All posts by K D Grace

Getting My Hands Dirty

Blog, Inspiration, , ,
The mini greenhouse all clean with new covers. Seedlings in the first one.

I drive myself crazy writing sometimes. I’m tunnel-visioned, and I don’t always know when to call a halt. I’ve kept my head down for the first three months of this year. I’ve written hard, and long, and lots — plus the PR. But there comes a time when a girl just has to get her hands dirty before she can write another word. This is that time!

My husband and I spent a good chunk of our day working in our veg patch – well our future veg patch. At the moment there are only a few over-wintering cauliflower and broccoli plants remaining, and a strawberry patch sorely in need of cleaning. At the moment the whole of 2012’s veg garden can be contained in two large draining trays and part of one mini greenhouse, all zipped in for extra warmth. But in a few months, my-oh-my, you won’t recognize the place. We’ll have sweet corn higher than our heads, tomato plants ladened with a dozen different varieties from all over the tomato growing world; we’ll have tee-pees of climbing beans and peas, vines of yellow and green courgettes and multiple varieties of brassicas. That’s not even counting the soft fruit and the dwarf root stock apple trees. I know, I know! Now I’m just bragging!

We’ve got trays of seeds planted and sitting on water bottles in the kitchen (our low tech, unorthodox

Newly planted seeds all toasty on their water bottles.

system to speed up germination.) What has already germinated has had a week or two to grow on in the house and was transplanted today into our mini greenhouses, which are now soaped, scrubbed and sporting new plastic covers. My husband has potted eight large pots of seed potatoes (with our limited space, we grow spuds in pots), and the dreaming and scheming of what will go where is well under way.

As we scrubbed and planted and labelled seed trays, the resident blackbird made short work of any worms that were uncovered as we cleaned the patio and did a bit of weeding in the main bed. He and the Mrs are feeding chicks, so he came and went, each time filling his beak full to overflowing. When he wasn’t hunting and gathering, he was perched in the ash trees above our garden singing loudly just in case any other blackbird should doubt this this nice piece of real estate, where he gets fed currents and meal worms on demand, belongs to him. I hope my timing is good. I hope that by the time the chicks fledge I’ll have large courgette leaves and tee-pees ladened in runner beans for them to scurry about underneath and hide.

Ready to go to the greenhouses

The whole back garden is alive. There are three starling nests in the eaves and a nuthatch coming and going on a regular basis, as well as tits and doves and wood pigeons, who brazenly nip at the leaves of the cauliflower plants whenever they feel like it.

My husband has convinced the people who run the canteen at his office to save him their coffee grounds. All winter long, several times a week he came home bearing a large yellow plastic bucket full of coffee grounds, which he spreads over the garden. We joked about the worms being hyped up on caffeine. And I still smile to think about my husband, the very dapper business man, walking to and from his office several times a week carrying a large yellow bucket.

Tonight I feel better. Tonight I feel more like my writerly self again. What is it about

I'm anticipating

getting my hands in the earth that is so healing? Perhaps it’s a different kind of creativity, a kind in which I’m really only a facilitator. I can make sure the conditions are right. But what it takes for a paper thin, nearly weightless, not much bigger than the head of a pin, tomato seed to grow into a chest-high plant ladened with heavy, meaty, luscious fruit, well that’s something else altogether, and something that astounds me and amazes me every single time it happens. A new season is just beginning. The process is just getting started, and I’m like a kid at Christmas time, just waiting for it all to unfold again.

Shay Briscoe: Artist in Transition

Blog, Interviews, , , , ,
Shay Briscoe and his powerful interpretation of the love spell threesome near the end of BTR

I’m very excited to welcome the talented Shay Briscoe to my site today. Shay is one of the three lovely artists who gave me a very special gift for the launch of my latest novel, Body Temperature and Rising. Shay, along with Fuschia Ayling (who was my guest recently) and Jess Pritchard (who will hopefully be my guest in the near future) volunteered to illustrate three scenes from my novel, three scenes that I planned to read at the launch party. At the time they were exhibiting some of their work at Sh! Portobello. I was elated with their offer, and my guests and I were totally enthralled with the end result! It is a total pleasure to have Shay on my site today to tell us a bit about himself and to share a little of his wonderful work with us. Welcome, Shay!

