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IS Kay Jaybee The Collector?

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It’s been almost five years since I wrote my linked anthology-style novel, The Collector, and almost four years since it was published. With the recent release of this, my very first solo full length piece, as an e-book, I’ve found myself looking back to its origins; to one early morning sat in a crowded coffee shop at Heathrow airport, talking to a very dear friend on the phone, while awaiting a flight.

It was due to that brief conversation that, not only was the idea for The Collector conceived, but that I privately made the decision to stay in the world of erotica writing, and not branch out to try my luck with other genres.

At the time of The Collector’s arrival as a paperback in August 2008, I’d already had a fair number of short stories published, and was bursting with plenty of ideas for new ones. However, I wanted to write something longer; something that was as long as a novel, but that had the variety of an anthology.

So, as I was saying, there I was sat sipping coffee at the airport when my friend called me. All he said down the phone was ‘go buy The Observer.’ Curious, I did just that, and there, between a front cover shot of Joan Collins, and a back cover advert for new encyclopaedia’s, was an article all about female erotica writers.

Now this was even more of a hidden world then, and as I read I knew I wanted to stay part of it, and even dreamed that one day I’d be in such an article- without really believing that would ever really happen!

Enthused with new zip and a determination to be every bit as successful as those brave women revealing their secret writing persona’s to the press, I extracted my ever ready notebook from my bag, and began to look at the people around me. I wanted to write- but where to start? As I watched the ever moving crowd, I began to wonder what each individual would want me to write for them. What would their fantasies be? What kinky secrets of their own would they share given half the chance?

It was from these musings that the idea for The Collector was born. A book of stories ‘collected’ by a woman in pursuit of as many sexual exploits as she could. And what better way to start, than to combine my own dream to one day be a successful writer of erotica, and the fantasy of one of my other friends, who (like so many others, be they male or female) visualises being picked up by a beautiful intelligent woman for sex in a no strings attached way. This story became, New Territory, the first of the 22 stories within The Collector; a tale which had been completely drafted by the time my plane reached its destination.

My search then began in earnest for interesting triggers, ideas, and sexy dreams, to turn into stories. Some very short to stimulate the readers imagination, such as Jay (a lesbian night club orgy) and Crushed (an interesting way to pass the time in a bar queue). Others much longer, such as Sweets (a must read if you like liquorice) and Treasure (a young man’s dream come true!).

I knew it would be a gamble including the very short tales- as they either really appeal, or really frustrate- but on the whole the feedback from my reader’s has been good. It would also be true to say, the shorter stories were much harder to write than the longer ones, but were a lot of fun to construct around the fantasy’s I gleaned from my sources of research.

So- how much of The Collector did I really collect? Well- that would be telling, but if I haven’t thanked my sources of inspiration already, then I do now!

Blurb:

Dispelling the myth that only dominant whip wielding women write and enjoy erotica, the Collector records a wide variety of sexual encounters whilst she travels the country.

Harvesting her stories against a backdrop of coffee shops, restaurants and bus rides, the Collector takes the reader through every arena of the erotic experience, from lust, submission and dominance, to voyeurism and beyond. When her sources run dry, the Collector isn’t afraid to carry out some in-depth, personal, research of her own…

Excerpt:

New Territory

It hadn’t seemed significant when he’d noticed which page she’d left the colour supplement open at. Perhaps it wasn’t; coincidences happened all the time. No. He saw now that it was no accident; she had been trying to tell him something.

She was sat at the corner table at the very back of the coffee shop. The armchairs were rather comfortable in that area; he always tried to sit there. As he worked his way along the queue, collecting an almond danish and ordering a frighteningly large black coffee he watched her. Sitting slightly upright, she was partially obscured by a copy of The Observer, her long booted legs curled under the armchair, her red hair framing her small face. She was sipping a cappuccino. He couldn’t help but smile as he watched her develop a foam moustache, and quite uncaring, lick it off with her tongue. He looked away and concentrated on his tray as he pushed towards the till. It was disconcerting to find himself aroused by such a simple act. He paid, collected his sugar and turned to find a seat.

He could have sat anywhere, but she already felt like an itch needing a scratch. He had to talk to her. So what if she told him to piss off, he was only going to ask if he could share the table.

