All posts by K D Grace

Filthy Fun Al Fresco, in which All Goes Swimmingly

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In honour of the summer we almost had this year in Britain, here’s the second installment to my filthy fun al fresco extravaganza, K D style. The great outdoors has always inspired me to write all manner of naughtiness. And nothing is more deliciously naughty in the summer heat that a little skinny dipping, especially when it’s done with just the right companion. This hot little excerpt is from my Mischief novella, Surrogates. Enjoy the heat.  And the wet.

Blurb:

DANIEL ALEXANDER III takes his marriage vows seriously. Until he gets the balls to ask his wife, BEL, for a divorce, watching each other masturbate is all he can offer his beautiful gardener, FRANCIE CARTER. But when Dan’s friend, SIMON PARIS, agrees to be his surrogate, affairs of the heart get complicated.

Excerpt:

Simon yanked his mobile from his pocket, and Francie came to his side. ‘Is it from Dan?’ she asked.

He nodded. ‘He’s not coming.’

‘What do you mean, he’s not coming?’ Francie grabbed the phone away from him and read:

            Must cancel. Have an emergency meeting. Will make it up to you.

She handed the phone back to Simon and sat rigid on the edge of the love seat. He could see her pulse hammering in her neck. He could see the rise and fall of her throat as she swallowed hard. But there were no tears.

‘I should go then,’ he said softly.

She didn’t reply, only sat there without looking at him.

‘I can’t make it tomorrow. I’m in Guildford all day.’ He could smell her, like he could smell lavender in a garden at high summer long before he could see it. The smell of her sex he had memorized from the very first time he held her in his arms, but the rest of her scent had unfolded itself to him more slowly. The smell of outdoors was always on her, the smell of earth, the smell of clean female sweat. All of it, the whole of her, the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed, the cadence of her breath, the heat radiating from her body, all of those things, settled around him tight-fitting and raw. ‘I need to go,’ he said again, resting a hand on the curve of her shoulder.

‘No you don’t. You don’t need to go.’ She shrugged off his hand, popped up off the love seat and headed out the door of the summer house at a fast trot, leaving her garden shoes behind.

Still barefoot himself, he followed her across the warm grass out past the rose garden, down over the hill into the mini wilderness that would become the Renaissance garden, and down to the deep pool at the edge of the stream. She undid the tie at the side of her dress and shrugged it off without breaking pace, stepping out of her thong and giving it a toss before she moved into the calm deep of the water, then dived under. For the tiniest fraction of a second, he feared she might mean herself harm. But she surfaced before he could even get his T-shirt off. She floated with her head back and the tips of her nipples breaking the surface. ‘Well?’ she called out. ‘Are you coming or not? You can swim, can’t you?’

‘Of course I can swim.’ He stripped off and stepped into the bright glare of the water. He was already erect, and her watching him did nothing to ease the pressure. ‘You know what’ll happen if I catch you?’ he said, nodding down to his cock.

She swam towards him in an easy crawl stroke. ‘You’re assuming you’ll have to catch me,’ she said, and then she dove. It wasn’t until he felt a tug on his hips and her mouth tightening around his cock that he figured out what she was up to.

‘Jesus,’ he gasped as she cupped and gently squeezed his balls. His feet were just barely touching ground. She seemed to be slowly pulling him with the nips and tugs of her mouth deeper and deeper until he had to tread water to keep his head from going under, careful not to kick her as he did so. And still she didn’t surface.

‘Francie,’ he grunted. ‘Francie don’t stay down too long.’ But fuck, it felt so good, it felt so dangerously out of control as she sucked his cock then cupped his buttocks, then fingered his anus. Damn it! He wanted to bear down, he wanted to thrust, but the water held him in precarious weightlessness, and still she sucked and fondled. ‘Oh God, Francie! Good Christ, Francie please.’

One finger was buried knuckle-deep in his arsehole while the other hand kneaded his balls right on the border between pain and pleasure. And her mouth! Fuck, her mouth had him gripped and sucked in a tight wet paradise with her tongue flicking over the underside of his cock, and still she didn’t surface.

