Author: Exhibit A

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Erotica Sinful Sunday

Sinful Stories 2: Results

The last time I ran this contest, picking a winner proved to be, if not easy, then at least relatively clear-cut. It was always unlikely that things would fall as neatly into place the second time, but I’ve still been surprised (and dismayed/impressed) by how hard it’s been to choose three prize-winning stories out of the 15, let alone to elevate just one above the rest.

As of this morning, I still had six stories under consideration. The best I’ve been able to do since then is whittle that down to four. In my view, these are the entries that did the most effective job of taking the source material and turning it into an original, compelling, erotic story. The eagle-eyed among you will notice that none of the four winners used my Sinful Sunday photo – I enjoyed all five of the stories based on that image (especially Tamsin Flowers’ offering), but I have to admit that I found it hard to read them with an objective eye, a failing for which I can only apologise.

I’d like to very quickly thank Charlie in the Pool, @mandapen, and one anonymous contributor for entering this competition – for all three of them, it was a first foray into writing and submitting erotica, and all three stories were really good. Happily, this came as no surprise.

Ok, on to the runners-up. I picked two of these because I thought they made superb use of the image they selected, and one because it was just damn hot. To accommodate the extra winner, I’ve rejigged the prize structure a bit.

Runner-up: GT, by Charlie Powell (Charlie wins a $15 voucher from Dreamspinner Press)

This story shows that some people really do write better under pressure. Several people put a creative twist on Molly Moore’s fabulous photo, but this was at the same time both the simplest and the most effective, in my view.

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Runner-up: Dirty, by Oleander Plume (Oleander wins a copy of Candy Box, the latest illustrated anthology from Sweetmeats Press)

This is flat-out filthy, and I love it for that! Oleander knows how to write a sex scene, and in this story she puts a completely different – but equally effective – spin on Molly’s picture.

Sweetmeats Press header small jpg

Runner-up: Pedalling, by Juniper Three (Juniper wins a copy of Chemical Sex – unless she’s already bought one, in which case, um…)

I liked this story more and more each time I read it. In a little under 500 words, Juniper manages to conjure up a really strong sense of place, atmosphere, and deep, intense longing – no mean feat. She was the only one to pick Asa Winter’s super-sexy photo, and I’m glad she did, because the story she turned it into is both original and great.

Don't you love to shop in your pajamas?

And now the winner. I would feel slightly guilty about giving her top spot for a second time, if it wasn’t for the fact that the readers apparently agreed with me (more on that in a minute). Without any further ado, I give you…

Winner: Drive, by Malin James (Malin wins a £50 voucher from Sh!, London’s leading sex toy store/website)

At this point, I think Malin and HappyComeLucky should just release their own series of photo-themed erotica, because for the second time, HCL’s superb image has been turned into a really fresh, imaginative piece of fiction by Ms James. It tells a great story, and does it in a way that never feels forced or unnatural – the words were created to fit the image, but it could just as easily have been the other way around, and above all that’s what makes it the winner.

Readers Choice Award

The Readers Choice vote was extremely tight, and yet again I made a rod for my own back by not anticipating the lack of a clear outcome. The top five finished as follows:

1 (=). Cold for July, by Charlie Powell (image: Contemplation, by Understanding Flutterby)

1 (=). Drive, by Malin James (image: Drive, by HappyComeLucky)

3 (=). Your Turn, by Charlie in the Pool

3 (=). Counting Pennies, by Maria Sibylla

5. GT, by Charlie Powell

As there was no clear winner, I’ll discuss prize options with the two who tied for top spot.

Ok, that’s your lot! Thanks to everyone who took part, to Sh!, Dreamspinner Press, and Sweetmeats Press for donating prizes – and once again, a special thanks to Molly, and to all the contributors to Sinful Sunday, for allowing me to tie this contest in with one of the most enduring and valuable memes around.