Body Book

KD: Have you always known you wanted to be an artist?

SB: I only really got into art around three years ago, upon meeting the lovely Fuschia Ayling and realising that I don’t have to be a good painter to be a good artist. I was a chef for a long time before I started making art, though I knew that cheffing was not the career I wanted. When I discovered my passion for art at the age of twenty-one, I finally knew what I wanted to do with my life!

KD: Tell us a little bit about yourself. Shay.

SB:I grew up in Gloucestershire in a large family. When I was eighteen I began coming

Tapestry Close-up

to terms with the fact that I was transgender and slowly took steps to become the boy I should have been born as. I currently study fine art at Kingston University, and I am engaged to fellow artist Fuschia Ayling. I have a very nice ferret called Floppy, and I have serious love for dinosaurs, Greek mythology, playing stupid games on my laptop, cats, trivia and deep sea creatures. It may not come as a surprise after reading this that I have Asperger Syndrome.

KD: Why did you choose to make sexuality the central theme in your artwork?

SB: I don’t think that it was really a choice – it seemed natural for my artwork to center upon something so significant in my life. Making work about my gender is very therapeutic for me. It lets me get out all the stresses of living in a body that doesn’t feel like my own. And also, it means I can hopefully educate others about people like me, against whom there is still a lot of prejudice. Sex is something that we all experience, so it is something that everybody can relate to in some way.

KD: Where do you get your inspiration?

SB:My inspiration comes from everything around me. Random images from the internet, new

Tapestry

stationary, lines from books, funny shaped leaves, television adverts, labels from clothes, children’s toys, song lyrics, going to exhibitions, gawping out of the window, packaging, smells, tastes, textures, so many things! The world in general is a very inspirational place.

KD: What’s the hardest thing about being an artist?

SB: The days where all your creativity seems to have disappeared and you feel like it’ll never come back. That, and the worry that I’ll never make enough money to live!

KD: Who inspires you as an artist?

Anderson and Tim

SB: My favourite artists are Egon Schiele and Yayoi Kusama, I take a lot of inspiration from both. Also, when I read the books of Neil Gaiman (Neverwhere, The Eternals, American Gods) and Paul Stewart and Chris Riddell (The Edge Chronicles), I get a massive urge to get into the studio!

KD: What is the best thing about being an artist?

SB: Being able to do whatever I want and it counting as work! I love that I am allowed to create literally anything, and discover new ways of doing things that I hadn’t thought of before. I like being able to express what I feel inside in ways that I couldn’t using just words.

KD: What are you working on now?

SB: I’m currently developing an idea which will involve a book and possibly a film. I don’t want to say too much yet, but hopefully it will be a success! I’m also making a couple of condom packet pillows, which I’m enjoying greatly.

KD: Future plans?

SB: I want to continue exploring the subjects of gender and sexuality and how they impact upon my life. Further on into the future, my ambition is to return to my love of street culture and open a shop that sells t shirts, designer toys and accessories that I make myself, along with pieces from other artists. Hopefully as well as the shop I’ll be able to exhibit my work in galleries… That’s the long term plan anyway!

Thank you, Shay, for sharing a little of yourself and your work with us, and very best of luck in all that you do!

 

Where you can find Shay:

http://shaybriscoe.blogspot.co.uk/?zx=961855511b547a2f

Psst! Have You Read That Filthy Book, by Lily Harlem and Natalie Dae?

Blog, Guest Blogger, New Releases, , , , , , ,

Lily Harlem and Natalie Dae have a sizzling new release out called That Filthy Book. And if the excerpt they’ve shared below is any indication, I’d say the book is very aptly named!

Blurb:
Out of sight, out of mind. Or so I thought, but it turns out an old, dog-eared book with contents so filthy and so depraved that I’d been forced to hide it after reading, has sank deeper into my erotic subconscious than I’d ever imagined. Luckily though, Jacob is up for exploring the new side of me that has risen to the surface after all these years.

In a whirlwind of wanton adventures that push us to the limits of our sexuality, we begin to re-discover what it once was that had us screaming with pleasure and how to accept that nothing will ever be the same again between us.

Reader Advisory: This book contains bondage, BDSM and an element of dubious consent within a consensually acted out rape scenario.

