The House of Elyot

Back in 2010, I had thrown myself into sending material to new and different editors, and my next published story was another case. I knew and loved Kristina Wright as a writer, so when she published a call for erotic stories with fairy-tale themes for Cleis Press, I jumped at the chance. I don’t think there are many erotica writers who can resist fairy tales – from Bluebeard to Snow White, sexuality lurks just under the surface, as A.N. Roquelaure was quick to recognise in her Beauty series (one of the first erotic books I read).

Having chosen this winning theme, Kristina was inundated with wonderful work from writers at the top of the genre, so it was an honour to have my story Three Times included in the Fairy Tale Lust anthology.

It was a little bit kinky, a little bit tentacular, a little bit pansexual and a dream to write. I’m not sure the words have ever tumbled out quicker.

It sat alongside stories from Delilah Devlin, Andrea Dale, Craig Sorensen, Louisa Harte, Alegra Verde, Janine Ashbless, Shanna Germain, Allison Wonderland, Kristina Wright, Jeremy Edwards, Aurelia T Evans, Carol Hassler, Saskia Walker, Alana Noel Voth, Michelle Augello-Page, Charlotte Stein and A.D.R. Forte.

And what a dreamy cover…

Here’s how my story starts:

And so it was that a Proclamation went out across the land, from the river basin to the mountain villages, that whosoe’er should free the Princess from the shackles of vine would win her hand.

That day was a busy one in the Market Tavern, and Selina was rushed off her feet, running from barrel to bartop to table and back, trays of foaming beers held aloft in both hands so that all she could use to bat away the constant barracking and groping was her sharp tongue.  Between bouts of flirtation, the likely lads of the town formulated foolproof plots to unbind the Princess from her obstinate tethers and claim her for their own.

“She is fair – she will look well in my bed.”  General guffawing assailed Selina’s ears and she uttered a silent prayer that the unlucky Princess might find a more gallant rescuer than these thickset, foul-mouthed baboons.

“Can you imagine it – to make your fortune, and to fuck it too!”

“To fortune, and fucking!”  The toast was proposed and the tankards clinked together, spilling foam into Selina’s cleavage as she passed.  Fortune and fucking, she thought.  The prospect of either was as remote as the Utopian Peninsula.  She went to the back room to fetch the mop.

Princess Ellora had never looked so serene, so beautiful or so heartbreaking.  Against the bark of the silver vine tree she stood, still as a statue, her arms arched gracefully above her head.  Some of the tree’s pearlescent sheen had transferred to her skin, giving her an unearthly glow on those parts of her body that were unveiled; to the rest, a toga-like silken garment clung, outlining the teardrop shapes of her breasts and her lean young hips.  She looked like an exotic dancer, caught and frozen in mid-slink, her lips parted and the dark almonds of her eyes held in an expression of melting desire.  But for whom was the Princess feeling this eternal moment of exquisite lust?  Her arms and legs were criss-crossed with winding vines and, although her dress protected some vestiges of her modesty, it was clear that the snakelike plants holding her in bondage were also performing a secondary task.

The King sighed as he pulled aside the gauzy material to apprise his Lord Chancellor of the full seriousness of his daughter’s plight.

“Good Heavens!” exclaimed the veteran politico.  “Good…merciful…Heavens.”

And he had to retrieve his lorgnettes to make sure that he was seeing straight, for the vines slithered all the way up Ellora’s thighs, cutting into their white succulence, and then they passed between her labia to disappear inside her.  Around her breasts they were also tied, then wound around her nipples before curving back past her hips.  Pressed against the vine’s eerily phosporescent bark, Ellora’s buttocks were not visible, but it seemed fair to assume that the invasive plant was making its presence felt there as well.

“Does she…feel anything?” whispered the Lord Chancellor.

“I cannot tell.  Her heart beats, and the blood still flows in her veins…but she has neither moved nor spoken since the vine claimed her.”

“What is this vine?  I have seen nothing similar before.”