‘Francie… Francie enough!’ He grabbed her under the armpits and hauled her up. She surfaced enough to take a deep drag of air then she took his mouth, pulling him under in the process. And she held him there, her mouth on his, tongue darting, teeth nipping, gulping at him, and he gulped back even as his lungs cried out for oxygen. And just when he thought he’d have to manhandle her into shallow waters, she gave a powerful kick, moved into position, wrapped her legs around him, and his cock slipped into her tight grip just as his feet touched solid ground and the water broke over their heads. Oxygen raced back into starving lungs, taken in through their noses as they continued to eat and lap and nip at each other’s mouths. He took her face in his hands and pulled her away enough that he could look into her eyes. ‘Jesus, Francie, you scared me. I thought we were drowning.’

‘We are, Simon,’ she said, biting his lower lip then tightening her grip around his waist and matching his thrust. ‘We are drowning.’ He could tell by the tremors that began around his cock and shivered up her spine that she was coming. Her grip was far too tight and demanding for him not to follow suite.

They crawled to the grass at the edge of the stream, collapsed into each other’s arms and fell asleep. When he woke up, the sun was setting and she was gone. He went to her cottage and knocked, but her car was gone and the place was dark and silent. There was nothing to do but go home and hope that he hadn’t ruined everything. But then it was hardly his fault, was it? He really did try to practice some restraint. Somehow that didn’t make him feel any better.

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Lexie Bay Tells Us The Story Behind The Story of Last Chance Summer

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The Story Behind The Story

It’s my pleasure to welcome back the delicious Lexie Bay. I’ve had the privilege of being in several anthologies with Lexie, and it’s always an honour.  Once again we’re in between the covers together in the fabulous anthology, Smut By the Sea, edited by that dynamic duo, Lucy Felthouse and Victoria Blisse. Lexie is here to share the story behind her story, Last Chance Summer. Take it away, Lexie!

Hi KD, thanks for having me over today to talk about my latest story which appears in Smut By The Sea.

I’ve lived by the sea for eleven years now, moving down here after my eldest was born and I spent just under a year living right on the beach in Pevensey Bay not so long ago. There’s something incredible about waking up in the morning and gazing out onto that vast expanse of water. It makes you feel like anything is possible, that you could go anywhere and do anything. Even now I only have to catch sight of the sea between the downs as I’m heading to work in the mornings and it lifts my spirits. It makes me think of faraway places and unexpected adventures.

I based Last Chance Summer in Pevensey Bay not just because I know it so well but because it’s got that small fishing village feel but without the bleakness of some coastal resorts. You don’t get the feeling that everyone is desperate to leave the Bay, instead it’s a fun place to be and Jessie loves living there.

I wanted to give you a little tour of the place to set the scene for the story. For such a tiny village, Pevensey Bay has more pubs in the space of about half a mile than some cities, but The Beach Tavern, where my two main characters Jessie and Tommy meet for a drink is my favourite. I even included the lovely landlord Stephan in my story as he’s my biggest promoter in the Bay, so thanks honey and if anyone is ever in town, head straight down here for a very warm welcome! Here’s a picture so that you can get an idea of how big the village is. This is the main road running through it, not far from the rec where Jessie meets Tommy at the fair and just around the bend from the café where Jessie’s friend Danni works.

Another key element of my story is the old fishing boat Scratcher, a local landmark on the beach. I don’t think the locals would approve of what Jessie and Tommy get up to while they’re there, but I’ve always thought it would be an excellent place to hide away on the beach for a little bit of kinky fun! Here’s a picture (painted by my super talented artist mum, Rory Drysdale) so you can see Scratcher for yourself.

Anyway I hope that I’ve given you a little bit of insight into my character’s life and the village where she lives. I love it here and if you’re ever down this way, you can visit all of Jessie’s favourite places too!

