mr Everyday.
        And yet, as I had happily discovered, Bill had secret charms and abilities after all. My assessment had been wrong. I rode Bill hard, forging a twinned ecstasy between us. We groaned and writhed, both of us dying afterwards. I laughed with glee, at how Bill gasped for breath. “You’re lovely,” he gasped. I licked my fingers, tasting his bitter-salt cum. “So are you,” I winked. “Feed me now, I’m starving.”
        Lunch was delicious and replenishing. We fell on fruit and gooey chocolate cake and ice cream and opened a bottle of red wine. I put on one of his vinyl jazz records and danced around naked. I’ll stay one more hour, I told myself. One more hour, just one. Janey-Wife has gone, this house is mine and we still want to fuck. I am not yet sated. Greedy thing I was, greedy for his cock. Bill couldn’t keep his eyes off me, he was entangled – miserably unsure of himself. Distant and yet high on that fuck-chemical of serotonin. It was coursing through him. It was like watching a new drug addict and any minute I might have to catch him from slumping to the floor. He was lust-drunk. But I wasn’t. I’d provoked this altered state in men many times before; I had left many husbands in this condition. Usually I fled well before this point. But I was still enjoying myself, still very much the sprite.
        I danced naked for a while. Human men love to watch women dance in the nude and very few modern human women do. It is a dead art, relegated to the dim caverns and glossy tables of the lap dancing club. Burlesque strip-joints. Once, it was an art of the courtly harem and the well-paid hetaera; once it was part of Bohemia, of a social stratum of free thinkers and free lovers. Men have danced naked too, for women and other men. There is a long tradition of the Lust Arts. I find this an omission on the part of modern womankind as naked dancing puts men in a state of awe and gratitude. The Wife won’t do it, never did. Oh, human women divide their nature. Mother. Wife. Whore. They do not integrate. Good girls and bad. Few celebrate that they are both. So there I was rubbing myself and licking my lips, caressing my breasts, my hips, sliding my hand down between my legs. It was an act, a naked tease. This was one of my many carnival tricks. I have worked in burlesque clubs, learnt the art of grinding and wriggling, stripping off stockings, gloves. Doing what American strippers call ‘ass work’, removing strings of pearls from my pussy. I have a strong muscular vagina, able to pulse and milk my men. But I do not possess the agility of hookers in the bars and lap dancing clubs of the Orient. I cannot shoot ping-pong balls across the room. I surprised Bill with three small but succulent beetroot I had found in the fridge, already peeled and boiled. I dripped the purple ink over my quim, inserting them one by one, dancing them up and in. He laughed out loud and clapped for me and I took a bow. He knelt for me and ate as I released each soft warm beet into his mouth.
        More, he whispered.
        And I complied, oh, with cucumbers and carrots and the like. Bill was rock hard throughout. I loved his cock, thick and uncircumcised. The tip glistened. At one point, I knelt in front of Bill and took his balls into my mouth and swirled them round. He trusted me more with his jewels this time. He poured wine over my face and I drank and sucked and his cock was huge and solid and he stroked himself and dripped cum over my face, rubbed it into my hair. Then he was sitting on a counter top, his jeans unbuckled, his thighs bare, his cock like a tower. Me on tiptoe, with my mouth all over him, my head bobbing, all the while kneading his scrotum and his hand reaching down, stroking me, catching the drips. Then, his body juddered, as if Aphrodite herself was stroking the kundalini up from his genitals and up his back. His cum flew in hot spurts, white and pearly, splattering his stomach, the fruit bowl, everywhere. And I came too, my cum cascaded like a torrent to the floor, not a cupful, as usual, but a warm wave fell from that secret reservoir. Like I had urinated, except it was translucent and salt-sweet to taste. And with this release, I began to feel altered. I shouldn’t be here; I should have left. Bill reached down and cupped the small of my back as I shuddered. My orgasm swamped us both. I looked up at Bill and saw his eyes glittering. Oh Christ, he whispered. I could see that he had recognised me. I was Wife No 1. My cover was blown. It was then I whispered my real name to him in my language and he nodded.


The Tryst, blurb
By Monique Roffey
London, midsummer night. Jane and Bill meet the mysterious Lilah in a bar. She entrances the couple with half-true, mixed up tales about her life. At closing time, Jane makes an impulsive decision to invite Lilah back to their home. But Jane has made a catastrophic error of judgment, for Lilah is a skilled and ruthless predator, the likes of which few encounter in a lifetime. Isolated and cursed, Jane and Bill are forced to fight for each other, and, in doing so, discover their covert desires.
Part psychological thriller, part contemporary magical realism, The Tryst revisits the tale of Adam’s first wife, Lilith, to examine the secrets of an everyday marriage.
Praise for The Tryst
“What makes The Tryst an unexploded virus isn’t just the quality and brightness of Roffey’s writing on sex, even as it uncovers inner glades between flesh and fantasy where sex resides – but the taunting clarity of why those glades stay covered. A throbbing homewrecker of a tale, too late to call Fifty Shades of Red.”
DBC Pierre, Booker Prize winner
Monique Roffey is an award-winning Trinidadian-born writer. Her novels have been translated into five languages and short-listed for major awards includingthe Orange Prize, Costa Fiction Award, Encore Award, Orion Award and the OCM Bocas Award for Caribbean Literature. In 2013, Archipelago won the OCM BOCAS Award for Caribbean Literature. Her memoir, With the Kisses of his Mouth, was published in 2011. She is a Lecturer on the MFA in the Novel at Manchester Metropolitan University. She divides her time between the East end of London and Port of Spain, Trinidad.

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Instagram: @MoniqueRoffey