Tag Archives: Oysters and Chocolate

The Story Behind Kay Jaybee’s Hot New Novel, ‘The Voyeur.’

It’s my pleasure to welcome back to A Hopeful Romantic, the fabulous Kay Jaybee here to tell us the story behind her hot new novel, The Voyeur. Welcome, Kay. Do tell!

A huge thanks to the wonderful Ms. Grace, for allowing me to gatecrash her site. Today I’m going to share with you the ideas that led to the conception of my second novel, The Voyeur (Xcite, July 2012).

Wealthy business man and committed voyeur, Mark Parker, has a list of thirteen fantasies he is intent on turning into reality. Travelling between his London flat, his plush Oxfordshire mansion, and Discreet, his favourite S&M club; Mark is helped to realise his imaginatively dark erotic desires by two loyal members of his staff. His Personal Assistant, Anya Grant, and his Housekeeper, Clara Hooper.

Upon the backs of his willing slaves, Mark has written out his fantasy list in thick red pen. Only Fantasy 12 awaits the tick of completion against their flesh before Mark’s ultimate fantasy -Fantasy 13- can take place.

But have the girls performed well enough to succeed in the final challenge? And what hold does the Bridge’s Gentleman’s Club, Anya’s previous employer, have over Mark? A place Anya was only too delighted to escape from.

In order to find out, Mark’s girls are going to have to face some of the fantasies they thought they’d left behind them all over again; and while they do, Mark will watch…

The idea for The Voyeur saw its first glimmer of light back in 2007, when I wrote a two part story called Fantasy 13, for the excellent erotica web site Oysters and Chocolate. These full-on BDSM parallel adventures, both set in the ‘Discreet’ S&M club, were subtitled Clara’s Story and Anna’s Story– and now form the backbone of Chapters One and Two of The Voyeur.

As anyone who has read my work will know, I love writing BDSM stories, and for some time prior to penning the mini- series Fantasy 13, I’d toyed with the idea of setting a piece within a specialist club, which I’d decided to paradoxically entitle, Discreet! The only thing holding me back was that I was at a loss for an original story angle.

About the same time, I was sat in a cafe (as ever!), covertly people watching. A woman about my age was frantically scribbling down a list. I assumed it was a shopping list; but then I began to wonder- what if it wasn’t? What if it was something more interesting? Maybe it was a list of all the things she wished her husband, lover or girlfriend would do to, or with, her?

There was no stopping my imagination once I’d had that thought. Within the hour I had created Mark, a business man who kept a secret notebook in which to compile all his darkest desires.  He doesn’t necessarily want to take part in any of these fantasies- he just wants to see them take place in front of him.  The ultimate voyeur!

So, you could say that The Voyeur was originally a mixture of ideas gleaned from my long standing desire to write a story set in a sex club, and observing a woman jot down a shopping list in a cafe!!

Of course, once Mark existed in my imagination, I needed to create some willing assistants to make his dreams come true- and so PA Anya (originally Anna), and Housekeeper Clara, were born! Two professional, intelligent women, who think they know exactly what they are letting themselves in for- but do they?

The original Fantasy 13 for Oysters and Chocolate told the stories of Clara and Anna as they experienced their employer’s two-pronged final erotic dream. In The Voyeur however, this original ultimate fantasy, becomes the twelfth item on Mark’s list. He has something far more challenging for his employees to endure for fantasy 13- and a dark motive behind his reason for it…

Here’s an extract to tickle those visual taste buds… To their horror, Anya and Clara have just been told that they have to repeat many of the fantasies they thought they’d left behind them. In this section of Chapter 3 we find the girls about to retake fantasy 2 while Mark looks on- it’s torture by erotica…


Reclining in his chair, Mark raised his arm as if he was about to start a race, and gave the first order. ‘Strip.’ 

With practice born of repetition, the women divested themselves of their clothing, heaping their discarded garments onto the bed behind them.

