Thursday, 5 October 2017

Where the hell have you been woman?

Hello, it's Kay here!

It's wonderful to be blogging here again after such a long break from the world of erotica.

So, where the hell have I been?

Well, I haven't evaporated into the ether, I haven't been spirited off to some alien world, nor have I been indulging in months of sexual deviancy in the name of research (sadly).

My break from erotica came not long after the release of my, thankfully popular, novella, Wednesday on Thursday, back in January.


It came about for a number of reason- the first of which was that I hadn't had a single week without writing erotica in just over twelve years, and I was suddenly, with no warning, very tired. The sexy stuff just didn't work for me anymore. I was porn-ed out. I was turning on Facebook and thinking, "If I see one more naked person..." Not good for an erotica writer. It is very difficult to write sexy if you don't feel sexy- and I didn't- not even a tiny bit.

Disillusionment had also started to set in. The quality of writing in erotica was still in recovery after the massive dip in standards caused by the success of Fifty Shades, and I just didn't have the will to keep fighting to be noticed in the sea of poor copycat fiction, repetitive fiction, and tacky book covers.

Having said all that- I knew I didn't want to leave this wonderfully wacky, friendly, slightly eccentric world of sexy thinking and interesting wordage. I love it- I 100% love it. And how could I leave the Brit Babe's behind me? Impossible!

Lexie, Kd, Tabitha and Kay
So, without even realising I'd done so at first, I made the decision to take some time out.

Although the erotic words have been lacking, plenty of other words have been escaping from the nib of my pen. I've written two novels - one as Jenny Kane (details soon) and one as Jennifer Ash (The Winter Outlaw- to be released before Christmas). I have also written a script (also details soon), and taught over 30 workshops as part of, Imagine, the creative writing company I run with fellow author Alison Knight. (So, if you want an erotica writing class- just contact me and I'll see what I can do!)


There have been many changes in my writing life over the last few months. The biggest change is that I have taken the rights of nearly all of my erotica back from my various publishers, and have embarked on a mass re-editing and re-publishing enterprise. So although there isn't much Kay Jaybee work available at the moment, there will be again very soon...you should just see my new book covers...

For more Kay Jaybee book news watch this space, or take a peep at my blog www.kayjaybee.me.uk


Thank you for dropping by today - I've missed you!
Happy reading,
Kay xx

Thursday, 28 September 2017

Charity Anthology Featuring Two Brit Babes Out Now!

United in Love, a charity anthology edited by Lucy Felthouse and featuring stories from Lucy and Lily Harlem is out now!

Blurb:

The world could use a lot more love, which is why being united in love is the theme of this short story collection. Each of the characters are dealing with horrific and heartbreaking situations—loss, grief, war, divorce, dementia, disputes over land and more, but what they all have in common is that, with the help of love, of unity, they come through. It may not be all happily-ever-after—since life just doesn’t work that way—but positivity and solidarity shine through in each of the tales and will warm your heart.

So enjoy these stories of unexpected companionship, old lovers reuniting, second chances and creative problem-solving, with the knowledge that the proceeds from your purchase will also have a deeply positive effect—with every penny going to the British Red Cross’s UK Solidarity Fund.

Featuring stories from Gina Wynn, Lily Harlem, Rebecca Chase, Rosie Jamieson, Skye MacKinnon, M H Heyer, Alyssa Drake, Arizona Tape and Lucy Felthouse.

Available from:
Amazon (universal link): http://mybook.to/unitedinlove
Barnes & Noble: http://bit.ly/2wq8dqe
Smashwords: http://bit.ly/2hbrLrN



