Smutty Seaside Shameless Selfie

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Yup! That’s me on the  Cobb in the wind channeling my inner Meryl Streep, or perhaps my inner Selkie. Having just gotten back from Lyme Regis totally inspired and had a fabulous Saturday at Smut Manchester celebrating the launch of The Tutor, I thought it the perfect time for a smutty seaside girly story that was inspired by a trip to Lyme Regis for the fabulous anthology, Smut By The Sea. Enjoy!

 

Skins Blurb:

When the mysterious Celia follows Tess home in a rainstorm, the sexy encounter that follows is totally unexpected, and yet somehow, Celia is strangely familiar.

 

smut-by-the-sea Skins Excerpt:

I had to do a double-take. One lone person stood on the Cobb in the middle of the storm. How could there be anyone out there? I was hurrying back my cottage, not the smartest person on the beach for being out in this weather; well actually I was the only person on the beach, except for the person on the Cobb. The storm had come up suddenly. When I’d headed out a few hours ago, it was sunny and warm. I had been sketching a lone harbor seal off and on for the past two days. She had been sunning herself on the rocks. Seals were something I seldom saw around Lyme Regis, so it had been a special treat to get so close to her. But when the weather took a sudden turn for the worse, we both went our separate ways, she probably more comfortably than I. I would miss her.

‘Hey! Hey! Get off there! Are you crazy?’ I yelled and waved my arms like a nutter, the wind catching me and nearly toppling me over. I knew it was a waste of breath. Whoever it was out there on the Cobb couldn’t have heard me above the roar of the wind and the waves. Stupidly, I thought of The French Lieutenant’s Woman standing there looking out to sea. Then I blinked and whoever it was had vanished. Heart racing in my chest, I fumbled for my phone to call 999. But then I rubbed my eyes and it hit me, there wasn’t really anyone there. It had to have been my imagination. I could barely stand up in the wind on the beach. No one could have been standing out there. Even if someone had been, I certainly couldn’t have seen them in this weather.

I was still thinking about the imagined person on the Cobb when I arrived at my cottage to find I wasn’t alone.

‘May I help you?’ I made no attempt to keep the irritation out of my voice, hoping it would cover my nerves at the sight of the young man standing on the porch of my cottage. Yes it was tipping it down, horizontal rain, and the wind felt like it blew right off the polar ice cap, but an adolescent standing in an oversized anorak with nothing but the tip of a nose and the jut of a chin sticking out from under the hood did nothing to make me feel at ease.

‘I’m sorry. I just needed a place out of the rain for a few minutes.’ The voice was the gravelly voice of an adolescent, not quite a man, yet no longer a child either, and the accent was strange, as though the shapes of the words were somehow new to lip and tongue. As I got closer to the porch, the boy threw back the hood and I realized that the boy was actually a young woman drenched to the skin even through the anorak. Her auburn hair hung in dripping tendrils around her face and onto her shoulders.

‘Besides,’ she said, ‘I heard you call and.’ She shrugged. ‘I didn’t want to worry you.’

My insides, which were already knotted, knotted still tighter. ‘You heard me call?’

‘From the Cobb, yes. I heard you call, and I just followed you.’

‘But you’re here before me, how could you have followed me.’

‘I just got here, honest.’ She spoke between chattering teeth. ‘I was hoping for a place to wait out the storm.’ She motioned back into Lyme Regis. ‘But there’s no place there.’

‘Certainly there’s no place on the Cobb. What were you thinking?’ I said, then I nodded up the stairs. ‘Well you can’t stay out here. Come on inside where it’s dry.’ God, was I out of my mind? I didn’t even know this chick and the whole thing felt sort of strange and stalker-ish.

‘You don’t mind?’ She asked.

‘Of course not.’ I wasn’t sure if I was lying of not, but I couldn’t leave her out in this horrid weather.

‘I’m Celia,’ she said, as she followed me up the stairs, muddy walking shoes that looked way pass their sell-by date gripped in one hand.