Mark took a moment to study his staff, and then pointed to the foot of the four-poster bed. Understanding the unspoken request, the women stood, face to face, one metre apart.

Anya could feel her heart rate quicken further as she regarded Clara. It didn’t matter that she had enjoyed the feel of Clara’s skin a hundred times before; all that mattered was feeling it again, and soon.

‘As you will remember, you must remain exactly where you are, without touching each other, without making a sound. All you have to do is listen and refrain from moving.’ Picking up a well-thumbed paperback of erotic short stories from the bedside table, Mark took his time leafing through the pages to find the section he’d decided to narrate to his staff.

‘Even though Gail had been expecting it, the ring of the doorbell still made her jump. Wiping her palms apprehensively down the back of her jeans, she went to greet her guest.

‘The smile that met Gail as she opened the door turned into a beam of approval as Becky’s eyes scanned Gail’s snug-fitting red top and black jeans as if she had X-ray vision. “Wow, that’s one sexy vest, honey.”

‘Gail’s face flushed, but she managed to swallow back her natural inclination to dismiss a compliment, and let her own eyes roam over her visitor. Becky, in blue jeans and a plain black figure-hugging T-shirt, which displayed her cleavage to perfection, looked fantastic. Her recently washed and fluffed hair smelt mildly of lemon, and her face looked fresh and keen.

‘“You look pretty hot yourself, come in.” Becky followed her host into the small hallway that led to the lounge.

‘Gail was thankful for the background music she’d put on, for now they were here, face to face, just out of arm’s reach, an awkward tension hung in the air. They simply didn’t know what to say to each other. Surprising herself by being the one to break the silence, Gail spoke quietly. “This is ridiculous. Come here.” Catching hold of Becky’s hand, feeling how cold it was despite the heat of the room, she pulled her down onto the short blue sofa.

‘They still didn’t talk, but now it didn’t matter. As Gail sat, her legs hooked up under her, her body whorled toward Becky, everything within her immediate sight became blurred around the edges; this girl’s face, her clear green eyes, her mouth, the hands that began to reach out to Gail …

‘As Becky’s fingers reached her cheeks, Gail was snapped back to reality by their tender touch on her pale flesh. Placing her own hands on Becky’s shoulders, Gail ran them up each side of her neck, until she was cupping her face. The desire to kiss this person, this woman, was overwhelming. As her face came to Gail’s, Becky muttered, “You still want to?”

‘“Oh yes.” Gail hardly even breathed the words as their lips came together and their eyes closed.

‘The goose-pimples that had been spotting Gail’s arms tingled, and every nerve-ending flickered as a supple tongue darted against her mouth, and soft hair stroked her face. Her lips would have been happy to keep doing this, to kiss this person endlessly, but Gail’s body had other ideas, and after a few moments she could no longer sustain the leisurely pace.

‘Her kisses became firmer, and Becky, picking up on Gail’s urgency, reciprocated with equal fervour. Their hands, everywhere at once, began a thorough exploration of each other. Kneading tits, sliding hands beneath shirts to feel bare skin against their virgin fingers, nipping at each other’s neck, trailing hands lower, caressing crotches through thick denim, they touched whatever they could reach without giving up the kissing that became more and more passionate.

‘Finally breaking away, panting, their eyes serious but twinkling with mutual lust, they stood up …’

As he read, Mark, who knew the passage he was reciting so well that he really didn’t need to have the book in front of him, watched the girls’ bodies react; their teats hardening, their breasts swelling. Gratified that they hadn’t yet wavered from their position, he launched back into the manuscript, continuing to observe Anya and Clara carefully as he read …

‘Reaching out again, Becky dragged Gail’s top from her shoulders. Copying the action, Gail drew a long deep breath as she saw Becky’s black lace chemise, an exhalation that was echoed by Becky, whose emerald gaze had locked on to Gail’s bright red satin bra. Only a second’s visual appreciation passed, however, as, with unspoken understanding, they freed their breasts.

