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.

Buy at Amazon:
Instagram: @MoniqueRoffey

Thursday, 25 May 2017

The Need for Escapism by Lucy Felthouse (@cw1985)

Hi folks,

In light of the tragic events that unfolded in Manchester earlier this week, I've had a really hard time with being creative, which included coming up with something to write for my scheduled post here. My heart is heavy, and it goes out to all of those affected by this vile attack. At the same time, it has warmed my heart to read and see on TV all the positivity surrounding what happened - people rushing to help, taking people into their homes, offering lifts, drinks, food, compassion and so on. I also came across the Twitter hashtag #britishthreatlevels, a wonderful, defiant response, which actually helped me to raise a much-needed smile.

So, in a display of defiance of my own, I decided to write about the need for escapism. This week, more than ever, people (myself included) no doubt have to just step away from the media coverage for a while and go and watch one of their favourite programmes on TV, read a book, go for a walk... whatever it takes for them to escape the real world for just a little while. There's no shame in it - it helps keep us sane in what can be, and often is, a very tough world.

To this end, I want to extend my thanks to the people that make these TV shows and write these books. You supply entertainment and enjoyment, comfort and escapism when we need it most, allowing us to relax, to regroup, to heal, and to remain strong in the face of so much horror and negativity.

Happy Escaping,
Lucy x


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) and The Persecution of the Wolves. 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, 18 May 2017

Masturbating Our World into Existence

As a novelist, who writes erotic romance, May is always a red letter month on my calendar because it’s National Masturbation Month. Okay, I’ll be the first to admit that for me, every month is masturbation month, and I’m always a bit surprised that anyone could be ashamed of such a powerful creative force.
I shared this delicious little tidbit about masturbation every chance I get because I think it’s just that cool, and since we’re smack dab in the middle of the rowdy, randy month of May, it’s especially cool.
The ancient Egyptians believed masturbation was a creative act in its own right. In the Heliopolis creation myth, the god Amen rises from the primeval ocean, Nun, and masturbates the divine son and daughter into existence, and they populate the world. Even if I look at the Judeo/Christian myth in the first two chapters of Genesis, where God speaks the world into existence, I am still looking at a solo act.

Eric Francis on Betty Dodson and Carlin Ross’s Sex Information Online site writes, ‘Masturbation is the most elemental form of sexuality, requiring only awareness and a body.

I’m astounded that in a world where solitude and the meditative tradition is a part of almost every religious discipline, we shy away from the very concepts that could have well given birth to it, awareness and Body. Can there really even BE awareness without a body? And how can we possibly understand the boundaries and the limits of either without the two rubbing up against each other. Our act of one-ness, our proto-sexuality, as Eric Francis calls it, I suggest is by its boundary-exploring nature, also our proto-creativity.
 Francis says: I would propose that masturbation is about a lot more than masturbation — and that’s the reason it’s still considered so taboo by many people, and in many places. First, I would say that masturbation holds the key to all sexuality. It’s a kind of proto-sexuality, the core of the matter of what it means to be sexual.

Awareness and Body. What a fabulous combination! Eric even goes on to say that whatever we take from that proto experience of masturbation, we bring into our other relationships as well. In other words, it’s formative, that solo act, that original creative force. It brings awareness and body together. Isn’t that what it’s all about? The discovery of who we are in relation to ourselves is key if we are to be able to properly enter into discovery of ‘The Other.’ Doesn’t the act of creation, metaphorical or otherwise, begin with taking an inventory of what we’ve got to work with and learning how best to work with what we have to bring forth what we hope to create?

Awareness and a body. Masturbating the world into existence. It happens all the time. At the risk of offering too much information, my understanding of sex, my deepest understanding of my own sexuality, comes from awareness and my own body. That’s what I have to work with. My
understanding of writing, my deepest understanding of the creative forces in me also comes from awareness of self and all that awareness can imaginatively create.

Masturbation Month honors awareness and body and the discovering of our own boundaries, that which separates us from everything else. And beautifully, amazingly, astoundingly, it is discovery and exploration of our own boundaries that eases and enhances our journey into connectedness.

Monday, 15 May 2017

Special Guest - S. Nano

Lady Sally Rudston-Chichester’s Steampunk World

Mistress Of The Air is a comic, Steampunk, erotic adventure. So, what inspired me to write a book set in a Steampunk world?

It started with the main character, Edwardian dominatrix Lady Sally Rudston-Chichester. She’s a character I had already featured in short stories and I always thought there was scope for a book based on her adventures. She possessed many Steampunk characteristics – a love for fine corsetry and nice afternoon teas in particular. In ‘Lady Sally Rudston-Chichester and the Automaton Horse’ (in Forbidden Fiction’s Of Passion and Steam) I placed her firmly in a Steampunk setting with a brass, clockwork horse designed to administer exquisite punishments to her submissive men.

Steampunk is a fun genre to write in. It’s a mash up of history and science fiction, combining a Victorian past with new technologies. It’s also a world where women play a prominent role – where it’s possible for a woman to be an engineer, automaton designer, an airship pilot, a business leader or an adventurer. Lady Sally fits perfectly into this world.

Steampunk offers lots of scope. The world building can be extremely sophisticated and deadly serious or it can be a lot of fun, containing bizarre characters and derring-do adventures. Mistress Of The Air definitely takes the comic route, offering a kinky and funny twist on the Steampunk genre but hopefully in a respectful and affectionate way. Lady Sally has an incorrigible, over-the-top personality. Mistress Of The Air grabs the classic Steampunk tropes and throws some kinky, femdom BDSM into the mix.

