Chloe Thurlow's Blog, page 10
September 24, 2015
Ripened for Sin
A biography of Chloe ThurlowPart III
by Elizabeth Woodham
Sin takes many forms and Chloe has indulged most of them. Her lovers have been eclectic and interesting. I hope Tom holds her interest.
I worry that her quest for respectability will lead to heartache – for him, at least, and maybe even her. And yet, when they come to dinner, they glow, wearing a mantel of impatience to leave, return home to bed from where they have obviously just tipped out.
Ray and Tom talk about war. Tom is a healer, while Ray is trained to kill. They talk and we listen and try not to be cynical or weary about our powerlessness in the face of all they have witnessed, of scenes that we cannot begin to imagine or understand. I sense a shift in us all, as maturity and discipline descend. A new era is upon us. Change will happen and Tom and Chloe will lead the way.
That last night before Chloe took her leap of faith, I served safe lasagne and Prosecco and worried about Ray and envied Chloe’s glow and tried not to be brittle in the face of her new reflection. The new face.
Later, as I cleared the table, Ray long unconscious on the sofa, me still worried and kind of needy, knowing Chloe and Tom had gone back to have sex, I considered our collective lives up to that point, and thought about Chloe’s apprehension about meeting Tom’s sister. Again, I feared for her. She’s not an ordinary girl. She inhabits an unusual world. Tom and Chloe met on New Year’s Eve, her usual whirlwind captured him, sucked him into her core and they spent that first night together. A new day, a new year, a new world.
‘We made love, Lizzie.’
‘So?’
‘Made love. Had proper, loving sex, without a strap-on or buggery.’
‘Really?’ I knew my eyebrows had disappeared into my hairline.
‘Don’t do that, we agreed that extreme expression would cause premature ageing.’
Chloe giggled and I tried to recall if I’d ever heard her giggle before. She laughs. She has never giggled, and shock creased my brow into parallel lines until I laughed too and wept inside for the loss of my wanton girl. Robbed by a man with a real job, with a real life, with real prospects. Jesus! For a man that even Chloe’s mother would approve of.
Ripened for Sin, Secrets
…as recorded by me.
Mother and father sent me to boarding school. Father worked as a diplomat, and they travelled the world. They left me in rural England at a convent school and returned to visit from time to time. During holidays, I sometimes joined them in far off exotic places. I learned to love and longed for the smells, sights and sounds of the countries I visited. I still haven’t lost my yearning for travel. Mostly, I spent breaks staying with friends at their houses.
I adored school. Unlike many boarders, I thrived. I knew my power – even then. I harnessed it, held on to it and let it develop until I was ready to wield it. Experimental power, experimental sex. I started with fantasy and masturbation, and when I was fully prepared, totally familiar with my own body, with the taste and feel of budding flesh and cells, I focused on Sister Nuria and unleashed my newfound knowledge.
My early education was a teaching and learning curve because Sister Nuria also had a lot to learn. Teaching and learning, hand in glove (she smiles). One, indistinguishable from the other, always going forth into new territory, just like an exploration of a new land. The local village was a treasure-trove of adventure. Populated with eager boys, panting to remove my panties, desperate to fondle my breasts, plunge a mouth with a tongue or a quim with a small, hard cock.
I made choices early. I created a ‘to do’ list, topped with Sister Nuria. The boys in the village featured later, but putting them at the lower end of my shopping list didn’t stop me teasing them on trips into town. I was merciless. I ignored the leader of the pack and started with the runt. I’ve always had a weakness for weakness.
As you well know, I prefer the taste of girls but the individual flavour of semen appeals to me almost as much and I set out to experience as many flavours as possible.
Exeats were easy to earn. Sister Nuria’s orgasm bought my sorties into town and I’d usually work hard enough to buy a couple for my friends too. My best friend was not keen to lose her virginity, either to me or to a boy, and I didn’t push her. I liked her. A lot. I respected her prudish ways. She acted as lookout whenever I used the farmer’s barn to teach my runt my new learning…
Ripened for Sin, Indeed
I don’t know who I am, Lizzie. Sometimes I think I am a girl and at others I wonder if I am a combination of girl and boy. A strange combination of neither one nor the other.
‘You’re too feminine to be boy-like.’
‘Sometimes, yes. Sometimes no. Don’t you think?’
‘No. You’re a girl. Look at you.’
She faces the mirror and peers. She tries to see what I see. What you see, Dear Reader? She falls short. Her knowledge of her exterior self is the only area in which she falls short. She is a double-first in all other areas. She left the rest of us standing.
Her tutor marked her out as soon as she arrived at her college. A lecher I often think of him. His lustful avaricious nature barely concealed beneath the veneer of respectability of his position. He seduced her in his rooms on a wet afternoon in October, piercing her with the flaccid symbolism of his superiority in all areas, bending her over his knee to receive a bare-bottomed, bare-handed spanking. Delivering well-timed, well-aimed blows until he was panting with exertion and she was just panting.
He ruined her that day. Her need for abuse had been stimulated from an early age, nurtured by the nuns at school and honed by her Don that autumn day. She cannot see what I see. The layers of armour in which she has clothed herself since the flesh of her bottom was rouged with the roiling blood of her submission.
When she writes, she works like an addict works at getting the next fix. Manic activity in the hours when most of us are sleeping. An insomniac, she does her best work between the hours of 2.00 and 4.00 am. She emerges spaced-out from a period of frenzied activity and it takes a while before she returns to normal. Whatever that is.
For a few days after she completes a project she’s like an addict coming down from a high. Hyperactive, jumpy, her five senses more acute, she’s fixated, until she’s worked herself to the edge of exhaustion. She stops, as if she’s reached the summit after a long climb into the clouds. Falls into bed and sleeps for hours and hours. She snores sometimes, too, but denies it, naturally.
At Chloe’s convent, she learned Latin in a building that had a ‘grandeur that made learning Latin seem right and proper.’ Friar Dunstan’s lessons fascinated Chloe, and in her book about her, that’s not actually about her, Bella recalls the Friar’s instruction about the Rubicon. The river on the far frontier of the Roman Empire. After Caesar had chased his enemies to the river bank, he gazed at the torrent, gathered his troops and gave them permission to turn back. But once they crossed the rickety bridge all future progress would be by force of arms.
