Justine Elyot's Blog, page 23

Surrender

One of the greatest compliments a writer can ever receive is a reprint, and I'm honoured and delighted to have my first reprinted story in this terrific compilation by super-ed Rachel Kramer Bussel. Surrender is an anthology of some of her favourite stories of female submission and my story, The London O, was previously featured in Orgasmic. Looking at the line-up, I can't quite believe I'm there – but I am!

Along with Donna George Storey ; Teresa Noelle Roberts ; Emerald ; Lolita Lopez ; Terri Pray ; Alison Tyler ; Jacqueline Applebee ; Tess Danesi ; Shanna Germain ; Rachel Kramer Bussel ; Elizabeth Coldwell ; Thomas S Roche ; Noelle Keely ; M Christian ; Matt Conklin ; Amanda Earl ; Dominic Santi ; Isabelle Gray ; Fiona Locke ; Gwen Masters ; Clancy Nacht.

Here, in time-honoured tradition, is an excerpt:

It had swiftly become a matter of pride to Lloyd that he should provide more, bigger, better orgasms than any of my previous lovers and, in the early days of our relationship, I confess that I might have played on this tiny insecurity.

"Orlando was so well named," I teased over moules marinières in some Café Rouge or other. "An O at either end." I ran the point of my tongue over the tender morsel in its winey, creamy broth-filled shell. "He had the gift."

"Either end?" Lloyd's light tone did nothing to fool me. He knew a challenge when he heard one. "You mean he gave you an orgasm in your toes? And the top of your head?"

"The location isn't important," I grinned, swirling the lascivious mollusc around the insides of my mouth before swallowing.

"Au contraire, Miss Martin, the location is a critical factor. Don't you agree?"

Lloyd sipped sagely at his red wine, his eyes narrowed, keen to pursue the conversational line.

"Well, without wanting to get too graphic at the dinner table…"

"Oh no, I'm not talking body geography. I know the map of Sophie well enough, and I don't care how well-thumbed it is. I know where to plant my flag when I want her earth to move. I'm talking about places."

"Places? Orgasmic places?"

"Yeah. Where's the strangest place you ever climaxed?"

"Oh…well. A swimming pool. An underground car park. A hotel balcony." I frowned in an effort of memory.

"Tame stuff. Vanilla in the extreme. I'm surprised at you."

"Lloyd! Where am I supposed to do it? On stage?"

"That would add spice." His louche grin was as wide as a wolf's and his knee nudged mine beneath the chequered cloth. "I'm sure you'd find an appreciative audience."

"So where's your most outrageous spot for hitting the spot then? Since you see yourself as the voice of experience here."

"There was a croquet lawn. A rowing boat. An aircraft hangar. And that was all before I left college."

"So what is the point you are making? Were those orgasms better?"

"No, they weren't better," he conceded. "But they had a quality…all of their own. Didn't you find that with your experiences outside the bedroom?"

"I suppose I did. Yes."

"But nobody has ever pursued that with you?"

"No. I must admit, my past lovers have mainly wanted privacy. Don't you?"

"There's a time and a place."

I snorted.

"That appears to be the opposite of what you're proposing. You seem to be saying that any time and any place are fine for sex."

"Not sex necessarily. Just having an orgasm. Coming. Oh, I love that. Coming. Such an innocent word; such a coy little euphemism."

"OK, now I'm struggling."

"You will be. Finish that up. I'm getting the bill. I need to show you what I mean and in this case, I think actions will speak louder than words."

I mopped up the last of the delicious sauce with a hunk of baguette and pushed the plate aside.

"Just coming," I said.

(And yes – it is Lloyd from On Demand).

Surrender to the urge to buy this book!

1888 Part 10

Naughty master, naughty maid.

 

Nothing in the first post, nothing in the second.  Florence moodily swiped up her book and hunched over it again, pinning all her hopes on the third postal delivery of the day.

 

"I'm sure you'll hear from him soon, Miss," offered Molly timidly, but her reward for these heartening words was a curt order to put an extra shovelful of coal into the grate.  The slight sting between her legs as she bent down to the coal scuttle brought a suppressed purr to Molly's lips, so that Florence looked up sharply.

 

"Yes?  Did you mean to say something to me?"

 

"Oh, no, Miss, sorry.  'Tis just…the cold gets into your bones on days like this, don't it?"

 

Florence grunted and began fidgeting with the clasp of her reticule, mightily tempted to reach inside and find the note from Jessie again.  The impulse won, and she unfurled the notelet, scribbled on the back of a Savoy playbill, that had arrived in yesterday's post.

 

'Darling, it was so wonderful to see you last night – my friends declare themselves all quite in love with you and eager to see you again.  Alex promises that he will write you himself soon, but as we know, poets inhabit a sphere outside the temporal norms so beware placing an interpretation on the word 'soon', for it will very likely differ from his!  He is quite taken with you and declares that you will be the subject of his next villanelle – should you like to read about yourself in print?

Much as I long to visit you at home, I'm afraid I would be unwelcome.  Would it be too impossible for you to arrange a trip to some 'respectable' entertainment?  I was thinking particularly of a museum or a luncheon concert – somewhere you can go by day without arousing too much adverse comment.

This renewal of our girlhood friendship has been such an unexpected blessing – I cherish it, and fear that I could not bear to lose it again.

Please contact me care of the theatre with ref. meeting once more.

Eternally your friend

Jess.'

 

Florence put it away again, looked cursorily at her book and fell into the same daydream that had been plaguing her for the past two days.  The clang of the bell, the announcement that 'a gentleman' had come to call on her.  Alex, bearing an enormous bouquet of hothouse blooms, falling on his knees before her and protesting that he was in a fever of passion from which he feared he could never recover until she consented to be his wife.  A grand society wedding (he seemed moneyed and had an aristocratic air, even if her attempts to find out his real status had so far come to nought), a beautiful Mayfair mansion, love and happiness and a household of her own, in which she could do as she pleased for the rest of her days.  Children, she supposed, however they were got.  Or perhaps they could travel, unencumbered, across the continent of Europe and on to more exotic climes.  Jessie had brought home to her just how stultifying her current existence was, and she thirsted for escape, as if she had spent her life in a windowless box and had only now been taken out and shown an endless vista of contrasting landscapes.  Could Alex be the saviour she needed?  Oh, how she hoped so.

 

Molly could see that her mistress was in no mood to keep company, so she took a square of cross-stitching from her apron pocket and sat on a footstool to continue with the sewing.  As she sat, the keen soreness could be felt once more and she wondered what Sir Rupert might be doing at that moment.  Did he think of her in the midst of his busy day of commerce and business?  Did he think of their secret rough and tumble, the tickly-moustache kisses, the brandy-scented promises?

 

She began to relive for the thousandth time their sudden descent into the hurly-burly of illicit amour.  She and Florence had returned from their secret night out, whispering and giggling up the stairs to Florence's room, fumbling in the dark for they did not dare to take a candle.  She had attended to Florence's preparations for bed, then tiptoed back down the main staircase to the servants' quarters, avoiding the creaky steps for all she was worth.  Feeling her way with a hand on the banister, she had arrived on the first floor landing and had only two more flights to descend, when from the pitch blackness to her left, she had heard a voice.