Naturally, Lady Sally has her own airship, ‘The Corseted Domme’ on which she travels across the Empires of Europe, dropping in to visit her aristocratic relatives and friends for afternoon tea. She has two brass automations: Clarissa, a co-pilot for her airship and Borghild, a sex-doll.

She has an array of electric and steam-powered sex-toys to test out on the select group of submissive gentlemen who accompany her on the journey. Amongst them is an electro-vibrator modelled on a genuine Victorian device, neatly illustrating the Steampunk mash-up of the historical and technological.

Not everything goes to plan though. Lady Sally has a tendency to upset people and she has to make some hasty escapes along the way. Y

You have been warned. There are wild escapades, kinky BDSM, dastardly devices, explosions and nice cups of tea. I hope you’ll join Lady Sally for the ride!

Book Blurb
Mistress of the Air is a Comic, Steampunk, Erotic Adventure.
Lady Sally Rudston-Chichester owns a brass mine in Zanzibar, a Lapsang Souchong tea plantation in China, a rubber tree farm in Malaysia, trunk loads of corsetry, and the country’s largest collection of antique whips and floggers.
Larger than life, and itching to find new and inventive ways to punish her submissive gentlemen, the Edwardian dominatrix has a vision. Embracing the spirit of the new age of aviation, she embarks on a series of adventures on her own airship, The Corseted Domme, with her transvestite maid, Victoria, her airship pilot, Captain Wyndham, and her automaton sex toy, Borghild.
A select group of submissive gentlemen, consisting of a duke, bishop, lawyer and banker, is invited to join Lady Sally so she can try out her new dastardly devices and sex toys on them. She whips, spanks and punishes her way across the Empires of Europe, dropping off to visit her aristocratic relatives and friends for afternoon tea.
But Lady Sally’s journey is not uneventful. War is threatening to break out and the Ministry of Aviation want to commandeer her airship for the war effort. And when The Corseted Domme has a crash landing, Lady Sally realises there is a stowaway on board intent on sabotaging her airship.
There will be wild escapades, kinky BDSM, dastardly devices, explosions and nice cups of tea.
Buy links
Amazon US (Kindle):
Amazon UK (Kindle):
Create space/eXcessica (print):
Another flash of lightning filled the viewing window with a blinding white light.

“Oh, how exciting. This storm is quite turning me on!” Lady Sally exclaimed, ripping off the glass tube attachment and replacing it with a bullet-like brass fitting.

She turned the current down and the vibration up… right up high. She wriggled out of her satin knickers, plonking herself on her upholstered throne, desperate for release. The thunder rumbled… the lightning flashed… the brass object buzzed, as Lady Sally pressed it against her sex.

She rolled it over her cunt lips, then onto her clit, sending shock waves of erotic pleasure shooting through her.

The giant airship rolled and rollicked against the gale, tilting dangerously as it forced its way onwards, its tip penetrating the dark folds of cloud.

“Oh my god, madam. We’re going to crash!” wailed Victoria from under the rack.

Oblivious to the storm, indeed, in tandem with the storm, Lady Sally pushed the whirring, vibrating object up her crack. The pleasure of using her new device along with the wild excitement of the storm meant she was sopping. She moaned in pleasure in time to the rumbling thunder, and thrust the throbbing object deeper inside her with each lightning strike until she could hold back no longer, breaking into a long, satisfying orgasm.

“God, that was good!” she exclaimed after she’d recovered.

She stood up, unsteady on her feet both from the exertions of her climax and the airship which was listing from side to side.

It was at this point cook appeared. She was confronted with Lady Sally, crotch sopping with juices, breasts hanging out, dishevelled black hair, wild-eyed, and precariously balanced on stiletto ankle-boots, holding a vibrating brass bullet.

“I can’t go on like this your ladyship,” she grumbled. “I can’t do any baking with this ‘ere airship thing rolling from side to side. And me jelly moulds have fallen on the floor; I’m telling you milady, they’ll all be dinted now.”

Cook, being considerably shorter than her employer, was eye-level with Lady Sally’s bare tits.

“But it’s supper time, cook. I could murder a smoked salmon and cucumber sandwich.”

Cook crossed her arms and pulled a face, “A sandwich. You expect me to make sandwiches in these conditions.”

“Well yes, and a pot of tea as well, of course.”

There was another crack of thunder, followed at once by a flash of lightning. The airship listed sharply. Lady Sally tottered one way on her high heels but managed to keep her balance. The airship rolled to the other side. She teetered for a moment, then collapsed on top of cook, whose face became smothered in Lady Sally’s breasts.

She lay there for several minutes, cook crushed under her corset-clad body. The airship was still rolling from side to side with turbulence. Lady Sally had great difficulty pulling herself up, not being able to receive any assistance from her maid who was still a gibbering wreck underneath the rack. Eventually she heaved herself off the floor.

Cook gulped in a deep breath, “Oh my lord,” she exclaimed, “I’ve been suffocated by a pair of boobies!”

About the author

His first full-length erotic novel, ‘Adventures in Fetishland’, a BDSM/fetish re-invention of Alice in Wonderland, was published by Xcite Books. His short stories and novellas have been published by Xcite Books, House of Erotica, Forbidden Fiction, Coming Together and Greenwoman Publishing.

His second novel, ‘Mistress Of The Air’ was published by eXcessica on 21st April 2017.

Facebook (Nano Vaslen):
Amazon UK author profile:



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