Excerpt From That Filthy Book (18+)

It seemed Lady Luck had joined us for our journey, giving the green light for all our needs to be met only three days after my confession of what I really wanted him to do with that branch.

Jacob’s parents had asked if they could take the girls to a circus on Saturday night. It started at eight, didn’t finish until ten, so they’d suggested it was more sensible that they keep them until Sunday morning, possibly Sunday afternoon if the children fancied having a roast dinner with them at the local pub.

I was not about to turn that opportunity down, especially when Jacob had been hot for the idea of outside sex. In fact, he’d been more than up for it, and the excited glint in his eye when I’d held up the carefully stripped bark had sent a tremble to my very core. Something told me I’d hit another very dark and very sinful nerve of his.

But always one to think of others, Jacob had already promised to help a work colleague move house on the Saturday. I didn’t mind too much because it left me with an empty afternoon to prepare for our evening of fun. I started with a pamper accompanied by a glass of wine, treating myself to a cucumber face mask, sugar body scrub, shave—including my pussy—manicure and pedicure and finally a generous slathering of body butter.

It left me feeling tingly and smooth, as if my body was honed and prepared. The thought of my silky, clean skin and perfectly neat red nails out in the open, amongst dirt and leaves, with the sootiness of bark mould smudged randomly over my body had me panting with excitement. I could just imagine mud squelching around my toes and the creamy skin of my wrists worn red by ropes. And the image of my arse marked raw by the branch, well, that had me feeling like a sacrificial offering.

For I knew that this evening I would be handing myself over to nature, to Jacob, and to my own darkest desires. The bare bones of my soul were about to be revealed. No holds barred, no chance to hide. They were the very skeleton of me that only Jacob would ever set eyes on.

When the dipping sun sent lilac and crimson fingers darting over the horizon I was ready—more than ready. I’d had a light tea and another glass of wine, resisted the temptation to masturbate—just—and saved myself for my husband.

The front door opened with a whoosh, then shut with a resounding slam. I spun from the kitchen window where I’d been staring at the darkening copse.

The copse that was ready and waiting.

Heavy footsteps banged down the hall. Loud and resolute, the sound reverberated around my head.

This was it. There was no turning back.

I didn’t want to. Not for anything.

The door swung open, and there he stood, with his broad shoulders filling the frame and his head bowed slightly. He pulled his brows low and set his jaw. A small muscle flexed and unflexed in his cheek.

“Get down on your knees, bitch.”

I gasped at the completely thrilling sound of his bad man’s voice and folded my legs until my knees landed on the freshly swept lino. He was so feral, so dominant, not Jacob the protector, the carer. No, tonight I had Jacob the master, the taker, the giver of sinful pleasure.
Between one breath and the next he was in front of me, his groin level with my face and his hands on his hips. The scent of man and hard physical work washed over me, as well as perhaps a hint of a greasy spoon cafe where he’d no doubt been treated to pie and chips for the efforts of his day.

“Take out my cock.”

I reached for the buttons on his jeans, surprised to see that my hands trembled. Excitement? Trepidation?

This had not been part of any plan, but I wasn’t complaining. In fact, there wasn’t a plan. All Jacob had asked was that I trust him. He said that he understood what I wanted and would make it all happen for me. Of course, we had a safe word, but I couldn’t imagine I would need it. I trusted Jacob with my life and my pleasure. I always would.

“Hurry up,” he said, tangling his fingers in my neatly brushed, softly conditioned hair. “Take it out and suck it.”
After I freed his cock, his length sprang into my palm, hot and thick, and the purple veins winding up the shaft bulged with his keen arousal.
In a sharp movement, he jerked forward and the tip slid into my salivating mouth. “Wider, whore,” he snarled. “Take me, all of me.”

I stretched my jaw and he sank deep, sliding to the back of my throat in one urgent movement. I gagged but he ignored it; pulled back then rode in again, all the time holding my head in a tight, vice-like grip so I had no choice but to take him, tip to base.

I’d sucked on Jacob’s cock a million times, but never had he taken control like this. He was always respectful and deathly still, allowing me to determine depth and pace. But this was different—this was sinful, depraved Jacob fucking my mouth without a thought for my well-being.
I adored it.