‘I’m Tess,’ I called over my shoulder as I unlocked the door, and stood aside for her to go in.

Inside she shrugged out of the oversized anorak, which looked, if anything, even older and rattier than the boots, then she stood dripping on the rug in the hallway, looking diminished and fragile in the anemic light of the late afternoon storm.

‘Right. You need dry clothes,’ I said. ‘I can lend you something. It’ll be huge on you, but it’ll do for now. I’ll put your clothes in the drying room to dry, then make us some tea, would you like that? Bathroom’s there,’ I pointed.

When I returned with a track suit and a t-shirt, I nearly dropped them on the floor at the sight of her. The door was wide open and she stood naked and goose-fleshed wringing the water from her clothes into the sink. She turned to face me as though being naked in the bathroom of a total stranger was nothing out of the ordinary, and my mouth went dry.

Honestly, I never look at other women’s breasts. I mean I’m aware of my own, and I fondle them when I masturbate and rather enjoy the feel of them, but it took all I could do to pull my eyes away from Celia’s breasts. Hers were the kind of breasts all women dream of having, high and firm, like heavily iced cupcakes displayed in a bakery window, just enough to fill the cup of a hand and spill over the top to offer a soft swell to be kissed and nuzzled. And strangely enough I could picture myself doing just that. Her nipples pearled dark mauve and heavy atop the raspberry stippling of areolae that were impossibly tight and swollen from the chill, and I found myself wanting to chafe them in my hand and warm them with my breath, with my lips, with my tongue.

Embarrassed, I lowered my eyes, but that wasn’t much better as my gaze followed the flat, hard muscles of her belly down to the tight nest of auburn curls resting protectively above her sex.

‘ … Would that be alright?’

I suddenly realized she was speaking to me. I forced my attention back to what she was saying, forced my gaze back to her lightly freckled face and milk chocolate eyes. ‘It’s just the most amazing bathtub, and I was just wondering if it would be alright. If I had a bath? I haven’t had a hot bath in a long time, at least not a real one. I mean I’ll understand if you don’t want me too, cuz you really don’t know me, do you? And a bath is sort an intimate thing, isn’t it?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you can have a bath,’ I said, finding my voice with difficulty. ‘The big bathtub’s part of the reason I rent this particular cottage every year. Go ahead. It’ll warm you up faster than anything.’ I nodded to the rose geranium bath bubbles on the edge of the tub, but she was already ahead of me. With a squeal of delight, she turned on the water full blast and bent to pour in bubbles leaving me with a view of the tightly muscled half domes of her buttocks, which, when she leaned forward to swish the water with her hand and test the temperature, resting one knee on the edge of the tub, spread like two halves of ripe fruit displaying the dark round O of her anus and the flower-petalled folds of her pink pussy. I thought I would hyperventilate. I was suddenly wetter than I could ever remember being. I wanted desperately to touch her. I wanted to caress the valley that displayed her from back hole to marbled clit. I wanted to slip a finger up into the opening shielded almost shyly by the folds of her labia. The air was thick with the rising steam of the bath. The scent of rose geranium, barely masked the base note that was the tide pool scent of a woman.

I somehow managed to settle the clothes onto the chest at the end of the tub. ‘Can I bring you something to drink? Tea, coffee, I have some wine?’

She offered me an enthusiastic smile. ‘Red?’

‘Red it is then,’ I said.

When I returned, she was lying back in the large tub, her eyes closed, a soft smile pressed to her full lips. I could just make out the shapes of her breasts above the rising foam. She took the glass from me with a nod of appreciation and said, ‘please stay.’ She motioned to the closed lid of the toilet. ‘I’ve not had anyone to talk to for a while and I’d like the company — that is if I’m not keeping you from anything important.’

‘Nothing important. I’m here on holiday,’ I said, settling onto the closed toilet, pleased that she’d asked me to stay. ‘I’m an artist.’ I shrugged. ‘Well I’m a very good hobbyist and I come here every year to paint and draw and walk and be inspired. You?’

