Wednesday, January 30, 2019

How Much Should I Share?

By Morticia Knight

Hey all, I’m a newbie here at Oh Get a Grip, but very excited that I was invited to participate by the lovely Lisabet Sarai. I’m going to introduce myself by way of this post, since this month’s topic ties in perfectly with sharing ourselves with our readers.

Almost every author goes through the struggle in the beginning of their public career where they need to decide how much of their lives they want to share. I’ve heard so many talks on this subject in various author groups where those who are about to dip their toes into publishing want to know whether they should use a pen name or real name, whether they should use a real photo or buy a logo, do they disclose what town they live in or remain vague. Even seemingly innocuous things like posting pics of pets or their fabulously decorated Christmas tree should be taken into consideration when interacting on the Internet. How much should we share and how much do readers expect us to share?

The answer is unique to every person and sometimes complex. We live in a world now where a Google search can uncover surprisingly personal details we may not want disclosed. I’m not even referring to scandalous or criminal events, but perhaps who our children are, where they go to school, where we work at our day jobs and so on. Maybe we don’t care if details about ourselves are exposed, but what about our friends and families? They didn’t sign up for this ride, so perhaps they’d rather not be included. This is particularly true if the subject matter of our fiction isn’t mainstream.

Since I write LGBTQ erotic romance, not everyone wants to be associated with me. Not everyone knows I’m bisexual, even though I don’t hide it and I’ve publicly appeared on panels discussing bi-erasure and bisexual representation in fiction. However, I use a pen name for many reasons, which I’ll get to in a moment. But first, I want to discuss what happened when I first began my public writing journey. I discovered not everyone wanted others to know they were friends with or interacted with me.

I began a Facebook page under my real name back in the day when it was first a thing. Of course, I invited my real-life friends to add me and several requested me as well. When I announced I’d be publishing, I didn’t disclose exactly what type of fiction it would be at first. Then my daughters announced on their pages what I was writing and tagged me. That’s when the backlash began. I had already invited people to friend request me on my pen name profile, because honestly, I rarely looked at my personal one anymore since I simply didn’t have the time. I then received a message from a long-time friend who holds very liberal views, isn’t religious and used to worked in the entertainment industry as an actress.

My friend told me she was sorry, but she was in the process of interviewing for a new job and couldn’t take the chance that potential employers would do a search and find out we were friends. Wow. That hurt. At the same time. I understood her fears. I was still working a day job at the time and wasn’t sure how what I did when not at the job would be taken, so I kept my pen name a closely guarded secret When an inter-office memo made light of an LGBTQ issue however, it was like a bag of rocks landed in my stomach. I sat on it for a day, thought it over, then had to contact corporate with a rather lengthy memo outlining why out of the over four thousand employees who had been sent the memo, there were bound to be at least a few who were on the spectrum and could be hurt by it.

Turned out the Vice President of Corporate was out and proud. He also had no idea about the memo, as it was handled at a lower level of the corporate tier. That was an eye-opener. I still didn’t over-share at my job regarding my pen name, because regardless of LGBTQ issues, the erotic content wasn’t something everyone would be comfortable with. In that environment, being one hundred percent open about this other life I led outside the workplace wouldn’t have been appropriate.

Then, I quit my job to write full time.

It was then that I decided to use my real photo and no longer hide what it is I do for a living. The only area where I remain vague has to do with my family. I don’t share my family member’s names, although they sometimes show up of their own accord because they tag me and are proud of what I do. All three of my daughters have come out publicly as bisexual, so for them, it’s a non-issue. My oldest daughter is also an author (although she writes diverse fantasy fic) and editor who has edited several of my books, so I’ve been more fortunate than many authors in terms of understanding and living a transparent life!

Thanks for reading and I’m thrilled to be a part of this great group of authers at Oh Get a Grip. As a reader, what are your expectations from your fave authors? Do you care what goes on behind the curtain, or do you prefer the mystery?

Although this is in the About Us section, here is my official introduction if you want to peek behind the curtain 😊

 Author Bio: Author Morticia Knight spends most of her nights writing about men loving men forever after. If there happens to be some friendly bondage or floggings involved, she doesn’t begrudge her characters whatever their filthy little hearts desire. Even though she’s been crafting her naughty tales for more years than she’d like to share—her adventures as a published author began in 2011. Since then, she’s been fortunate enough to have several books on bestseller lists along with titles receiving recognition in the Rainbow Book Awards, Divine Magazine and Love Romance Café.

Once upon a time she was the lead singer in an indie rock band that toured the West Coast and charted on U.S. college radio. She currently resides on the North Oregon coast and when she’s not fantasizing about hot men, she takes walks along the ocean and annoys the local Karaoke bar patrons.

Morticia’s Social links:
Amazon Author Page:

Monday, January 28, 2019


by Jean Roberta

Renaissance Publishing (Sizzler Editions) is planning my next single-author collection of erotic stories. My first collection with that publisher, Obsession, is a smorgasbord of characters, pairings, situations, and desires. Here is the blurb:

When a character with a kinky itch shows up in my own mind – I know I’m seeing the beginning of a story and I have to find out where it leads. The stories in this collection show where my characters have led me:

* What if a lesbian with a taste for older women goes looking for her birth-mother and is shocked to find out what King Oedipus knew? What if she only wants to impress a lesbian literature prof who knows the classics?