 

"Up so late, Molly?"

 

She let out a small scream and fumbled in her apron for a box of lucifers, managing to light one with shaky fingers.  The smiling moustachioed face of Sir Rupert had been illuminated.  He was leaning on the balustrade, wearing a paisley silk dressing gown and soft leather slippers.

 

"Sir, I…."

 

"I hope you haven't been up to anything you shouldn't, my dear," continued the baronet smoothly.  "Florence tells me she is devoted to you, but if you have been leading her astray…"

 

"Oh no, Sir, of course not!  It's just…I'm….I couldn't sleep.  I went for a walk."

 

"A walk, you say?  Well, that's one way to cure sleeplessness.  But I know a better one.  How about a little nip of my best cognac?  You seemed to enjoy it the last time."

 

Molly hesitated before answering.  If she accepted, she was shrewd enough to realise that she was all but consenting to seduction.  On the other hand, if she refused, he may well find some reason to dismiss her in a fit of piqued rejection.  She needed to keep close to Florence and her friends if she were to have any hope of landing herself a decent future, and besides, it wasn't as if she found Sir Rupert disgusting.  It was clear his marriage had turned to indifference and disappointment, and he would look after her if he made her his mistress, she was sure.  Perhaps he would instal her in her own rooms and she could be a kept woman until some better, more permanent prospect arose.  She could get herself some schooling, perhaps learn a craft or set up a little shop.  Oh yes, a rich man's patronage might be worth the loss of such a silly thing as a maidenhead.  Molly was a working class girl, and she didn't share the high and mighty morality of her betters; in her world, virtue and innocence were commodities, to be used in any way necessary to get that elusive foothold on the ladder out of the abyss.  Jessie Carter, only slightly better-born than she and with only a rudimentary Board School education, had clearly managed it.   Why couldn't Molly Macaulay?

 

"That's very kind of you, Sir," she said, her voice a little husky.  She wondered how she should play her scene.  She did not want to appear too knowing, or too inviting of her fate; she knew that it was the corruption of purity that appealed principally to men like Sir Rupert.  He would not necessarily want a girl who seemed to know what she was about.  She would have to simper and feign shock, which was a bore, but needs must.

 

"You'll find it just the thing," he averred, indicating the drawing room with an inclination of his head.  "Please do step this way."

 

Molly stood awkwardly, eyes downcast and hands twisting, while the drinks were poured.

 

"No need to look so frightened, sweet thing," he crooned, passing her the glass balloon.

 

"I'm just…oh, Sir, I wonder if I should go directly to my room.  I'm not sure this is proper."

 

"Nonsense, my dear."  Sir Rupert took Molly's free hand and led her over to a blue-striped satin chaise longue.  "What could be improper about a gentleman giving his maidservant a little…help along the road…to sleep?  Chin chin."

 

He clinked their glasses together and drained his tot in one draught.  Molly took a tiny sip and turned the stem of the glass round and round in her fingers.

 

"Brandon told me you had retired early," remarked Sir Rupert quietly.  "Both you and Florence had settled on an early night."

 

"I couldn't sleep," repeated Molly stubbornly.  "I 'as bad dreams."

 

"Oh, little Molly!"  Sir Rupert's enunciation was a langorous drawl.  "What bad dreams could there be in such a pretty little head?  Why, a sweet thing like you must dream only of…fairies…and flowers."

 

Molly pursed her lips, trying not to laugh at his hyperbolic flattery.  She was a workhouse maid, not a pampered princess, if he hadn't noticed.

 

"I had a harsh childhood, Sir, as you know.  Bad things happened."

 

"Until I took you away from all that," reminded Sir Rupert, taking her hand and stroking it delicately.  "Dear girl, you must allow me to take care of you.  I know the world can be a terrible place for a young woman, but here in my house you are safe."

 

Molly permitted the tension of her spine to dissipate, leaning back against the buttoned cushions of the chaise and relaxing into her employer's feathery finger touch.  She yawned and leant her head to one side, so that it fell onto Sir Rupert's eager shoulder.  He pulled her closer with an arm around her waist and they sat like that for a few silent minutes, absorbing each other's warmth.

 

"I'm very grateful to you, Sir, for taking me out of the workhouse," said Molly dreamily.

 

"Gratitude is a very fine sentiment," said Sir Rupert into her hair, noticing that it was still pinned up.  Surely she had not put her hair back up just to wander about the darkened house?  He smiled inwardly – it was obvious she had been up to something.  Spurred on by this thought, he moved his hand up to her chin, bringing her lips around until they hovered tantalisingly close to his, forcing her startled hazel eyes into his determined blue ones.  "Show me how grateful you are, Molly."

 

"I'm a good girl!" protested the maidservant, but she knew it to be an empty plaint.  Sir Rupert would take her whether she wanted him to or not, or he would cast her out.  Either way lay ruin, unless she was able to work her seduction to her advantage.

 

"I know that, Molly.  I know you are a good girl.  Always an obedient and well-behaved little servant to your master.  Show me how obedient and well-behaved you are, you little vixen."  And with that, he clamped her lips to his, pulling her lower half roughly on to his lap.  He had had his fill of picturing what lay beneath the black stuff dress and the flirty little white mobcap – now he meant to see it for himself.

 

Molly shut her eyes and tried to imagine how she would describe this sensation to her sister.  It was not nasty, though the brush of his moustache was a tad bristly and his lips quite hard; not the full lushness she might have expected.  His breath was over-redolent of the brandy he had consumed, lending it a sourness, but she enjoyed the male scent of him beyond that.  He was clean.  That was what she wanted, what she never wanted to go back to.  The filth, the smells, the rank rancidity of the slums and the workhouse.  She wanted this freshness, for as long as she could hang on to it.

 

His hands began to stray under her skirt, flapping away the extra petticoats impatiently, patting up the line of her scratchy cheap bloomers.

 

"Oh, Sir," she managed to gasp, prising her lips away from his for a second's respite.  "What are you doing?"

 

"I will make you feel nice, Molly," panted the roué, half-mad with the softness and promise of this warm female body.  "I will give you pleasure; the pleasure you deserve.  Do you trust me?  Trust me, little one."

 

Molly did not trust him an inch, but she did not express this thought.  Jen was right all along, she thought, with a pang of distress at the memory of her sister in the workhouse.

 

"Please don't hurt me!" she pleaded, wriggling an escape attempt at the realisation that his hand had reached its destination inside the elastic of her bloomers.

 

"No, no," he murmured, low and frantic.  "Not hurt you, Molly.  Please you.  Give you pleasure.  Open yourself up to it."  Now his palm was flat against her mons, pushing down between her thighs, then the fingers were splitting her clenched lips, rubbing up and down avidly.  "Oh, yes, oh, Molly."  And a finger was moving up, oh, it felt so odd; the pressure, the invasiveness.  Molly yelped in horror, desperately trying to shuffle off his lap, away from this rude finger, but he held her firm.  "Ah, as I thought.  A virgin.  Oh, Molly, oh yes!"