So back to the actual story! Last Chance Summer is based right in the middle of one of those heat waves we used to get in England back when we had snow in the winter and sun in the summer; before this all year round drizzle we get nowadays! Jessie is looking for adventure and Tommy is looking for a good time. They meet amongst the bright lights and sweet smells of the fun fair and neither can deny the spark between them. It all leads to a summer that will stay with Jessie for a very long time. I’ve included a little teaser for you, so enjoy and maybe I’ll see you down the Beach Tavern for a pint of local ale. I can’t promise a personal visit to Scratcher though 😉

Love Lexie xx

 

Blurb:

Jessie has lived in the tiny fishing village of Pevensey Bay all her life and is about to move to London after finishing university. She’s at home for the summer and knows that this is likely to be the last time she has six weeks stretching ahead of her with all the endless possibilities that come with it. Not wanting to waste a second of it, when the fun fair comes to town, she meets Tommy and embarks on a summer fling that leads to an adventure she’ll never forget.

Available from:
Amazon UK
Amazon US
All Romance eBooks

 

Last Chance Summer – Extract

Of course we arrive at the Rec way before the fair opens. Danni has brought snacks and we munch through a bar of chocolate and a bag of salt and vinegar crisps, watching as they carry out all the last minute checks.

“Do ya wanna test some of the rides for us, ladies?” a big Irish sounding guy shouts over to us. We look over at him and then at each other. Danni mouths the word “hottie” at me and giggles.

“Ah, come on, it’s perfectly safe and it’s all for free. Sure, you’ll be doing me a favour; me Da will be on me case if I don’t get these going.”

“C’mon,” Danni hisses, “you won’t get a better offer than that! Even I have to admit that one’s cute.”

We stand up and walk over to where he’s grinning at us. I can’t help but stare at him. He’s even hotter than I hoped for. Think a young Gerard Butler with a hint of Brad Pitt in Snatch. His hair is dark and messy, long enough to touch the top of his sexy white t-shirt and his blue eyes are sparkling as he looks us up and down.

“I’m guessing you like the funfair?” he laughs. “You’ve been sitting waiting for ages and we’ve still got another 40 minutes til we open.”

I nod suddenly tongue-tied. He’s gorgeous and I can feel myself blushing from my toes to my cheeks. His biceps are bulging out of his vest, his jeans slung low on his hips and oh my God he’s wearing cowboy boots. I think I might come on the spot.

“Well come on pretty ladies, hop on and let’s make sure all the nuts and bolts are tight before we open the gates.”

He takes my hand as he helps us into the bucket seat of the Waltzer. “This is my ride,” he grins, “I helped me brothers put it together yesterday so you’re putting your lives into me hands here.” I’m so busy enjoying the warmth of his grip that I forget to speak. Danni nudges me and frowns.

“Did it take you long?” I ask fluttering my eyelashes at him, squeezing his hand as I step into the car. I smile as he watches me, his eyes drawn to my boobs spilling out of my tight t-shirt and the way my hot pants tighten around my tanned thighs as I sit down.

“Not really,” he shrugs, “we know what we’re doing.”

“I’ll bet you do,” I murmur, my gaze lingering on his full lips, imagining how they would feel all over my naked body.

He winks at me and drops the bar, moving round behind us. “I hope you like to spin, girls, I have a feeling this is going to be a wild ride.”

I’m oblivious to anything but the smell of him as he stands behind us and the lights flash across the roof of the ride. “Remember babe; scream if you wanna go faster!” He winks at me again and I finally get my flirt on. I blow him a kiss as he starts up the ride. He says something but his words are lost as the heavy bass line starts up and the ride begins to move.

I can feel the adrenaline rush almost immediately. This is where I’m happiest, amongst the grease, the bright lights and the pounding music. It’s such a turn on. Intermingled in all of the dirty, noisy chaos is the fresh scent of the sea, lending a magical twist to the whole thing, transporting us; reminding me of beach holidays abroad. I want to snog the face off this cute guy. I want to feel his tongue in my mouth, his body pressing against mine while the adrenaline pumps through my body. He’d be wild and crazy, not caring who saw us, claiming me as his and ravaging my willing body at every opportunity. The heady rush of the spinning ride is making me giddy and the tantalising flashes of his incredible arms as he spins us faster and faster are the ultimate turn on.

“Come on ladies, I wanna hear you scream.”

We squeal, almost unable to speak as he spins the car faster and faster.

“Ah come on now, is that it? I’m sure I can make you scream louder than that.”

I can hardly see him as we whirl past but I could swear he winks at me.