* What if a man dreams of finding a truly submissive woman, but when she appears like a gift from the heavens, he feels as if he is trapped in a nightmare?

* What if a person of any gender or sexual orientation wants to find the perfect companion, for a night or a lifetime, and finds one who is not exactly human?

* What if curiosity or compassion or a desperate need for cash leads a sensible-enough person to take unusual risks?

Be warned; not all of these stories end happily. The road to pleasure or love or admiration or material comfort is paved with danger. Some of these stories have old roots in myth and folklore, but none of them carries the old message that women’s sexuality is a source of evil, or that strong men are born to rule the world."


Excerpt from “Eros and Psyche” in Obsession:

The first letter was especially surprising because I wasn't expecting personal mail in the post office box, let alone an envelope featuring my name handwritten in green ink. That box had been used by various organizations that I was involved with over the years: the Women's Shelter, the Lavender Bookstore, a short-lived gothic journal named Dyke Demon. I had been the unofficial Keeper of the Key for years, so I had agreed to pick up the mail for the Women's Shelter during their fundraising drive.

The letter addressed to me had been mailed within the city, which didn't give me much information about the sender. My name and the box number were so elegantly inscribed that I decided not to rip into the envelope in my usual style, but keep it sealed until I could slit it neatly with a knife. That little decision was my first step on the path that led me to this point.

I was sitting over a cappuccino in Café Mocha when I opened the envelope, almost as though I had agreed to meet the sender for a leisurely chat. The letter read:

Dear Christina,

Do you know how you look when you think no one is watching? I think you should know.
I doubt if you have ever studied the dark depths of your own eyes, the wild grace of your bronze hair in the wind, the stubborn line of your chin, the fruitlike curve of your breasts, the sassy shape of your lower cheeks. You need me to describe these things to you because otherwise, you might never come to know yourself. I don't want you to stay self-ignorant.

Why don't I tell you these things in person? I think you can guess. You would feel threatened or pressured, and you would probably reject me. It's harder to stop reading a letter than to walk away or hang up the phone, isn't it?
Beautiful Christina, I've been watching you for a long time. I've been patient and I'm not planning any sudden moves. Watch for my next letter.

Sending you a kiss,

Your Admirer

My reaction to this message was alarming: it turned me on. I told myself in vain that a bullshit fan letter from a stalker with too much spare time and green ink should annoy or scare me, not excite me. All the same, I could almost feel two firm hands testing the weight of my breasts, squeezing my butt, stroking my face, running her (his?) hands through my hair. I decided to stop indulging in sick fantasies.


Secret Demons

By Sacchi Green

You want to know about my secret life? But if I tell you, it won’t be secret anymore. I don’t mean that I’d have to kill you, it’s not that big a deal, but still.

All right. My secret life is the mundane, everyday, ordinary one. My non-secret life, the public, online, writing life, which sometimes feels like the main one, doesn’t exactly try to conceal the other life—I do occasionally mention being a grandmother, and once in a while post photos of my Christmas cookies and flowers and vegetables from my garden, and share my muggle name from time to time because I have used that one on a few of my stories and anthologies.

I use a real photo of myself on Facebook and elsewhere, one that’s well over five years old at this point, granted, but not that much has changed. Out in public places like the science fiction/fantasy convention I participated in last weekend, doing two panels on writing and one erotica reading, both of my names are on my badge, and I’d probably answer sooner to the Sacchi one than to Connie. I do also appear in the quite lived-in flesh for readings with whichever of my anthology contributors can be got together in a reading venue, and I tell myself that the shock value of the contrast between what I write and how I look is a plus, and also tell myself that if I channel my fictional characters well enough I’ll get by. Being the editor of the anthologies also lets me feel on the dominant side, so that helps. Having my photogenic contributors with me helps most of all. Here's a shot of our reading at Womencrafts in Provincetown last October. See what I mean? I'm just the short, sort of vague one on the far right:

Okay, none of this really seems to apply to a theme of secret lives. Most of my immediate family and close friends know in general what I write, and a few of them even read it. A distant nephew (I can’t remember the complicated cousins/second cousins technicalities) discovered my Sacchi Facebook page because I posted now and then on another relative’s page and I guess he was curious and recognized my photo, so now he’s shared the news with some of the other young cousins and they claim to think it’s cool. Certainly cooler than the mundane self they’d known me as.

So, still no actual secret life. But here’s the thing. When I was an awkward kid I was a voracious reader, and felt at times that the lives of the characters were my own secret lives, certainly more interesting than my own.  Now, when I’m writing a story that I get deeply into, my characters are acting out my secret lives. My many secret lives, ones I didn’t know were in me until I focused on the writing.

In my early days of writing erotica I saw the bio of a fellow contributor to several anthologies and saw that she lived in more or less my territory. She saw that about me, too, and eventually we met at a reading and were friends for several years. She noted, of course, the disconnect between my writing and my real-life persona, and theorized that I must have some terrific demons in my mind. I loved the idea. Demons through which (or through whom?) I could live a secret life. Many secret lives, in fact. Almost enough to makeup for having a fairly prosaic and rather stressful life otherwise.