Needing support as my body was jostled by his thrusting hips, I gripped his thighs. Saliva ran down my face and neck onto my red blouse, my nose repeatedly buried in his wiry pubic hair. He steamed on and on, hissing and cursing above me. Breathing was difficult, my mouth was so chock-full of hard, demanding cock. When I did catch a breath the air was heated and smelt of him, musky and raw.

“Get fucking ready for it,” he snarled, thrusting to such a depth his balls slapped against my chin. “I’m going to come down your throat. I’m going to fill you up, now…argh…fuck…now.”

He let out a garrotted cry as his cock swelled further, then, in several sweet pulses, copious amounts of fluid gushed over my tongue. I swallowed rapidly, the action tugging the crown of his cock further down my throat.

“Ah, sweet…fucking…Jesus,” he hissed, gripping my hair. “That’s it, keep sucking, swallow me.”

I did as he asked. My body quivered, and I could almost come myself just from the feel and taste of him climaxing so hard and forcefully. Had he lain there all those millions of times I’d sucked him off, restraining himself? Had he wanted to throw me down and fuck my mouth in a hard, abandoned way, but resisted?

I didn’t have time to dwell on this because Jacob pulled out, gripped my upper arms and dragged me into a standing position. Gasping, I stared into his flushed face. His mouth was parted as he drew in big lungfuls of air. His eyes sparkled, the pupils wide and dilated, showing me the dark depths of his most basic needs.
“That’s just the beginning,” he said in a rasping, breathy voice. “To take the edge off what you’ve had me thinking of for three days.” He slanted his mouth down hard over mine, taking possession of my lips and tongue in a furious, ravenous kiss. He pulled away abruptly. “You’re such a tease,” he muttered, “tempting me, turning me on. Well, now you’re going to get it. You’re going to get punished for making a man want you so bad it hurts his soul.”

Buy Link
http://www.total-e-bound.com/product.asp?strParents=&CAT_ID=&P_ID=1604

Author Bios

Natalie Dae is a multi-published author in three pen names writing several genres. She lives with her husband, children, and three cats in an English village. She writes full time and is also a cover artist and blog designer. In another life she was an editor. Her other pen names are Sarah Masters and Charley Oweson.

Website:  http://www.emmyellis.com

Lily Harlem is an award-winning author of contemporary erotic romance and writes for Total-E-Bound, Ellora’s Cave and Xcite as well as featuring in numerous UK and US anthologies. She lives in the UK and since giving up a career in nursing adores indulging a decidedly naughty side of her personality by writing ultra-sexy stories.

Website: http:// www.lilyharlem.com

Fifty Shades of Baggage

Blog, , , , , , ,

As a writer, I can’t read a book without analysing why it worked for me or why it didn’t. A lot of times I’m lucky to get through the first chapter before I’m too bored to go on. While it’s quite likely that I have a short attention span, it’s more likely that I’m jaded from a lot of years of experiencing the craft side of writing fiction, which has made me a harsh critic of my own work, as well as everyone else’s. I’m still analysing what it was about E.L. James’s Fifty Shades of Grey that not only kept me reading to the end, but had me gripped. In the light of the volatile responses to the book, I say that with all shields raised.

There has already been lots written about the writing, so I won’t revisit that. But after careful analysis of  Fifty Shades of Grey, it was the baggage that kept me reading. The story is about a late-blooming virgin, whose mother is a serial marry-er, and a multi-billionaire, whose early childhood was the stuff nightmares are made of, who attempts to introduce said virgin to the BDSM lifestyle as his sub, and the battle of wills that ensues. The story is not about the BDSM lifestyle, but rather about two people trying to rearrange their baggage so they can actually attempt a life together. It’s that baggage rearranging that drives the story. Once I figured out that the baggage actually got me there, I found myself wondering just what it is about baggage that will keep me reading against all odds.

We all have baggage, no matter how perfect our upbringing, no matter how idyllic our childhood. Baggage is just a part of the human condition – you’re born, you get baggage while growing up, then you take your baggage into a relationship with someone who has his own baggage. Voila! Twice the baggage, twice the fun – at least from a story-telling point of view. Story is conflict. No conflict, no story. There’s a reason why the happy ending only happens at the end. Most readers love a happy ending, and though they may fantasise about what happens AFTER the happy ending, no one wants to read about the endless tedium of happiness (though lovely to live, boring to read.)

