After a break for the holidays it’s time for another Shameless Selfie and, while this photo isn’t actually a selfie, it does fit the story, and it’s perfect that it was Kay Jaybee taking the piccie at Sh! Women’s Store, since this selfie is from my story, A Bird in the Bush, from the fabulous Brit Babe collection, Sexy Just Got Kinky. This morning, I’m sharing a little feather kink. Enjoy!
Sexy Just Got Kinky Blurb:
Welcome to Sexy Just Got Kinky, the third instalment of the Brit Babes’ Sexy Just series. Tantalise your dark side with kinks to make you think. From lovers behind bars to lone ladies behind the lens—fisticuffs and feathers, lilos and lube, scissors and sticks, whips, canes and bondage, there’s sure to be a kink within these pages to whet your appetite, tickle your fancies and heat up cold nights.
A Bird in the Bush Excerpt:
Cockerel, rooster, male chicken – whatever the hell you wanted to call him, he was enormous! Think Big Bird of the barnyard, and you get the picture. Oh my God! I wanted to bury my face in those gorgeous scarlet and emerald tail feathers while he wriggled his arse and cock-a-doodle-dooed at the top of his lungs.
Okay, let me just clarify before you get the idea that I do obscene things to animals. This was not a real cock … not the barnyard kind. I did say think Big Bird, didn’t I? This was a man strutting around Stoke Park in a fucking chicken costume! And it was a bloody brilliant one – no cheap-arsed papier-mâché, not this cock, no siree! Even from a distance – and it wasn’t much of a distance because I nearly ran into him on the sidewalk in front of the duck pond – I could tell those luscious plumes were genuine ostrich. Even the very thought had my nipples drilling through my vest.
The ginormous rooster stepped back all chivalrous-like and gave me a well-executed bow. Before I could ask what a big cock was doing parading around the duck pond in Stoke Park, he reached into a leather bag that hung over one broad avian shoulder and pulled out a lollipop, which he unwrapped. And then the cheeky cock stuck it in my mouth brushing the tip of my nose with the soft golden feathers that covered his hands. My dirty mind went crazy. I’ll admit I might have even moaned out loud and rolled my eyes. I mean it was a cherry lollipop, for godsake! The end resembled the tip of a penis all bright and hard like it was anticipating some serious in and out, and the giant rooster just sticks it right in my mouth! It’s bad enough that I moaned, but then … I slurped. Loudly. I didn’t mean to, honestly I didn’t. It’s just that I was already salivating and having something hard stuffed into my mouth when I was fantasising about a tumble behind the shrubbery with those thick, silky feathers wrapped around me, how could I not slurp? Of course I couldn’t see his eyes inside the chicken head. I couldn’t tell if he was checking out my happy nips, and I sure as hell couldn’t tell if he had a hard-on when his entire body was well decked in plumage. I couldn’t even hear if he was breathing hard because before I could manage to cheek the sweetie and politely thank him, the yummy mummies descended in a flock of excited kiddos, all grabbing and reaching – the kiddos, not the mummies. Without missing a beat, my gloriously well-plumed cock offered me a flyer from his bag and then began handing out lollipops to the kiddos and flyers to the parents. I was left to slurp and watch him shake his tail feathers and flap his winged arms for his young audience. At least they thought he was doing it for them. But I knew he was doing it just for me and my perky buds, and I stood there slurping and watching shamelessly. As he bok-bok -boked and cock-a-doodle-dooed and strutted and pranced and, as his jaunty plumage shimmied and shook, I got wetter and wetter, and I found myself in need of some serious me time.
I’m an avid birder, it’s true! I’ve happily spent days in wet muddy woodlands and in stuffy hot hides to catch a glimpse of birds in action. I don’t care if they’re common blue tits or something rare and exotic just blown in from Africa on a storm. My reasons for watching are a bit different from my fellow birdwatchers and, since there’s no way to put this delicately, I’ll just come right out and say it – I consider watching birds foreplay. I don’t care if they’re fucking or singing or just loafing. It doesn’t matter. They turn me on, and the reason is because they all have feathers. It’s the feathers that heat me up to a sizzle. When I see a blackbird preening, fluttering and flicking its wings and running its beak through its glorious blue-black plumage, or a starling flitting about in a birdbath, chittering and flapping and dazzling, like a sequin-clad can-can dancer in Vegas, well it’s spontaneous orgasms for me! Feathers will get me there every time.
I recognize most British birds by sight, sound and feather, as well as a good few from other countries, so I know my birds well enough to know that as amazing as they are, they had to give up a few anatomical bits to be able to fly. No teeth, hollow bones and, the bad news – no cocks. The good news is that the no cock thing isn’t true of all birds. Did you know that some male ducks have enormous corkscrew penises? But in spite of the dearth male members among avian male members, I was quite confident that my Barnyard Big Bird was very well equipped.