The King extended his hands, wringing them in frustration.  “I do not know!  Nobody knows!  I have had all the botanists in the land examine it, but they cannot pinpoint its provenance.  We know that it is unbreakable and poisonous to the touch.  Ellora stumbled into the leaves and was instantly bound tight.  We have tried knives, saws, even blowtorches – nothing seems to affect it.”

“And now you fall back on general competition?  With the offer of Ellora’s hand as bait?  Dear me, Your Majesty, there are laws governing a lady’s right to choose her own match now, you know.  Could I advise a different reward?  Some lands?  A diadem or two?”

“A diadem or two won’t cut it,” snapped the King.  “And besides, once some backwoods oaf has used his unexpectedly-magical axe to free my Princess, we can always…re-negotiate…”

“Re-negotiate, Your Majesty?”

“Fling him in gaol on a charge of assault or attempted murder or something.”  The King shrugged.  “Obviously I have no intention of tainting our bloodline.”

“Ah.  I see.”

“Well, then.  Let us waste no more time.  Open the gates and admit the pretenders.”

Selina saw them all, a steady stream of dejected faces trooping into the Market Tavern and calling for ale, one after another after another.

“No luck?” she would ask sympathetically, and he would slam down his pocket knife or diamond cutter or shovel on the table and launch into his tale of failure.


(As an aside, the naming of the Princess reflected some thoughts I was having at the time about whether or not to sub to Ellora’s Cave. In the end I didn’t. Phew.)

A new story from me is available now in the Mischief anthology Submitting. I enjoyed writing this one so much that I’ve started writing a book about the characters, covering the lead-up to the story and what happens afterwards.

Doing It For Emmett is about a submissive woman’s first experience of being shared, and is about how far you can go for love.

Here’s how it opens:

If you’re going to behave like a cheap whore, the best place to do it is an expensive hotel.

This was the thought running through my head as Emmett led me by the hand through the polish and glister of the lobby, towards the miniature fountain that signified the entrance to the bar.

I didn’t look like a cheap whore. Emmett had chosen what I was wearing: silvery silk shirt, knee-length pencil skirt, heels that were high enough to make me wiggle but not high enough to make me totter. I could pass as a delegate en route to pre-conference drinks, or somebody’s elegant mistress. Who would guess what I actually was?

We stopped at the fountain, and Emmett took my other hand, tilting his head and looking deep into me.

“Are you nervous?” he said.

“A bit,” I admitted. “I don’t want to let you down.”

He let out a breath, kissed my forehead, then my lips.

“You won’t,” he promised.

He walked me over to a corner table underneath a potted palm, where a pinstriped gentleman in his late forties sat working on the Times crossword.

Impressions of him were quickly absorbed and filed: elegant, distinguished, wealthy, watchful, intimidating, attractive. Everything Emmett had described.

The man looked up, and I turned quickly to Emmett, lacing my fingers more tightly into his.

“Your order, sir,” said Emmett.

The man – I knew his name, but the idea was to pretend I didn’t – stood up and shook Emmett’s hand.

“Thank you,” he said, then he looked me up and down with hard, grey eyes. “Yes, this one will do.”

Emmett nodded, unlocked his hand from mine, and went away to the bar. I put the hand he’d released on to my chest, clenching and unclenching it, and looked after him. Come back, I pleaded silently, but I knew I couldn’t say it aloud.

He would be in the hotel room later. He wasn’t abandoning me.

“You can sit down,” said the man. “I’ve ordered you a gin and tonic.”

“Thanks,” I said, following his instruction and taking a sip of the welcome drink.

“I’m Charles,” he said. “But you will call me Sir. What’s your name?”

“Suky,” I said.

He raised an eyebrow. “Suky? Suky Tawdry?”

He’d got the allusion straight away. I suppressed a smile. Emmett had said it was too obvious.

“That’s right, sir.”

“And is your boyfriend over there Mack the Knife?”

“No, sir,” I said. “He isn’t a criminal.”

“I should hope not, although I believe procuring is still a shade on the illegal side.”