‘Lyme Regis is pretty far south for me, actually. I’ve never been before, but I’m glad I came. I can see why it inspires you.’ She took the sponge and ran it along her neck and one shoulder, drizzling fragrant water over the pucker of her nipples. ‘I could never be far from the sea. I’d be lost without it. Would you wash my back?’ She handed me the sponge and I completely forgot all the questions I was going to ask her. My mouth was dry again, however my pussy was anything but. I reached for the soap and brushed my arm against hers as she leaned forward exposing the exquisite curve of her back, delicate as an ivory carving and yet the muscles that spread outward from the undulations of the vertebrae in her spine were strong and deep. She was delicate of build, but clearly not weak.

She sighed softly as I ran the soap down the length of her spine, stopping just where her buttocks flared and cushioned her pelvic girdle. Then I moved it upward in tight circles on either side of the vertebrae and out over the fan of her ribs below her arms almost to where the swell of her breasts began.

‘Mmm, that feels delicious,’ she said. ‘I don’t want it ever to end.’

I didn’t either. I had sloshed water down the front of my shirt, and my own nipples pressed out like they were desperate to get closer to her. It was then she cupped my hand where it rested on her shoulder and said, ‘you’re still in wet clothes.’

In all honesty, I hadn’t even noticed until she mentioned it.

‘You must be freezing too. I saw you drawing the harbor seal on the beach when the storm hit.’ She scooted down to one end of the tub. ‘Come on. There’s plenty of room.’

Before I could ask how she’d seen me when I was sure I was alone, she grabbed the bottom of my t-shirt with wet hands and worried it off over my head, pulling me forward enough in the process that while I was temporarily blinded by my own top, she reached behind me and unhooked my bra. My much larger, much heavier tits spilled forward into her hands as she slid the bra off, brushing her thumbs against my nipples in the process. ‘There, that’s better, isn’t it? Let’s get all those wet and clammy clothes away from you lovely skin. Now stand up.’

I did as she said, and she went to work on my walking trousers, then she slid her hands inside, hooked fingers into the elastic of my knickers and tugged both down. ‘Now step out of them. That’s right. Mmm you smell delicious. You smell like the sea. Somehow I knew that you would.’

As I lifted my leg to step out of the trousers and knickers now pooled around my ankles, Celia did not look away. I could feel her gaze on what nestled beneath my own tight curls. I normally would have been shy. I normally would have tried to preserve my modesty, but I wanted her to see my pussy. I wanted her to see what I looked like down there. She made room for me, and I stepped into the warm sudsy water. Then we maneuvered for space and she, being much smaller than I, scooted closer, lifting her thighs over mine.

That done she leaned up until she was practically in my lap and brushed a kiss against my lips. ‘Please, let me wash you. You have such beautiful skin.’ She ran a finger along my collar bone and then brushed her palm over my left breast and I sucked in a tight breath. ‘You’re so soft and round and full. You look like a woman is supposed to look. I could never look like you.’ Before I could tell her how beautiful I thought she was and how I admired her body, she took the sponge and drizzled warm water across my breasts. ‘Please tell me it’s alright.’

All I could do was whimper and nod, as the sponge moved down my sternum and under and around each of my heavy breasts in turn. Then she took up the soap. I sat hypnotized and wet in ways that had nothing to do with the bath as she lathered and cupped and kneaded my breasts until they looked like they were covered with a soapy white shirt. Then she pushed me back, until I lay with my head resting on the edge of the big tub, and she straddled me. Her soft curls brushed mine, as she drizzled water over my breasts and down my belly. She sponged me in soft caressing motions, moving ever lower onto my belly until I could no longer resist shifting and rocking my hips, grinding my arse into the unforgiving bottom of the tub. She was practically lying on top of me as she let go of the sponge and cupped my pubis with the palm of her hand.

‘Women smell of the sea as men never can,’ she breathed against my face. ‘I love that about women. With women I’m always close to the sea.’