SinfulSundayLips150

 

Categories
Erotica Sinful Sunday

Sinful Stories 2: Readers Choice Award

I’ve been a bit slow with this one, but here’s the voting page for the Sinful Stories Readers Choice Award. There was no sponsor for this one in the end, so I’m going to give the winner the choice between three prize options:

  1. A £15 (~$25) Amazon voucher
  2. The opportunity to write a guest post for this site, on a subject of their choice
  3. An audio version of their story, read by me, for them to use as they please

(Hint: pick the voucher)

13 of the 15 entries are listed below, so just vote for your favourite! You can find links to the stories themselves here. The other two stories aren’t available to read online, so they’re not eligible for this award, though they remain contenders for the main prizes.

The poll will close at 2300 UK time on Sunday 30th November, and I’ll announce all the winners at that point.

C

SinfulSundayLips150

FullLogo-web Sweetmeats Press header small jpg

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Uncategorized

Xmas Drinks!

When: Saturday 13th December, 7.30pm

Where: London

RSVP: dulce.et.decorum.estATgmailDOTcom, @EA_unadorned

—

I’ve done a decent job today of staying cheerful and positive, but during a rare melancholy moment this afternoon, I found myself thinking about the office Christmas Party that I’m now not going to attend. I alluded last night to the parallels between being dumped and being fired: both can break your heart in a million different ways, but among the most effective is the knowledge – the certainty – that you’re thinking of them much more than they’re thinking of you.

“I’ll miss you”, she says, as she wipes away a tear.

“The office won’t be the same without you”, they write, and you remember all the times you’ve written that to other people. All the times you told someone you’d miss them. All the times you truly meant it. All the times you were wrong.

Life moves on, and it moves on faster for those who walk away than it does for those who are left behind. In a couple of weeks from now, my former colleagues will eat turkey and drink champagne; they’ll pull crackers and swap Secret Santa gifts; they’ll put on paper hats and go dancing, while I sit at home and listen to the little voice in my head that says “they don’t miss you tonight”.

Well fuck that. There’s a lot in life that can’t be overcome with positive thinking alone, but as far as I’m concerned, this can. The logical part of my brain knows that it’s not personal – it’s just how the world works. We can’t take on everyone else’s pain, and actually I don’t want my old colleagues to think about me that night, or to miss me, or to feel sad about what happened. I want them to have fun and celebrate together, because life goes on.

—

And if I can’t go to the party, maybe I can bring the party to me…

(This may work brilliantly or it may be a total disaster, but either way, I’m going to roll with it for now.)

When I look back on the last 12 months, one of the things that stands out most is the unexpected sense of community and warmth I’ve found through this blog and my Twitter profile. A lot of that stems from Eroticon, and the people I met there, but even back in March I don’t think I could have imagined how important a part of my life it would become.

Things will change in 2015, I’m sure – they always do – and almost certainly in ways I can’t predict or anticipate right now. For now though, I’d like to celebrate 2014 by inviting anyone* who’s read my blog this year over to my place for Xmas drinks.

On Saturday 13th December, my flatmate is away and I have the apartment to myself. If you’d like to join me here, just get in touch by email or DM, and maybe explain who you are if you don’t think I’ll recognise you. Assuming my spidey senses don’t tingle in the wrong way, I’ll give you my address, along with the secret password and handshake.

Just to be clear, this will be a drinks party, not a rave/orgy/fancy dinner/etc. And like most things I do with this site, I’m sort of making it up as I go along, so I reserve the right to move it to a local bar, or scrap the whole idea entirely if too many/not enough people look like they’re going to rock up.

Either way, if you do fancy it, drop me a line and we’ll kind of go from there!

Exhibit A

*Well, obviously not anyone – I’m not stupid – but as long as you’re not underage, related to me, in prison, a member of the press, or intent on mischief, we’re probably cool.

Categories
Cock shots Sex

Silver Linings

To balance out the last post, I thought I’d briefly reflect on a few of the less gloomy consequences of yesterday’s bad news. For starters, it means I don’t have to spend the next four months in Watford, which was the prospect confronting me until Friday afternoon. It gives me as much time off as I could possibly want over Christmas (a time of year I love without reservation or apology). It opens up the prospect of a trip to Vietnam or Thailand in the New Year to visit one of my best friends, who is taking three months off work to finish her novel and travel around South-East Asia. It will almost certainly mean more blogging, more writing, and perhaps the sort of fundamental change my life needs at this point.