 

"Please don't hurt me!" reiterated Molly, feeling the beginnings of a spread of soreness where the finger, now two fingers, continued to push and prod.  Yet the pain was alleviated by the continuous motion of his thumb between her fleshy inner lips – such a curious sensation, not quite the same as when she touched it herself in the toils of the night.  It was remarkable to have another's hand giving her that clandestine pleasure, and the sensation was magnifying, distracting her attention from the rough poking of his index and forefingers.

 

"Don't you like this, my little Molly?"  He covered her mouth with his again, confident of her growing pliability.  The saucy little minxes always played up reluctance, but they wanted it really, when it came down to it.  Little backstreet trollops with their curving bosoms and come-to-bed eyes, ripening in front of him like some provocative soft fruit – how was he expected to look away from it?  Never once did it occur to Sir Rupert that Molly was no older than his own daughter, nor could he see the incongruity of doing to this girl something that he would never wish for his Florence.  She was to be used, enjoyed, but not kept beyond the day her amusements began to pall.  Besides, these backstreet girls lost their bloom so young…one saw them everywhere; hatchet-faced, grey-complected, with shapeless bodies draped in shawls.

 

Molly squealed, finding herself pushed roughly down on her back while the Baronet crouched above her, frantically hoiking her skirts around her waist and pulling down her bloomers.  He seemed in a great hurry to get the thing done, pulling open his gown to reveal a cock in full engorgement, weeping with anticipation.

 

"Molly, you are driving me to distraction," he muttered, jamming her thighs apart and unceremoniously shoving his impatient member up to the hilt, breaking through her hymen with shocking force.  Molly screamed and he pressed a palm against her mouth, roughly commanding her to shut up or the whole house would be roused.  She bucked against him desperately, unprepared for the stabbing pang that was radiating through her lower torso, wanting him out of her, away from her.  But he was thrusting effortfully, hissing obscenities through gritted teeth, his brow knotted and sweating, his face pillarbox-red.

 

"You are hurting me, Sir," she gabbled, her words muffled by his palm.  But then, only half a minute at most after the initial penetration he suddenly held himself deadly still then surged forward one last time, grunting a final litany of fucks and cunts and whores before collapsing on to her crumpled chest.

 

Molly stared at the ceiling, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.  People ruined themselves for this?  Her nether parts were throbbing and she felt torn apart, and, save for Sir Rupert's tactile attentions to the nub between her legs, there had been no pleasure to glean from the experience whatsoever.

 

Finally her…lover…arose, pushing himself up with his palms either side of her face so that he was peering down at her.

 

"Oh Lord, forgive me, Molly," he mumbled, shame-faced.  Even his moustache drooped forlornly.  "I am but a man, and our urges overpower us."

 

"Oh, Sir, I hardly know…what to say," she whispered.  "How will I ever find a husband now?  No man will want me."

 

"Molly, Molly," soothed Sir Rupert, stroking damp curls from her forehead.  "I will want you.  If you will accept me as your…very true friend.  I will compensate you the crime I have committed against your virtue and reputation, I swear.  You need not fear on that score."

 

Molly kept the flash of optimism leaping within her heart restrained.  Could she really find herself installed as his mistress – a lady of fashion with her own lodgings in Chelsea or Bayswater?

 

"Sir, I am aggrieved that I have lost my cherry.  I ain't got much, but at least I had that!  But I would like us to be friends, Sir, if you want to be kind to me."

 

"Oh, I want to be kind to you, Molly.  I want to be kind to you over and over again.  Let us keep this as our precious secret, my darling."  He kissed her lightly and a slow smile spread beneath the damp brush of his moustache before he withdrew from her, frowning at the sticky emission that leaked on to the cushions as he did so.

 

"I'm afraid I seem to have spent inside you, my dear, but I believe that any…unwanted results…are unlikely the first time.  I shall be more careful in future, you need have no fear."

 

Molly blinked, unsure what he was driving at, and smiled rather wanly.

 

"Now we must both get to our beds before we are discovered."  He rubbed her shoulder complicitly and winked.  "Goodnight, my dear."

 

And with that, the seducer strolled out of the room, tying his dressing gown cord as he crossed the carpet.  Molly frowned down at her still-nude thighs, smeared with light pinkish blood and another colourless substance, wondering how on earth she would remove the stain from the cushion her bottom had been perched upon.

 

Perhaps salt crystals, she decided, before pulling up her bloomers and tiptoeing off to bed.

 

 

…and I don't approve of that in the workplace.

Sex at Work is out tomorrow – a brand new Xcite compilation of inappropriate behaviour on the job.

You'd win no prizes, let alone votes, for guessing that I wrote my story Kingmaker in the aftermath of the 2010 General Election, during that strange uncertain period when nobody knew exactly how the government was going to look. The unique position Liberal Democrat leader Nick Clegg found himself in gave me pause for thought. And you can be clear that my thinking during that pause had little to do with changing the democratic process and everything to do with smut. And so a tale was born.

Here is an excerpt:

'Make me an offer.'

He is sweating and there is fear in his eyes; he has been awake for forty eight hours straight and it is starting to tell on him.

'That…that's what the negotiation teams are trying to thrash out…'

'I'll give you thrashing out. Never mind the policies. Make me an offer. Make me an offer.'

I put a well-shod foot on the Regency-striped upholstery of a chair. He stares at the angle my leg makes, too terrified to move his gaze further up to the place where my skirt hem and stocking top meet, visibly. My hand is on my hip. My skirt suit is sharp and deadly and the lack of sleep has brought me to vivid, almost hallucinatory, life. I have power. At last, I have power, and I mean to keep it.

'Ms Saffron, I think we are all rather exhausted…'

'I'm not. I'm raring to go, Mr Ruby. I feel I could go all night.'

'I'll let you have a referendum,' he whispers. Oh, this is rich. This man, who has called me an intellectual featherweight and a harpy who lives in cloud-cuckoo-land, has lost his grip on the nation and now needs my support to claw it back. Shall I give it? Or shall I go to the other side, the dark side? Whatever happens, I am the fulcrum around which the power balance is arranged. I may never be the King, but I can be the Kingmaker.

I remove my foot from the chair and approach him, circling him, eyeing up my prey in its crumpled suit. He has a certain rough and ready something about him, I've always thought. He's certainly rough now, but is he ready?

'Yes, you will,' I say clearly. 'You will let me have a referendum, I'm sure. But is that all I get?' I put out a hand, let one finger spark against the burgeoning stubble on his cheek, like striking a match. He almost jumps back.

'Have you gone quite mad, Ms Saffron?'

'Perhaps. But this is the deal, Mr Ruby, which you can take or leave. If you don't want me to screw you, you have to screw me.'

I want to laugh at the way his jaw drops. Is he really so surprised? He certainly isn't uninterested; there is a flush at his collar and he bites his lip, looking down into my deep cleavage with more than a touch of a leer.

'You're serious, aren't you?'

'Never more so. And get on with it, can't you? I'm supposed to be seeing Mr Cobalt in half an hour. And who knows what he has to offer, eh?'