I would love for him to make me scream. I think he would make me moan and whimper too, his cock driving into me making every inch of my body scream for him. Fuck, my nipples are like bullets straining against my t-shirt as I imagine us together.

Danni screams as the music gets louder and he spins us even faster. She clutches my hand and I look over. She looks a bit green and I have to say I’m relieved when the ride finally slows and the music dies down. The Waltzer comes to a halt and he raises the bar.

“I think I’m gonna puke,” Danni mutters as he helps us out of the car, “back in a minute.”

She legs it over to the toilet block and disappears inside.

“Do ya think your mates OK?” he asks as he stares at me, his eyes dancing.

“Yeah, she’ll be fine, she always thinks she’s gonna throw up but she never does.”

We stand there, an awkward silence between us. I try desperately to think of something to say.

 

Lexie Bay

Lexie started writing to immerse herself in a fantasy world where women are adored and men fall at their feet.  Then she realised that sometimes men do that so you can stomp all over them in your sexy stiletto boots and since then she’s been creating stories that touch on her original romantic dream while exploring the erotic, the kinky and sometimes the downright filthy.  She finally found the courage to unleash her stories into the world and now writes about anything that emerges from the murky depths of her imagination, whenever she gets the opportunity.

Lexie lives with her husband and two daughters on the south coast of England, and spends her days working as an accounts manager. She loves the adrenaline rush of the unexpected, craves peace to write every day, likes to lose herself in the realms of fantasy and has a thing for smells that take her back to her childhood.

You can find her stories in Uniform Behaviour and Seducing The Myth edited by Lucy Felthouse as well as in Immoral Views published by Kojo Black at Sweetmeats Press.

Find Lexie at:

http://www.lexiebay.co.uk

http://www.twitter.com/Lexie_Bay

http://www.facebook.com/LexieBayAuthor

The Fully-formed Birth of Vina Jackson

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After some IT glitches and a two-day game of email tag, it’s my pleasure to welcome the multi-facetted Vina Jackson, author of the exciting new erotic romance Eighty Days Yellow to a Hopeful Romantic.

As I write, EIGHTY DAYS YELLOW by Vina Jackson is no 6 on the Sunday Times bestseller list and has been in the top ten for the last three weeks.

But if a computer hadn’t engineered for two total strangers to sit quite by chance on opposite seats on a train from London to the provinces, John Grisham’s new novel might be no 6 instead and, worse, Vina Jackson would not exist at all!

Fate certainly moves in mysterious ways.

Vina Jackson is actually two writers, writing together under a pseudonym.  Yet until a few months ago we had never even met.

It all began when one of us was invited to attend a literary festival outside London, while the other decided to attend at short notice and purchased a ticket, on the recommendation of a friend.

So, on a very early Saturday morning as winter was turning into spring, both of us arrived at Euston station, with tickets booked online, only to find a train which was at best barely 10% full and our allocated seats facing each other while the rest of the carriage barely housed half a dozen other travellers. Any of us could have moved elsewhere in the carriage to enjoy more privacy, but then this is Britain and we all probably felt it would be rude to do so.

For hours we all sat together, respectively reading, daydreaming, listening to music on iPods or eating, saying not a word to one another only to discover, several hours afterwards at the literary festival while drinking the welcoming coffee, that the three of us that had all been grouped together by the bookings computer were attending the same event… and had all taken separate taxis from the station.

Several weeks later one of us contacted the other for some professional advice and thus two strangers who had met by chance on a train began emailing regularly.

We were both writers with a penchant for racey romance, and in passing one of us mentioned an unusual story about an antique violin that they’d read in a newspaper. Perverse minds think alike and we both thought there was a stub of an idea for a novel there, ready to be written. And then we moved on to other matters, stories to write, lives to live, other things to do.

A few months passed and the idea to write a novel together  kept bubbling away so we decided to meet up at London’s Groucho Club and later exchanged ideas and suggestions over meals in Chinatown.  And it was then that we agreed to write four opening chapters, in alternate voices, and to then send it to a literary agent to see if there was anything there to interest a publisher.