There’s no turning back after you have crossed the Rubicon. Chloe’s the sort of girl who rarely looks back, when she makes a decision, she sticks to it.
Chloe is complex, she’s the devil that tempts you with the most kissable lips, she’s the angel that achieved an A* for her essay on Caesar’s military tactics…She is the girl every girl wants to be, even if they don’t know that.
To be continued (promise) – Lizzie Woodham
A Girl’s Secret Life – copyright Elizabeth Woodham, 2014
Read Part 1 – Unreliable Memoirs
Read Part II – Seduction & Carnality
* * *
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September 23, 2015
Seduction & Carnality
A biography of Chloe ThurlowPart II
by Elizabeth Woodham
Chloe’s education began at an early age at the Kent convent where the nuns instructed all subjects and excelled in carnality.
During term-time, Chloe practised her skills in seduction on the wimpled ladies and, during the holidays, she tried her newly awakened self on the various men her mother employed in the house and grounds of their Kent home. How far these teen intrigues went it is hard to say, although in The Secret Life of Girls I can picture her in the woodshed with the gardener spraying her nightdress with the water jet used for the plants, her nipples growing hard through the wet fabric, Mother appearing ‘like the monster in my nightmares,’ as she would later write.
Further, by outrageous flirtation, she practised her arts on her uncles. Her father was often away ‘lying for England,’ as Chloe termed his profession in the Foreign Office. Left to her own devices, while Mother carried out various charitable works, Chloe wielded her sexual power with the men and boys drawn into her charisma like bees to the moist interior of the tuberose.
But her real education started when she went up to Cambridge. I knew immediately she came down to London during the first holiday of her second full term that she’d been plucked by an expert, laid bare and ripened for sin. I knew that the dusky dark rooms in Rose Crescent, which provided a waitresses income to supplement her student loan, was not the only place where she got her friendly fix.
Chloe developed a passion for Auden, a love affair which continues to this day. Sparked by her tutor, who also introduced her to Bataille, Sartre, Camus and erotica, she began to grow and become, develop and change, grow wings and write.
‘You should see his desk, Lizzie, it’s piled high with papers and books, and you’d hardly know where anything is, but it’s so huge that there’s a massive shiny uncluttered space right in the middle, which seems to be the perfect height for his favourite thing.’
‘What is his favourite thing?’ I think I knew the answer.
Chloe’s intense passion for all things literature, including the tutors, was the driving force behind her achieving a first and was instrumental in honing her sexual power. She approached and devoured her studies with the same voracious appetite as she consumed the men and women who thought they were her seducers, when in fact, not a single one of them really had consummate power.
‘He loves to spank me. I adore the sound of his belt as he pulls it from the loops ready to thrash me with it. The old walls of the college are thick, it’s a medieval building, which is just as well, although one time, he had to gag me with my panties. I love it, Lizzie, I really do.’
I understood completely. I’m an anal queen myself and love the glow of beaten cheeks prior to being buggered.
‘He titillates me with his eloquence and makes everything sound so rude. Every word, every line of every poem he reads to me sounds erotic and juicy. Soon my own juices are flowing and before he’s even told me how crap my essays are, even when they are better than usual, I’m ready for punishment.’
‘I imagine you give him crap pieces deliberately?’
‘Oh, God, I hate it that you know me so well.’ She pauses, glances over one shoulder, brushes a loose strand of hair from her eyes. ‘He loves the strap. I adore the sound it makes as it slices the air almost as much as I like the noise of the leather contacting my flesh. The exquisite sting when in connects. Well, you know what it’s like, Lizzie, God knows you’ve been thrashed enough times.’
‘Ah, yes, my unsuitable affair.’
I was in the sixth month of an affair with a married lover. I adore married lovers. They demand nothing except sex, provide gifts, money and my wishes. They are always in a good mood and I don’t have to do boring domestic activities. Divine.
There are few things better than an affair with a well off, uncomplicated, scared-of-being-caught, married man. The man introduced me to his fetish in the same hour that he took my heterosexual virginity. I’d lost my cherry years before having sex with girls, but he was my first male penetration. Nevertheless, the taste of girls is addictive. Chloe and I love that indefinable flavour, that syrupy elixir, and each other. Didn’t she write in A Girl’s Adventure – ‘there’s nothing like the taste of girls?’ Of course she did. She’s an expert.
Having been introduced to the intoxication of being soundly spanked by a man who has power over a girl’s destiny, Chloe embraced her role as protégé. She soon had her Don doing her bidding, while they each pretended that he had the upper-hand, although knowing that it was she who held ultimate power – the human trick of self-deception she knows so well.
During that period, Chloe wore the expression of a girl who had just been fucked, whether she had or not. A natural academic, she thrived during her time at Cambridge. ‘My petals open there, Lizzie,’ she said and bought a bike, parking it 5 or 6 deep against the railings along with the occasional rusty prisoner which had never been reclaimed and hung on is padlock never to be ridden again.
Chloe never mastered the art of punting. It hardly mattered since there was no shortage of men who wanted to work the oar while Chloe reclined like an Egyptian Queen and trailed her hand in the water in an emulation of an iconic image.
Between terms, Cambridge slumbers in some ways, students replaced by tourists, even though its busy all-year-round, a carousel of academic elitism. The nine to fivers who live there twenty-four seven are different, set apart and strangely more buoyant when the students leave. Chloe rarely elected to stay in Cambridge outside term time, her rooms usually let to summer school students and other visitors, and after her second term she got a room in a shared house.
I nursed a secret hope that she’d audition for the University Challenge team and bought her a copy of Starter for Ten.
‘No, Lizzie, I can’t be bothered,’ she said, although she read the book and liked it.
I conducted my affair with my married spanker in unison with Chloe’s liaison with the spanking professor so we learned discipline at the hands of much older men, simultaneously in different cities.
Literature was a close second to our sexual activities for discussion and we loved combining the two by devouring as much Anais Nin and the Marquis de Sade as we could manage along with the set books. The time to read is when you are young, when you absorb everything, when books come to life in your hands like lovers.