That doesn’t mean I have no secrets at all, secrets that depend on who I’m keeping them from. I’ll sometimes share personal things here that I won’t on Facebook, which doesn’t make much sense, but there you are. There are some secrets about my life, though, that I won’t share even here. Secrets of an almost I’d-have-to-kill-you nature. No, don’t worry, I’m not lying about being female. Lisabet has met me, fairly recently, and I’m sure I wouldn’t have been able to deceive her if there’d been any deceiving to do.    

Thursday, January 24, 2019

Behind the Mask

By Tim Smith

This year marks my 18th anniversary as a published author. I’ve released 21 books, along with blogs, reviews, and newspaper stories too numerous to count. Even before I switched publishers and signed with one where erotic love scenes are an expectation, I had included them in my mystery/thrillers. That was a component in books by some of my favorite writers, so I figured “Why not?”

I’ve always written under my own name (actually my middle name, which is what I’ve always been called), and made no secret about what I write. My family knows that my stories are adult-oriented, and so do my friends. When I was still working, my co-workers knew it, too, and many of them were fans of my literary output. Did I get funny looks or the cold shoulder from some of the others because I chose to write erotica? Of course. Did I let it bother me? Not a chance. I respect freedom of choice and if someone doesn’t want to read my books because they consider them obscene, it’s their loss. That’s also why I tell prospective customers that my books contain adult content. Better to lose a sale than offend someone.

I had a cousin who supported my writing efforts, but she wouldn’t read any of my books for religious reasons. I respected that and we remained close. My late mother, on the other hand, was one of my biggest fans. Even into her late 80’s, she’d read my books and when I asked her opinion of the sex scenes, she always said “They were very well written.” This from a woman who read every book written by Harold Robbins and Mickey Spillane.

My openness at work caused a few minor problems, which were remedied when I promised not to actively promote on company time. It also caused an occasional problem when someone was convinced that I had based a character on them or a mutual acquaintance. Thank goodness for that disclaimer about it being a work of fiction. For the record, I have never totally based a character on someone I know. There may be some physical or personality resemblances, but they’re all composites.

Most writers hide behind a mask. A hint of mystery can be a good thing when you’re pushing hard-edge fiction about spies and private eyes. The mask I chose involved social media. Before I retired, I was employed by a state agency. When I set up my Facebook page, I didn’t use my real first name, the one that appeared in my personnel file. For occupation, I listed “writer/photographer,” working at “self-employed.” I didn’t list where I worked, I didn’t friend very many of my co-workers, and I made no mention of my place of employment in any of my posts. I use that page to promote my writing, period.   

I’m often asked if my stories are based on personal experiences. Have you ever had that question at a book signing? I love getting that one because it gives me an excuse to tease people with “Maybe yes, maybe no.” I tell them that I draw on personal experiences, which is basically true. I’ve used actual incidents, whether it was for a scene or the plot itself. I just don’t tell them where fact ends and fiction begins.

As romance writers, our literary adventures often reflect what’s going on in our lives. When I wrote “Anywhere the Heart Goes,” I was still feeling the sting of a bad break-up, so my lead character went through some of the same things I had endured. “Mistletoe and Palm Trees” was the result of a vacation I took by myself when my traveling companion had to cancel at the last moment. “Catch and Release” was inspired by something I experienced while having lunch at a waterfront bistro.   

One of the best marketing tools I use came about by accident. I was doing a book signing tour in The Keys 10 years ago and was interviewed by a local newspaper, since most of my stories take place there. A week after the interview, the reporter e-mailed me the PDF and promised to send me a print copy. The headline in the PDF read “Former Spy Finds Paradise in Ohio Man’s Novels.” I was ecstatic. When the print version arrived, it had been shortened to “Former Spy Finds Paradise in Ohio,” situated right above my head shot. I still display that story at personal appearances. People stop to read it, see the headline and my face, then look up and see me. Their eyes go back to the page then back to me, followed by them asking if I’m the former spy. I just smile and shrug.

I’ve discovered that you can have some fun when people find out you write erotic romance. It’s a great way to insert a laugh into a conversation when you talk about impossible sex positions, or how many euphemisms there are for certain body parts. Once, I broke up a family gathering by introducing myself as “The guy who writes all those dirty books.” Most people thought that was funny, but for some reason, my nephew’s prospective in-laws weren’t amused.  


Wednesday, January 23, 2019

Sex and the Senses

I’ve always been fascinated with sex and the senses. My first novel, The Initiation of Ms Holly, is a modern retelling of Psyche and Eros in which the heroine is not allowed to see her lover’s face. The third book in The Mount seriesTo Rome with Lust, is based on what might happen if we were more like our animal cousins and better attuned to our sense of smell. What would that mean to us sexually? But what would happen if, in sex, we were denied the mother of all senses, the sense of touch? That was what I wanted to know when I wrote The Tutor, a novel about a haphephobic sculptor who works out his powerful sexual urges through his art. I wanted to experiment with just how dependent intimacy is on human touch and see if I could write a story in which there were viable substitutes. 

The Tutor was inspired in a workshop led by fabulous writer and good friend, Kay Jaybee. I was given the prompt of a tin of pears in heavy syrup. From there, it was non-stop. The Tutor was one of the most interesting, and arousing, adventures in writing I’ve ever had. Here’s an excerpt involving the infamous tin of pears. 

