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.

Buy Allotted Views Here

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Perfect Mate by Mina Carter

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Perfect MateMonsters do exist…and they’re the good guys.

Lillian Rosewood leads an ordinary, boring life working as the manager of a psychiatric hospital. The highlights of her day, other than her skinny hot chocolate, are the hunky guards who work in the secure section. Until a late night emergency is wheeled in.

Captain Jack Harper is insane, drop-dead gorgeous…and just had his abdomen shredded. Despite the fact they’re not an emergency room, Lillian can’t turn him away and risk a death on her hands. Unable to get the handsome soldier out of her mind, Lillian sneaks into the restricted area to check on him. What she finds is beyond belief. Somehow Jack has managed to heal himself from a near fatal wound in mere hours.

When one of the doctors, Walker, attempts to rape her, things go from bad to worse. In the blink of an eye, Jack is loose and Walker is dead… and Lillian must accept a truth about her rescuer that will change her world forever. What if the patients aren’t insane? What if their stories of secret government experiments and monsters are true?

Warning: Contains blood, mayhem and nude werewolves operating heavy weaponry. Large amounts of sarcasm, and smart-ass vampires may offend some readers. No civilian hospital staff were harmed in the making of this story.

More info and buy links: http://mina-carter.com/bookshelf/paranormal-romance/perfect-mate/

Copyright © 2012 Mina Carter
All rights reserved — a Samhain Publishing, Ltd. publication

She couldn’t believe she was crying. Lillian didn’t cry. Ever. She was tougher than that. Tougher than the stereotypical little woman who fell apart at the first sign of danger… Or the mother who couldn’t cope after the death of her husband and hightailed it to her lover with teary demands to “make the nightmare go away”. And conveniently forgot the fact she’d left her baby daughter behind.

She was not that woman, nor anything like her.

Once in the corridor, away from the stench of death and the sight of all that black, wrong blood, she stepped away from Jack and swiped at her tears with the back of her hand. Despite the fact he’d just killed a man, there was something about him that made her feel safe. Safe with a murderer. Okay, now she knew she was losing it. Perhaps insanity ran in her family and they’d just never told her?

“I’m sorry. I’m not normally like this,” she apologized as she looked up and offered a small, teary smile. Her mouth already open to explain, she stopped.

He was gorgeous.

She’d known that. When they’d brought him in, her mind had told her that he was sex on a stick. But he’d been injured, a patient. Even though she was the hospital manager, she was bound by the patient-doctor thing, surely? The one that said “thou shalt not lust after the patients”.

Now though, without all the blood and the ragged uniform—even in the hospital gown that did nothing for anyone—he was so good-looking it took her breath away. She shook her head slightly, waiting for the hidden cameras and some cheesy reality show host to burst out of the supply cabinet in the corridor next to them. He couldn’t be for real. Soldiers just didn’t look that good.

With warm amber eyes set above sharp cheekbones, his face was bisected by a strong, straight nose over sensually full lips. A severe buzz-cut merely highlighted his attractiveness, concentrating all attention on his face. He should be strutting his stuff on a catwalk, not getting down and dirty playing soldier.

Her eyes travelled downward, and the rest of him more than fulfilled the promise of his face. He was toned…hell no, he was ripped. Even his muscles had muscles. Tall and broad shouldered, he was built like a quarterback, and his life had obviously been one of violence. Old scars dotted his skin like a mad artist had gone to town with his body as the canvas.

“I know you’re not. You’re strong.”

His words drew her attention back to his face. His eyes were blue again. He smiled, which almost robbed her of reason, but she held onto the thought for grim death. No one’s eyes changed that fast. What the hell have they done to him?

“Your eyes… What the hell are you?”

The smile turned cold, his features freezing around it and locking it into place. In hindsight, perhaps a demand for information wasn’t the best way to deal with this, especially after what had gone on in the room behind them. Walker was slumped, dead, but somehow she knew Jack wouldn’t hurt her.

He moved toward her. Only three steps, but with those blue eyes intent upon her, it seemed more like a stalk. With every movement he made, her instincts screamed “predator”.

She held her ground, tilting her head to look at him as he neared. He stopped inches away from her, so close the heat of his body beat at her skin even through her clothing and his gown.

“We don’t have time for this, Lilly.”

He lifted a hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. As though he couldn’t stop touching her, he stroked a gentle finger down her cheekbone to the corner of her lips. It took everything she had not to turn her head and press into the small caress, but she held true to her purpose, her eyes on his.

“Make time.”

His lips quirked, and everything female in her went into meltdown. He had to know the effect he had on women, so she ignored the reaction and met him look for look.