The rebellious tattoo she had inked on the nape of her neck took ages to heal. I never succumbed to a tattoo and was quietly sorry that Chloe went ahead without me. I was worried that it would get infected; it took so long to settle.
It’s now a pretty reminder of her daring and my hesitance and is as much Chloe as is Chloe herself.
Copyright Elizabeth Woodham, 2014
Part III Ripened For Sin appears tomorrow, 24 September
If you missed Part 1 JUST CLICK
The post Seduction & Carnality appeared first on Erotic romance writer Chloe Thurlow.
September 22, 2015
A Girl’s Secret Life
Unreliable Memoirsa biography of Chloe Thurlow
Part I
by Elizabeth Woodham
She is a work of art – a work in progress – a wonder to behold.
Chloe has a secret life. She conceals as much as she reveals in her novels and short stories. Is she Bella in The Secret Life of Girls? Or is Bella a projection of herself, someone she would have liked to have been as a young girl at boarding school in Kent. The school of her story is fictitious, but the descriptions of the school, as well as the Kent countryside, are clearly drawn from memory, not imagination.
In The Secret Life of Girls, Bella goes to Spain with the twins Tara and Gemma. Chloe could just as easily be those twins, rather than Bella, a composite of the two carrying her right brain creativity and left brain organisation.
Spain comes often into her stories. In Girl Trade, the unnamed girl is alone on holiday in Gomera, one of the Canary Islands. She paints Spain in passionate colours; she loves the heat on her skin, swimming naked under the moonlight.
In her blog First Love Lasts Forever, she reveals that her first love was a boy she met in Spain while on holiday with her parents and her descriptions of that one night together make it clear, to me, that here she is drawing on truth, not fantasy.
For Chloe, Spain represents life in full flower, flags flapping at full mast, passion like an aphrodisiac wafting through the air. She loves the bullfight with its blood in the sand, noisy trumpets, to die for handsome matadors, the conventions and traditions – a remnant of an old Europe fading beneath the glass and concrete of modernity and sameness.
It probably started with the small things. Minor details like plucking, waxing, removing the evidence of womanhood, trying to revert to smooth-skinned hairlessness. A reversal of the fuzzy-fleshy flush of the ripe peach, the bloom of skin encasing her lush centre velvet smooth backside.
Maybe she was born that way. Thurlow has a way of searching my face and I wait, scan her reaction to my ideas as her super-quick brain processes the information.
‘No, Lizzie. I don’t know. No.’
I glance at the ashtray. Seven cigarette ends, a fortuitous number. My lucky number is seven. Chloe’s is three. I made my decision to write my unreliable memoirs on 14.07.14, with or without her permission. If I were superstitious, which I am not, I’d say it’s a very good date to begin writing about a girl who indulges herself with a multitude, including me.
So, this biography is unauthorised, but accurate. I grew up with Thurlow. We went to the same school, in many ways separate and yet together. She went up to Cambridge; I moved to London, but we stayed in touch. I committed all her sins to memory and share them with you here.
Chloe Thurlow is a mystery. The images with which she illustrates her literary blog are eclectic but invariably sexy. Which of them is CT? She is none of them and yet all of them. She is slim, effortlessly beautiful, long-legged and energetic. She is the full-breasted beauty astride her blindfolded lover and the dark, frenetic secretary, glasses perched prettily upon her nose as she scratches the fine nib of her pen across the 1oo gramme paper.
Always writing in longhand, filling page and page with green ink, the middle finger of her right hand perma-stained, and if you know her, it’s difficult to conjure up an image that doesn’t hold a pen.
She is as complicated as all the photographs in which she is portrayed. She is as complex as any of her heroines and yet she is as simple as a blank canvas. You could take up your brushes and paint her from scratch, turn her into whomever you want her to be and elevate her to the oldest profession in the world.
Who do you want her to be? Name your vision and Chloe Chameleon will transform for your pleasure. Her hedonism is evidenced in her work, and yet the young woman who has packed a millennium of exploits into a mere 29 years tells us that only one of her books is autobiographical, and she isn’t saying which.
Let’s investigate Chloe Thurlow’s Secret Life. Let’s play dirty and dig deep.
Marie-France is Chloe’s ghost. More correctly, she is one of Chloe’s ghosts. She has many. They haunt her. Chloe describes herself as a ‘late night girl,’ yet, she is an early riser (I know) writing before dawn, even on a summer night. I wonder if she writes to lay her ghosts, but know that it’s not that simple.
Sometimes, she undervalues herself, mocks her own achievements, while the rest of us watch open-mouthed, she compares herself to others and finds fault, self-fault, her fault. A fault.
Marie-France is one of those faultless, flawless girls who you want to punch. Hard. Hard on her pretty snout. Beautiful, fey, distracted, a classical musician, an advertisement for Lanvin chocolate. Chloe is a dancing flame, hot enough to melt the ice-maiden without knowing how bright she burns.
At the time of writing her boyfriend is Tom. Tom’s heart was broken by Marie-France. Chloe cannot forgive her that, and breaks her own heart over and over again. Repeatedly. Repeating mistakes in an endless quest for perfection.
Her difficult relationship with her mother is at the root of all things. Mother is, for now at least, proud of Chloe. As I write this, CT is overseas with Tom, working in a school. Tom fixes bodies and Chloe fixes minds. That’s the way I like to think of it. I could barely believe it when she raced over to my place brandishing her teaching certificate and tickets for the flight.
‘You’ve finally lost it,’ I said, ‘irrevocably in love. Teaching English as a foreign language? To be with Tom? You’re crazy, crazy.’ I kept my stern face turned towards her and smiled inside.
Ray, my own soldier, a military man, broken and breaking all in one, a snapshot on the face of a million armies, the same man, doppelganged in thousands of households. Damaged. Lost. Wearing a different uniform covering his skin and the same battered soul beneath the skin.
I love a challenge. And so does Chloe.
Copyright, Elizabeth Woodham, 2014
Part II Seduction & Carnality – appears tomorrow, 22 September
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September 17, 2015
The English Vice is Spanking
The English vice is spanking. Why, exactly, is uncertain, but where the Angles lack the continental appetite for passion and amour, the English vice serves as a substitute for that messy, intimate act between the sheets.