 

 By Smut By the Sea Vol I Here:

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Emmanuelle de Maupassant Talks About Women Writing the Erotic

I can’t tell you how excited I am to have Emmanuelle de Maupassant as my guest today. If anyone knows the hearts and minds of women writing the erotic, Emmanuelle does. She knows because she’s interviewed nearly a hundred of them — I’m honoured to be one  — and many of you have been reading her fascinating articles with their very personal, very honest, view into the minds of  these amazing woman. If you haven’t but would like to, find them all on Emmanuelle’s Blog. Today she is going to share a little overview of her findings with a Hopeful Romantic.

 

Having interviewed almost a hundred women authors who explore sexuality through their fiction, Emmanuelle de Maupassant has created a series of articles capturing their thoughts on the importance of the ‘erotic’ genre.

 

Here, she gives us a glimpse at her findings.

 

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I’m delighted to say that more women than ever are letting rip on the page, opening up their sexual imagination. We continue to battle for equal rights, respect and recognition, across every sphere imaginable, but when it comes to erotic fiction, our feet are firmly under the table.

 

Of course, there are some truly talented men writing erotic fiction too. Many would argue that gender is irrelevant in how we approach the page as writers: that we have the ability to portray any human being, from any time in history, and from anywhere.

 

It’s certainly true that some elements of the human condition are universal.

 

We all know what it is to love, to despair, to smile, or to regret. We know the fragility of life and we share wonder in the world we inhabit. And yet, as women, aren’t we best placed to portray what it’s like to walk in our skin?

 

Writing Women’s Sexuality

 

 As little girls, we’re taught all the things we should never mention, and never do; for many of us, it’s a lifelong journey to free ourselves of inhibition.

 

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Adrea Kore reminds us, “Women writing and speaking about their own desire, being open with what gives them pleasure and turns them on … even finding the words for that is something that is still seen as taboo in corners of Western culture, let alone in comparison to cultures where women are more repressed ideologically, and socially.”

 

In expressing our understanding of our sexual self, looking at how erotic impulse shapes us, we recognize that we are more than intellect, and more than emotion. We are also ‘of the body’.

 

Tabitha Rayne notes that writing erotic fiction, “felt like discovering a new colour‘ and ‘opening a door to myself.”‘

 

Kristina Lloyd echoes this, saying, “Through writing, I’ve learned so much about my own sexuality and desire.”

 

Rose Caraway, speaking of her work in audio narration of erotic fiction, tells us, “Together, we’re helping people awaken… Each story narrated acknowledges sexuality, our own and others’, because it’s being read aloud. Those words want to be heard, making us stronger, so that we can better express and own our sexuality.”

 

Erotica is diverse as a genre, in content and style. We’re individuals, each with our tastes, our own ‘kinks’ and our own fantasies. Really, the possibilities are infinite!

 

With that in mind, a strong response coming through was that writers want to look beyond common ‘formulas’ in fiction. They want to write the unexpected. They want to explore not only our passions but our vulnerabilities, and our flaws. They want to show what drives us to make certain choices and the consequences of those decisions.

KD Grace asserts, “Few actions can change a story more dramatically than sex properly placed. I can’t imagine trying to tell a story without sex included. Neither can I imagine writing sex that isn’t an integral part of a story.”

 

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Mirrors to versions of the ‘self’

In exploring the psychology of desire, erotic fiction has the power to delve not just our fantasies but our truths. It holds a mirror to versions of our ‘self’ rarely let out in polite company.

It commonly explores themes of identity, of connection, of yearning, of truth and deceit, of freedom and constraint.

Erotic fiction lends itself to exploration of ‘grey areas of morality’, as Tobsha Learner calls them: to the small lies we tell ourselves, and to the ways in which we manipulate or make use of others.

 

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Remittance Girl states her desire ‘to write what frightens and unsettles us, as well as what delights us’. 

Erotic fiction has the potential not only to electrify us sexually but to deliver a punch to the emotional gut and to caress our intellect. Like all great storytelling, it has the power to provoke us at many levels.