He asked and she inclined her head, not glancing up for more than a second; so he sat. This was new territory for him; he’d never felt such a need to say something, anything. He was the good looking one; the one who never had to say anything. They came to him.  Now the silence seemed to be an oppressive presence in itself, like a whole extra person in the room who wasn’t saying anything.

This was ridiculous. He picked up his own paper, folded it to the business pages and took a bite of his pastry, trying not to mind that icing sugar was dusting his new black jacket.She’d finished her drink. He flirted with the idea of offering to buy her a new one, but quickly dismissed it. He hadn’t even said hello to her. So why did he feel that time was running out? Why did he feel a strange sensation of panic that she was going to leave before he’d heard her voice?

As she unfolded her legs and tided her papers she picked up her large brown rucksack, pulled out some keys and stood in front of him. He looked up into her face. He was being assessed. It was a strange sensation; he usually did the assessing.

‘Are you coming then?’ She spoke very softly, her green eyes shining with a sort of inner power.He was about to ask if she was sure, but she’d already turned around and was heading for the door.

He was well aware of the fact that he was probably about to make a total fool of himself, but he followed anyway. She walked very quickly; striding along in impossibly high heels. It hadn’t occurred to him until that point that she might be a hooker. What if she was? He’d just walk away. Maybe?

He followed as she turned down a gap between two shops. There was a flight of black iron stairs that led up to a flat above one of them. She stopped. ‘Two things,’ she undid her leather jacket as she spoke, hitching her scarf open to reveal a delicate neck completely unadorned by jewellery, ‘one; I do not do this for money, and two; I am not inviting you in for coffee.’

He nodded, undid his own coat, and followed her up the stepsThe hall was very narrow; it led into a modest kitchen diner, where she placed her paper open the table. Sorting out the magazine, she opened it up as if she was going to settle down to read, but then didn’t.

 He hadn’t got as far as making small talk. In fact he hadn’t even got as far as attempting to make small talk, when she took him by the hand and led him into the small living room, sitting him down on the small cream sofa. She knelt and, placing a restraining hand on his leg, undid his shoes and placed them neatly to one side. Then she did the same with his socks. ‘I don’t like naked in socks.’That was when his body stopped making his hands clammy and his heart beat faster, and sent all excess blood directly to his dick. He’d known he’d been half way to a hard-on already, but now there was no disguising the fact.

‘You would be a Coldplay man, or maybe Keane? Dido?’ She stood by the tiny stereo.

‘Dido.’

She nodded, pressed buttons and waited as the haunting notes built up to the opening number.

He should do something. He tried to stand, but she just raised her hand, and he quickly sat down again. Maybe this wasn’t his show; new territory.

She was standing about two metres away from him. Her jacket had already hit the floor, and he caught his breath as he watched her long slim fingers begin to undo the buttons of her white blouse. She looked straight at him the whole time; each movement was in time to the music, and he found himself wishing that he’d chosen something with a faster pace.

His throat felt dry as she revealed a beautiful cream bra. He could see her nipples, hard and dark, pressing against the thin lace. He started to wonder how wet she would be, and then stopped himself; if he started to think like that he’d shoot his load before he even got his trousers off; if that was her intention. He’d never felt so unsure of himself as she stepped out of her suede skirt, letting it drop over her boots.

Now he desperately wanted to touch. The smooth shoulders that had just been revealed cried out to be caressed. Anyway, he was becoming uncomfortable; his cock was digging into his waistband, as it struggled to force itself from his jeans unaided. He should say something, but he didn’t want to break the spell.

She stopped. He stared at the floor by her feet and worked his eyes slowly upwards. He tried to imprint the vision before him onto his brain inch by inch. High heeled boots; beige. Soft pale flesh emerging from lace hold ups; cream. Slightly see-through French knickers; cream. ‘Keep going; try to drag your eyes away from the neat silhouetted triangle your eyes can just make out’, he thought to himself as he swallowed, continuing his inventory. A flat stomach with a neat belly button. A cream lace bra encasing neatly rounded breasts which poked tantalisingly over the top. He took a deep breath and looked at her face. Small features, bobbed red hair, deep green eyes which gave absolutely nothing away.