The thought of the hated Mr Cobalt spurs Ruby into action. He twists me at the wrist and manhandles me over to the big polished desk; the desk that has seen the signing of so many documents of state. It turns me on to think of the decisions that have been made in this room, and the knowledge that I am adding to them in a rather unique way brings an exhilarated laugh to the surface. I lean back, resting my bottom on the ledge, and pull Ruby down to my lips by his dangling red tie.

He kisses well, just as I knew he would; there is passion and spirit behind those pouting, spouting lips, probably the same passion that fires up his rhetoric. I wrap my legs around his hips and pull his hard core towards me, grinding against it while our tongues collide. His arms are strong and his shoulders broad, as befits a man who has had the cares of a nation resting upon them. I feel that we could deal with each other; we could unite, even merge. He shoves my skirt up higher and places the firm hand of government upon my thigh, finding it damp.

'Is this what you want?' he mutters, breaking the kiss and patting the soft flesh above my stockings.

'It's a start. Get on your knees.'

Whatever my thoughts about the election outcome might have been, at least I sold a story on the back of it. It's an ill wind etc.

But don't let my story put you off! There are workplace-based shenanigans from some of erotica's very finest to be found within the pages of Sex at Work.

K D Grace ; Izzy French ; Rachel Kramer Bussel ; Emma Lydia Bates ; J J Monroe ; Landon Dixon ; Kay Jaybee ; Angel Propps ; Zee Kensington ; Sommer Marsden ; J Troy Seate ; Velvet Tripp ; Honey Leigh ; Sylvia Lowry ; Charlotte Stein ; Jeremy Edwards ; Mia Lovejoy ; Heidi Champa ; Lynn Lake.

 

And I really love this cover of the five-story ebook version – it so captures the spirit of my story!

Go forth and enjoy some sex at work!

1888 Part 9

Artist's models behaving badly…

"Alex, she is a lady.  She makes her Début in the spring, for heaven's sake.  Leave well alone."

 

"Jessie, you entirely mistake my intentions.  I would like to pursue a friendship with her, that is all – if I have your permission."

 

He frowned at her and she pouted back.

 

"Besides, you have no claim on me.  No woman does.  I am free to see and mix with whomever I like, as are you.  Now, do you want to go upstairs, or shall I go home now?"

 

"No, no, don't go home," said Jessie sulkily.  "You want him to stay, don't you, Vyvyan?"

 

"If that is your desire, my Savoy Venus," affirmed Vyvyan, ruffling her hair.

 

"Then let us…retire."  The momentary storm cloud passed over Jessie's countenance, replaced once more by coquettish sunshine.

 

Alex, Vyvyan and Jessie took their leave of their three friends, who were by now befuddled and argumentative with drink, linked arms and ascended the Persian carpeted staircase together.

 

Swanson's had a sideline intended strictly for those in-the-know – the letting out by the hour of of the third and fourth storey rooms.  For a discount, a customer could rent one of the sumptuous chambers for a full night, with breakfast included in the tariff.  The rooms were popular with many different flavours of clientele – the Swanson's staff were famously discreet, so many a married grandee of the political or financial world could be found there, and it was even whispered that male couples would not be turned away.

 

It was Vyvyan who reached the curtained door first, unlocking it and flinging it aside, with a bold gesture to his lover and his friend.  They pitched inside, arms still linked and giddy with giggles, running across the varnished boards to fall in a tangle on the generous four-post bed.  Vyvyan shut the door and watched with an air of ironic detachment while Jessie and Alex writhed and rolled passionately atop the counterpane, noting the way they entwined, how their clothing tumbled and rucked, how their faces reddened and eyes glazed.  He allowed them a full two minutes to kiss and murmur before calling time on the display with an ostentatious clearing of his throat.

 

"How do you want us tonight, maestro?" asked Alex lazily, grinning up at his audience whilst keeping his red-haired captive pinned down at the shoulder.

 

"I'm still working on that same study," frowned Vyvyan.  "I want to portray a mood of languid satiety – the lovers lying exhausted but with a post-coital halo.  I just can't seem to get the look in Jess's eyes right.  I need to see it one more time."

 

A throaty laugh floated up from Jessie, squirming and writhing to elude Alex's grasp in precisely the most teasing manner she could muster.

 

"Vyvyan, I swear you will be working on that study until Alex and I are in our dotage.  Why don't you admit that you are a voyeur?"

 

"Jessie, all artists are voyeurs," responded Vyvyan loftily, fumbling inside his jacket pocket for his sketchpad and charcoals.  "Even Alex, with his fine words and high poetic ideals.  He'll be finding a way to describe your naked beauty in such a way as to elude the good offices of the Lord Chamberlain before too soon, mark my words."

 

"Do not tar us all with your lurid brush, Stanford," grinned Alex.  "I can separate sex and art – you cannot."

 

Vyvyan mock-glared at his friend, pretending offence, until he shrugged and opened his book.  "You are grievously mistaken if you think there is any art that does not in some part owe its existence to sex," he muttered.  "Now I think I would like you to start with a kiss, please, once you are undressed."

 

Alex pulled Jessie up to a sitting position and began lowering the bodice of her loose velvet dress so that inch after inch of pale arm and cleavage was slowly revealed.  As the material slipped down, he planted a trail of kisses from her throat to her collarbone, interspersing each with conversational asides to the artist.

 

"I'll (kiss)  take our Jessie (kiss)  exactly as I (kiss)  see fit (kiss).  As I understand (kiss), you are interested in (kiss) painting (kiss) the aftermath (kiss), rather than (kiss) the act itself (long kiss)."  Now Jessie was naked from the waist up, her dress and camisole draped loosely about her middle.  "I would not dream of telling you your job, Stanford," he continued, looking over his shoulder squarely into the eyes of his friend.  "So please do not do me the disrespect of dictating mine."

 

Jessie, her chin resting on Alex's shoulder, nuzzling at his neck, sighed.  "Yes, Vyvyan, do please just let Alex do what he does…so well…."

 

Vyvyan grunted and made an annoyed hand gesture with his charcoal, then he sat himself on a comfortable chair and settled in for the performance.

 

Alex made short work of removing the remainder of Jessie's apparel, and then he himself was naked in a trice, kneeling back down before Jessie to give her an unmistakable message of intent.

 

Jessie, reclining against a bank of silk pillows, curled her lips into a smile that mingled awe with brazenness.  "Every time I see you naked, I am shocked anew," she purred, moving over on to her knees opposite the blond Adonis whose desire for her was so rudely evident.  "It is a dreadful shame that Vyvyan cannot just paint this monstrous beauty and have done with it."  She moved a hand forward to cup the taut sacs that swung between the muscular thighs, then, with reverence, she curled the fingers of her other around the stiffened pole that drew the eye upwards towards Alex's broad hairless chest.

 

"I'm flattered you think it worthy of immortalisation," smirked Alex, hooking an arm around Jessie's waist and pulling her inwards so she had to shuffle closer.  "Perhaps a plastercast?"