*****

Excerpt from What’s Past is Present by Gina Wynn

Connie always believed she’d know it was summer when the rain got warmer. And that meant summer was today.
She ran along the pavement, trying to dodge the drops as they fell in big splats on her bare arms like sloppy kisses, hunching as she attempted to shield the package of fish and chips she carried. The aroma of the hot food and warm paper tickled her nose, and she could almost taste the contents. Declan would be lucky if she arrived back with anything more than soggy, empty wrappings at this rate.
Picking up her pace as the smell of rain-splashed tarmac filled the air, she hurried the rest of the way back to the house. His house. She shook her head. It would take a while to see the house as anything but Mr Pearce’s place—an adjustment it felt like she’d only just made. Now, it was Dec’s. Just Dec’s. In her head, it’d only just stopped being his place where he lived with his dad. Glancing at the windows in hopes of glimpsing him inside as she walked past had been a habit for a very long time.
When her doorbell had rung the previous night, she hadn’t expected to find a very crumpled, travel-weary Dec in the dingy entryway to her bedsit. In fact, he was probably the last person she hoped to ever find gracing the stoop of what she not-quite-laughingly referred to as her hovel.
She’d barely had chance to move, or slam the door in his definitely unwelcome face, before he wrapped his arms around her, folding her into a perfect bear hug of long-ago familiarity. Caught off-guard and unprepared to see him, she rested her cheek against the soft brushed cotton of his shirt, listening to his heartbeat, as his fingers splayed over her cheek, and she pretended not to notice the rough gasps of air he drew or the silent tears landing in her hair. Her chest hollowed, her heart breaking both for him and over him anew, and a lone teardrop of her own slid noiselessly down her nose.
Of course, she’d promised to help him today because she could never deny him anything, even though she’d spent the past five years regretting him. Getting over him. The bastard. She’d never stopped loving him.
Five years had crept by in a lazy blink of his beautiful brown eyes. And now, in the place where she’d spent so many of her stolen days and illicit nights, she could almost imagine the clocks had rolled back and he’d never left. She’d certainly wished for it enough times.
Short of pressing the doorbell with her nose she had no way to attract his attention, so she pushed on the door handle with her elbow and shouldered her way through the unlocked door into the narrow hall. The same worn carpet, lending a musty smell to the house these days, ran straight ahead to the kitchen and up the stairs. She walked towards the kitchen, ignoring the grime of a house where the owner hadn’t cared as much for the fabric of the building over the years as he did the family members within it. Framed portraits and holiday snapshots of Dec and his dad lined the walls, but she brushed past each of them. She could describe the position and content of each—perhaps accurately pinpoint the date of a few if she appeared on Mastermind with ‘The early life of Declan Pearce’ as her specialist subject.
But as she turned to push through the door into the next room, she caught sight of some new pictures and swallowed down a mixture of envy and bitterness at the juxtaposition of Declan’s life before and after—the part where he’d moved on without her. Even after Dec left, his dad must have continued to hang pictures of him because there he was, framed with as much care as anything that gone before.
Dec in an office of black leather and gleaming chrome—a vista of New York spread like a map through the huge picture window behind him; Dec beside an aeroplane bearing his name—sunglasses on, wide grin in place, and a suit that must have been expensive but one he wore without effort and made it look good.
Dec behind a podium.
Dec in an apartment so swish she’d have believed someone had Photoshopped him into it if she didn’t know better.
Dec… Dec… Dec. Just him.
Her gaze skimmed the remainder of the newest frames, and her thoughts stalled. She leant closer. No. They weren’t photographs. They were pictures that had been cut with great care from glossy magazines and newspaper articles, as if someone was reduced to simply scrapbooking a loved one’s life rather than being part of it.
Regret flashed through her. It didn’t show the future—the life together— she and Dec had planned in all those late nights that somehow turned into seeing the dawn. If she was honest, it didn’t show any sort of life she’d ever imagined for anyone she knew, let alone someone she loved. And especially not for Dec. She’d always believed they were the same type of person. But maybe not now she could see his life through someone else’s eyes.
She shrugged, trying to throw off her sudden melancholy. The fish and chips wouldn’t eat themselves.




Release blitz organised by Writer Marketing Services.

Thursday, 21 September 2017

Filtering Our Lives




I’ve been thinking about filters lately, going through one of my periodic stages of resenting smart
phones, social networking and all things techno. That may well be in part because I’ve only ever managed to master what it takes to survive in that online world. I’m a klutz on my best days. But sometimes I’m an angry luddite wannabe, who grumbles incessantly while I bury my nose in my kindle to lose myself in a good book … Oh the neuroses of my life!

When I’m lost in the world of navel gazing and trying to connect to what matters without losing myself in the detritus and the trivia of a world online, I often find myself thinking about the filters we live our lives through, and what being once removed from everything, while at the same time up close and personal with the whole world and all the information in it means to us as a civilization – to me as an individual.

I can go online and hear the background microwaves that are the remnants of the Big Bang, the beginning of the universe. I have done, have listened over and over with goose bumps crawling up my arms.

I can go to FaceBook or Twitter and have meaningful conversations with friends all over the world, people I’ve never met physically and yet I’ve connected with  and feel somehow a kin to.

I can keep up on films and stars and gossip, I can join any group, be a fan girl, talk trash, be a part of any organisation with any cause imaginable – political, religious, medical, physical, magical, practical, any hobby, any sport, any obsession. It’s all there. All I have to do is log on. Easy.  

When we were in Dubrovnik over Christmas a couple of years, we found ourselves in a random café for lunch one day. The cafes that were open in the dead of winter were happy for customers, and when we arrived, we were the only ones there. About halfway through the meal a young man came in, eyes glued to his smart phone. He asked us if we’d read the reviews for this particular café. We said no, we’d just dropped in. The food was lovely. We had a local beer, local specialties, and the owners of the restaurant were friendly, and patient with us as we practiced our rusty Croatian on them. Meanwhile the man ordered without looking at the waitress, ate without looking at the food, all the time lost in communion with his phone. We left him that way.

Back out on the streets, after a wonderful walk in the sunshine around the medieval city wall, we stopped for coffee and once again were astounded by the number of tourists gripped by their phones even as they walked, obliviously, down the main street of the Jewel of the Adriatic, the sea the colour of sapphire and the sky a shade darker still, contrasting with the red tile roofs.

Not long ago we went out for lunch and observed three very lovely young women who came in and sat down at a near-by table, again completely caught up in whatever was happening on their phones. They barely spoke to each other during the course of their meal and never put their devices down.