“I don’t think it counts if no money changes hands, sir,” I ventured.

He smiled, running a finger around the rim of his brandy glass.

“You’re probably right. You’re doing this for nothing, aren’t you? Why?”

I clenched my thighs in an effort to stop them quivering. The tension of this encounter was exquisitely tightly strung. A barrage of conflicting feelings coursed through me with each exchange.

“I’m doing it for Emmett,” I said. “Because he told me to.”

“Ah, he told you to. And you do everything Emmett tells you, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” I whispered.

“Why is that?”

“Because he owns me.”


I’m in this one with some of my favourite authors – stories by Rose de Fer, Lily Harlem, Sommer Marsden, CeCe Marsh, Alegra Verde, Ludivine Bonneur and Kathleen Tudor can all be found behind this man’s chest.


Back to 2010 again, and the closure of Black Lace had forced me to gambol in some fresh woods and pastures new. One of the most fertile of these was Cleis Press, the veteran San Francisco-based indie publishing house behind one of my favourite contemporary erotic books, Carrie’s Story.

My story Sunday In The Study was the first of many to be accepted by one of the biggest names in the business, Rachel Kramer Bussel. It appeared in her male dom/female sub collection Please, Sir – and I can tell you, I was absolutely thrilled to bits when I got my acceptance. I felt like I’d broken America, hahaha. Well, it was a nice feeling while it lasted…

The book is an excellent hot read on one of my favourite themes and includes stories by Shanna Germain, Elizabeth Coldwell, Sommer Marsden, Mercy Loomis, Tess Danesi, Heidi Champa, Emerald, Yolanda West, Isabelle Grey, Remittance Girl, Evan Mora, Doug Harrison, Alison Tyler, Aimee Pearl, Kissa Starling, Charlotte Stein, Ariel Graham, Lisabet Sarai, Salome Wilde, Donna George Storey and Rachel Kramer Bussel.

And I love the coy look on the cover model’s face.

Here’s the opening of my story:

I never know how long he will make me wait.


Never less than five minutes, usually between ten and twenty, and on one unfondly recalled occasion I was standing hands-on-head listening to the steady tick of the grandfather clock behind me for over an hour.


This, he says, is Reflection Time.  I am to spend it thinking through any of the week’s tribulations or missed opportunities, and considering how I will account for them.  That is the theory, although in practice these tense minutes lend themselves to speculation.  How many?  How long?  What will he use?  Will I be able to sit at the family dinner afterwards?


Later I will find myself in reflective mode once more, but this time I will be facing a corner, holding my hands clasped in the small of my back, above my bare and throbbing bottom.  This is Recovery Time, and usually lasts half an hour – long enough for tears to dry and sins to be absolved before we move into the final stage of the process – forgiveness and reconnection.


You will gather from all of this that Sinclair and I are lovers of ritual.  What holds us together is something more than our mutual kink, our undeniable attraction and all the usual romantic folderol.  It is our need for this Sunday to be like every other Sunday in essence, even if certain elements are allowed to vary.  It is my need for correction and his for control.  When we were younger, my Sundays were spent in church, while he captained the school cricket team.  As adults, we have exchanged these rituals for their deviant counterpart.  He dominates, as he did his ten bowlers and batsmen; I submit, as I did to the God I worshipped.  But this time there is nothing unpredictable, nothing unknowable, nothing to fear.  It is all so much more satisfying.


Tick…perhaps the strap…tock…I hope not the cane…tick…but then again…tock…I like the cane…tick…I must be insane…tock.


The door opens.


I know the drill.  I remove my hands from my head and lower my eyes, letting them drift over the familiar pattern of the Persian runner, through the doorway and across the highly polished oak floorboards.  My feet follow their gaze until they are stopped by the obstacle of his desk.


I love his desk.  It is so antique it even has an inkwell.  When I am bending over it, I can see my face in the mirror shine, though I tend to screw my eyes shut rather than watch my contorted expressions.  Rarely, he requires me to keep them open – for instance, on the day that he invited his dominatrix friend to watch and take notes.  I had to look her in the eye through twenty four strokes of the tawse, an almost impossible task, though I am proud to say I managed it to their satisfaction.