The Tutor Blurb
Struggling writer, Kelly Blake has a secret life as a sex tutor. Celebrated sculptor and recluse, Alexander ‘Lex’ Valentine, can’t stand to be touched. When he seeks out Kelly’s advice incognito, the results are too hot to handle. When Kelly terminates their sessions due to what she considers her unprofessional behavior, Lex takes a huge risk, revealing his identity to her at a gala exhibition, his first ever public appearance. When Kelly helps the severely haphephobic Lex escape the grope of reporters and paparazzi, rumors fly that the two are engaged, rumors encouraged by well-meaning friends and colleagues. The press feeding frenzy forces Kelly into hiding at Lex’s mansion where he convinces her to be his private tutor just until the press loses interest, and she can go back home. They discover quickly that touch is not essential for sizzling, pulse-pounding intimacy. But intimacy must survive the secrets uncovered as their sessions become more and more personal.
Excerpt: A woman feels like nothing you’ve ever touched before

“Was this your idea or Dillon’s? Kelly asked, hoping to relax him.
“It was mine, after Andy told Dillon and he told me. I thought it was something that I …” The muscles along Lex’s jaw looked as though they were made out of iron, and a fine blush crawled up his neck tinting his ears bright pink. “I’ve never touched a woman … in that way.” He forced a laugh. “Obviously. I’ve …” the blush deepened and he avoided her gaze. “I’ve put lube on some of the sculptures – you know — down there, but I … well it isn’t the same.”
“The pears won’t be either,” she said, her heart suddenly aching at the physical isolation this man endured on a daily basis, and it wasn’t just her heart that ached, she felt his lack deep in her core. It had been easier with Andy. She had been almost flippant with him. She was sorry for that now. She spread one of the towels on the Queen Anne chair across from him and settled herself onto it so they were facing each other. “The texture will be different and with the pear there’ll be less give.” She dipped her fingers in the bowl and rubbed the heavy juice between her index finger and her thumb. “If you touch a woman, she’ll be much warmer.” She gave him a conspiratorial smile. “You’ll be amazed at how warm and how soft she’ll be down there when she’s ready to be touched. With Andy, this,” she nodded down to the pears, “was improvisation, this was the best I could do under the circumstances, but a woman, well a woman feels like nothing you’ve ever touched before.”
He was no longer avoiding her gaze. His eyes were locked on her, and he was struggling to keep them on her face, she knew that; she understood the urge for him to drop his eyes to the place of which she spoke, the place with which she was so intimate, the place that couldn’t help but respond to the topic, to the situation, to the strange intimacy they had shared almost since the moment they’d met. “You can look, if you want,” she opened her legs so that he could see the place in between clothed in black denim, completely disguised and yet so very obvious. “And I’ll look at you too,” she nodded down to his own jeans straining to contain him already. “It’s what men and woman are naturally inclined to do when there’s a sexual attraction.”
With her heart hammering in her throat, she took one of the pear halves into the cupped palm of her left hand, then she brought it down between her spread thighs, feeling the juice of it run over her fingers and drip onto the towel as she spread her legs a little farther and held her palm to mimic the position of her vulva. “Touch it like a woman would touch it, and you’ll always get it right.” She drug her index and middle finger up from the bottom of the pear to the center and felt her own body respond in empathy. “The pear has no folds, no secret valleys, no swollen flesh to be teased open, so you’ll have to use your imagination with that.”
Lex gave a little moan soft and deep in his chest as he shifted to make himself more comfortable. “I know the anatomy,” he said. “I’ve watched porn and I’ve studied drawings. I know how it looks like it might feel. I know the response it elicits.” His tongue flicked nervously over his upper lip. “Of course that’s just acting, isn’t it?”
“Porn is about fantasy, about voyeurism, and it doesn’t matter if it’s real if it gets you off. But when it is real,” she spread her index and middle finger up the sides of the pear’s central opening, “if you’re good, if your sensitive, you’ll feel the spasms of your lover’s orgasm, even see them if you’re using your tongue; and you can feel them gripping at your cock when your inside her. If you’re paying attention.
“The clitoris,” she laughed softly, “Well with Andy I used a Ticktack, but he’s a chemistry major. He likes charts and graphs and periodic tables. You’re an artist, you live in your imagination, so you don’t need a Ticktack. Some women like the thumb stroking and circling while the other fingers work inside. Some women like to use their fingers.” She demonstrated on the pear, and Lex groaned. “It’s always best to ask and be sure.”
“What do you like?” His words were a labored rasp against the back of his throat, and Kelly found herself stunned by the question, and way more aroused than she wanted to be. He shouldn’t have asked. She should have answered. But she did.
“I like it this way.” She shifted her hips and opened a little further so he could see her thrust and scissor, circle and probe technique, and her body responded with the tight grip and release of muscle memory.
“Jesus,” he whispered moving forward on the sofa and leaning closer for a better look. “And when someone uses their tongue?”
She caught her breath in a giddy laugh. “Afraid I can’t tell you what I do since, sadly I’m not that flexible.”
“But you can tell me what you like.” His voice had gone rough.
“I like the flat of the tongue to part me and then probe me, circle my clit and then kiss and suck.” She closed her eyes, finding it difficult to meet his gaze when she spoke about something so intimate, so secret. Come to think of it, she’d never had a man actually ask her how she liked it. The few who had given a rat’s ass about her pleasure had been happy enough to let her order them about, but never quite got the hang of it.
It was the loud schussing sound that caused her to open her eyes. Lex had moved the coffee table out of the way paying no attention to the slosh of pear juice all over the towel V had spread. His eyes were locked on Kelly as he fished out his own pear half and fell to his knees in front of her. When she realized what the man was about to do she dropped the pear she’d been holding with a little gasp of surprise and scooted as far back in the chair as she could. He knelt low, holding the pear in the cup of his hand, as she had, placing it against the edge of the chair between her legs! She gave a little yelp and scrambled back in the chair still further, spreading her thighs over the rise of the chair arms to keep from touching him. He moved forward, the back of his hand so close to her crotch that she could feel the heat of it, and he lowered himself still further until his hair nearly brushed the insides of her thighs. Then, still looking up at her from his position on the floor, he began at the bottom of the open pear half and ran his tongue flat and undulating all the way up, flicking in just slightly in a little circle at the top end before he closed his lips around the apex and she could hear the slurp and suck of the sweet syrup.
“Oh! Lex! Ah!” And then she went non-verbal, holding her breath, tightening muscles deep inside her body, the only muscles she dared to move if she were to keep from touching him. She raised both arms and fisted her hands in a suicide grip around the back of the chair to keep from curling them in his hair. Her thighs trembled from her efforts to keep her legs on the chair arms and not throw them over his shoulders for leverage. She didn’t move. She didn’t breath as he licked and nuzzled and suckled until pear juice ran down his chin and onto his tee-shirt, until his face was damp and sticky, until his forehead was sheened with perspiration, and still he held her gaze as though they were locked together in each other’s orbit neither able to move without the other’s consent.
“Oh God, I’m gonna come.” She barely managed a warning when his own convulsion brought him dangerously near her body. He had stopped breathing, she was sure of it. She practically climbed the back of the chair to keep from touching him as he lost control. Then with a tremendous gasp of oxygen, he straightened, let the pear fall from his hand onto the aubusson carpet and looked up at her.
“I’m going to pass out.” And he did.