 

She snorted and squeezed at both of her prodigious handfuls, causing Alex to shut his eyes and moan.

 

"On your back, you little temptress," he growled, flipping her down and pushing her thighs wide apart with one knee.  She cradled his neck, smashing his face down against hers so that they ground together in a fierce kiss.  His hands plucked and pinched and slapped at her body, his erection making an impression in the flesh of her hips and stomach, then his hand was down at her apex, fingers tugging at her downy copper curls, sliding along the mons until they found heat and wetness, taking refuge there in her welcoming opening, kneading and probing and prodding.

 

Jessie gasped beneath his crushing lips, always remembering how much she loved this contrast with Vyvyan's more tender attentions, rotating her pelvis against his hard flat stomach and pushing herself down against his palm, singlemindedly devoted to the pursuit of her pleasure-crisis.

 

Alex released her mouth for an instant, moaning, "Oh, you sweet, wanton, sweet…oh, I'm going to devour you!"  His mouth plunged ravenously against her soft neck, sucking it up, his other hand pinching at a nipple until she began to whimper, brokenly, quietly at first but gathering in volume until it was a constant abandoned "Ooooooh".  Vyvyan leaned forward, taking in the bucking hips, the slapping of her palms against Alex's sides, her frantic head shaking, her heels digging into the mattress.  Her face was so far removed from the angelic veneer he saw on a daily basis when she was like this – it was if a demon of some kind had made its imprint on her features and all that could be read was this wild lust.  He could still not decide if Jessie was an angel with a lewd devil inside her, or vice versa.

 

Her climax passed, Alex rolled over on to his back, pointed at his still-magnificent erection and drawled,  "That's all very well, Jessie, darling, but what are you going to do about this?"

 

She laughed, still panting, and waited for her breathing to steady before saying, "It would be a shame to deny him," and making to swing a leg over her lover's middle.

 

Vyvyan cleared his throat.  "Ahem, Jessie, my dear, if you plan to straddle him, I must request that he lie the other way around.  From this vantage point, I shall see no more than your posterior view – which is, of course, very fine, but I need to see your face."

 

Alex obliged, wriggling around until his feet touched the headboard, then guiding Jessie carefully either side of his thighs and pulling her gently down, slowly, very slowly, until his cock was fully sheathed in her slick sleeve.

 

Vyvyan's hand grew idle as he watched the spectacle of Jessie, splendid young breasts bouncing, tracing a lurching back and forth path on top of Alex's pole.  Alex gurgled appreciatively whenever she leaned far enough forward to brush him with her nipples, then sighed with satisfaction when she sat back upright, shoulders back, fiery hair fanning out in all directions, plastered to her face, trailing over her arms, half-shielding her firm bosom.  Her determination was ferocious and he helped her on her mission, holding her buttocks to assist her into the angle that would send them both speeding rapidly over the edge.

 

"Ah…yes…you beautiful whore…fuck!"  Alex's voice tailed to weak bleating while Jessie howled out her second intense orgasm of the session, the pair of them slipping sweatily against each other, flopping down in complete enervation.

 

"Yes," muttered Vyvyan, finding for a fleet second that expression of depleted ecstasy on his lover's face and trying to translate it into as few swipes of charcoal as possible.  "Yes, my love."

 

For an enchanted while, nothing could be heard but the scribble of Vyvyan's charcoals while Alex and Jessie lay in a sleepy embrace.  Then silence fell, heavy and thick until Jessie raised her head, half-yawning, and said, "Please do join us, dearest."

 

Vyvyan placed aside his sketches and undressed; his body was shorter and thinner than Alex's, but there was one part of it that beat his weary friend for length and girth at this moment.

 

"Oh, sweet love," cooed Jessie.  "Let me help."

 

Vyvyan lay back and shut his eyes for the first time, no longer needing his observational skills for the feast of sensation ahead.

 

 

Fine and Dandy

Who was  your first music crush? Come on – spill! Was it Donny Osmond with his puppy eyes, calling it puppy love? Was it Madonna, thrusting her conical bra in your direction? Was it Aled Jones? Christ, was it really? Noooo.

Here is mine:

From the moment Monica and Jo brought a cassette player into school and played Antmusic in the playground, I was an Antfan, and when I saw the promotional video for Stand and Deliver on Top of the Pops – well, that was it. I had found love.

I took my 99p and I ran as fast as my chubby little legs would carry me to Woolworths on the parade and I bought my seven inches of flamboyant posturing  joy the very next Saturday.

Not only was there stage make-up and heavy drumming, but there were duelling pistols and black horses and women with beauty patches on their faces. It was all too, too perfect for this embryonic bodice-ripper.

For most of 1980 and 1981 Monica, Jo and I sat in the cloakrooms, avoiding the dinner ladies, alternately raving over Adam and his Ants and playing Simon (remember Simon?)

Our other great obsession was Abba's Super Trouper album, but we don't talk about that.

Because Sony music are killjoys won't allow embedding from YouTube, I can't show you the song and video in all their glory. What a crock. But if you've never seen it, please do go and have a look.

1888 Part 8

A Bohemian evening for Florence…

Swanson's was tucked away in one of the narrow alleys that ran down from the Strand to the Embankment, but once inside it was a handsome establishment, spacious and expensively decorated and clearly very popular for post-theatrical suppers.

Florence and Molly were rapt for very different reasons when their winter cloaks were taken and they were led upstairs to the private suites – Florence had never been in such a public establishment and found herself bowled over by the noise and vivacity, while Molly was so elated at being taken for a lady that she could have laughed out loud.

"Lady Sangazure.  Miss Carter.  Miss Macaulay," announced their guide, ushering the three into a high-ceilinged ornately-furnished room before making a discreet exit.

Florence did her level best to maintain a calm external demeanour while Jessie rushed over to the table to make introductions, but Molly could not help but gawp.  Plaster cherubs played plaster harps in the cornicing and around the ceiling rose, from which hung a huge and rather alarming chandelier.  Gilt was everywhere, even in the stripe of the burgundy wallpaper, and the settings on the table shimmered with the golden light of dozens of candles.  Portraits of distinguished patrons vied with satirical sketches and even…oh goodness…that looked like a drawing of a naked lady!  It was every bit as magnificent as Sir Rupert's home, but somehow the atmosphere was quite different – warmer, looser, less pristinely uptight in its extravagance.

Her lady, on the other hand, was taking in the half dozen people at the table, lolling, chatting, smoking, drinking and laughing in a way rarely seen at home, if indeed ever.  Six men – no!  that was a woman at the far end, but dressed and comporting herself in such a mannish way as to instil ambiguity.  She wore a black frock coat and was smoking a cigar, her dark hair scraped back into a bun.  Of the men, most had hair that spilled over their collars and were wearing loose shirts and looser cravats; one wore a velvet beret, another had the most exquisite lace cuffs she had ever seen, a third sported a drooping green carnation in his lapel.  So these were the aesthetes of whom she had read in the satirical magazines!  She had almost wondered if they really existed, or were a figment of Lord Hunter-Fox's imagination, since he was fond of lambasting their tastes and achievements.