We came up with the character of the violin player busking in the Tube and the university professor who is captivated by her playing and we improvised some way they could meet. Thus Summer and Dominik were born. And so was Vina Jackson. Along with a proposal and several sample chapters for two novels, featuring their adventures in the world of sex and BDSM.

The literary agent Sarah Such loved the material and signed us up, submitting to London publishing houses within a few days. And overnight the first offers began coming in. As the level of interest grew, so did the size of the offers as well as the suggestion that it could even make a trilogy. So Vina Jackson agreed to write a third volume, and soon a six-figure deal was done with the wonderful folk at Orion.

By then, of course, the collected works of E.L. James were weaving their magic on the bestseller lists and Orion suggested we could maybe write all three books in 3 months. Vina didn’t protest too much and agreed, to ensure the trilogy would be published within weeks of delivery of the respective manuscripts, and catch the zeitgeist.

The first volume EIGHTY DAYS YELLOW was published in early August, and its sequels EIGHTY DAYS BLUE and EIGHTY DAYS RED are out in September and October. It will soon be published in the USA by Open Road Media and so far has sold translation rights in ten territories, including Germany, France, Italy and Japan.

It was never meant to rival Fifty Shades of Grey, as neither of us have even read it! But we did want to write a strong erotic romance, with believable characters and non-stop action, which we hope is well-written and entertaining. And that you enjoy reading the EIGHTY DAYS trilogy.

Meanwhile beware who you sit opposite next time you take a train.  You may end up writing a racey romance trilogy with a complete stranger…

Blurb:

Caught in a frustrating relationship with a man who can’t accept her for who she is, passionate, flame-haired violinist Summer finds release in her music. She spends her afternoons busking on the underground, lost in the works of Vivaldi or Mendelssohn. When her violin is damaged beyond repair, Summer receives a surprising proposition from Dominik, a university professor with powerful desires, who has been captivated by Summer ever since he heard her perform. Dominik will replace her priceless violin, but only if she agrees to play for him in a private concert.

Unable to deny the chemistry between them, Dominik and Summer embark on an intense affair full of daring twists and turns, as unpredictable as it is thrilling. For Summer it is a chance to finally embrace her long-denied dark side, but she’ll soon learn that where there’s pleasure must come pain. And can a relationship born of such all-consuming passion, ever really survive?

Exhilarating, seductive and tantalisingly bold, EIGHTY DAYS is a love story that will leave you breathless for more.

Buy Eighty Days Yellow here:

eBook:

Amazon.co.uk

Amazon.com

Print:

Amazon.co.uk

Amazon.com (pre-order)

 

 

 

The Modern Path to Happy Ever After and Why Biology is Still a Bitch

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There’s a very interesting article in the Guardian today by Helen Croydon called, Monogamy is a Fairy Tale: Affairs Won’t Go Away, another powerful reminder that, yes, dear friends, biology is STILL a bitch.

Croydon mentions three books, all three written by the happily married, all three in praise of extra-marital affairs: The New Rules: Internet Dating, Playfairs and Erotic Power,  by Catherine Hakim, How to Think More about Sex by Alain de Botton, and Sex at Dawn by Christopher Ryan co-written with his wife.

Being in the ranks of the happily married for many years, I don’t find it surprising that all three books were written by those who are happily married. I think happy monogamy is a safe place from which to discuss other relationship alternatives free of the guilt, bitterness and angst that often accompany an affair. Perhaps that sounds a bit like the childless trying to give parenting advice, but I prefer to think of it as being a part of the cheering squad for the path that leads to happiness — whatever path that may be. Croydon presents lots of evidence that the ideal of everlasting love and happy ever after in a monogamous situation are relatively new. Monogamy was originally a business deal, if you will. It was all about property and alliances. And while the human male has evolved to spread his seed far and wide, the human female is geared to birth and rise the next generation, a long-term proposition. While the monogamous couple get their dose of oxytocin for bonding to insure the tag-teaming involved in the trash getting taken out and the kiddos getting delivered to school and ballet and sport, the lovers get the high flying, cocaine of brain chemicals, dopamine. The raising of the next generation has nothing to do with passion and sexual attraction. Biology is definitely still a bitch.