‘Gail’s hands leapt to her companion’s perfectly round yielding chest. As she made contact with Becky’s globes, the neat beige tips pushed back against her palms. Becky let out a husky groan of yearning, bringing her own hands to the other woman, her little fingers rubbing around Gail’s dark areolas in delectably torturous circles.

‘Desperate to find out if the taste of a tit was as she imaged it to be, Gail knocked Becky’s hands away, her lips rushing forward on a collision course for her guest’s right nipple. The texture of female flesh between her teeth sent a thrill gushing through her, turning Gail’s pussy from damp to wet as she gently kissed all around the teat. Savouring Becky’s sigh of contentment, Gail turned her caresses to pinches and bites, making her lover gasp as her hands continued their investigation of the mouth-watering body that was responding to her so readily. A voice at the back of Gail’s mind was asking her how the hell she knew what to do, but she ignored it, more concerned with continuing her research.

‘Becky’s arms hung limp at her sides as Gail pushed her back onto the sofa, lifted her hips, and began to pull down her jeans.

‘Gail’s throat became Sahara dry as she revealed Becky’s ruby and silver-studded naval. Pausing to kiss it, she continued removing the denims until she was faced with a beautiful, black lace-covered pussy. Nothing mattered now except seeing what lay under that small triangle of fabric. With a quick glance at Becky to make sure she still wanted to proceed, Gail pressed a firm palm over the knickers, feeling her stomach muscles quiver as she ran a single finger beneath the waistband. Becky’s breathing became laboured as Gail peeled the lace away from her crotch.

‘The smoothly shaven pussy that met Gail’s eyes seemed to ask for attention all on its own. Gail’s fingers obliged, examining its secret folds. Her touch revelled in the unfamiliar sensations, and her nose instantly loved the sweet aroma as her fingers uncovered the erect clit. Leaning closer, Gail blew air across its tip, making Becky whimper as moist lips met her pussy. Lapping up the sweet juices with delight, Gail’s hands snaked up Becky, massaging each breast.

‘Murmuring her pleasure with short mewls, Becky’s body began to jerk. Her involuntary movements increased as Gail speeded her caresses, gliding a finger inside the wet snatch, as Becky, with a cry of joy, came around the thin digit while Gail continued to stimulate her clit …’

Anya’s toes clenched as she fought the urge to shuffle her feet. Her entire body could feel the echo of Becky and Gail’s imagined stimulation. Before the reading had started, Anya had adopted the position experience had taught her she could maintain for a long time, with her hands together in front of her. Now, as Mark’s words slunk over her, the PA felt her sticky palms suction together. Resolute that she would not fail, she was equally desperate to touch Clara. Anya began to wish that she had focused her eyes on her lover’s feet rather than on her slim, porcelain waist and perfectly oval naval.

Clara, her neck bent, was studying the patch of carpet just in front of Anya’s painted toenails. Her hands, linked behind her back, dug into her palms as she did her best to block out Mark’s low, sensual voice; trying to think about anything but the intensely erotic scenario that was being read to them.

Distracting herself, Anya began to mull over where Mark had hidden the stopwatch. She was sure there’d be one hidden somewhere, counting off the seconds until either she or Clara caved in and moved. It was probably in his pocket, but Anya didn’t dare lift her gaze enough to see if the tell-tale circular bulge to his jeans pocket was there.

As Mark lingered over a paragraph detailing the fictional women licking each other out, Anya’s crotch twitched faster. She could almost feel the described contact for herself, and guessed from the visible tensing of her stomach muscles that Clara was fighting a similar battle.