Monday, January 21, 2019

#Writing as Impulse Control, a post about #taboo #erotica by @GiselleRenarde

Grief is weird.

It makes you want to do things you know you shouldn't. You KNOW you shouldn't. But you want to do them all the same.

You want to assert yourself as a living being. You want to LIVE because the person who is gone can't. Someone else's death is a reminder of your own mortality.

Or else you go numb and you just want to feel something. It takes more and more just to feel something.

Or else you don't care anymore. You don't care about yourself. You don't care about right and wrong. You don't care.

Or else you're just looking for some form of comfort while you heal.

You all know by now that I live with a sock puppet called Lexi Wood. She bashes her face against my keyboard to produce some of the most taboo smut I've ever seen.

Lexi has been my rock, of late. She's taken the wheel. Not only has she held my hand through all the losses I've lived through in the past 6 months, but she's helped me curb my impulses to go out into the world and do things I'll only regret when I get my shit together.

I'm sure I mentioned to you that writing helped me cope with my cousin's death this summer. Some of that writing was journaling about the situation specifically and about grief, both specifically and generally. But some of that writing was... well, it was Lexi, plain and simple.
It was strange, experiencing this extreme sadness and concern for my family, to be thinking about family all the time, and then turn around to find Lexi writing really raunchy smut about barely-legal teens begging their stepdaddies for a fuck.

Part of me was asking, like, is this really the appropriate time for taboo fiction? But apparently it was, and having something to focus on, something other than my family's state of mourning, helped me tremendously.

Then it happened again.

It was November when my grandmother died--National Novel Writing Month. I'd intended to work on a novel. But that didn't happen.

Following my grandmother's death, obsessive thoughts started creeping into my mind. Obsessive thoughts of inappropriate intimacies. Stuff I knew I couldn't do. Not in the real world. But I found myself thinking about these things all the time. Anyone who's ever wanted to do something they knew they shouldn't knows how excruciating it is to be haunted by those thoughts.

Luckily, Lexi stepped in once again. Lexi saved me from myself by routing all that strange sexual energy into a collection of taboo erotica I've recently published as Taboo Sex with an Ex.  Nice of Lexi to keep to a theme. She's got marketing in mind even when I'm grieving deeply.

Without Lexi, would I have done something I'd live to regret? That's one of those impossible to answer questions, I think. I would like to imagine I'm enough of an adult to say to myself "No, I'm not going to do that" and then... just not do it. But there's a rebel in all of us that hears a NO and automatically says YES. Not only does it say YES, but it digs its heels in a little deeper every time it hears a NO.

Writing smut helps in working through those impulses. I'm a living testament to the power of smut-writing.

We always hear about porn etc normalizing and even encouraging unsociable sex, but here's what I'm thinking: if writing taboo fantasies helps the writer cope with inappropriate sexual thoughts, isn't there a chance reading taboo erotica helps the reader in the same way?