He walks, always in a slow, stately fashion, from the door to the desk.  He stands on the other side of it, looking down at me with his more-in-sorrow-than-anger face for a moment.


‘Well, Beth, here we are again,’ he says.  ‘I wonder if the day will come when I do not have to waste my Sunday morning taking you to task over imperfections of behaviour.’  We both know it will not.  ‘No answer to that, hmm?  Well, it does seem a very distant prospect to me as well.  Now then.’


He seats himself and pulls over a large book, a leatherbound ledger.  Large as it is, after two years it is already half-filled with page after page of copperplate script, remembrances of crimes past and their associated sentences.  He opens it, flipping the leaves to where the ribbon bookmark lies across a blank expanse.


Not blank for long though, for soon a fountain pen is slanted between his elegant fingers, dipped in the inkwell and put to the page.  As he writes, he talks, his murmur following the looping progress of the pen.


‘Sunday June 18th,’ he says, then he holds the pen in suspended animation and looks at me.  ‘What should I write, do you think?  Any ideas?’



I thought I’d decided my next step – having heard about people who make a decent income from Kindle erotica, it seemed something worth trying.

Then I looked into it a bit further and found Kindle Unlimited has unlimited problems. Books being withdrawn, accounts shut down for activity the author has no control over, and the whole dodgy ‘pay per page view’ premise is giving me pause. The whole point of self-publishing for me is to avoid being at the mercy of other forces.

But on the other hand, it seems that you can’t earn any money without recourse to Amazon. So I’m back to pondering…

In April 2010, Xcite brought out another in their ‘Ultimate…’ series, on a theme that was right up my street. Ultimate Spanking contained my story Paying For It, about a woman who indulges her spanko curiosity by hiring a professional.

The original cheeky seaside-postcard cover with its pastel stripes along the bottom was typical of Xcite books of this era, though they had several redesigns and repackagings over the years. The most recent – before it went out of print – was a mysterious dark blue with misty fronds.

I think, by the time this came out, Adam had already left Xcite and editing was left in the hands of the enigmatic ‘Miranda Forbes’. It contained stories by a cracking roster of authors, though, many of whom had come over from Black Lace. Monica Belle, Shanna Germain, Philippa Johnson, Poppy St Vincent, Sadie Wolf, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Ashley Hind, Cyanne, Heidi Champa, Charlotte Stein, Robin Moreton, Amelia Thornton, Sandrine Lopez, Izzie French, Aishling Morgan, Laurel Aspen, Landon Dixon, Teresa Joseph and Philip Kemp are all represented in the contents list.

I recently re-read Paying For It, as I’m thinking of putting all my out-of-print Xcite stories together as a collection, and was surprised at how much I liked it. It’s hot and sweet and rather romantic in its way.

Here’s how it starts:

He makes a living from spanking girls – can you believe that? I told him it was money for old rope, but he said, ‘Nah, I do spanking, not bondage,’ then told me to get out the strap for making such a disrespectful suggestion.

‘What you don’t understand, Kat,’ he said, plying the leather and ignoring my gasps while I gripped the iron bedstead for dear life, ‘is that spanking is not easy. It isn’t just a case of throwing the lady over the lap and whaling away. There is finesse involved. Psychology.’






‘Good judgement.’


‘Aesthetic refinement.’


‘And maybe a soupçon of sadistic intent.’

The final stroke caught me at the top of my thighs and my resolve, along with my knees, buckled beneath it.

‘OK, I’m sorry,’ I panted, doubled over on the carpet. ‘It’s not easy. But please don’t tell me it hurts you more than it hurts me.’

He chuckled softly behind me.

‘No, I wouldn’t go that far. Back up, Kat, bending over the bed, please.’

‘Ohhhh,’ I pouted and put an authentic-sounding sob into my voice.