But from the viewpoint of a romance writer and a story teller, it all makes sense. There’s a reason why happy ever after comes at the end of a story and not at the beginning. There’s a reason why those of us who are in happy monogamous relationships can say, yep, if people want to have affairs, they should go for it. And being an author of erotic romance, my happy ever afters quite often involve ménage and multiple partners. It’s a lot more exciting to read about dopamine events than it is to read about oxytocin events.

If the bitterness were removed from unhappy marital and monogamous situations, if we all understood that monogamy is relatively a new-comer on the relationship scene, that it is really only one flavour of many, perhaps we might be a little less sexually repressed, a little less sexually neurotic and a little less concerned about the shape our happy ever after or happy for now takes.

Celebrating Summer Sex Al Fresco

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In honour of the summer we almost had here in Britain, I’m going to dedicate my next few blog entries to filthy fun al fresco, K D style. Most of you know me well enough to know the kind of things I like to do in the heat of the summer, and the kind of things that inspire me to write all manner of naughtiness.

Likewise, most of you who know me will recall that my husband and I just got an allotment this year after three long years on the waiting list. Now that the hard work is beginning to pay off and we’re indulging ourselves with runner beans and sweet corn and courgettes and cauliflowers, I thought a little garden porn might be the perfect way to kick off this little celebration of outdoor smut. And why not go straight to the spot, with a little allotment garden porn, from my Sweetmeat Press story, Allotted Views. Who knows, after reading this, you might find you want to put your name on the waiting list for an allotment. Enjoy!

Allotted Views Blurb

When the mysterious ‘Woo Woo Man,’ JONATHAN takes on the thin strip of bramble-infested ground in the Blue Bell Street Allotments, veg gardener extraordinaire, ROSE, whose bedroom window overlooks his ‘small holding,’ wonders what idiot would take on such a project. When she ‘accidentally’ sees him chanting a bit of woo-woo and having a midnight wank under a full moon in his newly rotovated plot, she suspects his methods aren’t found in any RHS manual.

As watching his late night garden antics becomes more for voyeuristic pleasure than for sussing out sound horticultural practices, and as Jonathan’s garden grows more exquisite with every wank, Rose begins to wonder if there just might be something to a little sex woo-woo in the garden. But can she learn Jonathan’s secret without him learning hers, or will she be forced to come clean?

Allotted Views Excerpt

That night I went to bed wondering if I should maybe take up wanking in my own garden. I’m always happy to try the latest horticultural techniques, and often with surprising results, but I must have been really tired to even consider the masturbation method as a valid way of upping garden productivity.

Later, I was awakened by whispers. My heart went into overdrive with a rush of anticipation. I rose and walked on tiptoe to the window to peek out. Sure enough, there was Woo-Woo Man, but this time he wasn’t alone. The woman he was with, for lack of a more fitting term, was voluptuous. If he was woo-woo, she was woo-woo squared. She wore a dark gown with a tightly fitted bodice from which her very ample breasts mounded like large scoops of vanilla ice cream crowded into a small dish. The dress must have been corseted at the waist because it beautifully accentuated hourglass hips and buttocks that looked like they must be completely luscious for her to sit on or for anyone else to fondle. The long skirt swished with a silken hiss teasing its way between her thighs as she walked. There was a mountain of pale curly hair caught up on top of her head in a generous clipping of crystals and feathers. ‘Oh, it’s lovely, Jonathan.’ Her voice was a honey-comb-dipped contralto that I felt down low between my hipbones.

‘Then you’ll do it, My Lady?’ He took her hands in his, raised them reverently to his lips and kissed her pale knuckles. ‘You’ll bless it with me?’

‘Of course I will, Jonathan, darling, of course I will.’ She stood unmoving while Jonathan slid the white poet shirt he now wore off over his head and fumbled his way out of his cargo trousers. It was the way his cock rested unsubstantially drawn up against his balls that told me the man was nervous. But his spiky nipples told me he’d get over it.

With a melodramatic flutter of her long, heavy sleeves, My Lady lifted her arms into the air, and motioned Jonathan to do likewise. Then her voice got even lower as she earnestly entreated the blessing of the earth for the feeding of her children. That done, she held her arms out to each side, palms delicately cupped, facing upward, and nodded her consent, casting a demure glance down the pale valley between her breasts.