When there are sparks between two people and the chemistry for a little romance is there, the friction needed to create a fire comes in part from the baggage. Every one of us carries all the baggage of Western culture, religion and pop culture, along with the baggage our parents unwittingly saddle us with, into our relationships, into our bedrooms. There’s bound to be an explosion waiting to happen, or a seething cauldron of repression, or a nasty combination of the two.

While the bedroom is the biggest baggage dump in a couple’s relationship, it’s also the very best place for healing. Sex as healing is very much underrated, in my opinion, and in that respect, E.L. James seemed to know just what the doctor ordered.

Anyone who follows my blog or reads one of my novels knows that I’m a firm believer in sex as a way to heal what ails us. With the release of my first Lakeland Heatwave novel, Body Temperature and Rising, I’ve created a world in which sex is not only healing, but it’s the driving force behind the magic practiced by my witches. I was asked in a recent interview by someone who had read BTR if I really believed in sex magic, and my reply was that it’s the only kind of magic I really do believe in. So here is the magic formula that works for me, the formula that will keep me reading: Two (or more) characters attracted to each other + baggage +complications of everyday life = explosions and seething cauldrons. Add sex liberally at all the right places and the result is Happy ending.

Bring on the baggage!

The Story Behind Kay Jaybee’s Sexy Novella, Not Her Type

Blog, Guest Blogger, , , , , , ,

When www.OystersandChocolate.com asked me to write a novella for their brand new e-print company, the OCPress, I was beyond delighted. I had no hesitation in agreeing, and there was never any question of what my subject matter would be.

Back in 2007 I wrote a serial for Oysters and Chocolate entitled, Going Against Type, about the adventures of a delivery man and one of his regular customers. It was amazing fun to write, and almost from the start I wanted to take the idea and turn it into a novella. So, when the opportunity arose, the characters of Jenny (a home working accountant who has regular DVD deliveries), and John (her rough and ready courier), took on a new dimension, and began a sexual adventure of a lifetime.

When Jenny’s regular film courier, John, reveals how she has become the centre of his sexual dream world, Jenny’s quiet existence is thrown into an arena of desire that she thought she’d long since abandoned.

One unexpected, head swimming romp later, and Jenny is left wondering if her courier will ever visit her again, and if he does, will he mention the hot sex they had on her living room floor that Tuesday afternoon, or will he pretend that it hadn’t happened?

When the following Tuesday arrives and John reappears on Jenny’s doorstep, the scene is set for a continuation of intensely kinky weekly meetings. There is only one problem. John really really isn’t Jenny’s type….

So- what was it that made me want to write about a delivery guy in the first place?

The short answer is, that due to the nature of my “proper” job, I have visits from a handful (I use the word “handful” wisely), of delivery men every week, and boy are they HOT. More importantly, they are all kind, loyal, and work incredibly hard. They also all love what I produce on the writing front, and never miss an opportunity to “suggest” ideas for new stories.

Let’s face it- these guys spend a lot of time driving around on their own. They have WAY TOO MUCH TIME TO THINK- and I am here to tell you that they do not think about what might be for dinner, or if they should mow the lawn that day!!

When I set out to write any story, I want everyone to be able to relate to it in some way. By using the figure of the delivery man, I hope I achieved that. Nearly all of us have had men and women arriving on our doorsteps with a package, and come on- be honest here- how many of you have fantasised about inviting that courier across the threshold??

From a writer’s perspective it is great fun to be able to take such a scenario and turn it into a naughty tale. In this case, I used the idea to allow Jenny and John to meet just once a week- each of their meetings becoming slightly more erotic and exotic than the next.

Not Her Type may start quietly vanilla; but if you have ever read any of my other work, you will know that it won’t stay like that for very long!

In this extract, from week six of their liaison, things are most certainly hotting up. John has had things his own way for the past five weeks, and Jenny has decided that it is high time she turned the tables…

I have a plan. I just hope I can hold my courage and see it through…

“I don’t have long.”

John’s familiar words spilled from his mouth as he crossed the threshold of Jenny’s home. Throwing a handful of DVDs carelessly across the sofa, his lips were on hers before she had the chance to speak, his hands diving up and under her mini denim skirt. A murmur of appreciation escaped him as his traveling fingertips discovered her lack of knickers and stocking tops. “Shit woman, you get hotter!”