‘It doesn’t hurt me,’ he said, once my upper body was pressed to the quilted eiderdown while my bottom, tight with the heat of the strapping, faced him at a jaunty angle. ‘But I do have to make sure I maintain the requisite muscular strength. In my right arm in particular.’

I expected a smack just then, but I got something else – cold lubricant in that intimate pucker, and then he was easing one of his bigger-sized plugs into me, and I knew he was going to fuck me next, and I sighed, eyelids lowering in pleasurable anticipation.

But instead – and this was what convinced me that no ordinarily-wired man could do his job – he asked me if I’d ever been paddled with a plug in before.

Oh, the despair; the sweet, dizzying, dismaying, rapturous cruelty of it all.

The fucking came later, but I must make it clear that he rarely fucks the girls he spanks. Only, he tells me, the very naughtiest ones. The ones that really need it. Such as me.

‘Do you ever get…you know…emotionally involved with your…clients?’ I asked him afterwards, staring limply at his digital alarm clock, knowing he would probably have another girl to punish in about an hour.

‘Of course,’ he said seriously, then he reached over to ruffle my hair. ‘With all of them. In a way.’


I showered and dressed and caught the bus home, grateful that there was standing room only, still feeling some of the residual heat my tights held into my thighs and bottom. I wished that the heat could last forever.


I thought it might be fun and illuminating to think about some of the ways in which erotic writing differs from other types – because it does, in many ways, some of them quite surprising.

Today we have naming of parts.

Of course, all writers have to think deeply about their word choices, I’m not suggesting otherwise. But for erotic writers, this can become an incredibly vexed question. There are readers who will click away from the story the moment the word ‘cunt’ shows up. There are others who will roll their eyes at anything but the bluntest descriptors.

Most readers fall between these two stools (but let’s not get into scat – definitely not my niche). Even so, everybody has their cringe-list; those words and descriptions that will take them out of the breathless moment and into mild nausea.

I have quite a few of my own, but my number one bugbear is ‘cum’ – spelled like that, rather than ‘come’, which is fine. I know that makes no sense, but I hate it. There’s something about it that reminds me of the panicky, unsettling feeling when I found sticky pages from highly-coloured porn mags in the local woods as a child of about 9. It makes me anxious.

My weird aversion illustrates something all erotic writers must struggle with – the readership’s own irrational hatred of certain words and phrases. Of course, you can’t possibly take everyone’s tastes on board. You’d never get a word written at all. But I keep an eye on these kinds of conversations, and if one word persistently crops up as being found repellent by many, I’ll avoid it. ‘Moist’ is one – many people find it sickening, which is a shame, as it’s a very serviceable word in erotic description, but I don’t want people heaving over my characters’ shenanigans, so I have – with some regret – crossed it off my ‘to use’ list. Another is ‘gusset’. Oh, how many times have I been tempted to write about a woman’s ‘moist gusset’. But you’ll only read it here – never in one of my stories. Alas!

What words do you avoid? I’d love to hear everyone’s squick list.

Next time – euphemisms!

In April 2010 one of my favourite anthologies, including one of my favourite self-penned stories, came out. Sex in the City: London was the first in a series of city-themed collections edited by Maxim Jakubowski and featuring stories from a wide variety of authors.

I think what I still love about my story Thames Link is how unapologetic and no-holds-barred it is. There is no softening around the edges here, and the ‘hero’ doesn’t fit the romantic mould. And why the hell should he? I find him all the hotter for his slightly sinister aspect.

I always love London as a setting too – the pace, the heat, the crowds, the infinite diversity seem made for erotica. I’d love to have seen more London books in this series – perhaps there will be one day.

The book is out of print now, but still available secondhand from Amazon. It contains stories by Matt Thorne, Francis Ann Kerr, Valerie Grey, NJ Streitberger, Kristina Lloyd, Lily Harlem, Maxim Jakubowski, Elizabeth Coldwell, Clarice Clique, Carrie Williams and Kevin Mullins & Marcelle Perks.

Here’s how it opens:

I sing the praise of the sleazy man.