This afternoon, it meant a cosy, warm bedroom, a good book, and mug after mug of hot tea, as the light slowly faded from the sky. I ate lunch at the kitchen table, and nipped to Sainsbury’s for a pint of milk when I’d exhausted the bottle in the fridge, but otherwise I stayed determinedly rooted to the mattress: if not happy in my solitude, then at least strangely content.

Eventually, I started to feel restless, and it didn’t take long for restless to evolve into horny. I shucked my dressing gown, reached for the lube, and with the luxury of time at my disposal, I made sure I enjoyed every last second of what followed – then, after a quick nap, I enjoyed it all over again…only this time I reached for my phone camera first.

It’s been a shit few days, but as you can see (below the jump), I’m trying to grab hold of the positives…

Continue reading “Silver Linings”
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Uncategorized

Expecting the worst (a bit of a PSA)

My first two serious relationships ended in almost identical fashion, four years and 1,000 miles apart. In Budapest and in Oxford, two different women looked down at the ground and confessed that while they still loved me, they were no longer in love with me; two different women listened patiently as I argued and reasoned and pleaded with them to reconsider; two different women couldn’t keep the pain of hurting someone they cared about out of their voices as they reluctantly agreed to take a few days to reconsider; and shortly thereafter, two different women held my hand and cried with me as each delivered the same message – “it’s over”.

When traumatic events repeat themselves like that, they invariably leave a mark. I grew wary and cynical, like the dog that’s been kicked by its owner just often enough for blind trust to be replaced with fear. I learned to protect myself more in relationships, and the more I covered up to ward off the anticipated emotional blows, the more the women I dated saw someone who was distant and detached: who would sooner shut them out in the cold than allow them to approach the fire.

Anyway, I’ve written about all of that before, and I don’t want to rehash it in any depth this afternoon. It’s on my mind because as well as turning me into a bit of a basket case when it comes to relationships, those two break-ups numbed me to the agony of waiting. Not at first – initially they acted as a trigger, and I would panic any time I sniffed the prospect of being placed in that kind of holding pattern – but over time, I developed the patience I’d always lacked, and a level of serenity that allowed me to float above the sort of despair into which I’d previously been sucked.

In some ways, the change is fairly simple to explain: I learnt to expect the worst. I grew up in a happy, loving family, in small-town Oxfordshire, where bad things rarely happen to good people. I was the adoring puppy, as yet unkicked, and while I certainly wasn’t blind to life’s injustices, I held onto a fundamental belief that hard work and good faith would generally lead to a positive outcome. If I did all of my homework and paid attention in class, I’d do well in my exams. If I did well in my exams, I’d go to a good university. If I was a conscientious student, I’d get a good job, and earn money, and be happy. That was how life worked.

Needless to say, I see the world a different way at 33 than I did at 18. On Friday, I was told that the company I worked for did not intend to extend my contract beyond its six-month probation period. On Monday, that contract was terminated. Once upon a time, I would have spent the weekend in a state of fevered, twisted agitation, playing out a million scenarios in my mind and forever clinging to the hope – the belief – that because I was a good worker, who’d done a good, honest job, everything would be ok. I would have met with the HR Director on Monday morning and had the bottom ripped out of my world, because I’d have convinced myself by that point that everything was going to be fine.

As it was, I played hockey, and I slept, and I went out for dinner with friends; and then yesterday I sat with a cup of tea in the Royal Exchange and listened patiently for 15 minutes as the HR Director repeated his summary of the partners’ decision, and requested my resignation. I asked a couple of questions, clarified some of the language in my contract, then shook his hand and went out into the cold, grey London air.

And I felt ok. Not great, or happy, or relieved, or anything positive, but not devastated by it either. Quietly gutted, I guess. The pain was a dull thud, not the sharp, stinging slap in the face I’d once have experienced. It was – and is – manageable, because I’d braced myself to expect it. As much as one can be, I was prepared.