 

Adrea Kore emphasizes, “Erotica writes into areas of the human sexual psyche and behaviour that some genres gloss over or shy away from. Erotica brings into the light contradictions between our inner sexual desires and our outward behaviour. What do we secretly long for, and to attain that, what lengths would we go to?”

 

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Fantasy v. Realism

Fantasy (all the ‘what ifs’ of our imagination) is a well-recognized aspect of erotic fiction. If not here then where else can we explore ‘the forbidden’. Janine Ashbless sees fiction as ‘a safe area in which to let our darker selves, our fears and our desires, out for a little exercise…’

It may seem contradictory to seek out greater realism within erotic fiction but many writers assert a desire to create recognizable, diverse characters (for instance, of all ages, and who vary from typical ideals of physical ‘perfection’) and characters with psychological depth, to better allow readers to empathize, and enter into alternate possibilities.

KD Grace explains, “I’m sick to death of weak, cardboard women being written as subs and mean, unlikable, men being written as Doms (or, even worse, as really creepy, stalker types). I want depth, I want a connection that has more to do with what drives the characters, and with the chemistry between them, and less to do with the trappings.”

 

Why Read Erotic Fiction

 

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Reading Erotic fiction can open our eyes to new understanding of our sexuality (and our broader psyche). It encourages us to push aside shame and it empowers us to express our needs and desires. For many of us, it’s the catalyst in finding our sexual voice. It can help erode sexual stigma, encouraging women, and men, to voice their desire more honestly.

Tobsha Learner notes the struggle to find ‘a sexy word for vagina – something that purrs as well as has claws’. Her comment is playful but she touches upon an issue at the heart of women’s writing of the erotic.

Our sexuality is multi-layered, and the ways in which we express our desire are just as complex. We are fluid. We are changeable. We are the tiger and we are the pussy cat.

We, as writers, are exploring the many facets of desire.

We are liberating our voices.

As the reader, you can liberate yours too.

 

To read the full series of articles, or to find out more about erotic fiction, visit Emmanuelle’s website: www.emmanuelledemaupassant.com

 

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About Emmanuelle: 

Emmanuelle de Maupassant lives with her husband (maker of fruit cake) and her hairy pudding terrier. She is the author of ‘The Gentlemen’s Club’ (recommended by Stylist Magazine as one of the sexiest reads of 2015) and of ‘Cautionary Tales’ (inspired by Slavonic superstitions and folklore).

You can find Emmanuelle on Amazon: viewAuthor.at/EmdeM

On Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/EMaupassant

And on Twitter: https://twitter.com/EmmanuelledeM

 

Our Options Have Changed by Julia Kent & Elisa Reed

Release date: October 5, 2016

Genre: Romantic Comedy, Contemporary Romance

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Description:

Having it all is a fantasy, right?

Chloe Browne knows all about fantasy. Fantasy is her job.

And she’s very, very good at what she does.

As director of design for the O Spa chain, a sophisticated women’s club that is trending its way into being the Next Big Thing, Chloe’s ready to take on the world.

One baby at a time.

Her home study’s done, and she’s about to adopt, a thirty-something single mother by choice. Who needs to put her life on hold for the right guy when the right baby is waiting for her?

Besides, talk about fantasy.

The right guy?

Pfft. Right.

And then in walks Nick Grafton, with those commanding sapphire eyes and wavy blonde hair and a sophisticated mouth that only smiles for her.

He’s perfect.

But the last thing Nick wants is to start fresh with a new baby as his college-age kids fly the coop. A single father for more than fifteen years after his wife walked out on her family, Nick finally tastes freedom.

But he likes the taste of Chloe more.

* * *

optionschanged-kent-reed-ebookOur Options Have Changed is a full-length standalone contemporary romance, the first in the On Hold series by New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Julia Kent and journalist-turned-fiction-writer Elisa Reed. It is a loose spinoff from Julia Kent’s Shopping for a Billionaire series, with cameo appearances from favorite characters.