The room was charged with electricity; so enticing, so dangerous. She moved forward and gestured for him to stand. He hadn’t been able to suppress his groan as he stood. His stomach felt strange and his dick ached to be free from its confinement.

He waited, doing nothing. He didn’t know what to do, so he let her take control; keep control. She took his belt first; pulling it out very slowly, loop by loop. She smoothed the brown leather between her fingers. ‘I like belts’. That was all she said, but he suddenly realised that he wanted to hit her with it. He needed to yank down her knickers and punish her for being perfect.

The Collector was published by Austin & Macauley as a paperback in 2008, and as an e-book in March 2012.

It is available direct from the publisher, from Amazon, Sh Women’s Store’s, and all good paperback and e-book suppliers.

Amazon paperback– http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Collector-Kay-Jaybee/dp/1905609191/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1334781262&sr=1-1

Amazon kindle – http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Collector-ebook/dp/B007NZNGW4/ref=dp_kinw_strp_1?ie=UTF8&m=A3TVV12T0I6NSM

Austin & Maculey – http://www.austinmacauley.com/advanced_search_result.php?osCsid=1e3c63008937557651aa5ae883ba9905&search_in_description=1&keywords=kay+jaybee&x=12&y=10

 

 

Surrogates, Garden Porn and Inspiration

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First of all, let me just do a little happy dance while I tell any of you out there who haven’t already heard me shouting about it (the ones who might have been in internet-deprived Outer Mongolia or just waking up from a coma) My new novella, Surrogates, is out! Rock on, garden porn! … er … should that be compost on, garden porn???

Garden porn! Ah yes, my favourite erotic topic. I’ve talked about the pleasure of getting my hands dirty before, and I’ve even discussed the many innovative uses for veg and garden implements. Surrogates is nothing if not creative with both. For those of you who don’t know what a dibber is, look it up, and I’m sure you can see where I’m heading – gently of course, gently!

My heroine, Francie Carter, is a master gardener who specialises in veg, or kitchen gardens, and she makes her living restoring walled kitchen gardens on large estates. You guessed it, Francie’s garden is a veg gardener’s wet dream come true. It’s a huge plot of postage stamp beds with grass paths in between. It comes with fruit trees, succulent beds of soft fruit, a large, heated, well-equipped greenhouse and  a state of the art staging area. All of that luscious yumminess is shielded and protected by a restored medieval wall. The garden Francie tends, on the estate of her kinky, neurotic lover, Daniel Alexander III, is my dream garden. Bet that comes as no surprise.

While I was writing Surrogates for Mischief Books and fantasising all the hot sex that would take place in the hot gardens, my husband and I were on the waiting list for an allotment. We had been on that waiting list for three long years and counting. Allotments, I figured, are about as close to a walled medieval garden on an opulent estate as I’m ever likely to get. Though, to be honest, after three years of waiting, I was beginning to wonder if my chances might be better with an opulent estate.

Just a week before Surrogates was released, we became the proud holders of a prime piece of allotment real estate, and suddenly our veg growing capacity went from whatever we could squeeze into our small back garden to a plot bigger than the whole property our house is on! Of course, like most allotments, the whole property is fenced in. Okay, it’s not a medieval stone wall, but it’s close enough for me. Though we don’t have a huge greenhouse like the one in which Francie partakes of some seriously hot sex with her two men, we have inherited a little blue garden shed, which I find very inspiring, indeed!

Unlike Francie, I’m no expert. I’m just a hobbyist, a hobbyist whose hobby suddenly got a whole lot more serious. My husband reckons we have about a half an acre! A half an acre, a little blue garden shed, a huge compost heap, and several kinds of mouth-watering soft fruit already planted. Be still my heart! It isn’t just that I’ll finally have space for lots of sweet corn and lots of peas, or that I’ll finally be able to put in that asparagus bed I’ve always dreamed of, but it’s the inspiration of it all. Even stories that are totally free of garden porn bubble up from the deep, filthy, romantic part of my unconscious when my hands are in the earth and I’m growing things to eat. A whole half acre of inspiration! AND a quirky blue garden shed. I shiver with anticipation!

And to celebrate the launch of Surrogates, here’s a steamy excerpt straight from the garden. Enjoy! (Be warned, this one’s a scorcher!)