There’s danger in numbness though. Even when bad news ceases to knock the wind from us with such immediate ferocity, it can still drag us down, slowly and cruelly, into despair. I felt that drag two years ago, the first time I lost my job. I was ok, I was ok, I was ok…and then suddenly, one day, I wasn’t – I wasn’t ok at all. I drifted for six months, and I cut myself off from the world, because even though the pain was a dull thud at first, I left it untreated and it just spread through my body, draining me of life. I still wore a brave face, but it grew strained and tight, and eventually I stopped seeing people because I knew they’d see through it.

I hope I’ve learned from that. I sat down today to write about losing my job, but my intention was to dive into some of the reasons behind the decision, and to confront the notion that maybe – just maybe – I need to consider a proper change of direction. I might still do that at some point. For now though, it feels more important just to say this.

I’m not ok. But I will be.

Categories
Cock shots Sinful Sunday

Sinful Sunday: Catching up on my reading…

When I moved back to London in June, I knew that if I wanted to continue to live alone, I’d probably have to look for a place out in the suburbs; living somewhere more central would mean finding another person with whom to split the cost. I hadn’t flat-shared since early 2011, and it wasn’t a prospect I relished, but in the end I decided that I was willing to do it in order to be a bit closer to the action.

My flatmate is a nice guy, and I find it easier than I thought I would to inhabit the same space as another person. There are things I miss about living alone though. I miss not having to worry about the bathroom being occupied when I want to shower in the morning. I miss playing whatever music I like, late at night, safe in the knowledge that I won’t wake someone up in the room next to mine. And I miss just hanging out naked on a cold, wet Saturday evening, in those cosy, tea-filled hours between getting back from hockey and going out on the town.

This weekend, my flatmate is away. In his absence, I’ve taken a couple of luxuriously long showers; I’ve listened to all of my favourite songs on full volume; and, last night, as the rain fell outside my window, I stretched out on the sofa with a glass of wine and a book, to enjoy the moment properly…

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Sinful Sunday

P.S. Yes, this is also a shameless plug for Chemical [se]X. If you want to win a copy, just take a guess at which of the 12 other authors I was reading when I took this photo (I’m not so narcissistic that I masturbate to my own writing…). Leave your guess in the comments below, or post it on Twitter, and I’ll arrange for a free copy to be sent to the first person who gets it right.

Categories
Sex

Dick is Cheap

I tweeted today about a recent conversation I had with a friend. Earlier that week, her flatmate had jettisoned a particularly boring and unworthy fuckbuddy, largely at my friend’s behest. The discussion had gone something like this:

Friend: Why are you still with this guy? He’s so dull.

Flatmate: I know he’s dull, but he’s got a great dick.

Friend: Dick is cheap in London – even great dick.

Flatmate: …

And the thing is, it’s true. Maybe not everywhere, but certainly in London and, I’d wager, in most towns of a decent size, dick is exceptionally cheap; and because we live in a shamelessly capitalist economy, that essentially equates to a lack of any real worth. ‘Penis is abundant and low in value’, as one of my followers succinctly put it.

For those of us who happen to own a low-value penis, this should come as both good and bad news. Before diving into that though, it’s worth noting that this situation is entirely self-inflicted. We’ve spent centuries attempting to commoditise cock, and since the rise of the internet and (crucially) the smartphone, our chickens have not only come home to roost, they’ve done an IKEA run and installed central heating.

Familiarity does not breed contempt, exactly, but it certainly creates the sort of market conditions that cease to reward the status quo. Women now have access to dick on demand, and like any ‘on demand’ service, it acts a bit like a rising tide…except the ‘all’ that it lifts refers not to boats, but to female expectations.

Think about it. When you had to trek down to Blockbuster to choose a VHS, or when you were forced to pick between four TV channels on a Saturday evening, your patience levels with substandard entertainment were probably fairly high. If a movie sucked, well, you’d walked for 20 minutes and paid three quid to rent the damn thing, and anyway, the video store was already closed, so what else were you going to do but slog your way through it. At the very least, you’d give it a good half-hour before deciding it was too bad to watch in full. Now? Fuck that. If it doesn’t hook you in the first ten minutes – or provide a compelling reason to believe that it might at some point later on – you’re tossing it in the electronic trash can and streaming something else instead.