Whether or not you're having impulse control issues, I invite you to read Lexi's latest collection, Taboo Sex with an Ex. It's currently in Kindle Unlimited because I'm doing an experiment which you can read about here. Sex with an Ex
6 Explicit Erotica Stories
By Lexi Wood

These girls love their daddies so much they just keep coming back for more… even though they know they shouldn’t… even though they said they wouldn’t! In this mouth-watering collection of sinful smut, six young women return to their daddies to fill their needs as only a daddy can. They shouldn’t have done it in the first time. They shouldn’t come back for seconds. But here they are, pretty and purring and ready for more!


Sunday, January 20, 2019

Some fairy tales come true... #iloveYA #teenromance #gayteens

by Cameron D. James

My "riskiest" writing venture in 2018 was trying my hand at young adult gay romance. I had no idea what the market was like and it had been a long time since I'd written a book without sex in it. In the end, it was the wisest move I've ever made. Within two months it became my bestselling book of all time and was on three top-100 Amazon lists for three months, regularly dipping into the top-20 on two of those lists. And in all of that, I don't think I've ever outright promoted that book here -- so let's jump to it!


Jordan Ortiz decides he can no longer hide who he truly is. He’s gay.  He comes out to his family, then he comes out to everyone, and it goes well. Like, way better than he thought possible. But that’s about where it ends. There aren’t enough out gay kids at school for him to build a queer social life or even consider the possibility of dating. For now, he’s happy to be the gay bestie for his BFF, Hannah.

Benjamin Cooper is the captain of the football team and has known Jordan for almost his whole life. And he has a secret. When they won an award at the science fair in grade nine, Jordan hugged him—and that’s when Ben realized he had feelings for Jordan. As he watches Jordan come out and flower into who he is, he can’t help but feel ashamed—ashamed at what a coward he is compared to Jordan.

When a broken leg and fair-weather friends leave Ben feeling lonely on Christmas break, he spends New Year’s Eve with Jordan, just hanging out in his basement like they used to years ago. But as the countdown to midnight happens and the ball is about to drop, Ben has something else in mind. At the stroke of midnight, he kisses Jordan.

What starts with a surprise kiss leads to a year of shared secrets, hidden love, relationship troubles, and broken hearts. Through it all, one fact holds true—Jordan loves Benjamin and Benjamin loves Jordan. But is that enough to carry them through when Ben wants to stay firmly in the closet, to the very point that this might destroy what hope they have of true love?


Nineteen minutes and thirty seconds.

I can’t keep counting down like this. I’m going to drive myself insane. I’m going to kill the mood if I’m glued to the clock. I hear some rustling beside me and I see that Jordan has pulled out his phone and he’s scrolling through Instagram. He suddenly angles his phone away from me.

“What?” I ask.

He hesitates, then says, “Nikki’s posting pics of her and Winston.”

“I’m not her boyfriend,” I say automatically. I’ve never actually said that to anyone. I’ve always just let people make their own assumptions and I was happy to play along with it. “We were never together.”

“Really?” Jordan asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I make her look good in photos, but I have no interest in her,” I say. I can feel a bead of sweat forming at my temple.

He scoffs. “You put on a good act then.” He goes to her profile and scrolls down until he finds pictures of me and Nikki. Together. Kissing.

“That’s exactly what it is. An act.” My heart is beating so hard it feels like it’s going to punch through my ribs.

He looks at me like he’s assessing me. “She’s gorgeous,” he says. It’s like he’s pushing me, like he knows what I want to say, even though I don’t think he has a clue. “She’s a control freak sometimes, yeah, but she’s gorgeous.”

“Not my type,” I say.

“Oh?” He shuts off his phone and tosses it on the couch between us. “What is your type?”

You. You’re my type. But can I say those words out loud? Hell no. Coward.

Instead, I turn my attention to the TV. Fourteen minutes left.

“I’m still figuring that out,” I say.

He seems to accept that as an answer, or at least accepts that I’m not ready to talk more about it. We silently watch the rest of the countdown and inwardly I’m kicking myself again — way to ruin the mood right before the hug! I’m saving my last mouthful of Bud Light for midnight, so I’m just sitting here idly holding an almost-empty can of beer.

Finally, what seems like ages later, we’re down to less than a minute. Slowly, the energy in the room warms up. I lean forward, like getting closer to the TV is going to somehow make this more exciting. Beside me, Jordan does the same.

“Ten!” he says out loud, joining the cheering people on the screen counting down.

I join in with him. “Nine! Eight! Seven! Six! Five! Four! Three! Two! One! Happy new year!”

I take that final swig of beer, letting the alcohol give me a burst of courage. I stand up and hold my arms out and Jordan stands up and comes into them. I wrap my arms around him, holding him tight.

“Happy new year,” I whisper.

“Happy new year,” he whispers back.

I know I should let go, end this hug, because it’s getting too long — it’s past the limit of how long friends hug. But I don’t want to let go.

I never want to let go.

Jordan feels so right in my arms.

But there’s something I want even more.

I loosen my arms a little bit and he backs up just an inch or two and he looks up at me. His eyes sparkle in the light and I can see a question behind those clear, brown eyes. He knows something is different.

With the alcohol pushing my decisions, I angle my head in and kiss him.

