The House of Elyot

Posts Tagged ‘threesome

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.

submitting

Here’s the opening of my story from The AffairThe Interview.

‘If he is late, I won’t even consider him.  I put up with enough blasted lateness in my working life; I refuse to countenance it in my private life as well.’

 

My husband’s irascible remarks are premature; it is still only five minutes to three.  Our candidate might be cutting things a little fine, but there is time enough to park a car and cross the gravel drive to the front door before the deadline.

 

I take my final chance to cast a critical eye over the photographs that came with the application, though perhaps ‘critical’ is not the mot juste.  The man who has beaten the competition to reach this final stage of the selection process is breathtaking to behold.  A shot of his face in half-profile, catching the exact diagonal of his cheekbone, the outline of his rather splendid nose and a flash of devilment in his eyes reveals nothing to disappoint except lips that might be a little fuller.  But then, who wants perfection?  My husband, I suppose, but he is a peculiar animal altogether.

 

The accompanying photographs of his taut upper torso, thumbs hooked into the waistband of his jeans, and the full body shot in black and white, please my less exacting eye.  Isn’t there some theory about the relative proportions of noses and, you know, downstairs equipment.  I can hear my husband’s voice in my head, chiding me for that turn of phrase.  ‘Call a spade a spade, Jacqueline.  And a cock a cock.’

 

That is what all this is about.  Breaking the inhibition barrier that has proven so troublesome to our bedroom life.  Perhaps it’s an unconventional approach, but Ralph Watson-James is an unconventional man.

 

I realised after posting yesterday that I forgot to provide a link to the Amazon page for The Affair, so here it is.

The last of Black Lace’s anthologies – last ever, I think, since ‘new’ Black Lace have not commissioned any more since they returned to the market – was The Affair, released in November 2009.

This was a difficult brief to write for, as the title suggests adultery, which I don’t find particularly sexy – and I imagine the bulk of the readership would have felt the same. But of course, affairs don’t have to be extra-marital and, even if they are, they can occur with the knowledge and consent of both partners.

This was the tack I took in my story, The Interview. A husband vets the potential applicants for his wife’s second lover. The vetting takes a hands-on turn…

Stories by Charlotte Stein, Elizabeth Coldwell, Portia Da Costa, Kyoko Church, Shanna Germain, Primula Bond, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Janine Ashbless, Gwen Masters, Alegra Verde, Izzy French and K D Grace appeared alongside mine. Indeed, I think K D and I were thinking along close parallel lines, because her story is entitled Vetting The Affair.

I still miss being part of that ‘stable’ of really talented and amazing authors and wish I’d had longer to enjoy it. Plus, the book covers were wonderful; I’ve never found a publisher who did them better. Look at this beauty, for instance.

Of course, I’m speaking as a person who hates the oiled, rippling, six-pack school of book covers. I might be in a minority there though.

Here’s the opening of The Number, as promised in my last post. Those who have read The Business of Pleasure will know these characters.

 

‘9.45 a.m. from Colliton South.’  That had been the text message in its entirety.

Anyone scrolling through Charlotte’s inbox would infer that this bald line of digital information had come from a timetabling service or similar; its true provenance was known only to Charlotte herself.  And even she only knew that it had come from The Number.  Identities of the sender or senders could not be revealed.

She screwed in her iPod earplugs and looked again at the message – so perfectly straightforward and yet so unutterably cryptic.  Arrowing down to The Number provoked a shiver of delicious nervousness.  How many people had The Number?  How many people were involved in this game?  And how would it play out?  She did not even know where she would be this time tomorrow.

All the same, she supposed she had better prepare to play, and she took one of her college texts, Social Psychology of the Workplace, from her tote bag.  Within a few minutes, her absorption was such that she huffed under her breath at the click of the compartment door before she remembered what she was actually doing here and looked up.

‘Mind if we join you?’

She looked swiftly away again, the paragraphs swimming under her eyes.  Them!

The men from the station; pinstriped professionals, both in their forties, both carrying large briefcases, one bespectacled, one silvering at the temples.  If this was Fantasy #3, as she presumed it was, they fitted the bill perfectly.  She had spent the twenty minutes by which the train was delayed sizing them up sideways along the platform, and they certainly seemed to be doing the same, but more openly.  If they were simply innocent bystanders, they were not very well-mannered ones.