Trying hard not to dwell on how wet her partner might be, and wishing she’d been bound so that her forced inactivity was easier, Anya attempted to picture the pile of paperwork on her desk, and the massive number of emails that would be cluttering up her inbox while she was away from the office. Yet her attempts at such practical thoughts were washed away by Mark’s kinky recital …

‘Gail couldn’t believe how incredible it felt, as a girl stroked her inner thighs and snatch with languid strokes of her agile tongue. Unable to keep her hands still, she reached down to the top of Becky’s head, but, unable to reach her, moved her fingers to her own breasts, massaging them in time to the gloriously frustrating movements between her legs …’

It was Clara’s foot that shifted first. Just a tiny fraction. If Mark hadn’t been expecting it then it might have gone unnoticed, but he remembered how Fantasy 2 had ended last time, with the minor wriggle of his housekeeper’s toes, and it was with an expressionless dip of his head that he witnessed history repeating itself.

Clara inwardly cursed her unbidden movement. She was sure she had managed to remain motionless for longer than she had last time, but the proximity of Anya, and the temptation of the words Mark had been weaving around them, had been too much.

Now that Clara had moved, Anya felt the tension ease from her rigid frame, and risked flexing her fingers a little. Mark’s cut-glass voice ripped through the sound of the soloist singing her haunting tones from the stereo. ‘I expected you to last longer, Miss Hooper. You have six months more experience than you had the last time you took this test.’

Instantly both girls became stock still in the face of their boss’s disappointment.

‘I have not finished reading. You will take one step closer to each other. You will not touch each other.’

Anya could almost taste Clara’s skin, it was so close, and the heady aroma of her partner’s snatch was wafting temptingly toward her. Mark resumed the torturously arousing monologue as she battled harder than ever not to grab the woman in front of her.

‘Becky smiled with approval when she saw Gail’s busy fingers and, slipping a hand under Gail’s backside, sought out her anus. Lifting her head for a second, Becky began to probe at her lover’s arse, pushing her finger in further, her eyes trapped into Gail’s, gauging her reaction to the extra intrusion. “Is that OK?”

‘“Oh fuck, yes!” Gail lifted her hips to help accommodate Becky’s hand, anxious for her friend’s mouth to return to its previous location.

‘As if reading her mind, Becky bought her lips back to Gail’s pussy, just as she thrust one finger between her butt cheeks and another into her slick cunt.

‘Gail’s body jacked, colours flashed behind her closed eyelids, and her hips rose higher as, for the first time in her life, a female triggered an orgasm that took full control of her.

‘Recovering themselves, the women looked at each other, exploding into a fit of friendly giggles as they observed their dishevelled state.

‘With a mischievous wink Becky said, “So, darling, was it good for you?”

‘Adopting a mock male tone, Gail replied, “Oh yes, babe!”’

Three whole minutes passed at a snail’s pace before Mark finally closed the novel and, without a word, opened his notebook instead.

Anya and Clara redoubled their efforts not to move, intimidated by the presence of the red pen Mark now held. Consulting the stopwatch that had been in his pocket as Anya had predicted, Mark wrote something in his book, his face set in grim concentration. The girls held their collective breath.

Clara, her head now held marginally higher than usual to relieve the tension in her neck, rested her eyes on Anya’s breasts. It was all she could do not to throw herself at them. Trying to convince herself that her feet were superglued to the floor, the housekeeper shut her eyes. Clara knew she shouldn’t, but at the same time she was all too aware that if she kept them open for even one more second, there was no way she’d be able to resist grabbing her lover – just like she had last time.

The girls could feel Mark’s eyes burning into them like lasers. He hadn’t said anything about Clara’s eyes being closed, but then he didn’t have to. She already knew she’d lost this one. All that mattered now was damage limitation. If she could prevent herself from grabbing Anya’s tits, then maybe she would have managed to score enough to satisfy Mark.

The music was abruptly switched off, and the quiet of the room engulfed the girls as Mark stood up. Clara, her eyes still closed, could picture her boss as he examined them. There would be no obvious disapproval on his face. There would be no expression at all.