Englishmen – of a certain class – would rather be rowing or riding, playing cricket or wallowing in the mud of a rugby field, something sweaty, mindless and performed with other men.
Englishwomen are so enamoured of their roses and begonias, when summer makes its brief appearance – like a cameo in opera – they dress in flower print dresses that match their curtains, couches and gardens, the ultimate camouflage.
English girls submit their buttocks (the favoured word) for spanking, not because they find it sexy or sensual, but with the impulse to 1) not make a fuss; and 2) be a good sport. It’s imperative to keep a stiff upper lip, although, when it comes to the English vice, it’s more likely that the lower lips stiffen as the horny hand comes clapping down ‘for England!’
The English vice is sometimes confused with the English disease, which has lent its name to ale-swilling football hooligans in St George’s Cross tee-shirts who, the dark mirror of their upper-crust compatriots, would much rather be pummelling the wogs, frogs and waps in Spain, France, and Italy than cuddling up to the cellulite thighs of their better ‘alves back in Blighty.
According to Uncyclopedia, not to be mistaken for Wikipedia, the English disease is characterised by egomania, a superiority/inferiority complex, delusions of grandeur, and natiokleptomania – a strong desire to steal other people’s countries.
The superiority/inferiority complex could explain England’s partiality for the English vice, not that the English coined the phrase. Needless to say, it is the work of the French, ‘le vice anglais,’ perhaps in revenge for what the English call the French vice: syphilis.
The French also gave us the striking new word sadism, from the Marquis de Sade, the French nobleman with a keen eye on bottoms crying out for a spanking; while the word masochism is the gift of Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, an Austrian with that peculiarly Germanic taste for being spanked.
The Italian vice was first used as a euphemism for homosexuality in records from 1658 when Philippe Jules Mancini, the Duke of Nevers, ‘corrupted’ his namesake, Philippe, the Chevalier de Lorraine. The Greek vice is buggery, in use since the time of Helen of Troy; while the American vice refers to the vice-president and can proudly claim as a nation to have no other vices.
English Vice Knightly
The English vice returned to the spotlight when actress Keira Knightly – photographed above – was cast as mental patient Sabina Spielrein in A Dangerous Method, David Cronenberg’s film about the bond between CG Jung and Sigmund Freud. There are scenes where our half-naked English rose is tied to the bed for a spanking by Jung, played by Michael Fassbender (which doesn’t sound so awful).
Ms Knightly had to overcome her doubts about playing the role because she thought the explicit scenes of flagellation would attract too much attention. She was right. Or at least partly right. The European press didn’t dwell on the erotic content, while the English tabloids went at like mad dogs in a slaughterhouse spewing out enough column inches to decimate the forests of Finland.
‘It got mentioned all the time,’ Keira told The Daly Telegraph. ‘I don’t know what that says about us. We obviously like spanking.’ And she poses the question: ‘Why are the English so besotted with spanking?’
It is not easy to find a comprehensive answer. Boys who attended the best public schools (meaning private schools) would suffer beatings on their bare buttocks from both masters and older boys, preparing them to show no mercy when they became seniors and, later, went overseas to administer the Empire. Having been beaten, there were those who would have acquired the taste to continue the practise, both as givers and receivers.
Unruly seamen in the days of sailing ships were routinely flogged with the feared cat o’nine tails by officers of the Royal Navy – scenes captured in the movie Mutiny on the Bounty, while in the holds of ships stealing slaves across the oceans to the Americas, the English chose the whip to keep their payload submissive. Winston Churchill, mixing his vices, once defined the traditions of the Royal Navy as ‘rum, sodomy, and the lash.’
The English vice flourishes today in telephone boxes up and down the country where prostitutes stick postcards advertising ‘Victorian Punishment’ and ‘Strict Mistress’ for men feeling the need for chastisement, something of a role reversal, but well within the bounds of the English vice.
There is certainly a national fixation with the English vice. A man saying on a whim to his girl, ‘I’m going to put you over my knee and spank your bottom,’ is more likely to be received as the promise of sexual action than impending discipline, the line between the two, for the English, remaining something of a blur.
I have a personal theory that it is the word spanking that has made the English vice so popular. Spanking tastes delicious in the mouth and rolls like honey from the tongue: spanking, spanking, spanking.
You can join my website (click above somewhere) and download a free copy of Flight 69, and you can click here to get a copy of my novel Katie in Love – now 100 reviews at Amazon.com xx Chloe
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September 9, 2015
Katie in Love
My apologies to those kind people who have bought and reviewed Katie in Love. Thank you, it is so appreciated.
If you have read the novel and not posted a review, please do so. Reviews mean a lot – they help future sales, the only way the struggling writer can ever hope to make a living from their writing.
Grab your free copy of Katie in Love now – and please, leave a review, short and sweet, long and detailed, I love them all.
Katie in Love Excerpt
It is New Year’s Eve and Katie Boyd has met a stranger at a tartan-themed fancy dress ball and taken him back to her apartment. They kiss…
He grabbed me. I liked being grabbed. I like wriggling free then being grabbed again. I like running away and being chased, being caught. We kissed and kissed, then paused for breath. He pressed his teeth against my neck, just gently, and I forgot to mention the kiss of the vampire and how that, too, is so wonderfully erotic. I could feel his cock swelling against my stomach, pushing at me like the head of a kitten pushing at a closed door. I ran my tongue over the bristles of his chin, his neck, his chest. He released my bottom as I slid down to my knees. I patiently unhooked his belt, unbuttoned the buttons on his plaid plus fours and tugged at his boxers – how sweet, I thought, they are tartan.
His cock was straight, firm and, in the dull light of the lamp, the head was pink like his lips. I sucked the head and ran my fingers over the quilted skin. He sighed. He relaxed. The stranger had met a girl at a ball and the girl had taken the stranger into her mouth, down, down, deeper and deeper; it was just so gloriously decadent being down on my knees like this and I wanted to swallow him whole like an oyster.
I came up for air and flicked my tongue like a feather up and down the warm flesh. He sighed and puffed. Time for the stranger was standing still. He wanted that moment to freeze and last forever. He had found a wicked girl, a promiscuous girl, a pleasant-enough-to-look-at-in-a-heroin-chic-sort-of-way girl and that New Year’s Day in the early hours his cock was in her mouth. I sucked the head and rimmed the groove, teasing the nerve endings. I wet the fragile tissue of his testicles with a long stroke of my tongue and took his balls one at a time into my mouth.