On the verge of an orgasm, I watched mesmerized as the glorious rooster danced and pranced, and then turned and headed out across the formal gardens at a trot that was way more graceful than one might expect from a man in a chicken suit. When I could see him no longer, still slurping on my lollipop, I glanced down at the flyer. It read:
Gallinaceous: Chicken to Tickle Your Taste buds!
Have a quickie in our food court or enjoy chicken of the world in our fine restaurant at your leisure.
There was an address on Epson Road just up from the row of estate agents and across from the Turkish grocery store. A chicken restaurant? Seriously? My raucous rooster was strutting his stuff to advertise a chicken restaurant? Fast chicken even, and with a KFC just around the corner. That was seriously plucky. Of course KFC couldn’t boast fine dining now could they? And they sure as hell couldn’t boast a giant prancing rooster. I read the rest of the flyer.
Gallinaceous: sophisticated chicken at an affordable price
Taste the chicken of your dreams.
Would that I could, I thought to myself. Would that I could. I tucked the flyer into my bag for later. Right now, I was in a hurry to get home and take care of some far more urgent business.
As soon as that glorious big cock was out of sight, I quickly pulled the lollipop out of my mouth and tucked it in a candy wrapper that had migrated to the bottom of my bag at some point, and then I hurried home. I barely had the door shut behind me before I was stripping. I suppose it was my version of a molt, leaving a trail of clothes from the door, all the way down the hall and into my room, the butter and seashore scent of my heat getting stronger as I went.
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that I raced through during the read bubble up from my unconscious to surprise me, intrigue me, make me think about the story on still other levels, from still other angles. When I can’t get it out of my head, when I find myself, long after I’ve come to the end, thinking about the journey, thinking about the characters, thinking about the plot twists and turns, then I know the story has gotten inside me and burrowed deep. There was no pane of glass in between; there was no body for me to inhabit because all bodies were fully occupied by characters with their own minds and their own agendas. The experience extends itself to something that stays with me long after the read is finished and makes me try all the harder to create that multi-layered experience in my own writing.
I watched Logan close the umbrella and secure the pole into place. He glanced around, shading his eyes with his hand, checking for anything else that might blow away, then headed my way with a train of dry, flat leaves skittering past his feet. I opened the door wide to let him through. He stepped in, still squinting against the dust, as I pushed the door shut with a loud click.
He opened up and took immediate control of the kiss. He tasted so good—man and ocean, wind and sun—he tasted of everything I was missing in my life and had been for so long. I moved my hands to his shoulders and squeezed hard muscles through his soft cotton shirt. My tongue searched for his and began to explore his mouth.
I’m now working on the final rewrite of Blind-Sided, the sequel to
with their own flaws. Of course the battle with flaws is nothing but the age-old human struggle magnified and highlighted for the sake of the story. Few of us literally rip people’s throats out when we’re having a bad day, and most of us would be horrified if the love of our life did that before morning coffee. That niggle of fear, that edge of uncertainty is what raises the stakes, what raises the level of tension and excitement in a good paranormal story. The lover is not safe, and yet that danger makes the sex all the hotter and the angst all the angstier. In my opinion, it’s the lack of safety that makes paranormal romance so stimulating in those larger than life ways that are more difficult to achieve in ordinary romance, though are definitely brought into play in BDSM stories. In fact, I would suggest that BDSM, at least on some level, is in part, the desire to make our sexuality a little more dangerous, a little more edgy, in the absence of demon lovers and vampires. The whole sexy, super-heated, blow-your-mind purpose of good paranormal erotica is to make totally dangerous sex and plunging-off-a-cliff romance a vicarious possibility for the reader. The possibility of vicariously loving something wild and untamed, even unnatural, can make for a gripping read.
of one in the presence of the other. I think the balance of fear and lust and the highlighting of flaws through otherness, done well, is the making of a good paranormal romance. Conflict is the main ingredient of any good story, and when a story is paranormal, there is, by the nature of the beast, or the witch, more room for more conflict. And that’s a big part of the fun. Wanting what we know is very bad for us while at the same time not trusting what might be good for us keeps us on that delicious edge that, in every good story, pulls us forward, makes us fantasize and lust and speculate. And seeing the characters in a paranormal novel get exactly the thing that both attracts them and terrifies them is part of what makes paranormal so outrageously hot.
In early January, the universal urge to be ‘better’ in the New Year is nearly palpable. But this year, in addition to the usual January dark days and foul weather, glum is everywhere. I’ve never seen so many gloomy faces. Face Book is full of status updates about Dry January, diets that should have been assigned to horror novels and workouts from hell — all attempts to make us better, by god! Even if it kills us!
view ourselves in relation to those goals, and how we get to those goals in a creative way that takes us closer to befriending that wild beast and helps us understand that those resolutions are, at the end of the day, just surface improvements. The choices we make in how we go about achieving those goals make the difference in whether or not we succeed and how much we grow and discover on that incredible journey to ourselves.