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:

‘Francie? Francie, are you there?’ Dan made his way around behind the jungle of runner beans, getting a shoe full of warm moist soil when he stepped off the path. As the grit infiltrated his dress socks, he would have cursed his clumsiness, but then he saw her on hands and knees, the swell of her hips slightly raised in her efforts to pull stubborn weeds. She didn’t have to do that. She was the head kitchen gardener, a goddess in her domain. He hired underlings to do the weeding, but fuck, he was glad she took the hands-on approach, especially at times like this. She had kicked off the silly blue plastic gardening clogs she always wore, and her bare toes curled into the soft earth as though the very touch of it was an irresistible pleasure. How could soil between toes be so goddamned sexy?

The thin summer skirt she wore barely covered the heart-shaped roundness of her bottom, hugging her and clinging in the heavy summer heat to the delicious juncture where her thighs met. There were clearly no panty lines. She gardened in skirts, like she wanted to expose herself, like the act of planting and digging and cultivating made her a naughty bitch, who couldn’t get enough. But then that was the way he saw her in his fantasies, and oh shit, did he have fantasies about her! His cock jerked with insistence that nearly took his breath away. ‘There you are,’ he breathed, fingers already fumbling at his fly.

‘Go away. I’m busy,’ she said, giving some unfortunate weed an angry tug, an act the made the thin skirt quiver, made the firm muscles of her buttocks beneath clench and release. And his balls surged sending a testosterone buzz clear to the crown of his head.

He ignored the anger in her voice, well he didn’t actually ignore it. Her saucy temper made his cock even harder. ‘It’s all right, darling, you keep on working. Just lift your skirt for me.’ He grunted softly as he released his cock into his hand.

‘Lift it yourself. I said I’m busy.’

‘You know I can’t do that, sweetheart.’

She growled something particularly feral under her breath. He figured it wasn’t fit for polite company, which made him wish all the more that he’d heard it.

‘I’ve got such a load for you. I’ll come all over it if you don’t lift it for me,’ he said.

‘I have other skirts, Daniel.’ She only called him Daniel when she was really angry. ‘Why do I care where you come?’

‘Because you know where I really want to come, darling, and you have to know how badly I want it.’ He moved slightly to one side, not so far that her magnificent bottom wasn’t the centre of his attention, but far enough that, in her peripheral vision, she might catch a glimpse of him stroking his cock. Even if she couldn’t, she knew what he was doing, and he had no intention of being quiet about it. He lifted his balls free from his boxers and groaned at the feel of himself so full, so heavy for her.

She gave another angry yank at the offending weeds, and the resulting squeeze of her buttocks nearly sent him over the edge.

Buy Links:

Amazon UK
Amazon US
All Romance eBooks
Barnes & Noble
Mischief

A Calmedy of Errors

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It all started with an email from Jessica Tully Wednesday afternoon late asking if I could be on C5 news on Thursday night. We traded emails then a couple of phone calls and all was set for me to go into the studios in the afternoon to pre-record an segment for a piece they were doing on the rise of erotica for eBooks. It was supposed to run on the five o’clock and the 6:30 news. I began immediately to psych myself for the occasion. It wouldn’t be too scary. After all, it would be pre-recorded.

The day of the big event, I took extra time putting on slap, even emailed to see what I should wear. Then I packed my most sexy, most vicious shoes just in case, god forbid, the camera did a foot shot. Hedgehogs rock for walking, but even my shiny new blank and mauve ones are NSFTV. I looked about as telly-worthy as it’s really possible for an introverted smutter, like me, to look on a Thursday morning. I was just ready to step out the door when the call came. That’s right, my 2.5 minutes of fame had been cancelled. Now while the introvert in my was gasping a sigh of relief, the practical part of me was wondering what the hell I was going to do all made up and dressed to the nines at eleven o’clock on  Thursday morning? It seemed a pity to have wasted the war paint for nothing.

Having worked in television, though in a MUCH smaller market and in what must have surely been another lifetime, I knew that news programmes and plans for stories are always prone to change, not at the last minute, but in the last ten seconds. That much certainly hadn’t changed!