"My dears, please come closer," entreated Jessie, standing behind the chair of the longest-haired man, who was gazing at her so dotingly that the relationship between the two was easy to surmise.  "Let me introduce you.  Here we have Agatha; she is a poet and also very active in politics, with the Fabians."

Florence and Molly smiled tightly at the mannish woman, both wondering what exactly a Fabian might be.

"This is John and this is Lawrence."  A pair of fellows in monocles waved elaborately before returning to a no-doubt highly engrossing conversation.  "They are artists," she explained.  "Roland is a wonderful musician."  A dark-haired youth who looked as if the merest puff of wind might blow him away smiled, the side of his lip twitching.  "Alex writes divine poetry."  Alex was a tall, fair-haired young man with an extraordinarily sensual mouth and the most expensive taste in clothes, it seemed.  "And finally, this is my beloved.  Vyvyan."

"I am very pleased to meet you all," said Florence primly, feeling out of her depth.

"Do sit down, dear."

Alex patted the seat beside his, and she responded unwittingly, sitting herself down opposite Jessie and Vyvyan, while Molly found a place between Agatha and John.

It seemed to Florence afterwards that the evening passed in a dream.  Food appeared and was picked at, while the wine flowed in copious quantities, mainly at the behest of Alex, who appeared to be paying for everything.

Molly, quite bemused, listened in awe to the learned and witty conversation around her, trying to adjust her scant knowledge of cultural affairs to accommodate the new information.  Agatha liked to hold forth, regaling all with social and political commentary in between asides on the new books of the day.

"Where's Oscar tonight?" she asked John and Lawrence between lectures.  "Is Alfred in town?"

"No such luck," tittered Lawrence, giving John a knowing look.  "In-laws."

Agatha laughed boomingly.  "Poor Oscar."

Molly concentrated on her grilled sole and looked over at Florence, who was being quite monopolised by the handsome Alex.  Why hadn't she thought to sit next to an eligible man, instead of this odd hybrid and pair of queens?

"Have you really read nothing but Dickens and Trollope?" Alex was saying, his blue eyes incredulously wide.

"Truly.  My father is very particular about what I read," sighed Florence.  Goodness, Alex was a very good-looking young man; every time his arm in its capacious lawn sleeve moved beside her she found herself moving unconsciously closer until their shoulders almost touched.  He was educating her on what she needed to read, pleased to have such a blank slate to fashion after spending so many years navigating and overcoming hardened aesthetic prejudices.  And if the blank slate proved also to be pretty and biddable, well, so much the better.

He reached inside his jacket and brought out a slim violet-bound volume, handing it to his new project.  "Take this, Florence, and read it…why do you look so outraged?  We all use each other's forenames here; we are not stiff old reactionaries.  May I not call you Florence?"

He was smiling teasingly, and Florence blushed, staring down at the book in her hand.  Collected Poems of Algernon Swinburne.

"Of course you may; I meant nothing at all.  You may call me Floss, if you like."

"Floss?"  Alex's smile broadened and he challenged her with his eyes until she was forced to look back up at him.  "That sounds as if you would like us to be friends.  Should you like that, Flossie?"

The silvery voice of Jess cut across the tension, and Florence looked up to see a momentary glint of jealousy in her friend's eyes.

"Alex has taken quite a shine to you, Flo.  Have a care; he has a certain reputation."

"Jess!  If I were not unfailingly gallant, I would have to take you to task for that.  Do you want little Floss here to run away?"  Alex's words were light, but the look in his eyes was hard as steel.

"She is not accustomed to our ways, Alex.  Do not overstep your bounds."

Florence was taken aback at the quality of their eye contact; it was not hostile exactly, and neither was it friendly; it was….there was something a little strange.  She cleared her throat.

"Indeed, it is getting late.  I think Molly and I must be going.  Could you arrange a cab for us?"

"Must you go?" wheedled her beau, but Florence nodded firmly.  The hands of the ormulu clock on the wall pointed to midnight, and she did not dare try to sneak back home with any more of the delicious wine Alex had plied her with inside her.

Goodbyes were said and the two guests allowed Alex to show them downstairs, where the proprietor would organise transport back to Half Moon Street.  Helping Florence into her travelling cloak, Alex took a gentle hold of her forearm, bending down from behind to speak into her ear.

"Floss, I very much hope we will meet again soon.  May I know where you live?  May I visit?"

"Oh…" Florence flustered.  "It is not easy.  I am here incognito tonight – my father…"

"Oh, Floss!  You little scapegrace!"

Florence felt a stirring of mingled excitement and shame at the handsome man's words, spoken so directly into her ear that his breath warmed her lobe.

"Is there no respectable way to see you?  Then we must make a secret assignation.   Can I communicate with you via Jessie?"

"If…you want," stammered Florence, pitching and tossing on a sea of foreign sensations and emotions.

"I do want, Floss.  And I will.  Good evening."  He whirled her around and kissed her hand, keeping their eyes locked together until she had to break away.

He stood on the pavement watching their hansom retreat until they were no longer visible.  Then he turned and went back upstairs.

Kinky Girls Welcome

The Xcite anthology Kinky Girls appeared on the shelves recently, so if you're after some erotica with edge, this is a good place to look. And speaking of looking, my story is called Just Watch Me and tells the story of how Shy Sharleen transforms herself into Sexy Starleen, exhibitionist extraordinaire, with the aid of a webcam.

Here's an excerpt:

"James got me hot and bothered while we waited for Craig to come home from work by telling me about the conversations they had had about me over pints in the local pub. 'He knows what you're like,' James told me, sitting me on his lap and snogging me hard, curtains wide, one hand up my top. 'I've told him that you like it hard and often. I've told him about your sweet, tight cunt and your round, red nipples. I've told him that I've fucked your arse and you loved it. He knows you're a dirty slut and he can't wait to see it for himself.'

'God.' I was gulping, throat dry, knickers soaked. 'Are we really doing this?'

'Relax, babe. If you don't want to do anything, just say the word. He's only going to watch, though.'

His key turned in the lock and I hid in James' resumed kiss, letting him put his hand up my skirt, baring my thigh to the eye of the newcomer, who had thrown his bags down in the hall and was home. Home and hungry.

'Well, well.' His voice was a little unsteady, trying too hard for detached amusement. 'What have we here? James and Shar sitting in a tree K.I.S.S.I.N.G. Please don't mind me – carry on.'

So we did. Carried on clinching on the sofa until my top was off and my skirt down.

'What do you think, Craig?' James broke off from sucking my nipple to throw the question over to the armchair. I looked over at him; he had released his cock and held it in a fierce fist. His face was pink all over, and looked bloated, his eyes reduced to piggy slits of lust.

There were two ways I could go now. I could shake myself out of this madness and bolt from the room, clutching skirt and top. James was a decent sort of bloke – he wouldn't hold it against me. Or I could do what I did – move one of my hands down inside my knickers, holding Craig's eyes all the while, and splay my fingertips across my wet vulva, ready to thrum in a slow, steady kind of way, for the benefit of a stranger.

