Room 37

Erotic FIction, Erotica, Horror-Porn, Kink, Writing

Room 37. According to the online blogosphere, this was the room where the magic happened. She would have preferred it if the magic happened in the bar and she could’ve set up camp there for the next 12 hours, but who was she to tell visitors from the afterlife where to get their kicks.

She looked around The Grand Duke’s early 90’s, dated attempt at decadence; the garish patterned wallpaper, the off-white, overly washed bed sheets and sun-bleached curtains. Just once it would be nice if a five star hotel and spa resort decided to have a haunting.

The somewhat on-edge concierge had refused to step into the room, choosing to stand at the doorway and pass her her bags pretty swiftly. It wasn’t unusual in her line of work. The staff were always the worst and if the hotel management thought she was stupid enough to think they didn’t instruct all employees to play along and big up the hype, then so be it. Occasionally it even made her stays more interesting.

The Grand Duke was a little different though, she had to admit. So far, not one person had tried to regale her with stories of phantom noises and moving furniture, or that one time, Hilda, the 82 year old cleaner, had felt a ‘presence’. They definitely all knew why she was there, the side glances and slightly longer than necessary eye contact from the few employees she had come across so far made it clear that they were well aware of what she was doing.

Her job was always the same; arrive, set up, spend the night, record everything, occasionally interview staff for interesting stories, and, if the hotel or venue was willing to spring for the fee, take part in a séance with a local medium of at least some credibility. If the night was at all interesting, a few others would return and film the dialogue and presenting the following evening, the events and results were edited together in a bid to make it a ratings winner, which it rarely was, and the whole thing was then aired on a freeview tv chanel that had a lower viewership than the CCTV cameras in her local newsagent.

The rule was always never to speak to the guests. Most hotels didn’t want to scare away customers, but even when they were using their small-time notoriety to increase business, her boss didn’t want members of the public interfering with the ‘process’.

She began her ritual, pacing the room in order to find the ‘sweet spot’, every hotel room had one.

The corner by the dresser. Perfect.

She got straight to work setting up various pieces of recording equipment; some for sound, some for images. One with night vision, one without. She loved this part. She often fantasised that she was setting up for some tasteless, low rent, porn film, and she often thought she’d probably make more money if she did. She pictured various well-endowed men taking her roughly from behind on the bed on which she now centred the focus of one of the cameras. Just the thought made her creative (among other) juices start to flow. She squeezed her thighs together in bid to brush off the low burning sensation that immediately awakened between her legs.

Focus, Elizabeth!

She checked and double checked the equipment; not that it mattered, she rarely caught anything on camera that was going to provide her with her big break.

Sighing and contemplating for about the five hundredth time whether or not this would be her last gig, she picked up her bag and left the room to explore the rest of the hotel.

There was nothing exciting about this hotel. Every room and corridor was as clichéd as the next, and the smell of slightly damp bed linen clung to the walls as she made her way around, getting a feel for the building and trying to find anything her boss might be able to use as what he called a ‘hook’. She gave up pretty quickly and decided to have an early (and decidedly sub-par) dinner in the hotel restaurant before returning to her room to shower and go to bed.

The internet was the program’s main source of income, from its website and webisodes (for those that didn’t make the tv cut), and the forums that had countless people suggesting venue after venue. She checked them regularly, returning this evening to the forum post that had lead her here in the first place. Strange noises in the corridor…blah blah…staff don’t even like to work there…blah blah….building has a violent history….blah blah….Room 37….

…..

She wasn’t sure of the time. She wasn’t even sure if she was awake, but the definite brush of something against her leg made her shift under the covers and stir slightly. When it happened again she barely even noticed. The tiniest sound of contentment escaped her as the brush became a tender stroke that started slowly along the back of her calf. As it reached her thigh it became just slightly firmer, gliding smoothly upwards. She sighed a little, drifting in and out of the deepest sleep, enjoying the dreamlike sensation, and moved her leg aside to allow her imaginary admirer easier access to her.