Before I could finish wondering what to do with my now freed-up day, Jessica called back and asked if I’d be willing to do the 6:30 program. LIVE! After I’d finished trembling pathetically, I gulped hard, closed my eyes and said yes, I’d do it. I really HAD worked in television, after all! But I worked with production and NOT in front of the cameras. Oh wait, there was that one Christmas when the powers that be made all of us, individually, don a silly Santa Clause hat, stand in front of the camera, and wish our viewers a Merry Christmas to the soundtrack of a cheesy canned holiday medley. Okay, that’s it then, I’d had experience. I was ready!

Channel 5 was even going to send a car for me! Now you can imagine the vision of a limo with a mini bar and a complimentary masseur (preferably bare-chested with pecs of steel) that went through my mind. They were going to send somebody to prep me en route, the email said. I felt like Jane Bond.

Didn’t happen … Did not happen. After several hours of waiting for the Blackberry to ring, I got a call from an apologetic Monica – Jessica’s

Me at some point during my 2.5 minutes of fame.

assistant – saying they didn’t think they could get a car out my way and get me back through the rush hour traffic in time for the newscast. Would I mind taking a train, I was asked in a small voice. Hell, I’d planned to take a train anyway, so no I didn’t mind — though I really was looking forward to that masseur.

Then Monica handed the phone over to Nick, a news editor, who talked me through what I could expect — not very 007 at all, but still, it’s always fun to talk about smut. After I said good-bye to Nick, I was off for the train station WAAAAY early because, well I have a phobia of being late, and I always allow EXTRA time — specially for my national telly debut.

The Northern and Shell Building, the home of Channel Five offices, is an ultra-modern, tinted glass tower just a block or two from Monument. I signed in, was handed a nametag and told to sit and wait for Fay, who took me upstairs where she showed me a small roped-off area right in the middle of the hive of activity that was the news room. Inside there was a control panel on a trolley and squat, boxy camera that looked like it might double as fabulously creative torture implement in some well-equipped dungeon. In front of the torture camera was a chair just waiting for moi.  Gulp! I was going live remote, all sat there in front of the camera talking to the voice in my ear, a voice only I would hear. Not that I don’t do that from time to time anyway, but never on national television! I wasn’t even going to talk to a real person.

Fay left me sitting at an empty desk next to the torture cam to contemplate my fate while she went in search of coffee. She was gone for a long time. I thought maybe she forgot about me. I just hoped at some point someone would remember that I was there.

With about thirty minutes before air time, Fay came rushing back to the desk where I sat and said the powers that be wanted me in the OTHER studio over by King’s Cross! She then rushed me downstairs, crammed me into a taxi and gave the driver instructions to an address completely unknown to me. Then we race across London to my new destination … Through grid-lock. I think I could have gotten out and ran faster. Except I didn’t know where to run to.

Strangely as the minutes ticked away I found myself getting calmer and calmer as the realization hit me that there was absolutely NOTHING I could do. We would either get there in time or we wouldn’t. I spent the ticking minutes frantically texting and emailing Raymond and Lucy Felthouse and Kay Jaybee, who were all holding my hand remotely, so to speak, and cheering me on. I didn’t know until much later how many other people were cheering me on. I’m still amazed and touched by the outpouring of support.

We arrived at the studio with me climbing into my nosebleed shoes, throwing some money at the wonderful taxi driver, who got me there against all odds and running into the building.

With less than five minutes before my segment was to begin I was thrust into the green room, introduced to Emma Crosby, the anchor, during a commercial break, miked, told not to use bad language and not to be rude, then shoved onto the stage just as the video tape accompanying the segment I was in came to an end.

AND I was on! National telly! In front of everybody and their dog! To me, it felt like I was only up there for two seconds. As I found out later, I was up there long enough to say BDSM and ménage, which I gather had far more of a shock impact than I really intended. I REALLY was trying to behave.

When my 2.5 minutes were up, I was ushered off the stage, unmiked and escorted to the lobby where I was pointed to the nearest tube station, at my request. I’m sure someone would have called me a taxi, but I’d had enough taxis for one day.

I changed back into the Hedgehogs and walked to King’s Cross in a daze. It had all happened so fast, I wasn’t even sure it actually HAD happened. I emailed to say I’d survived the ordeal, then headed home. Raymond picked me up at the train station, took me home and fed me.

...and the books ... they feel so good ...