'You're not shy, are you?' said Craig, trying to keep the tone light, but sounding like a buffoon instead, like the probably-virginal technogeek that he was. Poor Craig. I felt a little sorry for him. This was strong stuff for an introduction to the thrills of voyeurism. But I was past shame now, past modesty, well past my old-fashioned cast-off morality.

'Actually,' I panted, letting James remove the knickers and bra entirely. 'I am. This seems to be…an anomaly…'

It came out something like 'ammamolomoly' though, because James' tongue had come to land on my clit and I could no longer say long or complicated words.

'Oh my God!' whimpered Craig, crouching down to crotch level for the better view. His spectacle lenses steamed up and I came, for the first time of many, thrusting my hips right at him, right at his face."

There are twenty stories of lust, leather and lewdness in this book – check out the roster of authors!

Angel Propps ; Carmel Lockyer ; Chris Ross ; Cyanne ; Alex Severn ; K D Grace ; Brandon Burnham ; Maggie Morton ; Tabitha Rayne ; Jeremy Smith ; Alcamia Payne ; Eva Hore ; Ruth Marie de la Flambeau ; Penelope Friday ; Sommer Marsden ; Morgan Honeyman ; Tara S Nichols ; Teresa Noelle Roberts and L A Fields.

Put some kink in your step and order a copy!

1888 Part 7

Florence and Molly embark on an adventure…

Florence risked a peek through the window of the hansom cab, noticing how its wheels sliced through the black slush on the cobbles, though the horses had less luck with the treacherous stuff, causing the carriage to lurch drunkenly with each occasional slip.

Although it was not as if anybody respectable would be crowded on to the pavements of the Strand at this hour of the evening, her heart had taken residence in her mouth and extravagant fantasies of her discovery and its consequences repeated themselves incessantly in her head.

"Are you sure we were not seen, Molly?" she enquired urgently of her maid for the fifth time.

"Hush, Miss, no, nobody saw. I'm certain. Cook has the evening off, and all the others were playing whist in the basement. You saw yourself that the kitchen was deserted."

"But could we have been seen?" persisted Florence anxiously. "From a back window perhaps?"

"Why, Miss, the back of the house was all in darkness. And the stairs from the yard were pitch black; we almost stumbled and slipped on the ice, didn't we? Who could have seen us?"

"No, no, you're right, Molly, you're quite right." Florence sat back in her seat but she continued to fidget restlessly with her green satin gloves. "I had no idea that so many people populated the streets at night. Who are they all?"

Molly scanned the ranks of people shivering on the winter streets, pitying their plight and hoping they had warm grates to sit beside on their return home. "Mostly they're trying to make a living, Miss. Selling things – pies, spoiled fruit, sheet music, anything you'd care to name. The flower girls have gone now, but most of the others can't go home till they've made the few pennorth they need to eat and pay rent."

"Really? They live like that? Hand to mouth?"

"Of course, Miss." Molly stared. "That's how ordinary folk live, at least where I come from. They ain't all selling though. Some of 'em are out for the night, going to see a show or get a drop of ale."

"I see. I've never been to an evening performance before; Papa always took me to the matinée. It's like…another world."

"Yes, Miss."

Florence gasped and moved her face away from the window sharply. Standing outside a restaurant, talking with some other men, was the unmistakable looming height and menacing profile of Lord Hunter-Fox, illuminated beneath a gaslamp while his companions faded into shadow.

"Miss? Are you all right?"

Florence steadied her breathing and turned to Molly. "I swear that man is everywhere. He is impossible to elude. I believe that he will be waiting for me at the pearly gates of Heaven."

"Oh. Lord Hunter-Fox?"

"Indeed; who else? He is intolerable."

"I've heard he has a scheme to send Lady Adelaide away for treatment," said Molly diffidently, wondering if she was rising above her station in discussing such matters.

"You've no right to gossip about my mother," snapped Florence, their fragile camaraderie frozen over in the space of seconds.

"Oh…no, Miss. I'm sorry," said Molly meekly.

The rest of the journey passed in silence. Florence reviewed the few days that had passed between renewing her acquaintance with Jessie and coming to watch her at the Savoy. They had been cold in all respects; her mother had refused to receive her daughter at her sickbed while her father had had one of his rambling heart-to-hearts imploring her not to take up this foolish friendship. Aunt Julia had been loth to accompany her on any more excursions after the gallery, so Florence had been largely confined to the house. When the letter and tickets from Jessie had arrived, she had been as determined as she possibly could be that she would escape her restrictive existence, even if only for one night. Without hesitation, she had called Molly into her bedroom and concocted a plan to slip undetected from the house. The last two days had been full of suppressed smiles, stifled giggles, discussions of what to wear and whom they would meet, and whether they should invent aliases.

"Perhaps we should be sisters," Molly had suggested, her eyes dancing with excitement, but Florence had been aghast at the idea.

"Oh, no, not sisters. Goodness, no. Who would think you were a lady? No, we will be lady and maidservant, of course. But I will be…Lady Sangazure!"

"Don't you think people will realise that that's a …a character from one of the operas? I mean…if they like Gilbert & Sullivan?"

"Oh, does it matter?" said Florence with an airy wave of her hand. "I like the name, and I intend to use it."

"Very good, Miss."

*

"Oh my goodness, flowers on the second night? That's unusual!"

Tilly Crowle paused from trowelling rouge on to her somewhat hollow cheeks to raise an eyebrow at her chorus-mate, Jessie. Jessie had had the biggest and best bouquets last night as well – even some of the principals had been jealous – and now here was another tissue-wrapped hothouse bouquet. It was a rum do, that's what it was.

Jessie merely smiled back at the curious girl and tilted her head to hear what the stagedoor Johnny who had brought them had to say.

"Oh. No. You must tell him I am otherwise engaged tonight. But I would be delighted to take supper with him later in the week, if he has the time. Thank you, Reginald. You're a darling."

"Secret admirer?" asked Tilly archly, sidling over to help Jessie clip her wild tresses up on to her head.

"Oh, just a family friend up in town for the night," she said, not even the trace of a blush staining her alabaster skin at this outright falsehood. Tilly humphed, privately thinking that Jessie must have an awfully large extended social network. It would be nice if she would share the wealth a little with the other girls.

"But you're otherwise engaged? You should have said; I wouldn't mind being bought supper tonight."

"Tilly, he's a crashing bore. Eighty if he's a day. Utterly incapable of talking about anything but dogs and horses. Please spare yourself!" She caught Tilly's slight pout and relented a little. The girl was envious and a little malicious at times, but she was pretty enough, if a little on the skinny side. "Listen, if you really want to meet some…gentlemen…I could put in a good word for you. Perhaps."

Tilly half-smiled. "I wish I had your admirers, Jess. But they love your red hair and your white skin. A thin sallow thing like me gets overlooked." She sighed. "I'll think about it. Oh, listen, that's Frederic and Ruth's duet starting. We'd better hurry or we'll be late."

Powders and paints flew out of their tins, stays were tightened and bustles fitted. It was time to take to the stage.