“Stubborn little minx.”

She choked. “What did you call me?”

“Minx,” he repeated, lowering his head and brushing his lips over hers to silence her. As a tactic, it worked. The first touch of his lips, warm and firm over hers, was like setting light to kindling. Heat flared and caught, racing through her body like wildfire.

She moaned, unable to stop her lips parting automatically in invitation. No matter what her mind was screaming about the dead guy in the next room and the possibility the hunk stood in front of her wasn’t just human, her body knew what it wanted, and what it intended to get.

He didn’t pass up the invitation. Groaning, he moved closer and deepened the kiss. With a ruthless sweep of his tongue, he parted her lips farther and slid into the softer recesses of her mouth. She shivered, hot and cold chills chasing over her skin as he kissed her in the darkness of the corridor.

She’d been kissed before and, as she’d thought anyway, she’d been kissed well. This was something else entirely. He kissed her as if there was nothing else in the world. As if she was his sun, his moon and stars…his everything. He didn’t kiss her, he made love to her with his lips and tongue.

Abruptly he broke away, tearing his mouth from hers. With a groan of frustration, he leaned forward to rest his forehead against hers.

“I don’t want to let you go.” The tone in his voice pulled on her heartstrings. “When they brought me in, there was just pain and blood…so much blood. Darkness was coming for me, and I was ready. But an angel called my name… I had to come back to see if she was as beautiful as she sounded.”

His words reached deep inside her. She already thought he was gorgeous, but to have him spouting words that…romantic wasn’t the word. The claim he’d come back just to see her, that hit her deep down and resonated in her soul.

“And…?”

She almost dared not ask the question, and when she did, her voice emerged breathy and hopeful. Like a teen finally meeting and speaking to her film idol in the flesh.

“Oh yes, she was worth it.”

More info and buy links: http://mina-carter.com/bookshelf/paranormal-romance/perfect-mate/

*****

Mina Carter was born and raised in Middle Earth (otherwise known as the Midlands, England). After a slew of careers ranging from logistics to land-surveying she can now be found in the wilds of Leicestershire with her husband and young daughter…the true boss of the family.

Suffering the curse of eternal curiosity Mina never tires of learning new skills which has led to Aromatherapy, Corsetry, Chain-maille making, Welding, Canoeing, Shooting, and pole-dancing to name but a few.

A full time author and cover artist, Mina can usually be found hunched over a keyboard or graphics tablet, frantically trying to get the images and words in her head out and onto the screen before they drive her mad. She’s addicted to coffee and Nutella on toast.

Links:

http://mina-carter.com

http://twitter.com/minacarter

http://www.facebook.com/mina.carter

The Story Behind the Story of Kyoko Church’s Novella, Nymphomania

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The Story Behind The Story

It’s my pleasure to welcome Kyoko Church to A Hopeful Romantic. This is her first visit to my site, and I’m very excited to have her here to share the story behind her intriguing new novella, Nymphomania, Book One of the Draper Estates Trilogy. Welcome, Kyoko. Do tell!

 

Thank you very much for having me on your blog today, KD. I’m so honoured!

You asked how the story for my very first book, Nymphomania, Book One in the Draper Estates Trilogy, came to be. I’m so glad you asked! It’s a quirky subject matter.

I don’t know about you but sometimes I love to browse Wikipedia. I especially love to read about all things sexual. Something about the clinical way they describe sexual acts appeals to the pervert in me. A couple of years ago I came across this page http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Female_hysteria. From then I was hooked on the subject of “hysteria.”

That article led me to a book by Rachel P. Maines called The Technology of Orgasm about the history of the vibrator. I became fascinated by the idea that “proper” women in the 19th century and earlier, were thought to not need or want or even be capable of sexual satisfaction. As now seems abundantly obvious as to why, a large number of women in this era suffered from what was termed hysteria, the symptoms of which were everything from headaches to nervousness to “a tendency to cause trouble.” I can only imagine the trouble I’d be causing if I couldn’t acknowledge the need to get off! But I digress. As I was saying, they required treatment from a doctor to reach “hysterical paroxysm,” i.e. orgasm, that temporarily cured their symptoms. They were the doctor’s perfect client since they required regular treatment and were never permanently cured!  These ideas really got my, ahem, creative juices flowing.

NymphomaniaNymphomania is set in the mid 1800s in Boston. Ewan Draper is a successful mill owner and playboy. In order to satisfy appearances he must choose a wife, and he selects Lillianne, one of his “mill girls.” For Lilly, originally a farm girl now bored by life at the dreary mill, it is a dream come true. But when Ewan discovers his new bride behaving improperly, his friend and dubiously accredited doctor, Phillip Samms, deems her a nymphomaniac and assumes her care. Lillianne is forced to submit to the doctor’s research and therapy, therapy that includes paroxysm which he insists must be brought about slowly, while she is bound and made to be quiet.