While I ate, I watched the recorded version of me talk to Emma Crosby about erotica on national TV, like it was something I did every day! It was then I realised that I wasn’t really given a chance to get nervous, in the midst of all the chaos. And sure enough, there was a shoe shot! My feet looked very well dressed, indeed, not as well dressed as Emma’s, of course, but then she WAS the anchor.

After it was all over, and I was settled with a glass of wine reading over Facebook and Twitter conversations about my adventure with Channel 5, I was even more amazed at what had been going on while I was in a taxi struggling to get to my 2.5 minutes. I was astounded by the support of the fabulous community of erotica writers of which I’m a part. The excitement, the well-wishing, the feeling of everyone rooting for me, and the message I was sharing reminded me again of how much we all really believe in what we’re doing. We’re making positive changes in attitudes toward sex. We’re celebrating and reclaiming one of the very best parts of what it is to be human. And wow! That’s so worth believing in!

It was hours before I finally got to sleep, as I played the whole experience over in my head – all of it from the first email from Channel 5, to me looking excitedly over twitter conversations that were going on while friends and fellow smutters were watching me on telly. I’m still trying to take in the whole experience, and I know this may sound strange, but my actual 2.5 minutes was only a small part of the whole. I’m so glad to be a part of something so vibrant and edgy and in-your-face that it burst onto nationally telly proud and naughty and sassy and just getting started!

I woke up the next morning to discover that thanks to my dear friends, Kevin Mitnik, scheming with Lucy Felthouse, the segment was up on youtube. They wanted to surprise me. And it was a wonderful surprise! Thanks lovelies!  You’re the best! Here’s the link if you haven’t seen it yet. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eBYornouDXI&feature=youtu.be

Elizabeth Black Shares the Story Behind ‘Don’t Call Me Baby’

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The idea for my novel, Don’t Call Me Baby, had been forming in my head for many years. It’s based on my own sexual explorations when I was in college in the 1980s. When I was a freshman I was still a virgin and I wanted to be rid of that albatross before I turned 20. Losing my virginity was a huge event for me, and I wanted to choose the right man for my first lover. I didn’t date in junior high school or high school so I was a bit afraid.

I had always been attracted to men quite a bit older than me, most notably my teachers. So when I met the man who would become my first lover I wasn’t surprised he was a college professor. He also went against my type. I prefer my men tall, dark, and handsome but he was of average height, blonde, but cute. I met him when I was a high school student visiting colleges. I spoke to him about the college’s communications department and lack of a theater department. I chose the college (which will go unnamed) precisely because it had no theater department. I didn’t want to be tempted by a likely dead-end major. The irony was that I eventually chose fine art as my major. Go figure. I did later enjoy a brief career as a stagehand that was quite lucrative for me. Those were fun times.

Jake (not his real name) was sarcastic, sexy, and very popular with the women on campus. That should have clued me in. I fell hard for him but it turned out he didn’t feel quite the same way about me. It was lust at first sight for both of us, though. See, at the time I was really looking for love but I couldn’t find it. Plenty of men wanted to have sex with me but that’s all they were interested in. I turned them down, much to their irritation. Jake seemed to be different.

He wasn’t.

Catherine Stone, the protagonist in my novel, Don’t Call Me Baby, suffers from the same disillusionment. She doesn’t have the bad luck I had when looking for love. She thinks of sex the same way I do – giving your body to a man (or woman) is the greatest gift you can give. The problem is it’s easy to get hurt doing that sort of thing. I was badly hurt. Catherine wasn’t. She has more control, confidence, and intuitiveness than I had at her age.

I had no idea at the time many men were fascinated with virgins. Snagging a virgin was a great notch to put on your bedpost. I became a notch as far as Jake was concerned. When you the reader meet Catherine in Don’t Call Me Baby, she had given away her virginity two years prior. You won’t learn about her Jake (named Chris), but she mentions him in passing. When I write a second book about her sexual explorations I’ll delve into her experiences with her virginity. I’m not sure how she will handle herself, but I’m sure she’ll have a level head on her shoulders like she usually does.