The man with the shifty eyes, the man with the floppy fringe, the man with the sensual lips, the man who drinks a little too much red wine and eats a little too much cake.  You might see him on the train; his eyes follow you over the top of his paper and you try not to recross your legs too often.  He might be standing at the bar so you have to feign enormous levels of animation with your companions.  Perhaps he works with you and there is a rota in place among your colleagues so nobody has to go into the photocopier cupboard at the same time as him.

He’s a creep, he’s a sleaze, he’s a perve.  He’s my kind of guy.

I know, I sound insane.  Who on earth likes men like this?  I suppose it’s his honesty that appeals to me.  No ‘I really like you as a person’.  No discussion of mutually admired bands and comedians.  No number swaps or long waits for the phone to beep.  Better than the man who moves in with you before revealing his wardrobe of skintight latex.  Better than the man that waits until you have his ring on your finger before asking you if you fancy a pint down the swingers’ club.  This is a man who wears his cock on his sleeve, and quite rightly so.

He’ll speak fluent innuendo.  He’ll sit too close to you on the bus.  He’ll walk behind you in the park, watching the sway of your backside.  In the ultraviolet light of the disco, he’ll try to get a hand up your skirt.

No, he isn’t a rapist, it’s not about power.  It is about sex.  He wants it.  Not you.  It.

And there’s something about that I find refreshing.

I have a sleazy man of my own, tucked away in my address book for days when I don’t feel pristine or perfumed.  On days – and they come all too often now – when I feel rumpled and seedy, when my tights are clinging damply to the crack of my arse and my skin is grimy with the London summer, I call him.

I’m going to call him now, actually.

‘Morning, foxy.  What can I do for you today?’

‘When are you free?’

‘Hmm…it’s looking like a late one.  Could take a two hour lunch break, though.’

‘Lunch sounds perfect.  Midday?’

‘Blackfriars tube.  Wear the green dress.  Hold ups.  No knickers.  Got that?’

‘No knickers,’ I repeat, my clit puffing up, my silky scanties already wet.  Who cares?  I will have to take them off before I leave.

‘Don’t forget your perfume, Jane,’ he says softly before hanging up.

How could I forget that?  The application of scent is the precious first step in the ritual, setting the tone for all that is to follow.

These are his rules:  I must draw back the bedroom curtains and open the window, so that the block across the green is visible to me, and I to it.  I must strip naked and lie down on my unmade bed.  I must take my vibrator and masturbate to orgasm, plunging it deep inside, juicing it up until it gleams.  While I am doing this, I must think of some of the filthy, slutty things I have done for him in the past – easy enough, for there are plenty to choose from.  Once I am red-faced and spent, I must take the vibrator and rub it across my pulse points, making sure I am generously anointed before smearing any remainder on to my nipples, breasts, belly, thighs.  I must dip the vibrator back in and repeat the process until there is nothing left to apply.  Only when my skin is stiff and heavy with the smell of my sex am I allowed to dress.

Today, a sheer white peephole bra, some nude laced-topped hold-ups and the green dress.  The dress I was wearing when we met – though that sounds grandiose, as if we have a story or a future.  The day we picked each other up, perhaps.

The dress is made of very light cotton in eau-de-nil.  It buttons all the way up and has a short, flippy skirt whose hem is only just beneath the lacy bit of my hold-up.  The merest breath of breeze is enough to give my thighs a tickle, and on some of the windier tube platforms I have to clamp it down with my palms flat on my legs, shuffling bent double like an ancient babushka.

Then it is time to slap industrial quantities of gloss on my lips and mascara on my lashes before slipping into strappy sandals and running for my train.

Once again, it is a hot day, humid and dirty, the way it was the first time we met.  The station platform is crowded – several previous trains have been delayed – so I know I will stand no chance of being able to hide my sex-drenched self in a corner seat away from the masses.  I will have to force it on my carriage-mates, mingling it in with their smells of onions and cigarettes and engine oil and boiled aftershave, all with a sweaty topnote.

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