Lillianne must convince her beloved new groom of his friend’s questionable motives and prove that she does not truly belong under his care. But what Ewan must avoid at all costs is a scandal that could threaten the viability of the mill, the empire he has built. The mere possibility of his wife being labeled a nymphomaniac and thrown into an insane asylum is enough to make him very leery. So Ewan decides Phillip Samms will leave and he will monitor his wife himself. If she can prove herself chaste and proper, he will tell Dr. Samms they no longer require his services. And the life Lillianne dreamed of when she married Ewan Draper will be realized.

But all the while someone is watching. Someone who could be a threat.

Many of the details in Nymphomania were inspired by historical facts I came across in my research, including the pervading thoughts of the time on nymphomania as a real affliction and such juicy tidbits as Lillianne’s improper use of her sewing machine.

 

Here’s an excerpt:

It wasn’t just the monotony. The work on the machine itself was distracting.

As she worked the treadles her thighs rubbed together and this, combined with the vibrations of the machine, well, Lilly had heard that one girl had gotten herself in trouble this way. The two foremen patrolling the mill always had an ear primed to hear the telltale sound of a machine suddenly bursting into a frenzied speed. Rules were strict here and the girls were harshly punished and even docked pay for straying from their work. But docked pay was not the worst of punishments. The way Lilly heard it, last month Mr. Weiler, the older of the two foremen, caught a girl using the machine “improperly.” Lilly shuddered as she thought of the wrinkled, gap toothed grin of the lecherous old man the way it must have been, the way she heard he’d grabbed the girl up, snarling that he would give her what she wanted, and shoved her into the back office. Nothing could be heard over the frightening din of the machines they’d said, but when the girl emerged fifteen minutes later, the pathetic creature’s eyes were red from crying, her lip was swollen and her skirts were torn. She’d disappeared the next morning leaving a note saying she’d gone back to her family’s farm.

So Lilly tried her best to focus on her work. But her mind often betrayed her. And it always seemed to find its way back to Ewan Draper.

She had seen the mill’s owner only once before when he came to consult with the foremen. She did her best not to let her gaze linger too long as he strode across the factory floor, but her quick glimpses drank in his six foot three frame, wavy black hair, wide shoulders and narrowed waist in his finely tailored suit. His stride was long, each step certain and purposeful. His voice commanded respect but his smile was wide and easy. When he laughed it was a profound, sonorous sound from deep within his gut, and he slapped the backs of the men he spoke with. He had actually walked down her aisle and stopped right by her as she worked. She had held her breath and didn’t dare look up, but his hand had lingered for a moment on the edge of her machine as he discussed some small point with the foreman. The size of that hand! She stared raptly at the wide palm and long, thick fingers, something almost brutal in the circumference and apparent strength of each one. She had a sudden impulse to grab that hand, take one of those digits between her lips and suck it. Madness! She had shoved the ridiculous thought aside as her body shivered.

Now the thought returned. Diligently she sat, pushing the coarse fabric deftly through, working the treadle up and down, her thighs squeezed tightly together, her machine drumming its threaded road along its fabric path. The hammering of the needle caused vibrations to pulse through her chair and she worked to push her buttocks closer to the edge of her seat, so slowly as to be barely perceptible. In her mind she caressed Mr. Draper’s hand, slid her own slim fingers between his broad ones, brought them to her cheek and then kissed each finger softly. Now at the edge of her seat she pushed herself down, spread and flattened the soft folds of her flesh firmly on the fabric of her skirts and against the hard wood so as to experience the full intensity of its vibrations. Her thoughts turned to taking that hand, those fingers and pulling them up, under her skirts, between her legs. Slowly she worked the speed up on her treadle, the pushing up and down only serving to further work her thighs against her swelling flesh. She tried hard to keep from gasping as sweat sprang to her brow and began to roll down her temples. Mr. Draper’s imaginary fingers found their target and it took every fibre of her being not to work the treadle to its highest velocity, thereby arousing the suspicion of the wicked Mr Weiler. Instead she continued her steady pace as the vibrations brought her ever closer to her destination.

‘Halt!’ roared the foreman, and Lilly had to stifle a strangled cry of desperation as she unwillingly forced her foot off the treadle causing the vibration to cease.