He puts his hands on my chest like he’s ready to push me away, but I keep kissing him, even though he’s not moving his lips, even though he’s as still as a statue. Panic starts to rise in me and I can feel myself starting to shake. Jordan isn’t responding.

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Friday, January 18, 2019

Other Lives

My author bio states that I am an occasional pole dancer. Now, I have to confess, this may be something of an exaggeration. I do go along, occasionally, to a pole fitness studio near to where I live and I dangle precariously from the equipment then stagger off home feeling as though I’ve been run over by a truck. Pole dancing is Hard Work and not for the faint of heart!

But there are others who go along who are much better at it than I am. I daresay the instructor, Nadine, offers up thanks on a daily basis for these hardy souls.  One such person, we shall call her Jane, had managed to master a new pose known as the pretzel, so called because it involves somehow curling your body around the pole in a most improbable and gravity-defying manner. It looks pretty impressive and had taken Jane a lot of practice, sweat and unladylike grunting, but she got there. Then, as is the usual tradition on such occasions, Nadine took her photo on Jane’s mobile phone so that Jane could show the evidence to all her friends.

Being rightly proud of her achievement, Jane uploaded the prized picture onto her Facebook profile, only to find herself suddenly engulfed in a shit-storm of outrage and pious fury. The reason? As well as being a pole dancer, and , incidentally, a skilled physicist at the university, Jane also volunteers as a part-time scout leader. Hanging half naked from a pole, was, in the view of the great and the good of the scouting fraternity, behaviour unbecoming for a scout leader. She had a choice. it seemed. Remove the picture or stop volunteering with the scouts.

Jane duly took the picture down, but amid much grumbling and complaining. Apart from the fact that there was nothing even remotely half-naked about the image – she would wear less to take the scouts swimming – what did it have to do with the Scout folk anyway?

A good question, but not the main point of this post.

I think the object lesson here is that as soon as you put anything ‘out there’ on social media there’s no getting it back. Time was when we could compartmentalise our lives, and some of us still try, but social media has a way of outing you.

We authors experience this a lot as many of us write under pen names and have multiple personas out there in Facebookland and the Twittersphere. I am no exception. I do have a Facebook account in my real name, but I can’t remember when I last logged onto it. I’m always on line as Ashe Barker, and for me Ashe is every bit as real as my other, legal identity.

I know the difference. I’m perfectly clear that Ashe Barker can’t sign legal documents, for example publishing contracts. Nor can she hold a bank account or a passport. Ashe Barker is a badge, my brand, you might say. But I answer to Ashe in conversations and every time I send an email I have to think which name to sign it as. Ashe is very real to me.

All of this was perhaps vaguely interesting but didn’t matter too much until fairly recently when I started increasingly using Ashe’s Facebook presence for ‘real world’ things, just because Ashe is always there, active and current. It felt easier than jumping between identities would be. But I keep having to explain who and what Ashe is, and although I’ve never felt a need to conceal the nature of my writing, I do get some funny looks down at parish council meetings when I try to explain why the deputy mayor has a public profile which uses this strange alter ego and rather dodgy imagery.

Even  more recently I started volunteering at the community library in my village. It’s nice work, involves messing about with books, stamping them when people borrow them, and of course taking in the returns when readers have finished a book. One or two of my titles are in the library because the Council bought them (local interest and all that), and as luck would have it one of them, Darkening, came back while I was on the desk.

“Did you enjoy it,” I asked.

The elderly lady handed me her library card, shuffled a bit and flushed  bright pink. “It was a good story, but too much swearing for my taste. Some bits were just filthy, I had to skip those…”

“Did you finish it?”

“Oh, yes. And there’s a sequel, I think. I’ll probably take that next.”

I directed her to the right shelf and opted not to further burden her with the knowledge that she was talking to the author.

Thursday, January 17, 2019

Sometimes romance can be hell - #paranormal #BDSM #romanceauthor #anonymity

Damned if you do cover

By Lisabet Sarai

In the comments associated with my post about anonymity, I mentioned Damned If You Do, where the heroine is an author of erotic romance. She’s not exactly anonymous, though she writes under a pseudonym, but nobody knows the true depths of her depravity until her demon master posts a graphic video of them on the Internet.

Anyway, I thought it would be appropriate to share a bit from that book. Just for fun, I’m using the description of the video.


Wendy Dennison is tired of being a starving author. The royalties from her critically acclaimed romance novels barely pay her bills. Her devoted agent Daniel Rochester may be smart and sexy, but he can't get her the sales she needs. Then a charismatic stranger appears at her coffee shop table, promising her fame and commercial success, as well as the chance to live out her dreams of erotic submission. But at what cost?

Nothing you can't afford to lose, my dear.

Seduced by the enigmatic Mister B, she signs his infernal contract. He becomes both her Master and her coach, managing her suddenly flourishing career as well as encouraging her lusts. Under her mentor’s nefarious influence, she surrenders to temptation and has sex with Daniel. The casual encounter turns serious when she discovers her mild mannered agent has a dominant side. As the clock ticks down to her blockbuster release and Mister B prepares to claim her soul, Wendy must choose either celebrity and wealth, or obscurity and true love.


Wendy emerged from the bathroom to find Dan on the phone.

Yes. Very well…I understand… That’s pretty hypocritical of them, I must say…”

Who is it?” she whispered. He waved her into silence.