*

Molly's neck was on a permanent pivot, her eyes drinking in all the fine silks and fob watches and hats with feathers and white-gloved male hands in the foyer. Clusters of people, all smelling of lavender and freesia and shaving soap mixed with the cold smoky air of the city, shivering under fur stoles or clapping their hands together, glancing around through lorgnettes or kissing each other's hands. Molly very much wanted to stay and mingle, sighting several rather dashing fellows in top hats, but Florence was hell-bent on getting to their seats with the minimum of delay, pulling her through the throng and into the auditorium in seconds.

Their seats were reasonably good ones in the stalls, but Florence was used to the family box and found it novel, perhaps a little uncomfortable, to have to sit side by side with complete strangers. Molly settled quickly into the plush tip-seat, patting her skirts down and pulling a tin of lemon-flavoured pastilles from her reticule.

"Would you like a sweet, Miss?"

"Oh…no thank you, Molly." Florence was gazing through her opera glasses, her head moving in sweeping left to right gestures, leaving no seat unexamined in her quest to feel safely unrecognised.

Molly shrugged and popped one of the little yellow ovals into her mouth, starting in surprise when a man leaned over from the aisle and passed her a note.

"Florence Smythson? This is from Jessie."

Florence took the note, which contained instructions for their meeting after the show, smiled and hid it inside her beaded evening purse. Suddenly her anxiety was replaced by a rising exhilaration and she put away her opera glasses, replacing them with a fan behind which she was able to partly conceal her face.

The orchestra began to tune up in the pit and Molly resolved to cast all other thoughts from her mind and concentrate on enjoying this new experience.

It was surprisingly easy to follow, she found. She had wondered if it would be all singing, with lots of high-falutin language that would go over her head, but the puns and jokes were mainly of a kind popular in the kitchens and there was plenty of conversation between the tunes.

Once the final encore had been shouted and the last echoes of applause had died away, Florence and Molly moved as quickly as they could away past the masses blocking up the exits to a side door by the curtains. They were ushered inside by the man who had passed the note from Jessie and they wandered up stairs and along corridors, past pirates who tipped their skull-decorated hats politely until they arrived at a curtained door attended by an elderly gentlemen.

"This is the stage door, I think?" Florence enquired of him.

"It is, Ma'am," he confirmed.

They did not have to wait long; five minutes later Jessie barrelled out of a distant door, hair flying, wearing only a loose velvet dress and a wrap.

"Oh, Flo, dearest, I am so pleased to see you! I hardly knew if you would come!"

"We have had quite an adventure of it," grinned Florence, allowing herself to be taken into Jessie's arms and kissed on the cheek.

"Well, the adventure shall continue," promised Jessie, stepping back and including Molly in her warm smile. "And who is this?"

"I am Molly, Miss Florence's maidservant, I thank you kindly."

"Oh, you needn't stand on ceremony with me, Molly. I'm Jess; pleased to meet you!"

Florence was vaguely shocked at Jess's egalitarian attitude, but told herself that, after all, she was just a humble Camberwell girl and knew no better. She smiled uncomfortably and waited for Jessie to escort them from the theatre.

"We will be eating at Swanson's," Jessie said airily, leading the feminine triumvirate out into the icy darkness. "Do you know it? They have private dining rooms upstairs where we will take supper with some of my friends. Oh, Flo, you will love them and they you! They are longing to meet you."

"What manner of people are they?" asked Florence, eyeing a pair of toothless women in gaudy sateen frocks on the corner as they passed.

"Oh, all manner of people. Artists, poets, thinkers…true free spirits, Florence."

"Good heavens," said Florence mildly, though her heart was racing and her imagination filled with vivid scenarios. Free spirits! What qualified one to be described as such? She was eager to find out.

Come And Live A Love Supreme

Yes, I'm wishing you a Happy Valentine's Day with a bouquet of Rachel Randall – a wonderful gift for anyone to cherish! She's celebrating the release of her Lust Bite story Taking It Off at Total E-Bound.

Never mind taking it off – take it away, Rachel!

2011 is the year of music here at this blog, and with thanks to the gorgeous Mistress of the House of Elyot, I'm delighted to share my Valentine's Day mix with you.

I love making soundtracks for my erotic romances. The whole process is at its best when I find the songs that strike a balance between the mood of the story, my characterisations, and the actual plot itself. Coming up with tracks for Taking It Off, my latest release from Total-E-Bound, was just win-win-win.

This is a story about two people who know immediately that they're going to need to touch each other. They take one look at each other and just know. The confidence there is what makes Taking It Off so fun, and ultimately, so sexy. Valentine and Lucy are both pushing themselves to try something different. They're holding off on that sure-thing long enough to really savour the delicious agony of the wait.

I wanted songs that conveyed a sense of euphoria — they're having a ball with each other, with the unusual situation, and they're treating themselves. Flirting with temptation, with all sorts of indulgences they would usually rush on through to get to the prize.

I wanted songs that played up the distance between them — every cursed mile between London and New York City. I wanted songs that caught the vulnerability of what they were doing — despite that confidence, wanting someone that badly and trusting that they want you too takes a big leap of faith.

And most of all, I wanted *sex* dripping from every line. There's a lot of sinfully sexy male voices in this mix and while the lyrics don't always match the story, the sounds do. I dare you to listen to the sublime Guy Garvey on "I've Got Your Number" and not squirm in your seat. Listen to young Mr Turner invite you to spin his propeller and just *try* not to go to Sheffield immediately. And I promise, you'll be ready for a 2am booty call after Alex Kapranos and will.i.am invite you to call them.

I've shared the entire mix on Spotify for you to enjoy. I'd love to know what you think of the selection. And do come visit me at rachelrandall.wordpress.com where I have music mixes for my other stories and some graphic art I created especially to celebrate Taking It Off's release

(My propeller won't spin / and I can't get it started on its own / When are you arriving?)

———–

Taking It Off by Rachel Randall is available to buy now.



Valentine knows when he's found the right fit — whether it's matching an executive to a job or finding a lover for himself — but he's never had a first impression quite like Lucy before.

Commandeered by the intriguing stranger at a luxury London department store, Valentine's more than happy to provide the masculine opinion Lucy demands. After all, watching her model fabulous cocktail dresses, saucy shoes and mouth-watering lingerie is his pleasure.

He soon realises that he wants more than just one seductive afternoon with the luscious Lucy. Getting under those new clothes will be a challenge since she's gone back to New York, but he's not the only one being driven mad by the heat of their long-distance flirtation. Now Valentine just needs to convince his little tease that the best part of trying things on is taking them off again.

Do You Want To Win?

Well, do you? A Valentine's Day present could be yours, because I'm giving away three copies of my operatically-themed erotic romance novella Sempre to randomly selected commenters. Just tell me which Italian city you'd most like to visit for a chance to win this man. OK, you don't win the man. But you win a story about him – almost as good, eh?

To go with the contest, here is Cavaradossi's lament from the dungeon cell in act three of Tosca – a song that can always be relied on to make me cry.

 

And tomorrow I have something really special for you – a fabulously musical and erotic-romantic celebration of Rachel Randall's Valentine's Day release at Total E-Bound. Miss it at your peril!