‘Mr Draper will be visiting the mill in five minutes! This time he wants to take a small amount of time to speak to his mill girls.’ A buzz went around the room. Mr Draper to address the mill girls? ‘I know this is highly usual! I’m sure you’re all excited but let us not allow our emotions to override our good sense. I expect you all to show the highest amount of decorum and industriousness.’

The noise level increased as all the girls turned to each other to converse in giddy anticipation of their much esteemed leader. Lilly, however, was still preoccupied. Her body throbbing, she took advantage of the renewed noise level to gear up her machine to its highest speed. Her mind swirled with thoughts of Ewan Draper now that his presence was imminent: his powerful stride, his commanding voice, his deep laugh. With everyone preoccupied, she worked her treadles furiously, her lower body writhing against the humming chair as she imagined Draper’s hands probing her, rubbing her, taking her. She swallowed her whimpering cries and had just about, had almost, almost, reached her peak just as Ewan Draper entered the mill and Mr Weiler’s piercing eyes fell upon her.

 

I hope you find the subject matter as interesting as I do! If you’d like to download it, you can get it from Amazon here:

http://www.amazon.com/Nymphomania-Draper-Estates-Trilogy-ebook/dp/B008VGY0MO/ref=sr_1_3?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1344664784&sr=1-3&keywords=nymphomania

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Nymphomania-Draper-Estates-Trilogy-ebook/dp/B008VGY0MO/ref=sr_1_2?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1345120916&sr=1-2

 

If you’d like to visit me at my blog, click here:

http://kyokochurch.blogspot.com.au/?zx=a58e672f5f41d866

I love to hear your feedback. I invite you to leave your comments! I often post snippets of stuff  I’m working on so if you follow me there you’ll often get a preview of my upcoming work!

*****

Kyoko Church discovered the power of the written erotic word when she was 16 years old and penned a very explicit missive to her boyfriend detailing all the naughty things she wanted to do to him. When he received it, boyfriend was impressed. When he found it, father was not.

For the next 18 years she hid her naughty thoughts in shame. Until she found a community where they were once again appreciated for the well-imagined smut they are. Her short stories have been published in anthologies by Black Lace, Rubicund Publishing and Xcite Books. Book One, Nymphomania, in her Draper Estate Trilogy was published by Xcite in August 2012. At Her Feet will be published by Mischief in March 2013.

A Canuck by birth, she has recently made Australia her home. She is currently learning to drive on the left and say G’day convincingly.

 

Website: kyokochurch.blogspot.com

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/kyoko.church

Twitter: https://twitter.com/kyokochurch

Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/kyokochurch/

 

You can find Kyoko Church’s most recent short stories in these anthologies:

http://www.amazon.com/Captivated-Very-Own-Slave-ebook/dp/B007QOXGYK/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1342357904&sr=1-1&keywords=captivated+my+very+own+slave

http://www.amazon.com/My-Secret-Life-What-ebook/dp/B007E3ERTQ/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1335016436&sr=1-1

http://www.amazon.com/Submission-Treasury-Women-Like-ebook/dp/B006PW46PC/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1344665834&sr=1-1&keywords=submission+treasury

 

Victoria Blisse Shares the Story Behind A Proper British Seaside Holiday

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I’m delighted to have one of my favourite people and a fab writer, Victoria Blisse back on my site today. She, along with the amazing Lucy Felthouse, have just co-edited the saucy, sexy anthology, Smut By the Sea, in which I’m very honoured to have a story. Victoria is here to tell us the story behind her very steamy contribution to the anthology, A Proper British Seaside Holiday. And if I know Victoria, the one thing we can count on is that the story will sizzle. Welcome, Victoria Blisse.

Hi KD, it’s always a pleasure to visit your place! Today I’m here to tell you all about my story in Smut by the Sea, but as I’m the editor of the anthology I suppose I should tell you something about that, too.

I love Scarborough, I always have. It has wonderful childhood memories for me but now I have visited with my husband I have seriously sexy memories there too. Smut by the Sea was inspired by that special sensuality that comes to the fore when we’re by the sea.  It also gives us a great excuse to hold a great big erotic event in Scarborough.  Yep, if you can make it to Scarborough on the 22nd July 2013 then come over to the library, we’re going to have a very smutty day indeed!

http://smutbythesea.co.uk/scarborough2013/

Now, onto my story in this anthology. Unsurprisingly it’s set in Scarborough. It’s a beautiful place, look.

 

Scarborough

When my idea came to me, though. It didn’t feature sun-soaked beaches and nearly naked bodies. No, my inspiration came from something quintessentially British – Rain. Yep, from the moment Abby arrives in the seaside resort it rains. It doesn’t stop. But it doesn’t stop her from enjoying herself.