We have to consult our own lawyers about this.”

Lawyers?” she mouthed. Dan scowled.

We will be in touch. Yes, you can send the documents to me at my office. Good bye.”

She climbed back onto the bed and sat cross-legged facing him. “So?”

It’s started. The unraveling of your success, I mean. That was one of Harbison Frost’s lawyers. They’re canceling your contract.”

What? On what grounds.”

The obscenity clause.”

You’re kidding me!”

Nope. They’re halting the second print run and they want their advance back.”

No way!”

Every book contract Wendy had ever signed included boilerplate certifying that the work was not libelous or obscene. She’d always felt that was pretty ridiculous, given the sort of content that appeared in erotic romance these days, but she never objected. She understood this was just paranoia on the part of publishers. “Every book I’ve written would be labeled ‘obscene’ by some people. Nobody has every objected. Quite the opposite. Publishers keep pushing me to ramp up the heat.”

He shook his head with a sigh. “It’s not just the book, though. I gather there’s some sort of sex tape that’s appeared on the Internet, purporting to show Gwen Diamante engaged in activities with which Harbison Frost doesn’t want to be associated.”

I never made any kind of sex tape…” she began, before realizing that Bub might have recorded every one of their interludes. She would never have known. Hell, she’d been so deep in subspace most of the time, she wouldn’t have noticed an actual camera crew, let alone a hidden webcam. She flung herself off the bed. “Let’s start your computer and take a look.”

The video wasn’t difficult to find. When she opened the search engine and typed “Gwen Diamante video”, the screen listed all her trailers, including the recent one for Cherished Chains, plus a clip entitled “Gwen Diamante Demon Sex”.

The bastard,” she muttered as she clicked the link.

The screen went dark, then brightened to show what was unquestionably her bedroom. Everything was illuminated in red, as if the video had been shot in a photographer’s dark room.

A woman sprawled on the bed, her face hidden in her arms and her raised ass toward the camera, in a vivid close-up. Even with the dim lighting, the bloody welts decorating her buttocks showed clearly, near-black against her pale skin. A whip whistled through the air then landed with a snap on the woman’s butt. She groaned, her voice strained and hoarse. A new streak of darkness appeared on her ass. The knotted leather bit deep. The camera showed clearly the paths it carved in her jiggling flesh.

A huge, gnarled hand appeared from outside the frame and raked a curved claw along the crevice between her bruised butt cheeks. The woman screamed and convulsed in a violent orgasm, fluids streaming out of her onto the bed.

Damn, that’s raw.” Dan’s face was white and drawn, but he didn’t look away. “Is it you?”

Bile rose in Wendy’s throat. “I don’t know. It could be.”

The being wielding the whip continued to alternate between lashing the woman’s ass and teasing her into climaxes that looked more like torture than pleasure. At one point, a long forked tongue slithered into the picture and flicked its way over the woman’s bloody buttocks, before worming into her anus. It could well have been artificial, simulated via computer graphics, but it looked disgustingly real.

Whoever had made the film had a sense of timing. Before the whipping grew boring, the camera pulled back. The hidden torturer stepped into view. Wendy and Daniel both gasped.

The creature was so tall that its bald head almost grazed the ceiling. Leathery-looking scales covered its back, while its ropey limbs were sickly pale. A barbed tail emerged from between its prominent buttocks. The tail lashed back and forth like a cat’s as the thing drew closer to the motionless figure on the bed. Its face was still not visible, but there was no missing the enormous phallus that jutted from its skinny loins.

With a growl, the creature reached for the woman and flipped her over. Her face still lay in shadow. Once again, Wendy was reminded of a cat playing with a mouse. Sinking its claws into her already bloodied thighs, it yanked her open and drove that impossible cock into her dripping cunt.

The woman yelled. The demon roared. The camera zoomed in on the shaft—easily five to six inches in diameter—pounding into the impossibly stretched aperture of her sex.

The screen went blank for an instant. The next shot showed a woman’s head, her face turned to the side. That unearthly, taloned hand appeared again from the side. Almost gently, it turned her to face the camera.

The woman’s eyes were shut tight. She looked drained, totally depleted, yet somehow satisfied. Drool hung from one corner of her mouth. Thick gobs of what had to be cum spattered her cheeks and matted her hair.

Despite the mess, there was no mistaking her features.

The clip ended.

Wendy shuddered. She wanted to vomit. “I had no idea,” she murmured, her face in her hands. “I didn’t know…” Sobs wracked her. “I’m so sorry…”

Dan gathered her to his chest. “Never mind. You’re safe now. He’ll never touch you again.”

But the video—how horrible! No wonder they want to dump me… How could I have been so stupid?” Rising panic swept through her. She clung to his body. “Oh, Dan! What do I do now?”

He ran his fingers through her hair and kissed her forehead. “First thing we do is contact the video sharing site with a take-down order.” He was already clicking and typing. “Then we issue a public statement branding the video as a hoax.”

Nobody’s going to believe us.”

Oh, come on! You think people are going to believe you were fucked by a demon? In this world of fake news, everyone knows how easy it is to make something artificial look real.” He glanced up from the keyboard. “Heck, it might even be good for your sales.”

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Narrated by Audrey Lusk