Anya wasn’t sure how they’d done. She thought perhaps they’d survived for a few more minutes without moving than last time, but her memory could be playing tricks. At least Clara hadn’t grabbed her, although part of her wished she had, just to see what Mark would have done. If she was honest, it was only luck that it had been Clara who fidgeted first. She’d been only seconds away from breaking herself.

‘Open your eyes, Clara.’

Obeying immediately, Clara’s crystal clear eyes bored straight into Anya’s, seeing her own uncertainty about their performance reflected back at her.

Eventually, after what seemed like hours, he sat back down to write again. Only when he’d finished scribbling did Mark deliberately and carefully close the notebook and address the women.

‘It won’t have slipped your memories, I’m sure, that the last time you partook of Fantasy 2, I let you have free reign upon the bed straight afterwards.’

Mark sat on the foot of the bed as he spoke. ‘However, I happen to know that you have already enjoyed each other since we met in the study. Therefore, I’m sure you would much rather rest.’

The girls said nothing. The dull desperation for each other was screamingly obvious.

‘At least your discipline has improved in the past six months.’ Only now did Mark’s disappointment in them begin to show. ‘You haven’t questioned me on that, or asked me how I knew. But I must enforce what I told you earlier. If you are to survive Fantasy 13, you’ll have to develop more stamina than you have showed this morning, ladies.’

Mark got up and gestured for his companions to follow him from bedroom four into their small bedroom. Once there, he took a pair of handcuffs from the drawer and snapped then around a speechless Anya’s wrists. She bit her lips closed. Why was she being cuffed? She’d won – hadn’t she?…


If you fancy finding out how Anya and Clara came to work for Mark, and what other challenges they have to endure, you can buy The Voyeur from Amazon UK, Amazon.com and all other good e-retailers.


Thanks again Kd, for letting me visit today.xxx

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t have long.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John nodded obediently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Buy Not Her Type Here:


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

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

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


Two Helpings of Nasty Readings with a Side of Spanking, Please

Kay Jaybee enthralls her audience

What’s better than going to London for one exciting reading event at Sh!? Going to London for TWO exciting reading events at Sh! And even better still, going to London for two exciting reading events at Sh! AND a spanking class.

I’ve been looking forward to this big event for weeks now. The first event was at Sh! Hoxton. There’s no way I was going to miss the launch party for Kay Jaybee’s fantastic novella, Not Her Type, from Oysters and Chocolate press. I’ve read it and reviewed it and loved it. But it’s another thing entirely to

Kay Jaybee practicing her technique

watch the lovely booted, bespectacled, Lady in Red sit right in front of you and read all manner of nastiness to a packed house. If anyone can keep an audience squirming in their seats, Kay Jaybee can. And for those who wanted to squirm even more, there was a good spanking to be had. And I can tell you from first-hand experience, Kay Jaybee gives a mean spanking.

Janine Ashbless, Kay Jaybee, KD Grace, Rebecca BondThe Pet Shop, book of the month at Sh! Hoxton!

Having experienced one of Sh!’s yummy spanking classes before, I had some idea what the audience was up for, not the least of which was fondling the lovely handmade spankers and floggers and crops and cat-o-nine-tails and … Breathe, KD, breathe!

Kay Jaybe read, and Sh!’s fabulous manager, Renee, spanked and gave instructions on technique and implements. And I enjoyed the fabulous company of such delicious smutters as Janine Ashbless, escorted by the charming Mr Ashbless, Rebecca Bond, Lexie Bay, escorted by Mr. Bay and an international crowd from Italy, the UK, Sweden, Kazakhstan, and the States. Sexy stories and spanking — loved the world over.

The Pet Shop is the book of the month at Sh! Hoxton!

The evening ended at the local Moroccan restaurant talking writing and sex and eating couscous chicken. There was a quick drink at the hotel bar, then off to bed to rest up for day two.