Catherine is a force to be reckoned with. She’s not and never will be a cougar. She prefers her men with a little snow on the roof. She is very comfortable with her sexuality, and she likes to bed numerous men, but she’s really looking for love. Does she confuse sex with love? Not really, although sex is a very strong pull. Most men can’t keep up with her and her openness about sexuality and relationships. She does meet her match and you’ll get to know him in the book. Once she meets him and trusts him, she gives herself over to him completely. Like many women, not only is she looking for someone who cherishes her body, she wants a man who respects her, cares about her, enjoys her company, and challenges her.

Does Catherine sound like a woman with whom you may identify? Then you will enjoy Don’t Call Me Baby.

BLURB:

DON’T CALL ME BABY is a fast-paced, quick-witted, sexy, novel about a young woman exploring her sexuality and the cultural mores she collides with on a daily basis.

It’s 1983 in Maryland and Catherine Stone is sex on wheels. She plays the field the way men have done for eons. Not content to strive for her MRS degree like so many young women her age, she seduces men of all stripes, married college professors, theatre students, virgins, complete strangers who intrigue her. She has already cost one man his job.

She asks herself lots of questions on her search to enjoy her sexuality. Why don’t other women enjoy their sex as much as she does? Why do so many women and men look down on sexually free women, calling them sluts while sexually free men are called studs and Lotharios? She bucks at the double standards. Catherine has made no commitment to any man. She’s free to explore and she gladly does so. No man can tie her down and no woman’s judgment will stop her from playing the field to her heart’s content.

Does she meet her match in a new man who introduces her to sexual bliss she has never before experienced? When she tries multiple partners and bondage for the first time as a submissive, she believes she’s found the sexual bliss she is looking for, and with a man who not only introduces her to the fineries in life but also cares about her like no man ever has before.

EXCERPT:

The moment Eric left, Catherine stripped to her cotton underwear, and climbed into bed. Horny as hell, she grabbed her vibrator, and slid it in. Being so wet and aroused from making out with Eric, her vibrator had no difficulty sliding inside her. That vibrator was a birthday gift from her first boyfriend, Chris. While the relationship ended badly, especially when he was fired from his instructor job at Quincy because of her, she did get some nice gifts from him. This vibrator being one of them.

Her pussy made slurping sounds as she slid the vibrator back and forth. She pulled it out, and pressed the tip against her clit. She rocked against her bed as she rubbed the tip of the vibrator against her clit. As she pulled on her nipples, she fantasized about Eric’s strong hands against her small, firm breasts. His fingers felt so good as they pinched her hard nipples. With an image of his broad shoulders and firm biceps as his arms encircled her, she flashed onto her memory of Ryan’s admiring gaze. Both Ryan and Eric had the most amazing dimples, and that was her weakness – gorgeous men with dimples. She thought of Ryan eyeing up her legs as she displayed them during their first meeting. That memory drifted into her memory of DJ’s lazy gaze upon her through his thick hair. She enjoyed the attention, and she knew she was going to get more of it before this camp closed for the summer. When would she be lucky enough to get Ryan and DJ in her bed the way she enjoyed Eric? She remembered the feel and taste of Eric’s lips and tongue in her mouth, and with the memory of his hands on her body and his mouth on hers, she came hard against the vibrator. Ramping up the speed with a twist of the controls, her orgasm exploded so hard she doubled over in her bed. She came in hard waves, up and down, rocking her hips in time to her thundering heartbeat. With Eric on her mind, she drifted off to a deep sleep.

BUY LINKS:

Amazon Kindle

http://tinyurl.com/dont-call-me-baby-kindle

AllRomanceeBooks

http://tinyurl.com/dont-call-me-baby-are

Smashwords

http://tinyurl.com/dont-call-me-baby-smashwords

About Elizabeth Black:

She lives in Massachusetts next to the ocean with her husband, son, and four cats. Her articles, erotic books and short stories have been published by Naughty Night’s Press, Romance Divine, Circlet Press, Ravenous Romance, Xcite Books, Sexis Magazine, Alternet, Good Vibrations Magazine, and nuts4chic.

Elizabeth Black – Blog and Web Site

http://elizabethablack.blogspot.com/

Elizabeth Black – Facebook

https://www.facebook.com/elizabethablack

Elizabeth Black – Twitter

http://twitter.com/ElizabethABlack

Elizabeth Black – Amazon Author Page

https://www.amazon.com/author/elizabethblack

 

 

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