I recently received an email from a friend of mine in the States, and I was saddened when the rather extensive epistle was all about what series she was binge-watching. I know for a fact this woman used to be a librarian. We used to spend our time talking about books.

All of these events, and lots of others leave me slightly queasy, even as I sit here writing this blog post, hoping that a lot of people will go online and read it. It’s the filters that leave me feeling this way. They leave me wondering about our connection with the real world, about MY connections with the real world. I wonder if we’re now more connected, and I just don’t ‘get it’, or are we less connected because we’re joined at the hip to our devices. I’m guessing it’s probably a combination of the two.

The world I live in is totally dominated by the technology my profession depends upon. The first thing I do in the morning is get up my laptop and see what I missed over night. I do what I need to do for PR on twitter and facebook, I see what I need to do for the rest of the day, and some days that involves a good deal of being online and interacting with social media. Don’t get me wrong, I’m very happy that I have some control over the promotion and sales of my books, no matter how little that may be. The feel that I’m at least doing something is worth a lot, even if it is at times only the placebo affect. In a time when publishing is entering the strange new world of self-pub, when the gatekeepers are no longer the guardians of all things literary, when the gates are quite literally wide open, I see how important it is to be present online. But I fear very much that being present online often costs me the simple pleasure of just being present.

I remember one night several years ago, I went into the darkened kitchen and discovered something truly amazing. Through the kitchen window, I had the most exquisite view of the thinnest sliver of a new moon in conjunction with brilliant Venus, and for a few minutes there was the added pleasure of red Mars just about to sink below the rooftops of the neighboring houses. I was stunned. I couldn’t take my eyes off what I saw. I reached for the binoculars for a closer look

The moon was illuminated with earthshine and, through the binoculars, the darkened areas were visible with the brilliance of the sunlit crescent making the whole look almost dark purple, huge and 3D. As I tried to focus on the bright smudge of Venus, my heart beat kept jarring the binoculars, so I couldn’t resolve the phase, but I’m sure it was as close to full as Venus ever gets.

Venus is always in phase. How amazing is that! We never see the full face of Venus because it’s in between us and the sun, and it’s only full when it’s on the far side of the sun from us – something that’s only true with the inner two planets. Mars dipped quickly and was gone, but I stood for ages, trying to hold my breath and brace my elbows so I could look. But no matter how hard I tried, Venus constantly quivered through the binoculars with the steady beat, beat, beat of my pulse. I shifted back and forth between the shiver of Venus and the pock marked darkened surface of the moon with its crescent of brilliance at the bottom edge. When my arms got tired of holding the binoculars, still I stood.

It was one of those rare moments of being in focus, of standing with nothing in between me and my little sliver of the universe; experiencing a moment, one raw, naked, aching moment without anything in between me and my heart. That tiny shred of time felt like skin freshly formed over an abrasion.  And I wanted to stay there forever in that little sliver of the present with nothing in between.

I couldn’t, of course. I had work to do. Later, it occurred to me that even that incredible few minutes of focus were filtered, brought closer through the lens of my binoculars. We’ve been filtering our world for probably as long as we’ve walked upright. Perhaps we can only be safe in – and from our
little slice of the universe when we filter it, analyze it, look at it through eyes – and heart -- well protected.


 The next morning, online, there were more images of Venus and the New Moon in conjunction than I had time to look at. I was far from the only one bringing that moment into myself through filters that helped make sense of it, helped make it personal and, clearly, I was far from the only person needing to share it. Somehow that makes the world community seem just a little bit smaller, just a little bit closer. Somehow that makes the filtering of my universe and all the contradictions that involves set just a little bit easier in my mind. That and the knowing at least for a little while that earthshine, that sliver of moonlight, that conjunction with bright Venus was mine. All mine.

Tuesday, 8 August 2017

Grab Sexy Just Got Kinky for Just 99c/p!

Amazing news - Sexy Just Got Kinky is currently on sale for just 99c/p. But be quick - the sale ends this Friday!

Here's a reminder of what it's all about:

Tantalise your dark side with kinks to make you think. From lovers behind bars to lone ladies behind the lens—fisticuffs and feathers, lilos and lube, scissors and sticks, whips, canes and bondage, there’s sure to be a kink within these pages to whet your appetite, tickle your fancies and heat up cold nights.

So, what are you waiting for? Grab your copy quick, and please tell all your friends!
Amazon UK
Amazon US
Amazon AU
Amazon CA
Amazon DE
Barnes & Noble
iBooks UK
iBooks US
Kobo
Smashwords

Saturday, 5 August 2017

Thursday, 27 July 2017

New Novel from Lucy Felthouse (@cw1985)

Blurb:

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?

Available from:

Amazon (universal link): http://mybook.to/hidinginplainsight
Barnes & Noble: http://bit.ly/2u1kOf7
Smashwords:  http://bit.ly/2u1epSU
Createspace: http://bit.ly/2u1hSB1

*****

Excerpt:

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 Cliterati.co.uk’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 http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk, or on Twitter or Facebook. Sign up for automatic updates on Amazon or BookBub. Subscribe to her newsletter and get a free eBook: http://www.subscribepage.com/lfnewsletter

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.