The House of Elyot

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My old Xcite titles are reappearing at Amazon, one by one. This time I’ve given Meeting Her Match an e-makeover and a luscious new cover. I love this one a lot.

Meeting Her Match - High Resolution

Meeting Her Match was originally published in the autumn of 2010. It sold pretty well, and then very well for a few months in the slipstream of Fifty Shades. The adventures of Cherry as a rookie submissive, trying to find her niche in the scene, were tremendous fun to write. Additionally, as this was my first full-length commissioned novel, I enjoyed staying with one character in a linear narrative from beginning to end.

Not that I always knew what I was doing. Three quarters of the way through the book, I was seriously tempted to change my original ending and have Cherry end up with someone else – a minor character who came to life during the scenes I wrote for him, and beguiled me something chronic. But I’d given the outline to the publisher already, so felt things were set in stone. Although they probably weren’t.


Anyway, I still like it for what it is – a romp and an exploration of what it might mean to be a submissive woman in the modern age. I’d hesitate to call it a romance, but there are elements of it all the way along. If you decide to give it a whirl, I hope it’s worth your while. Here’s a link for anyone interested:

Last year the rights to my second full-length book, The Business of Pleasure, reverted to me from Xcite Books. Ever since then, it has only been available in paperback format (I even saw it in Foyles on Charing Cross Road a few weeks ago, which was an epic moment, since Foyles was my place of annual pilgrimage as a youth).

However, it is now re-available as an e-book from Amazon, with snazzy new cover to boot.


If you haven’t read it before, it’s a high-octane ride veering from one baroque fantasy to another, each story linked by the narrative thread of Charlotte’s experiences with her two bosses and their very unusual business venture. It’s probably my bestselling book – at least, it always seems to be at the top of the Amazon rankings – so it must be doing something right. If you fancy giving it a go, here it is.

2017 is here. My tax return is due, but I know before looking at the figures that I won’t have earned enough to be liable.

I had five good years (2009-2013) in erotica, but the last few have been thin indeed, and getting thinner. I flipped through Amazon’s top erotic titles yesterday, and very little appealed. The same half-dozen writers showed up over and over. The publishing houses that used to do such good work have closed or stopped accepting submissions. And the self-publishing market is overwhelmed with content, all fighting for limited reader attention.

It all combines to make a dispiriting, demotivating brew.

But I want to keep writing! I love it; it gives me life. Yet writing into the black hole of Amazon Kindle Direct has done nothing for my mental health. I need to know I’m making readers happy with what I write. I think I also need a commission of some kind – I’m much more prolific when I have a deadline/definite goal.

With that in mind, I’m throwing open the floor to you dear readers. What would you like me to write? Prompt me – feed me with scenarios.

Here’s a quick guide to my strengths, if you want to play to them.

I’m at my most comfortable and natural writing M/f kinky stuff. Happy to branch into F/F, M/F/M or M/M/F or more!

Genres I like are contemporary fiction, historical (particularly love this), fantasy, mildly speculative (not too heavy on the science, eek), gothic but not overly paranormal (think I just invented that genre).

Settings I’m confident with are mainly European (would love to venture out into Asia at some point, but I get bogged down in research if I go much further). Cities, palaces, villages, seaside hideaways or what you will.

Anyway, those are just for an idea. Hit me with your deepest desires and I’ll see what sticks.

(I figure this way, at least I get one reader.)

Image result for hit me


Hello, I’m Justine and I’m your elf for the day. I hope you’re enjoying the season – and if you like a little bit of kink along with your eggnog, I’m your woman!

What does a kinky Christmas look like? Well, I imagine it’s as varied as the enormous range of fetishes and dynamics that exist in the world.

I haven’t had the most productive year (call it the curse of 2016) but I did publish a little anthology of short stories called Six of the Best.

One of them, Belonging, centres on an unusual dynamic that I find really interesting – a married couple with their very own live-in female submissive. Here’s my attempt to imagine their Christmas morning…


My alarm wakes me at seven.

I am on an inflatable mattress at the foot of Paul and Danni’s bed. They were out late for Christmas Eve, at a drinks party with some friends of theirs, and I took the opportunity to have a quiet night in, wrapping parcels in front of Carols From Kings. By the time they came in, I was asleep, and they didn’t disturb me.

I take my phone out from under my pillow and kill the vibrations. Sitting up, I can just about make out their shapes under the duvet. It’s pitch black and freezing cold, but I have no alternative but to take my naked self to the bathroom and start my morning routine. (It’s a house rule that I am only allowed to wear clothes in the house with their permission. On a normal day it’s given without a second thought – but today will not be a normal day.)