Day two began with breakfast amid the tourists all bundled up for a day of sightseeing in London. And since we had nothing to do before the Immoral Views reading at Sh! Portobello that night, Kay Jaybe, Raymond and I all descended on the National Gallery. Sadly we weren’t able to get tickets for the Da Vinci exhibit, but still a day at the National Gallery is always well worth the effort. A visit

KD Grace and Kay Jaybee at Piccadilly Circus

can’t end without me standing, mouth agape, totally in awe in front of Botticelli’s painting of Venus and Mars. Both moving and sexy, it’s one of my favourite paintings of all times. This painting is the perfect Renaissance version of ‘make love not war,’ and it’s the inspiration for one of the scenes in The Initiation of Ms Holly. I love mythology, don’t you?

Prowling the National makes for some serious hunger, so we had Chinese buffet in Soho before spending some time in the Tudor hall of the National Portrait Gallery, then back over to the hotel to have a quick kip and before we got ready for the night’s reading naughtiness.

Lexie Bay and me

You can’t have visited my site in the past few months without reading about the hot new Sweetmeats Press anthology, Immoral Views, which contains my story, Allotted Views. The anthology has a soft spot in my heart for several reasons. Firstly, there are only five authors in it, and I am in the company of four of my very favourite writerly folks, Kay Jaybee, Lucy Felthouse, Rebecca Bond, and Lexie Bay. It’s great to be between the covers with such exquisite company. Secondly it’s amazing to see one’s work illustrated. (Incidentally, I’m

It takes a lot of bubbly and a lot of cupcakes to power a hot Sh! reading event.

interviewing the fabulous illustrator of Immoral Views, Florian Meacci, on Sunday. You won’t want to miss it.) And finally, the stories are delicious, and so varied that they contain something for everyone.

The Immoral Views reading at Sh!Portobello was a gathering of authors and of the mastermind and editor, KoJo Black, who I had the pleasure of interviewing two weeks ago on my site. Sadly, Lucy Felthouse wasn’t able to join us, but we all agreed her work should be represented, so Kay Jaybee pretended to be Lucy Felthouse and read a very nasty bit from her story. When we weren’t reading, we were enjoying, along with the audience, pink bubbly and gorgeous cupcakes provided by KoJo.

The readings were hot, the audience was appreciative, and as always, the lovely Sh! Ladiez were the very bests hostesses.

At the end of the evening, it was back over to the Hoxton area for pizza and debriefing and lots of laughter. There were already murmurs about the next time. And I’ll be having details on that very soon.A double portion of Sh!, complete with readings and a spanking class and fabulous friends was another fantastic reminder of why I do what I do. We writers will always write. Not to would be like not breathing. But when such fantastic friends and so much fun happen to be the fringe benefits, well, I reckon I feel very lucky, indeed, that writing chose me.


Kay Jaybee Delivers the Goods, and How!

When it comes to creative and super-heated BDSM, Kay Jaybee can’t be topped. And she certainly delivers the goods in her new novella, Not Her Type, published by Oysters and Chocolate Books.

Jenny is an accountant, an educated women, who works from home in a nearly reclusive way, having given up on love after one too many bad experiences. John is her delivery man, a man who has little education, isn’t interested in books, and certainly isn’t interested in the kind of artsy films he delivers to Jenny every week. The two couldn’t have less in common if they tried.

Jenny and John see each other every Tuesday, long enough for him to make his delivery and for them to share a quick cuppa and a short chat, until one day the chat is replaced by sizzling, totally unexpected sex. And the pattern is set. Every Tuesday the delivery man delivers. And every Tuesday Jenny is there to accept the delivery. Just nasty, kinky sex on the run. They both assure each other that’s all they want, and their arrangement meets both of their needs perfectly.

But nothing is ever simple. And Kay Jaybee brings an edginess into the complexity of their simple relationship that is sometimes brutal, sometimes poignant, but always steamy and rampant with the pent-up desires released in small doses only on Tuesdays, only for a few minutes. And yet, in that short time, Ms Jaybee gives us fabulous views into the lives of her two characters and gives us little Tuesday afternoon peeks into something way too big and complex to fit into that little weekly window of time.