The train drew in just as Charlotte could have sworn they were talking about what she was wearing, causing her to flush hotly and cross her arms over her chest, hiding the swell of her breasts in the light white silk blouse she wore on that May morning.  Could they see the outline of her white lace bra underneath, she wondered?  Was her mid-thigh plaid skirt too short?  Had one of her nude hold-up stockings fallen to her knee without her knowledge?  It was a relief, and yet also a disappointment, to hoist herself up in the carriage away from their predatory scrutiny.

When, after fifteen minutes, she still found herself alone in the compartment, she had assumed they were not involved; that the players would embark later on.  But it seemed now that she might have been mistaken.

The taller and senior-looking of the two men stood in the doorway, one hand keeping the sliding portal from springing back, staring down his bespectacled nose at her with an expression that owed less to query than coercion.

Charlotte was a courteous, rather shy young woman; a people-pleaser by upbringing, and answering his request in the negative would have been as unthinkable to her as a plain ‘fuck off’.  Besides, there was something effortlessly intimidating about this man, a sense that, for all his outward civility and charm, you would not want to mess with him.  Exactly what she had ordered up.  Surely he must be…

He smiled, entered the compartment, and his companion followed.  He wore a lighter suit, and seemed lighter in almost every other sense, including his manner and the piercing grey-blue of his eyes.  Charlotte expected them to sit at the far end of the compartment, by the door, and she was instantly disconcerted when they slid their briefcases on to the rack directly above her.  The older man – whom she thought of as Alpha Male – sat down by her side, his friend opposite her, smiling ingratiatingly.

Defensively she turned her eyes down to her book and made to switch on her iPod, but before she could drown out the suddenly scary reality of her situation, the man opposite her spoke and she reluctantly halted her fingers in their mission.  It would be rude, she supposed, not to engage in conversation if that was what they wanted, even if they were just simple strangers on a train.

Social Psychology of the Workplace  – now that sounds like a nice bit of recreational reading.’

‘Oh, no, it isn’t for pleasure.  It’s for a course I’m doing.’

‘Shouldn’t you have read that before setting off to college?’  The other man this time, his tone mock-censuring.  Or was it mock?  Perhaps it was real.  ‘I hope you’re up to date with your assignments.’

‘How do you know I’m on the way there?  How do you know I haven’t just left college and I’m so keen I’m doing the assigned reading already?’

The men raised eyebrows at each other.  ‘Feisty,’ noted Alpha Male.

‘Isn’t she?’ responded his colleague.

Charlotte flicked her eyes nervously out of the window towards the sheep and trees rolling past.  If it was nothing to do with the game, this was wrong, somehow.  This was not normal.  But she had the oddest tightness at the base of her belly and her heart was racing.  Were they flirting with her or…what?  Perhaps she should not go through with this.  Perhaps she should leave now – but something held her back.  The same thing that got her into trouble time and again.  She loved a story and she always had to know the ending.

 

Do you have to know the ending? It can be found in the Black Lace anthology Sexy Little Numbers.

My second published story was placed with Black Lace again. They took The Number for an anthology called Sexy Little Numbers, which was optimistically straplined as ‘volume one’ in a series of best women’s erotica. Optimistically, because a month before its publication, Virgin Books announced that Black Lace would be shutting up shop at the end of the year.

I suppose the idea, not so subtly expressed, was to rival Cleis Press’s ‘Best Women’s Erotica’ series, edited by Violet Blue, and in fact a lot of the same writers can be found in each.

The book featured stories by Kristina Lloyd, Charlotte Stein, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Portia Da Costa, EllaRegina, Janine Ashbless, Dianne Dawson, Sadie Wolf, Shayla Kersten, Madelynne Ellis, Carrie Williams, Jamaica Layne, Kay Jaybee, Kristina Wright, K D Grace, Heather Towne, Shada Royce and Delilah Devlin.

Many of those named above showed great kindness and support, both to me and to my friend Charlotte Stein – as Black Lace’s most recent acquisitions, we were cast into severe despondency by  the news of its closure. There was many a frantic late night messaging conference with several of the lovely Black Lacies, and their generosity and tales of hard-won experience gave us heart and the will to carry on.

The Number itself started life with the working title Strangers on a Train, reflecting my fascination with the idea of sexy goings-on on public transport (my most recently written story is another on this theme, so I clearly can’t let it go). It introduced the three characters at the heart of my second full-length book, The Business of Pleasure, too. Collins, Bryant and Charlotte have a very interesting tryst on the 9.45 from Colliton South to Waterloo.

I’ll post an excerpt from the story in my next update, but in the meantime, Sexy Little Numbers is a cracking hot read, and still available from Amazon.


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