If you’re a film studio and you want to catch the attention of the discerning moviegoer, you have to be a lot smarter now than you did back before Amazon, and Netflix, and BitTorrent, and all the rest of it. Actually, more to the point, the market is maturing quickly enough that it’s not even really just the discerning moviegoer that you have to fool/incentivise. Expectations have shifted to the point that the wider consumer base expects flexible, customised service, and if you fail to provide that, you’re unlikely to survive in the modern entertainment industry.

For us guys, the first bit of good news is that dick hasn’t yet reached that level. Women like my friend are the equivalent of early tech adopters; they’re the pioneers who have cottoned on to the fact that they don’t have to put up with the old Ts & Cs, the outdated delivery mechanisms, in order to procure the sort of cock they’re looking for. Not only are there multiple vendors available, for the savvy consumer there’s also a level of product visibility that strips out most of the uncertainty from the process.

When that uncertainty disappears, so does the lazy fetishization of the penis. As guys, we got carried away by how easy new technology made it to immortalise our cocks on screen, and we sent those images out into the world until they were slowly drained of power or impact. Dick alone is not enough – not for the early adopters and, soon, not for the laggards or the Luddites either (if it ever was to begin with). Like the film industry, we’re slowly waking up to the fact that for most of us it’s not sufficient just to get our product out there – we have to package and sell it in the right way, and to deliver the sort of user experience that will get our target audience coming back for more.

When penis is abundant – when dick is cheap – we have to offer something beyond what we keep between our legs. Before Tinder, before Twitter, before the joyous (if incomplete) emergence of genuine female sexual agency, it was perhaps possible to act like a total cunt and rest secure in the knowledge that because the sex was great, you weren’t in danger of being ditched for the next cab off the rank. For one thing, there generally wasn’t any rank to speak of, and even when there was, how could she be sure the next guy would measure up?

Now? Forget about it. However great your dick – however much she loves it, and craves it, and wants it inside her every night – there are literally hundreds of equally appealing alternatives just a few clicks away. That’s always been the case, of course…but now she knows it. Not only that, she can source it, procure it, and consume it, in a way that will render your legacy product obsolete very quickly indeed.

That’s the bad news, right?

Wrong. In the end, that’s the best news of all, for dudes and chicks alike. As men, the availability of dick – even good dick – is no longer a differentiator. We can’t get lazy about that, because if we do, we’ll quickly find that the women we want in our lives will exit stage left, in search of something a bit less one-dimensional. It forces us to raise our game, both sexually and as human beings. Or rather, it presents us with a stark choice between raising our game on the one hand, and (d)evolving into little more than stunt cocks on the other. It’s fine to choose the latter, but in doing so we have to accept that we’re increasingly disposable; increasingly cheap.

Two weeks after dumping Mr Tedious, my friend’s flatmate is seeing three other guys, and getting all the dick she wants or needs. Penis – good penis – is abundant, and increasingly its value will be tied to the other products and services that are bundled with it. It’s hard not to see that as a good thing.

Categories
Erotica Sinful Sunday

Sinful Stories 2: Competition Entries

This post will collate all of the entries to my second Sinful Stories writing competition, with links to all of the stories that have been published online. I’ll try to update it every day between now and the deadline (Monday 24th November); if you want to enter, and are happy for others to read your submission, please send me the link and I’ll add it below.

If you’re planning to take part, or if you’re a regular Sinful Sunday contributor, please do take the time to read some of the entries, and offer feedback where appropriate – I’m pretty sure it’ll be appreciated!