Ms Jaybee’s characters are deliciously flawed and endearing. Her plot is ingenious, and the sex is frequent and varied, with steamy f/m/f and f/f sex cranking up the heat along with the usual Jaybee penchant for creative BDSM.

Not Her Type is pacey, sexy and quirky, and dare I use the R word? Yes, in addition to kink and edgy BDSM, there is romance – Kay Jaybee style – something I hope we’ll be seeing a lot more of in the future.

Well done, Ms Jaybee! Once again the Queen of BDSM delivers the goods!

Jeremy Edwards Shares the Story behind The Pleasure Dial

The Pleasure Dial: An Erotocomedic Novel of Old-Time Radio

by Jeremy Edwards

It began with a city: Los Angeles.

I’ve set stories in Boston, New York, Philadelphia, and San Francisco; in Hartford, Cleveland, Chicago, Providence, and Miami; in Florence, in London, in Ottawa, and in Brussels.

And, on a couple of occasions, I’ve set them in Los Angeles: specifically, in Hollywood—or rather within “Hollywood,” the several areas of greater Los Angeles in which big-budget motion pictures are made.

Despite these earlier excursions into Los Angeles, there came a time when I was contemplating a new Los Angeles story. And it didn’t take much contemplation to determine that my new LA story would be an old LA story. I would be returning to “Hollywood,” but the Hollywood of an earlier epoch.

Eventually I decided to write, not a short story, but a full-length book set in that world.

You see, I’m a fan of classic radio comedy (the sillier the better), and I also love the risqué deliciousness seen in some of the early talkies. The combination of alluring sexuality and inspired silliness that was sometimes produced before the movie studios became prudish and zany humor went out of fashion lines up very well with my own sensibilities; and so although I usually work with contemporary settings, I realized that the Hollywood of the early 1930s would be a perfect environment for a Jeremy Edwards erotocomedic novel.

I’d been doing a lot of reading about what it was like to be a staff writer for radio and television comedy programs in the mid-twentieth century (just for my own interest—I didn’t realize at the time it was “research”!)—and I fell in love with the idea of putting witty radio writers at the center of my next sexy adventure. Not only could these people be the ideal protagonists for the cocktail of sensuality and repartee I was planning, but I could play at being an old-time radio writer myself, as I fleshed out the bits of “show within the show” programming that would be found here and there in my book. And, when sitting in my writing room and taking my characters into their writing room, I could orchestrate discussions such as this one:

“Look at this: first page,” said Mariel. “Heffy says he’s brewing some tea. There is absolutely nothing funny about brewing tea, Mickey.”

“It’s only an incidental line,” said a writer named Howard.

Nothing is incidental in good comedy,” Mariel retorted. “Heffy should say he’s boiling an egg. Now that’s amusing—though offhand I couldn’t say why.”

Choosing the precise year in which my novel is set—though as it happens it’s mentioned only in the blurb, not the book proper—took some care. On the one hand, I wanted radio comedy and talking pictures to be well established by the point at which we enter my version of Old Hollywood. Likewise, I wanted to make sure we were clear of Prohibition (repealed at the end of 1933), so that I wouldn’t have to sneak my characters drinks instead of letting them enjoy their scotch, champagne, and Bloody Marys free of logistical complications.

On the other hand, I wanted to keep my story within the era prior to the motion-picture industry’s serious compliance with the so-called Hays Code—the studios’ puritanical self-censorship agreement that, according to my reference source, had been created in 1930 but did not have an important influence until the second half of 1934. I wanted the entertainment world inhabited by my characters to be the “pre-Hays” world of sexy scenes and madcap comedy. (As noted above, it seems to me that comedy, for whatever reason and sex aside, became less whimsical in the Hays era, generally speaking. Even the Marx Brothers became a little stodgier.)

And so my book is set in the spring of 1934. As you can see, I wasn’t left with much of a window!