His hands rested on the back of my head and he rocked slightly on his heels. I went back to sucking the soft cap of his penis. I ran my tongue down the shaft and up again, wetting the column. Many times I have found a boy’s cock in my mouth and in the back of my mind a sense that this was so unfair, so one-sided, that true passion is give and take and this was a lot of give without a lot of get.
Sometimes, this time, it was different. His cock was a friendly creature massaging my gums, the inside of my cheeks, the bells of my tonsils. His pulsing cock vibrated over the membranes and tissues of my throat, touching my taste buds with its sultry perfume, the slap of flesh against flesh like the sound of the tree branch that tapped at night against my windo
I was drunk on whisky, mesmerized, meditative. I sucked and kissed and nibbled and teased and he groaned and sighed and quivered and gasped. His cock was a wonderful toy, a drawbridge that sprang up when I pulled it down, that shook like a dancer when I teased the groove with the tip of my wet tongue. It was a magnet like the magnets beneath my mattress connecting the polar points of our passion and fusing them in an aura of completion.
I could feel his pleasure mounting. He was going to fill my mouth with his syrupy essence, spray his sperm across my face, my eyes, my nose. I imagined the taste of nougat and almonds as I took him deep into my throat, sucking hard, waiting for that moment, that sudden jerk, that first hint of pre-come. But just as the adventurer hesitates before claiming the prize, before the true king pulls the 
sword from the rock, he stopped himself and withdrew. I was ready for his orgasm, my throat gaping. I felt let down yet, instantly, immediately relieved
He took my elbows and pulled me up so he could kiss me again, so he could taste himself on my lips. The way he expertly undid the buttons on my white blouse made me wonder where he could have acquired such skill. Did he take bad girls home every night? Was this handsome stranger Lothario, Don Juan, Patrick Bateman from American Psycho; so good, I read it twice.
He found the hook at the front of my bra, how clever, and weighed my breasts.
‘They’re small,’ I murmured.
‘Small is beautiful.’
‘Not that small.’
‘They are perfect,’ he said and I purred.
He kissed my breasts in turn, left first, then right, taking my nipples into his mouth and biting down just hard enough to make them pop out, eager for more. At the same time his quick fingers found the zip on my kilt and the tartan fabric fell about my toes. He rolled down my tights and I hopped about from foot to foot as he expertly rid me of this clutter.
Just as I had gone down on my knees, like an echo, he did the same. He took the sides of my panties and pulled at the elastic. He ran the moist fabric down my legs and over my feet. He dropped down and adjusted his head so he could savour me. I adored the touch of his tongue and he drank from me as if from an upturned cup. I could smell my own scent. I pulled him up and we stumbled to the bed where, in a long kiss, I tasted warm salty seas with a fragrance 
as sweet as baby breath. I recalled vaguely a boyfriend saying once the stuff was 100 per cent protein and he wanted to try living on my liquids and nothing else for a week.
He slid up inside me, and time wasn’t suspended. It was racing. He was going to come. I didn’t want him to, not now, not yet. La petite mort is as often as not la mort depuis longtemps. The longer you wait, the more you delay, the more you reach the moment of release before receding, the greater the pleasure, the more wonder and mystery that wraps itself around the orgasm.
As he tensed, I let his cock slip from its warm cocoon and sewed kisses over the fine curly hair on his chest. I straddled his neck and lowered my drenched pussy over his mouth as if it were a saddle on a horse. He kissed and sucked, nudged my clitoris and wormed his tongue into the heart of my pulsating vagina. Liquids seeped from me in a continual stream, piquant and vital, the essence of sex. Tended the right way and in the right places, a girl is an eternal fount that just keeps giving, the milky fluid creaming over the walls of my pussy, over my spread lips, anointing the stranger in a fine spray that coated his face.
My heart was a little boat that had broken its moorings. My breath was trapped in my throat. I rolled to one side and slid across his body. I took his cock back into my mouth, completing the circle, his tongue pushing back into my vagina, my tongue wrapped about his shaft. We rocked to and fro like sunflowers in a field, deeper and deeper while the tree branch tapped like a metronome against the windowpane and we found perfect harmony.
My pussy continued to leak nectar into his mouth. Our bodies were slippery with perspiration. I could have remained in that position for the rest of my life, but the tempo changed, his body tensed and my throat filled with warm sperm that tasted like coconut milk. I gobbled it down, greedy for more. He kept pushing into me, I kept drawing at his cock and, as the last drips drained into my mouth, I grew rigid. I released his cock and gasped as his meaty tongue ignited an orgasm that made me scream. I cried out as if in pain but the pain was an intense, all-consuming pleasure.
My body was trembling as if in fever. I rolled to one side, arms wrapped around his legs, our bodies drenched, throbbing, electric. I was dizzy. He pulled me up and pushed his cock back inside me as if it were a jewel being placed back in a velvet box. We rocked gently like waves on an outgoing tide and, on that tide, the ship would soon be sailing.
Now click for your FREE copy of Katie in Love Katie in Love
The post Katie in Love appeared first on Erotic romance writer Chloe Thurlow.
September 3, 2015
Why a Polyamory Affair is Good for Your Health
If an affair makes you feel as if you’re walking the highwire (breathless, excited, close to death), a polyamory affair makes you feel like you’re flying.
A polyamory affair is one where couples treat sex as fun, recreational, a joy to be liberally shared, who take lovers and encourage their partner to do the same. They accept that we flawed humans are born to stray like sexual nomads seeking the next watering hole in the desert of daily existence.
Polyamory comes from the Greek: poly = many; amor = love. In a polyamory affair, couples aren’t looking for a quick fling, but as poly flings as each partner can handle. A polyamory affair is a life-style choice, a philosophy, a desire to live fully and abundantly without lies, arguments, jealousy, possessiveness, recrimination and feelings of rejection.
A polyamory affair free from stress, heartache and bitterness is healthy, fulfilling and is likely to endure. Maybe forever. And here’s the weird thing: a polyamory affair doesn’t even have to be sexual. It usually is, obviously, but it is not a precondition.