Any person who holiday’s in the UK works out ways to enjoy themselves in the rain. I have spent many a wet day in Scarborough and although I have never taken a ride on the open top bus with the rain throwing down I have been on it when it’s been cold, windy and a little damp but that never dampens my spirits. It’s a joy to travel on a bus without a roof on it. It’s just fun no matter the weather!

Sunshine isn’t a necessity to have a good time, I hope I show that in my Smut by the Sea story. And here’s a sexy snippet for you to get wet to. No, no it’s a wet snippet for you to get sexy to…ahem. Something like that anyway.

Here’s the excerpt:

So I set out to Scarborough to revisit the joy of my childhood. Of course my memories were sun-bathed and glorious, but by the grace of the British weather it was throwing it down with rain when I pulled into the familiar white-frilled platform of my haven of sanity.

And it wasn’t just a shower, it kept up raining as I walked around to find a hotel room. It was also the kind of rain with purpose that they get up north. I’d forgotten the biting chill of rainwater impacting forcefully on skin and the short amount of time it takes to get wet, properly wet.

In London I leap from office to Tube to taxis and restaurants and back, I don’t have time to get more than damp. By the time I found a hotel with a vacancy, I was drenched to the skin but I was happy. I’d seen my first glimpse of the tumble-down castle and heard the cry of the seagulls. I smelt the tang of salt on the air and smiled.

I sat in my room a while, it was gifted with a huge window and a view of the sea. As I dried out I watched the sea boil and break, churning white with ferocity and power. I tracked the familiar coast and picked out landmarks, absorbed the nostalgia and breathed. I was so relaxed, sat there in the comfort of my room with my wet jeans steaming on the radiator that my mind slipped to pleasure for the first time since forever. The soft velour chair stroked my thighs and made me feel decadent. I realised that I was sat by my hotel window half naked, thought about it a moment, then shrugged.

I was high up and overlooking the sea but hidden from public view. Who would want to look anyway? I am just a chubby girl; no one ever glances at me twice. And I don’t mind, I’m too busy, then too exhausted for sex anyway. But there in that hotel room I felt stirrings I’d almost forgotten I could experience.

I was hyper aware of my breathing, my bust rising and falling under the plain white t-shirt protecting them. I watched them heave out of the corner of my eye and gazed out at the rain and the sea and the squall. The undulation of the tide seemed to mimic the rise and fall of my chest and I found myself unable to resist reaching up and stroking across my breast. I felt tingles slip down between my cleavage, over the hillock of my stomach to the valley below.

It was wet outside and I was wet on the inside. I could feel my juices clinging to my lips and sticking to the expensive satin of my knickers. I was aroused and it felt fucking good. I knew masturbation was pleasurable, it’s just I’d not done it for so long that it was almost a surprise. I had lost desire but hadn’t missed it until that moment; when I remembered how good it feels as the blood whooshes through you and everything aches and stretches towards orgasm.

I savoured every twitch, every gasp as I rubbed my hands over my body, following the path of my need. I slouched down in the expensive chair and spread my thighs wide. Thinking back it would have made sense to move over onto the huge four poster bed I had paid extra for, but I was too lost in the moment to think straight.

The damp crotch of my knickers slipped over my knuckles when I stroked over the coarse hair of my pussy. I idly thought about trimming it. I hadn’t paid it any attention for months, but I actually liked the wildness that I delved through to press my clit. It was a voyage of rediscovery and I remembered relatively quickly what button to press and which way to rub it. It came back to me exactly the pressure I needed to reach to make me mewl and pump my hips in pleasure. The shuddering orgasm hit and absorbed me, shaking through every cell, waking me from my trance. That is what it felt like anyway. I saw the world in a fresh light as I pulled myself up and grinned.

I hope you enjoyed hearing about my inspiration and I hope my excerpt inspired you. If you want to buy a copy of Smut by the Sea and discover the sexy stories between the covers then check it out here: http://smutbythesea.co.uk/anthology-vol-1/

 

Victoria Blisse is a mother, wife, Christian, Manchester United fan and award winning erotica author. She is also the editor of several Bigger Briefs collections, Smut by the Sea and Smut in the City.

She is equally at home behind a laptop or a cooker and she loves to create stories, poems, cakes and biscuits that make people happy. She was born near Manchester, England and her northern English quirkiness shows through in all of her stories.Passion, love and laughter fill her works, just as they fill her busy life.

 

Find out more at http://victoriablisse.co.uk or follow and friend Victoria: http://twitter.com/victoriablisse http://facebook.com/victoriablisse