Let’s take a look through that window … into the home of screen idol Lila Lowell, where a group of my characters have congregated.


“The show Friday night was fabulous,” Nanette continued. “I don’t mind telling you we listened to it in bed.” She stroked Lila’s thigh through her kimono.

Artie watched Elyse’s eyes light up, as they did so frequently, with sexual interest. “I’m very glad you told me that. Damn, to think of two such beautiful women in bed, enjoying … me. *Lila Lowell* and her woman,” she continued, as if telling herself an erotic bedtime story, “in bed—after a fashion—with me. Oh, my my my.”

She shivered erogenously while she spoke. For his part, Artie found that he had his hand in his pocket, and that he was discreetly tickling his cock to the rhythm of Elyse’s voice.

She turned to him now. “Can’t you just see them, Artie? Undressed and exquisite in bed, touching each other and listening to me—perhaps visualizing me there with them?”

Artie figured Elyse was about the only person in the world who could say something like that without sounding remotely egotistical. Remarks like this were all in a day’s work for a sex goddess.

Nanette made eye contact with Lila, who nodded again. “Would you like to see that, Elyse?” Nanette asked.

“You bet,” Artie blurted.

Mariel gently elbowed him, snickering. “The question was not addressed to you.”

“Sorry.” He blushed. “It’s … er … a side effect of writing her dialogue.”

Lila smiled tolerantly.

“Well, Mariel, we’re all good friends here,” said Nanette.

Elyse was already squirming in her checkers chair, with a palm situated suggestively at the apex of her legs. “You would let me be there while you loved?”

“You’ll just have to bring a chair into the bedroom,” said Nanette. She looked inquisitively at Lila, who grinned shyly, and then at Artie. “Okay—three chairs.”

“I told you Lila would quickly become comfortable with you,” Mariel said to Artie as they carried the furniture down the hall.

When the two women reclined naked on their bed, their appearances were thrown into an aesthetic contrast. Lila, as every moviegoer knew, was tall, black-haired, and thin, with breasts like small scrumptious pastries and a round little bubble of an ass. Nanette, in turn, was blonde, compact, and on the voluptuous side. And although, by her own account, Nanette had left the tub long before Miss Lowell, Artie noticed that she still looked positively ripe from her bath, lusciously warm and rosy, while Lila looked stunningly sepulchral as always.

Their bodies faced each other; their heads, framed by deep purple pillows, faced Elyse, who had stripped to her underwear before posing on a chair at the foot of the bed.

“Isn’t it clever,” Mariel said to Artie, “how the best entertainment in Hollywood occurs behind closed doors?”


The year is 1934, and amiable New York gag writer Artie Plask has taken the West Coast plunge. His first day on staff with a top radio show introduces him to the irresistible Mariel Fenton, a wit among wits who immediately takes an interest in all aspects of Artie’s life—especially his private life. As Artie finds his feet in a world of blustering comedians, pansexual sex goddesses, timid screen legends, exhibitionistic scriptwriters, and self-infatuated geniuses, Mariel leads him on a zany journey up and down the pleasure dial—a giddy romp through Hollywood that’s chock-full of airwaves showdowns, writing-room counterplots, devious impersonations, naked meetings, and a sensuality-drenched assortment of erotic escapades.




Jeremy Edwards is the author of the erotocomedic novel Rock My Socks Off (Xcite Books, 2010), the erotic story collection Spark My Moment (Xcite Books, 2010), and most recently The Pleasure Dial: An Erotocomedic Novel of Old-Time Radio (OC Press, 2011). His quirky, libidinous tales have appeared in over fifty anthologies, including three volumes in the Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica series, and he has read his work live at New York’s In the Flesh and Philadelphia’s Erotic Literary Salon. Jeremy’s greatest goal in life is to be sexy and witty at the same moment—ideally in lighting that flatters his profile. Readers can drop in on him unannounced (and thereby catch him in his underwear) at www.jeremyedwardserotica.com.