  1. I Want You, My Way, by Beck And Her Kinks
  2. Pedalling, by Juniper Three
  3. Don’t Speak, by Tamsin Flowers
  4. Your Turn, by Charlie In The Pool
  5. The Wall, by Fantastical Thought
  6. Drive, by Malin James
  7. Focus, by Ian Jade
  8. Full Moon, by HappyComeLucky
  9. Cold for July, by Charlie Powell
  10. Counting Pennies, by Maria Sibylla
  11. Dirty, by Oleander Plume
  12. GT, by Charlie Powell
  13. Heartbreak Hotel, by @mandapen
  14. Reflections and Masks, by Fantastical Thought
  15. Room 308, by Anonymous

Sweetmeats Press header small jpg FullLogo-web

SinfulSundayLips150

Categories
Erotica

Friday Fiction: The Feast

Given my current workload, it’s hard to find time right now to write longer posts and stories. I’m finding it a little frustrating – especially as for once I have plenty of ideas floating around my head – so in an attempt to force myself to JFDI, I’m going to commit for the next few weeks to posting some fiction every Friday. Some weeks it’ll be full stories, and some weeks – like this one – it’ll be a chapter of a work in progress.

This story is called The Feast, and will be continued (and possibly concluded) next Friday. It features the same characters as a piece I wrote back in the Spring, and is based on a fantasy someone shared with me a little while ago…

The Feast (part one)

As the cleaner’s cart rolled past our door for the third time, Dan rocked back on his chair and let out an exasperated sigh.

“Ok, it’s 8.30, everyone else has left, and I’ve got dinner plans with Sarah – can we please get the fuck out of here?”

I wavered for just a second. The small meeting room – really more of a cupboard – in which the client had squirreled us away was stuffy and stale. The only sign of life in the open-plan office outside our door was the low hum of the server stack. We’d been on the job for five weeks, and for the most part it had been a gruelling, miserable slog through early mornings and late nights, for what we all knew would be scant praise or thanks at the end of it all.

My eyes flicked back to the screen in front of me. The bastard screen, with its bastard list of unfinished tasks.

“Sorry guys, I know this sucks, but we’re not going anywhere for a while. Dan, why don’t you give your lovely sister a call and tell her that you’ll take her out for a birthday dinner another time – at the company’s expense.”

“Yeah, and make sure you say hi from me”, said Sergey, an exaggerated leer on his face, which turned into a look of alarm as he ducked to avoid the empty coffee cup hurled with vicious accuracy by Dan at his shaved head.

They were good boys, the three of them: Dan, Sergey, and Matt, who stared intently at his laptop as the insults and projectiles flew back and forth in front of him. Young, fiercely intelligent, and willing to roll up their sleeves when there was work to be done. They’d put in long hours whenever I’d asked them to, with little in the way of genuine complaint, and I knew the project would be in serious trouble without them.

Not that my own contribution was likely to go unnoticed by the partners – not if I had anything to do with it, anyway. I thought about the text I’d received from Kathryn just after 6, when we should all have been heading back into town. ‘Please come over. I need to you to fuck me – I need you to ruin me.’ Yeah, we were all making sacrifices for the good of the firm. Some were definitely harder than others.

Matt tore his attention away from the screen in front of him and reached for his mobile. “Shall I call for pizza?”

“Not again”, Sergey groaned. “Can we please eat something other than fucking pizza? Chinese, sushi, curry…I don’t care. I never thought I’d say this, but I’m not sure I can face more melted cheese right now.”

As Matt picked up his phone to scroll through takeaway options, I felt mine buzz against my thigh. Kathryn again. ‘You’re always working! Can’t I come and suck you off under your desk? I’m sure your colleagues won’t mind. I’ll be good and quiet, I promise.’

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, before tapping out a quick reply. ‘I’m sure you can wait another couple of hours…’ I paused, and re-read Kathryn’s message. She sounded desperate, and I remembered a conversation we’d had in the pub one night, after I’d ordered her to take the new barman out into the alley and give him his well-earned tip with her mouth. She’d returned 10 minutes later with muddy knees, smudged lipstick, and a triumphant smile on her face. When Kathryn was given a task to complete, she rarely disappointed.

“Mm, that was easy. He’s only a kid – he almost came when I unzipped his jeans!”

“Oh yeah? Don’t get cocky now, or I’ll make sure you regret it.”

“Promises, promises. Aren’t you proud of me?”