Allowing him to fall into their regular pattern, Jenny let John lead her toward the armchair. “You wanton woman, you’re already wet aren’t you?”

“I knew you were on your way.” Jenny didn’t say anything else as she undid his buttons, pulling his belt from his trousers, loop by loop. Stroking the leather lovingly between her fingers she smiled, “Did I ever tell you that I love belts?”

Without waiting for a response, Jenny freed his length and made a fist around his cock. She pumped him twice—as she’d pre-planned in the solo-quiet of the previous evening— before abruptly letting go of him and walking away.

John’s face was a vision of pure confusion as, with hands on her hips, Jenny calmly said, “Get on your knees, delivery man.” He only hesitated for a fraction of a second before stepping free of his pants and dropping to the floor.

Moving forward, without a word, Jenny gestured for John to remove his t-shirt. Walking around him in a slow circle, she examined him from every angle. John had had things his own way for weeks. It was her turn now. The old Jenny had certainly been willingly submissive; someone who relished being led rather than leading, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have the occasional urge to turn the tables and make her partner beg for mercy. She just hoped she hadn’t lost her touch.

Taking a black scarf from a collection of supplies she’d hidden beneath the sofa, Jenny deftly tied his arms behind his back. Unable to hide her pleasure as she continued to study him, Jenny whispered, “There is truly nothing as fantastic to behold as a fuck-me handsome man without power.”

Kneeling before John, she saw that his wide, dark brown eyes were watching her intently. Kissing each of his eyelids, Jenny collected a blindfold from its hiding place and, with a suggestive raise of her eyebrows and a teasing waggle of her fingers, plunged him into darkness. As John opened his mouth to speak, his favorite customer placed a fingertip across his lips. “No talking. Yes?”

John nodded obediently.

Viewing her enslaved lover, Jenny stroked his chest, enjoying the light spring of his hair as it tickled her palms. She knew she was going to make John late for the remainder of his rounds, but she didn’t care, and was going to make sure that he didn’t either.

Reveling in her unprecedented freedom, Jenny let her skirt fall to the floor, her memory teeming with images of their previous animal coupling in the back of his lorry. Her knees and backside still bore the marks of their frantic encounter.

Discarding her shirt and freeing her breasts, she made sure the cotton material caressed John’s tattoos, cleverly letting him know that she was undressing. Jenny placed her hands on John’s shoulders, pushing him so that he was face down on the beige carpet, his hands bound behind him, his arse in the air.

Beginning at his feet, Jenny began a thorough survey of his whole body by stroking a silk handkerchief over his ankles, making John writhe under its tickling touch. Moving it stealthily up the back of his legs, she could taste the sharp tang of tension that infused the room.

He squirmed under her touch. Jenny could tell he was trying to anticipate her next move while struggling not to speak, and she smiled to herself as she dragged the gentle weapon of torture up behind his knees.

By the time Jenny approached the rounded cheeks of his magnificent arse, John’s breathing was ragged, and his tethered hands were clenched together with the effort of not pleading with her to speed up.

Completely absorbed in her task, alternating between both light and firm pressure, Jenny smoothed every inch of his back, his bum, and his sides with the handkerchief, making John flinch and whine until, as she reached his neck, he couldn’t keep quiet any longer, “Oh hell girl, I…”
Cutting through John’s sentence, Jenny said, “As I said earlier, I am very fond of belts. I particularly like the marks they leave behind when they bite the flesh. That sort of blotched, fuzzy, pink patchwork pattern.”

Winding the leather strap around her wrist before she took aim…

From spanking to bondage, threesome action, and full on (occasionally shocking) kink, Not Her Type: Erotic Adventures With A Delivery Man, covers all the bases as Jenny discovers the extent of her delivery man’s sexual fantasies. Meanwhile, John discovers just how far from Jenny’s usual “type” he really is…

Buy Not Her Type Here:

http://oceroticbooks.com/CatalogueRetrieve.aspx?ProductID=4716776

Kay Jaybee’s Website: http://kayjaybee.me.uk/

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/KayJaybeeAuthor

Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/kay_jaybee