**BONUS ALL-NEW NOVELLA** from Julia Kent’s New York Times bestselling Shopping series! Read Shopping for a Billionaire’s Honeymoon. This 100-page bonus comes at the end of Our Options Have Changed. When Shannon can’t get workaholic Declan to give her the sexy honeymoon time she wants, she takes matters into her own hands — with hilariously disastrous (or disastrously hilarious?) results.

 

Buy links:

Nook: http://bit.ly/2b24Ol8
Amazon US: http://amzn.to/2b5n785
Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/2bjzV9C
Amazon Canada: http://amzn.to/2bnRU3d
Amazon Australia: http://amzn.to/2aWxoGe
Kobo: http://bit.ly/2bnRf1K
iBooks: http://apple.co/2b0fHR6
Goodreads: http://bit.ly/2byDbyX

 

Author Bio:

New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Julia Kent writes romantic comedy with an edge. From billionaires to BBWs to new adult rock stars, Julia finds a sensual, goofy joy in every contemporary romance she writes. Unlike Shannon from Shopping for a Billionaire, she did not meet her husband after dropping her phone in a men’s room toilet (and he isn’t a billionaire). She lives in New England with her husband and three sons in a household where the toilet seat is never, ever, down

Social Media Links:

Website:  http://jkentauthor.com/

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/jkentauthor/

Twitter:  https://twitter.com/jkentauthor

 

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Excerpt

When my alarm goes off at six a.m., I know it’s time to get up. My meeting with Nick Grafton is today. I’ve been awake since four, when I woke to find Mink covering my face, fur tickling my nose.

Mink. My living, purring fur coat. My cat.

I tried so hard to hold on to sleep, blissful unconsciousness. General anesthesia.

My brain, however, wanted to watch a slideshow:

The mystery shop report. Who highlighted all those pages?

Me, at the market, shopping for treats for Joe.

Me, in the ladies’ room, primping a treat for Joe.

Joe, getting treated. By someone else.

I have read that it’s essentially impossible to think of nothing, but I tried. I visualized grey. The O shade.

Quite right. Impossible. I started running through the alphabet backwards.

Z Y X… W… not as easy as you would think, right?

…P O…

N… Nick Grafton in my office doorway, somehow familiar. Starched white shirt. The scent of Bay Rhum when he caught me. If masculine has a scent, it’s Bay Rhum.

…M L K…

J… Joe, red-faced and drunk, Nick’s arm around his neck. Pathetic. I wish I could un-see this.

…D C…

B… Baby. Baby coming soon. Life will change, forever. Am I ready? I think so. But is anyone ever ready? Maybe I’m too ready—what if Li changes her mind? Should I buy diapers, baby clothes, a crib? Would I be tempting fate? So far I just have an infant car seat. If this doesn’t happen, I can just put it in the closet. Way far back in the closet where I can’t see it.

Li is so young. Old enough to get pregnant but far too young to be a mother. In so many ways, she’s really still a baby herself. She’s been forced into a situation with no possible happy ending—at least not for her. Her tragedy will make my dream come true. Can I help make some of her dreams come true in return? She wants to be an esthetician, told me the day I met her on the gO Spa. Can I find a scholarship for her? Create one?

A… Anterdec. Meeting today with Nick Grafton. Okay. This is better. This I can handle. What to wear?

I am representing O. I visualize grey again. Dove grey suit of raw silk, seamed to fit my body perfectly, never too tight or too loose. High heels, but not too spiky. And most importantly, a necklace of glass Os, linked together with silver.

And for today’s secret power, rose silk cheeky panties that lace up the back. Matching bustier. Grey thigh highs in fine mesh.

On the outside, chic and understated. Underneath, intimate pleasure.

I am O.

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It’s Launch Day for THE TUTOR!

The Tutor is now available for your reading pleasure!

 

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Who knew a can of pears in heavy syrup could inspire an entire novel about an outrageously sexy haphephobic sculptor and the woman he longs to touch but can’t? I know it seems like quite a stretch, but inspiration is like that, isn’t it?