My polyamory affair is now in its third year and will continue until – at the very least – I round off the edges of my awful English accent. I go every summer to the same Spanish village and two or three afternoons a week I meet Eduardo for an intercambio; we speak English for half an hour, then Spanish.
Eduardo is a voice-over artiste with a deep bluesy baritone who began his career forty years ago voicing John Wayne and Kirk Douglas; later Sylvester Stallone and, more recently, Jason Statham, providing these tough guys with a matador-tinged castillano I would never even hope to emulate.
An intercambio is the very definition of a polyamory affair. It grows cosy and close because, once you get sick of flitting over world affairs and local gossip, you end up revealing intimate secrets you have never told anyone. I blush pink as my underwear as I type these words and realise Eduardo knows more about me than my own mother.
Polyamory Affair Ethics
Whether or not I embark on a traditional polyamory affair between-the-sheets and the shadows is inscribed in the stars, as Shakespeare probably said, and, if I do, I will join the legions already journeying along that green and grassy track.
According to Wikipedia, ‘by 2009, more than 500,000 couples were engaged in a polyamory affair.’ How Wiki’s Masters of All Knowledge calculate the figures I have no idea. But, since we now know the Ashley Madison website designed to simplify extramarital romance had 39 million users – before hackers published their names online – the Wiki estimate sounds like a gross under-exaggeration.
Ashley Madison subscribers were seeking sex in secret, of course, and since 2009, more and more couple have come to appreciate that monogamy doesn’t work and probably never has. Didn’t Eve pick the apple, not to mention the grapes, figs and pomegranates in the Garden of Eden? We are designed to taste all that life has to offer, to seek new pleasures, new experiences. We were not born with wings but, as Coco Chanel advised, we should do nothing to prevent them from growing.
A polyamory affair is ‘consensual, ethical and responsible non-monogamy,’ says Wiki. The arrangement may or may not include polysexuality: cross-gender and multiple sexes. But the key components remain the same: honesty, openness, trust and loyalty.
Polyamorous couples enjoy the threesomes, foursomes and moresomes. Their raison d’etre is the rejection of sex as exclusive, even in long-term loving relationships. It takes guts and courage, but those with the mind-set to make it work end up with a better sex life and a better relationship, the combination compelling and good for your health.
We have outlived our original design, born to breed after our first menstrual cycle and holding our first grandchild in our crippled arms at thirty before dying painfully without penicillin. A polyamory affair belongs to the 21st century.
I read the blog to Eduardo and felt sad when a look of disappointment crossed his brow.
‘Nunca digo nunca,’ he said. ‘Es el secreto de la vida.’
‘Concuerdo completamente,’ I agreed, and we parted after an embrace.
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The post Why a Polyamory Affair is Good for Your Health appeared first on Erotic romance writer Chloe Thurlow.
September 2, 2015
Reading Makes You Happier, More Intelligent & SEXIER
Reading makes you happier and when you are happier you feel sexier. It may come as a surprise, but reading and orgasm have a lot in common – aside from the fact that we often lay spread out in bed to do it, a good book and a good roll between the sheets leaves you immensely satisfied and, yet, eager for more.
As Oscar Wilde said: “If one cannot enjoy reading a book over and over again, there is no use in reading it at all.”
Oscar was smart. If he’d lived in the age of television he would have been one of those people who believed TV was for appearing on, not for watching. Research shows the tube blights brain cells and softens the synapses. If the grey matter is not stimulated, it is harder to enjoy life’s small pleasures: walking in the countryside, smelling the scent of a fresh flower, morning sex with the early sun slipping through the window, sundown sex with the tide lapping at your feet, reading.
When you read a novel, you leave your ego outside the covers of the book and enter the minds of the characters. As they confront problems and make choices, you will constantly be judging those choices. You will decide who is a good person and who is a phoney, a cheat, a liar. By following the lives of others through the pages of a book, you are constantly growing, learning and developing without even realising it.
Reading is Brain Food
Reading of any kind actually feeds the brain. However, psychologists David Comer Kidd and Emanuele Castano at New York’s New School for Social Research discovered in their research that literary fiction enhances empathy, emotional intelligence and intuition; good books help readers to understand the difficulties of others and to view their own problems with greater clarity. The results were published in Science under the heading: Reading Literary Fiction Improves Theory of Mind.
Research at the UK’s Sussex University has shown that reading reduces stress; less stress equals better sleep, better sleep makes you healthier, happier and more alive. ‘Losing yourself in a book is the ultimate relaxation,’ said neuropsychologist Dr David Lewis, who led the research. ‘This is particularly poignant in uncertain economic times when we are all craving a certain amount of escapism.’
The heading on this blog – Reading Makes You Happier, More Intelligent & SEXIER – doesn’t come from studying research results. It comes from my own experience. If I am depressed, disappointed or angry, I read a book and my entire mood changes. For me, reading is morel liberating than music. Reading relieves stress, improves sleep, keeps you healthy and inspires the brain, the combination making you feel happier and happiness is in itself sexy.
Now I have a question: Can you remember the quote by Oscar Wilde?
If you can’t, go back and read the blog again. When you read something twice it stays in the mind – sometimes forever. And that’s sexy.
Now read a good book – The Unbearable Lightness of Being (Kundera); Zorba the Greek (Kazantzakis), The Glass Bead Game (Hesse), The Outsider (Camus), The Grapes of Wrath (Steinbeck). If you fancy something erotic, try A Spy in the House of Love (Anaïs Nin) or, if I may be so bold, my new novel Katie in Love – CLICK to take a peep.
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Butterfly Girls Saving the World
Fleur didn’t even know what butterfly girls were. Fleur didn’t know she was a butterfly girl. In fact, when Fleur woke up she didn’t know where she was or how she got there.
Rose was at her side, sleeping still, her breasts rising and falling with each breath she took. She was naked. Fleur looked down and saw that she was naked, too. Where are our clothes, she wondered? But the thought quickly slipped away. She liked being naked. She liked to feel the warm air on her skin, soft as a kiss as it filtered through the trees all around them.