“Hey, like you said, blowing a 19-year-old bar boy is a piece of piss. I just don’t think you’re up to a serious challenge.”

“Fuck you! Just try me. When have I ever let you down?”

It was a question to which I’d had no answer. Kathryn was an accomplished and adventurous sub, if occasionally too wilful and disobedient for the sort of formal arrangement I’d initially envisaged. Better this way though: she enjoyed being punished for her bad behaviour almost as much as I loved picking her up on it.

I erased the reply I’d written, and thought about her sitting at home, frustrated and horny. I had little doubt that she’d already masturbated at least once, ignoring my strict instructions to keep her fingers off her clit. Not to mention the fact that she’d asked in such a bold manner for something that she knew was to be given – or not – at my convenience.

Where Kathryn was wild, unruly and defiant, Dan, Sergey and Matt had been industrious, efficient and disciplined. They really were good boys, and I’d promised them a reward… I studied them again, more closely than I had done for weeks. Dan was tall and fair; his clean, boyish features offset by the broad shoulders and strong thighs that had seen him make it all the way to the fringes of his University rugby team, and which now filled out his tailored suit.

In contrast, Sergey was wiry and lean, with sharp, hawkish features and piercing blue eyes; there was an eager, forceful hunger in the way his long fingers danced over his laptop keyboard, which I knew was a product of both his intelligence and his ambition.

At 23, Matt was the youngest member of the group, but he’d already shown himself to be the steadiest and the most dependable. He was plain-looking, his dark features frequently impassive, and he was happy to let his more boisterous colleagues take the limelight; when he did speak though, it was always to add something new or insightful to whichever conversation he’d joined.

They worked very effectively together, and I wondered what else they might do well as a team. I picked up my mobile again and wrote a new message to Kathryn. ‘What if I don’t want you to be good and quiet under my desk? What if I want you to be bad and loud on top of it?’

The reply came quickly. ‘You know I’ll do as I’m told.’

I flicked to my phone camera and took a quick snap of the room. ‘What…or who…?’

—

An hour later, right on time, the meeting room phone rang. The night porter sounded a little flustered as he explained that the takeaway we’d ordered was waiting downstairs: I could well imagine why. I jumped up and opened the door, then turned to face the others.

“I’ll be back in a minute. Remember what I told you.”

Briefing Dan, Sergey and Matt had taken a while. I had very specific instructions for each of them, but first – as with any task or project – it was necessary to explain the context and objectives. I told them how much I appreciated their hard work and dedication, and that while I couldn’t guarantee a financial bonus, I did have something to offer that they might enjoy. Kathryn was such a good sub, and I felt a renewed sense of pride as I described how hungry she was for cock; how happy it would make her to be used by the three of them.

I revealed our safe word, and knew instinctively as I did so that it was the last time anyone would speak it that evening. Kathryn had been waiting a long time for this, and her excitement at having her fantasy fulfilled came through in the messages she sent me as she got ready to leave her flat. It was anticipation mixed with fear; desire sharpened by the knowledge that she’d be pushed harder and further than she ever had been before. It was everything I craved in her, and as I walked down the stairs to Reception, I knew that she would rise to the challenge. She always did.

To be continued…

Categories
Erotica

Chemical Sex – All Systems Go!

Yep, Chemical Sex is now available for purchase in both paperback and e-book form on Amazon, and I couldn’t be more excited. I’m going to keep this post short and sweet – I’ve already shared some of my thoughts on being published, after all – but for anyone who wants to know more about the book, you can find extensive information about it here, on the Chemical Sex website, and you can buy it for the princely sum of £8.50/$12.99 (paperback) or £2.99/$4.99 (e-book) by following one of the links below:

Amazon UK

Amazon US

If you’ve read the book, and would like to write a review or leave a comment, I’m pretty sure all of the authors would love to hear from you. If you’re not yet convinced, then please do check out this review, from the lovely Jilly Boyd, or the official Chemical Sex trailer, put together by one of the other contributors, Tabitha Rayne:

Finally, I’m thinking of doing an audio version of my story, Flat Warming, at some point, if there’s enough interest. Watch this space…