 

We have five senses. We use them all without thinking, but as a writer, I’ve always been intrigued by what it would be like to live without one of those senses– one that we use most often. In The Tutor, I take away the one sense that we never lose, the one we most rely on in our everyday life. I take away the sense of touch. Sculptor, Lex Valentine, is severely haphephobic — he us unable to touch anyone else or to allow himself to be touched. Within that context, I wanted to explore intimacy and how it would develop without the aid of human contact.

 

What exactly is intimacy, anyway, and is it really dependent on being able to touch each other? How much of what binds us to someone and what makes us close depends on being able to physically touch? Lex Valentine and Kelly Blake must find their way to each other without touch. Can they do it? And just how the hell will a can of pears help?

 

The whole story, pears and all, available for your reading pleasure:

 

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The Tutor Excerpt – What Does it Feel Like?

“Look I don’t expect you to deal with what a fucked up mess I am. I realized that what I really want to know is what it feels like, what you feel like, what any woman feels like when she’s with a man, or even when she touches herself, and I have no one I would feel comfortable asking without wondering the whole time if they thought that by my asking I had given them permission to try and fix me. Does that make any sense?”

She had little time to do more than nod before he continued. “Oh I’ve watched enough porn that I get that it feels really good. I’ve read enough erotica to get some picture of how it’s supposed to be, but my take on it’s always one-sided,” he raised his hand and wiggled his fingers as though to demonstrate. “I can’t know anything but my own touch, certainly I can’t feel anything else, so I want you to tell me. I want you to answer my questions. I want you to tell me what I would feel if I touched you, what you would feel if I touched you. As for what I would feel if you touched me, well,” he shrugged and offered her a smile that seemed slightly forced, “for that I’ll just have to use my imagination.”

She took a deep breath, as though she were about to dive under water. “Okay, well, I’ll start with my lips because lovers often start there. I would have made sure they were moist for you before you kissed them, but not so wet as to be off-putting, and you would have done the same. And your first kisses would be tentative, if you’re really good, almost like a feather lighting against my mouth softly and repeatedly until I’m breathless for the want of more; and then I would part my lips to give you more surface area so that we could feel each other better.” She chuckled softly as she realized they’d both raised their fingers to their mouths. “And then we would both press harder and rub harder. The more surface area we touched the more we’d want and, I think lips swell, not just from the pressure, but in an effort to create that surface area, and when they can swell no more, when I feel like I want to completely take my lover into my mouth, then I would open to him and there would be a whole new surface area, wet and slick and warm, there would be a whole new motion when our tongues discover each other. I think a kiss reflects what happens in penetrative sex. It’s sort of an intimation, if you will,” her gaze locked on him, and for the first time she noticed just how blue his eyes were, “a promise of things to come.”

“Yes,” he whispered. “I’ve thought of that in my art. I’ve thought of the interchange we make with mouths and cocks
and vaginas.” He struggles with the last word

“It’s okay to call it a pussy or a cunt or whatever works for you.” She said.

He laughed softly. “How the hell would I know?”

“Well,” she stretched out on the countertop and rolled onto her side, resting her head on her hand. “you just have to try them out and see how they fit your mouth.”

This time they both laughed. “If they fit my mouth, I wouldn’t have to worry about what words I used, would I?”

“Good point,” she said.

“Not quite, but getting there fast, thank you.” Again, they both laughed, a strangely relaxed laugh under the bizarre circumstances.

“The thing is,” she said, rolling onto her back and staring up at the long rack of copper bottom pans above her head, “words are often as important in sex, and as erotic, as touch. I write in my other life, and I find that while some of my characters get turned on by waxing poetic between the sheets, others get hot by talking dirty.”

“How does your cunt feel when some fucker talks dirty to you,” he said, though not without a hearty blush.

“That would depend on the fucker and the circumstances and how badly I wanted to ride his cock.”

“And if it was a fucker whose cock you really wanted to ride, a fucker who was hard and heavy for you? What words would he use, and what response would he elicit?