They were in the centre of the forest on a bed of leaves, the light tracing golden shadows over Rose’s long, gently curving thigh, over the ripples of her rib cage, in tiny tremors over her breasts. They were, Fleur decided, extremely lovely breasts, full and high like petals, the pink flame of her nipples firm, even in sleep. Fleur wondered of what she dreamed. Of butterfly girls, perhaps? She felt her own breasts and immediately the buds darkened to cherry red and sparkled like fireflies between her fingers.
Rose woke at that moment and their eyes met. She laid back, a faint smile on her lips, her hands behind her head. She stretched, turning her legs just slightly, the light on her pubic hair making it shine like liquid gold.
‘Where are we?’ she asked, a frisson passing across her smooth brow.
‘I don’t know,’ Fleur answered. ‘We must be lost.’
‘Where are our clothes?’
‘Lost.’
‘What are we going to do?’
It didn’t sound to Fleur like a question, but a suggestion.
Butterfly Girls in Love
Rose’s breasts were still pulsing in front of her eyes and Fleur had a terrible urge to reach for them. As that urge passed through her, Rose read her mind and took her hand. She placed her palm on the firm swells of warm flesh and Fleur felt the blood race through her veins. She let out a low moan, as if the air had been pressed from her lungs, and swallowed her mouth was so dry.
Rose sat up. Her lips when they met Fleur’s lips were at once firm but yielding, alive with new sensations. Her lips parted and, as Rose’s tongue slipped into her mouth, Fleur could feel a wetness run down her back in a bead of sweat. Between her legs she grew sticky as the lips of her vagina opened, as the wings of a butterfly open when it leaves the cocoon. And it occurred to Fleur that they were butterfly girls, born of the forest, belonging to the forest, their mission to make the world fecund and spread the living seeds of nectar and pollen.
Their lips parted. Fleur laid back. She opened her thighs and Rose gazed down at the sweetness between her legs. Rose knew intuitively that she belonged in that warm place. She ran her long sticky tongue over Fleur’s chin, down to her breasts, where she popped one pink erect nipple in her mouth and bit gently down until Fleur wriggled with pleasure. She tasted her other breast before continuing her journey, her tongue painting a shiny wet stripe over the swell of her tummy and into the golden fleece of her pubic hair.
When Rose’s tongue slipped into Fleur’s soft body, she shivered and shimmied with new sensations and understood fully and wonderfully that she was born to give and receive pleasure. Rose buried her head between her soft white thighs and made herself comfortable by easing her legs across Fleur’s head in such a way that her legs opened and what she could see was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen, all the coils and spirals leading to a tiny throbbing bud she wanted to caress with her tongue and, as she did so, somewhere far away at the other end of her damp body, Rose made the connection complete.
They were joined, tiny tongue to pulsing rosebud, pulsing rosebud to tiny tongue, and they rocked, tasting and savouring each other, the juices running from their virgin bodies, dewing the leaves, sprinkling the soil and ripening the forest.
The sun peered through the foliage above and never had the sun seen such a moving sight, two butterfly girls at the age of innocence giving life to all around. Their bodies moved in perfect harmony like a wondrous machine, the sun’s golden eye lighting the down on their young limbs.
They rolled over and changed positions, Fleur on top, side by side, one way, then the other, each drinking from the divine cup while silky liquids rolled and flowed down their thighs and coated their bottoms. For time without measure, perhaps it was eternity, they drew on the ambrosia lakes of each other and a rich, fruity smell rose into the trees and carried on the wind, it moved in misty clouds all through the forest where bees hummed and flowers bloomed.
When at last the sun grew tired and sank in dreams beyond the western horizon, the moon came up and bathed the bodies of the butterfly girls in silvery light. They rested now. They were happy. They loved the world. Tomorrow something new would happen and they didn’t know what it was.
© 2015 Chloë Thurlow
KATIE IN LOVE in paperback and eBook –Amazon 5***** Review by Danielle Von Ohlen. “Thurlow is an exceptional writer! This book goes into great detail about what is going through Katie’s head and allows you to see the world through her eyes. Some of the references I had no idea what they were, but it definitely made me want to research and find out. The characters are fantastic and you truly get to know them throughout the book.” Click Click
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September 1, 2015
Making Right Choices is the Key to Happiness
We live in the world created by our own choices. Those choices can have a minor, profound, even a life-changing effect on our lives.
The summer I left school, I got a job as an intern in a real estate office. One day, I found myself driving a man to view a house surrounded by orchards in the Kent countryside. That morning, I had dressed in black heels, a cream silk blouse and a dark suit with a tight skirt.
The skirt rose up my thighs as I was driving, making my cheeks bloom pink in embarrassment. I was damp inside the suit, which was too heavy for the summer, and I snapped the heel off my shoe on the crazy-paving path leading to the house.
The choices I had made that morning left me feeling hot, silly and immature. Those choices had another, more significant effect, which I will come to later.
Generally, choosing what you are going to wear only affects ourselves. But each day, we make choices that effect others: are we going to break the speed limit driving, endangering lives; leave a broken refrigerator in the street when nobody’s looking; speak loudly on our iPhone while on the bus or in the doctor’s waiting room? Are we going to give a dollar to the beggar or cross the street?
We become the person we are by making choices. Every time we reach a crossroad and go left rather than right, the person who sets out one way becomes different from that other person – our shadow, perhaps – who chose to go the other. We will cross different frontiers, meet different barriers to overcome, enjoy and recoil from completely different experiences.
As we move along each new path, on the way we meet different people who will affect us and encourage us in different ways to that person we would have become had we chosen to go in the opposite direction. We are imbued with certain qualities and characteristics, but destiny is not a map we are obliged to follow. We become who we are and achieve what we are capable of through the choices we make.
Choices for Today
Albert Camus (one of my favourite writers) said: Life is a sum of all your choices, and then adds: So, what are you doing today?
The suit and silk blouse I wore that day to the real estate office wasn’t chosen by me. It was inspired by Maggie Gyllenhaal from the movie Secretary, which had just reached the cinema in Canterbury. I was waiting for the results of my pre-university exams and desperate at eighteen, after years at an all-girl’s boarding school, to be free to make my own choices.
Secretary (directed by Steven Shainberg, based on a short story by Mary Gaitskill) explores the relationship between Lee Holloway, a submissive, emotionally-awkward secretary (Maggie Gyllenhaal) and E. Edward Grey, her dominant boss, (James Spader).