Once I am shower fresh, I head downstairs and put on the fairy lights. In their dim shimmering glow, I take a big bow-topped box from under the tree and open it, examining my secret stash.

The silence and darkness is both eerie and exciting. Peeking through the curtains, I can see only one set of house lights on in the street – belonging to a household with small children. I smile, remembering Christmases past, when I tried to stay awake all night to catch Santa.

Now I’m the one that wants to be caught.

In my box, I have a hairband with jingle-bell antlers. I set it on my head, keeping my movements to an economic minimum. I am goose-pimpling all over, my nipples stiff and my toes like ice. Luckily enough, I have a pair of woolly reindeer-printed socks to put on. I suspect they’ll count as clothes, which will earn me a punishment, but a spanking beats gangrene any day, so I defy the rule.

Next I draw from the box a beautiful leather harness. This is my real Christmas present to Paul and Danni. I know they’ll get so much usage and enjoyment from it, dressing me up and putting me through my paces. It’s gorgeously soft and pliable leather – cost a fortune, but I know it’s worth it as I strap myself in, attaching clips to D-rings and pulling taut until my breasts stand out and proud, securely contained along with the rest of my torso. I put a pair of red glittery nipple tassels in the shape of present bows on those distractingly stiff peaks, take a look at myself in the mirror and laugh with pleasure at the thought of their faces when they see me.

Now for the difficult bit.

I take the bottle of lube and the ponytail butt plug and eye them up fearfully for a while, gnawing at my lip. I’ve never tried self-insertion, and I’m worried I won’t be able to go through with it.

Besides, a reindeer butt plug doesn’t seem to exist, so the ponytail seems a bit wrong. Reindeer don’t have tails like that, do they? In fact, I’m not even sure what a real reindeer looks like.

“Artistic license,” I whisper to myself, opening the lube and spreading a thick layer over the business end of the plug.

I use a combination of pushing in and squatting back to get the thing in. I do it quickly, in one tear-inducing move, so as not to wimp out. Paul or Danni will always go for the gradual insertion, to get maximum squirming and pleading from me. My own technique is shocking, but mercifully swift.

But it makes me cry out.

I raise my eyes to the ceiling. Did they hear me?

There’s a chance they did, so I arrange myself swiftly. Now I’m fully plugged, all I have to do is take out the riding crop and hold it between my teeth. I crawl forwards, into the embrace of the fluffy white rug, in the welcome glow of the fire, and get myself into position: a begging stance, on my knees with my back straight and my hands out like paws. Begging to have the crop used on me.

I know that the alarm I set on my iPad and left on their nightstand will wake them soon, even if my amateur self-plugging hasn’t done so already. I wonder if they will be annoyed at being woken early; if they will be hungover and grumpy and all this will fall flat.

My nerves tighten as I hear the distant thunder of a footstep overhead. Gushing from the water pipes, the muffled high note of Danni’s laugh.

My teeth clench so tight against the crop I worry about damaging the shaft.

My vision is a multi-coloured fairy-lit blur by the time I hear the first foot on the stair. I shake my head, sharpen my senses, make the room return into focus.

Danni enters the room alone, in her short silk wrap and nothing else.

My heart swells to see the enchanted look in her eyes.

“Well, well, well,” she says in a low, laughing voice. “Paul!”

“Just a moment.” From the echoey tone, he is in the bathroom.

“Come and see what Santa’s left us.”

He is down in seconds, still holding his toothbrush, usually immaculate hair falling in an unkempt sweep over his brow.

“Ohhhh yes,” he sighs, taking me in from head to knees. “Santa knows what we like.”

He comes to crouch in front of me, reaching out to stroke my cheek, as far as he can with the obstruction of the riding crop crossing it. He removes the whip from my mouth and proffers it at Danni, who takes it from him.

She slaps it into her palm, watching Paul kiss me thoroughly. His newly-minted toothpaste breath makes me tingle, even as his tongue slips into my mouth.

“Well, then,” he says, standing up again and motioning me on to all fours. “That lily-white bottom isn’t the proper festive colour, is it? We need a good Santa hat red, don’t we? Danni?”

He puts one foot between my shoulder blades, holding me down and raising my bum high. Danni walks around to my rear, swishing the crop through the air.

She lays the flat tip against my plug and taps it once, twice, three times.

“Merry Christmas, darling,” she says, as the first stroke swipes home.



Thanks for reading! If you are interested in reading more about Paul, Danni and their pet, you can find their story in my collection Six of the Best, available for Kindle on Amazon:


I wish you all a Merry Christmas – I hope it’s just as kinky as you want it to be ;).


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?’



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