“It wouldn’t hurt for him to observe out loud what he sees about my body’s state of arousal, and how he admires it.”

“You mean like how lovely your breasts are when your nipples are so taut that even your areola are visible through that shirt, which I imagine feels like a caress every time you inhale. You mean like the way your lips are parted and moist. You’ve not completely shut your mouth for the past five minutes, the way you rock your hips, almost but not quite secretly, and grind you bottom against the countertop. Is that what you mean?”

“Jesus! We shouldn’t be doing this.” She sat bolt upright on the surface and then froze as though someone had hit the pause button. “Alex?”

The man perched on the edge of the counter, just far enough away that she couldn’t easily touch him. He had kicked his shoes off and his own nipples peaked to bullet points through his white polo shirt. That would have been enough to hold her attention indefinitely had it not been for the heel of his hand stroking the very obvious, very anxious erection
through his jeans.

It was all right. It was fine, she told herself. She’d had more than a few occasions where her job involved watching and coaching someone while they masturbated. This was just her job. That’s all.

“It’s more obvious with me what I feel,” he said, raking her body with a hooded gaze. “And your nipples, well you could just be cold. Please tell me what you feel when you see me like this, when we talk like this.”

She moved to the edge of the counter giving him space, then motioned him onto it and she opened her leg. “If I weren’t
wearing trousers, if you could see my panties, you’d know that I’m wet.” She nodded to his erection. “You’d know that the thought of what you’re doing, the sight of how your body is responding to mine, is making me wetter.” She cupped her breasts in turn, through the white blouse. “Every part of me feels heavy, Alex. My breasts feel like my bra can no longer contain them. My nipples ache. And my lips,” she touched her mouth, and then, holding his gaze, moved her hand down to rest on the crotch of her trousers. “My lips are swollen, so swollen and slippery and ready to be penetrated.” She nodded first to his mouth and then to his erection. “Do I want the fucker to give it to me hard and deep in my cunt? What do you think?”

“Oh God,” he managed. Then he stopped talking altogether. His breath came in tight little grunts and gasps as he moved against his hand, holding her in his gaze as surely as if he held her in his embrace; and it was in that instant, the instant she slid her hand down the front of her trousers and into her panties an action he mirrored, that she knew neither of them would make it out of here intact. She wanted to run, but she didn’t. She wanted to take off her clothes and feel his gaze all over her body, but she didn’t. She wanted to demand that he strip for her, that he come just for her thetutor_800eyes, but she didn’t. She couldn’t. She could only cup and grope her breasts until they hurt. She could only stroke herself while she watched him do the same.

The space around them crackled with their energy, and their desperate efforts to breathe were the only sounds beyond the stroke of skin against fabric. In a hungry attempt at relief, they both rocked and bucked, mirror images of each other with one hand down the front of their trousers while the other groped and cupped and tweaked and pinched whatever part of their anatomy it came in contact with. Then breathing stopped, time stopped. Everything around them disappeared until they saw nothing but each other, locked in each other’s gaze, more physical than any embrace Kelly had ever felt, and it was enough. Heaven help them, it was enough. He came first by a split second, roaring like a wounded lion, arching back until she feared he’d either break his neck or fall off the counter. But the sight of him so vulnerable in his passion, the fact that even in his release, he kept his eyes on her was all she could handle, and she convulsed against her own hand, convulsed as though she would break apart, never taking her eyes off him, never breaking that connection.

 

 

 

Brit Babes Cover Reveal! Sexy Just Got Kinky

Time to reveal the gorgeous cover for the next sizzling anthology from the Brit Babes.

 

Sexy Just Got Kinky!

 

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A collection of super-heated stories with one thing in common:

Kink to make you Think!

 

They’re smoking hot, deliciously dirty and brand spanking new!

 

Keep an eye on this blog for preorder and release details

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Be sure to check out these Brit Babes anthologies:

 

Sexy Just Walked into Town  — FREE!

Sexy Just Got Rich

 
© 2017 K D Grace
The Romance Reviews

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