With scenes of spanking and BDSM that are erotic but subtle, I identified so completely with the secretary, I chose in my first job to dress as she dressed and, like her, I allowed myself to be dominated by the man I drove that day into the Kent countryside to view a house – which he never bought.
I set out on a path without regret and the experience allowed me to write about that day in my novel Katie in Love with an authenticity that brings the sequence to life. Did I carry on down the road Lee Holloway was on in Secretary? No, I began to think for myself, reached the crossroad and chose another path.
As Lao-tzu put it: If you do not change direction you may end up where you are heading.
Now read Katie in Love – you’ll love it, promise.
‘… beautifully written literary jewel with likeable characters and a plot that held me transfixed to the pages.’
Katie Boyd, troubled by modern times and modern love, finds she is falling for the volunteer doctor Tom Bridge and fights the feeling through a winter of reflection on her past, the state of the world and the future with its varying potentials until she arrives at the crossroads where she must make a choice that will have long lasting consequences. Gripping, entertaining, sensual, totally brilliant, Chloe Thurlow is a writer to watch.’ 5**** Review by President Brown at Amazon –
CLICK for Amazon
Photo shows Maggie Gyllenhaal and James Spader in the movie Secretary
The post Making Right Choices is the Key to Happiness appeared first on Erotic romance writer Chloe Thurlow.
August 27, 2015
Butterfly Girls Saving the World
Fleur didn’t even know what butterfly girls were. Fleur didn’t know she was a butterfly girl. In fact, when Fleur woke up she didn’t know where she was or how she got there.
Rose was at her side, sleeping still, her breasts rising and falling with each breath she took. She was naked. Fleur looked down and saw that she was naked, too. Where are our clothes, she wondered? But the thought quickly slipped away. She liked being naked. She liked to feel the warm air on her skin, soft as a kiss as it filtered through the trees all around them.
They were in the centre of the forest on a bed of leaves, the light tracing golden shadows over Rose’s long, gently curving thigh, over the ripples of her rib cage, in tiny tremors over her breasts. They were, Fleur decided, extremely lovely breasts, full and high like petals, the pink flame of her nipples firm, even in sleep. Fleur wondered of what she dreamed. Of butterfly girls, perhaps? She felt her own breasts and immediately the buds darkened to cherry red and sparkled like fireflies between her fingers.
Rose woke at that moment and their eyes met. She laid back, a faint smile on her lips, her hands behind her head. She stretched, turning her legs just slightly, the light on her pubic hair making it shine like liquid gold.
‘Where are we?’ she asked, a frisson passing across her smooth brow.
‘I don’t know,’ Fleur answered. ‘We must be lost.’
‘Where are our clothes?’
‘Lost.’
‘What are we going to do?’
It didn’t sound to Fleur like a question, but a suggestion.
Butterfly Girls in Love
Rose’s breasts were still pulsing in front of her eyes and Fleur had a terrible urge to reach for them. As that urge passed through her, Rose read her mind and took her hand. She placed her palm on the firm swells of warm flesh and Fleur felt the blood race through her veins. She let out a low moan, as if the air had been pressed from her lungs, and swallowed her mouth was so dry.
Rose sat up. Her lips when they met Fleur’s lips were at once firm but yielding, alive with new sensations. Her lips parted and, as Rose’s tongue slipped into her mouth, Fleur could feel a wetness run down her back in a bead of sweat. Between her legs she grew sticky as the lips of her vagina opened, as the wings of a butterfly open when it leaves the cocoon. And it occurred to Fleur that they were butterfly girls, born of the forest, belonging to the forest, their mission to make the world fecund and spread the living seeds of nectar and pollen.
Their lips parted. Fleur laid back. She opened her thighs and Rose gazed down at the sweetness between her legs. Rose knew intuitively that she belonged in that warm place. She ran her long sticky tongue over Fleur’s chin, down to her breasts, where she popped one pink erect nipple in her mouth and bit gently down until Fleur wriggled with pleasure. She tasted her other breast before continuing her journey, her tongue painting a shiny wet stripe over the swell of her tummy and into the golden fleece of her pubic hair.
When Rose’s tongue slipped into Fleur’s soft body, she shivered and shimmied with new sensations and understood fully and wonderfully that she was born to give and receive pleasure. Rose buried her head between her soft white thighs and made herself comfortable by easing her legs across Fleur’s head in such a way that her legs opened and what she could see was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen, all the coils and spirals leading to a tiny throbbing bud she wanted to caress with her tongue and, as she did so, somewhere far away at the other end of her damp body, Rose made the connection complete.
They were joined, tiny tongue to pulsing rosebud, pulsing rosebud to tiny tongue, and they rocked, tasting and savouring each other, the juices running from their virgin bodies, dewing the leaves, sprinkling the soil and ripening the forest.
The sun peered through the foliage above and never had the sun seen such a moving sight, two butterfly girls at the age of innocence giving life to all around. Their bodies moved in perfect harmony like a wondrous machine, the sun’s golden eye lighting the down on their young limbs.
They rolled over and changed positions, Fleur on top, side by side, one way, then the other, each drinking from the divine cup while silky liquids rolled and flowed down their thighs and coated their bottoms. For time without measure, perhaps it was eternity, they drew on the ambrosia lakes of each other and a rich, fruity smell rose into the trees and carried on the wind, it moved in misty clouds all through the forest where bees hummed and flowers bloomed.
When at last the sun grew tired and sank in dreams beyond the western horizon, the moon came up and bathed the bodies of the butterfly girls in silvery light. They rested now. They were happy. They loved the world. Tomorrow something new would happen and they didn’t know what it was.
© 2015 Chloë Thurlow
KATIE IN LOVE in paperback and eBook –
Amazon 5***** Review by Danielle Von Ohlen. “Thurlow is an exceptional writer! This book goes into great detail about what is going through Katie’s head and allows you to see the world through her eyes. Some of the references I had no idea what they were, but it definitely made me want to research and find out. The characters are fantastic and you truly get to know them throughout the book.” Click Click
The post Butterfly Girls Saving the World appeared first on Erotic romance writer Chloe Thurlow.