With fingers that were visibly shaking, Jonathan undid the tight cup of the bodice and My Lady’s bosom tumbled free just as she was saying something about all of us suckling at nature’s breasts. With one hand, fingers sparkling in sliver spirals of rings, she pulled him to her, first one tit and then the other. Each time he nursed and caressed and slurped her ripe strawberry nipples, she spoke a few words into the silent midnight air. And each time she gave him suck, his cock stretched and expanded and reached for her until it pressed its way into the dark satin folds of her skirt.

Then she stepped back slightly and offered him her hand. With his cock leading the way, he guided her to stand in the middle of the garden between the beans and the brassicas. There she squatted wide legged, and for a second I thought there would be more urea, but instead of peeing, she took a handful of soil, lifted it into the air in front of her and let it fall between her fingers. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but suddenly she stopped speaking, stood and motioned him to her again.

This time he undid the rest of the dress, and it fell around her ankles like a chrysalis being shed, brushing cabbage leaves and bean poles in its fullness. Then with him holding her hand, she stepped free of the dress standing tall and shimmering and completely naked in the muted touch of the sodium streetlight. She was Rubinesque in the most exquisite way. There were no protruding bones, no sharp edges, just soft pillowed curves that begged to be touched and nuzzled and fondled.

I had a lover once who’d made a fortune working in the city. One year, for my birthday, he took me to a very expensive hotel. I remember languishing on a bed mounded with satin pillows of every shape and size. I remember how after too much expensive fizz, he undressed me slowly and settled me into the middle of them all. I felt them against my cheek, hugging the sides of my breasts, sliding feather-soft over my nipples, shoving in between my legs as he removed my panties and arranged me like I was some kind of jewelry displayed on a bed of velvet. I relished their softness and resilience as he carefully positioned them beneath my hips until I gaped before him at the perfect angle for his explorations, at the perfect angle for his mounting. The contrast of his hard thrusts and pants over me and the lush, forgiving caress of the pillows beneath me was sensory overload that sent me into orgasmic bliss. Sadly the man wasn’t nearly as memorable as that delicious mound of pillows.

My Lady was like that. There was no part of her I wouldn’t have loved to pull to me and bury my face in. Almost unconsciously I found myself leaning forward toward her, nearly out the open window. She walked naked amid the ordered rows of tomatoes and carrots. She fondled the long leaves of the sweet corn, stroking them to her breasts, lifting them to her nose and inhaling their scent. She ran bare toes upward along the feathery greens of the carrots like a ballerina, each movement, each interaction making her more desirable, more exquisite in the shadowy light. And yet, Jonathan didn’t touch her, though his erection told me he wanted to badly enough. He simply followed her around with a proprietary step made comic by the bounce of his cock.

At last she turned to him and he nearly ploughed into her. ‘Jonathan, my darling, I offer myself to you for the blessing of this lovely garden.’

When he hesitated, she chuckled softly and ran a hand invitingly down the expansive curve of her hip. ‘Come now, darling, there’s no need to be shy. Our pleasure is a part of the magic.’ She turned her back to him and bent forward so that the lush pillows of her buttocks faced him, faced my window, and I grabbed at the buttons of my night shirt, clawing it free so that my own small breasts could take in the night breeze, so that my pussy rubbed unhindered against the chair I’d left in front of the window after Jonathan’s first worshipful wank – just in case.

‘Don’t be shy,’ she whispered. ‘Just for tonight, I am the goddess, you are my consort, and the great yoni that birthed all things into existence will be honoured by our offering. My pussy is yours until the magic is completed.’ Perhaps it was her sudden use of nasty language in a situation which up until now had seemed rather formal and reverent in spite of the chavish undertones of sneaking a fuck in the allotments after hours. But more than likely it was just the close proximity of her luscious bare arse cushioning said puss. Propriety gave way to lust. I held my breath, and my cunt trembled and clenched as he reached for her.

Allotted Views can be purchased as a stand-alone novella or in the illustrated Immoral Views anthology.

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