The most delicate touch crept between her legs and lightly stroked her already silken wetness. She shifted again, her subconscious state enjoying this little episode. Fingertips traced the smooth line of her stomach, circling towards her ribs and barely sweeping her breast, arousing a tender nipple in their path, over her shoulder, gently down her arm, before curling firmly around her wrist. She half-heartedly attempted to release the grip, but her slumbering state left it a futile assignment, and this dream was just beginning to get interesting.

…….continued in Taboo, available now on Amazon Kindle!

My Deviance…

Writing

I’ve always been a little deviant when it comes to relationships and attraction. And I don’t just mean in the sense that every girl loves a ‘bad boy’; I am only too familiar with that particular cliche, and while it’s essentially true for most of us throughout our youth, many of us grow out of it and eventually realise that what we really want is for the ‘bad boy’ to become a ‘good guy’, which ultimately means we’re looking to change someone to suit our needs, and that never works.

No…what I mean is, I’ve always been surprised by the social norms and laws of attraction. I never fell in love with Prince Charming when I watched Disney films. He was too wishy washy and squeaky clean for my liking. In fact, I can’t even say that I have ever been particularly fond of Disney films…(don’t shoot me!)

One of my earliest memories as a child (and when I became aware of boys) was watching the Labyrinth and being utterly disgusted by the ending. I genuinely didn’t understand, at the tender age of about seven, when I saw it, why Sarah didn’t want to stay and be the Goblin Queen. David Bowie wasn’t a villain, as such. I would have totally stayed…

My other odd fascination and deviant liking was for Hannibal Lectar…Yes, I realise how truly odd that is, but I can’t help it (and I’m aware that he was ACTUALLY a villain). My earliest sapiosexual experience was watching Silence of the Lambs for the first time and being so utterly captivated by this stunningly intelligent man, whose fixation on Clarice was obsessive, that I watched the film every day for about 3 months straight, and read all the books. This then lead to an Anthony Hopkins obsession, but I digress…

Intelligent, authoritative men are my weakness. Unfortunately, throughout cinema’s history, they are typically painted as the ‘bad guy’, and these qualities portrayed as ego and arrogance, with only a few exceptions to the rule. This not only misleads us deviants into wrongly assuming we love a ‘bad boy’, but also does an injustice to the wonderful, intelligent, authoritative men who do exist and who are gentlemen. The Alpha Male is notoriously ‘one to stay away from’. I call bullshit!

So, there really is no point to this inane rambling, just that I appreciate those men that ARE the ACTUAL definition of Alpha Male, and until Hollywood catches up with the rest of us, I will continue my deviant assault on cinema’s bad guys.

Oh, and going back to Disney films…I did kind of fancy Flynn Ryder…

A Poem About Submission

BDSM, Erotic Poetry, Erotica, Kink, Poems

Take me to that place
Where my mind is not my own
Where the colours are more vivid
And the music has more tone
Where my senses all evaporate
And all that’s left behind
Are the pictures that you choose to paint
On the walls inside my mind

Let me drift on placid waters
Let me hang on crescent moons
Let me wander in it endlessly
Don’t let it end too soon

Take me to that place
Where I do not need to think
Write your stories on my body
Let your touch become the ink
Take me far away from here
Let the world outside us cease
Let me take your pain and give you tears
Our bitter sweet release

He Touched Me

Erotic Poetry, Poems, Poetry

He touched me
Nowhere significant
His hand on top of mine
A simple gesture of attentiveness, a sign that he was listening.

He touched me
Nowhere significant
His arm around my shoulder
A subtle sign that he would protect me, that I was safe with him

He touched me
Nowhere significant
A hand on the small of my back
An esoteric mark of ownership, a reminder that he would guide me

He touched me
Nowhere significant
A hand brushing the side of my cheek
A symbol of his affection, a gesture of his adoration

So when he touched me
And it was significant
I already knew

Mine

BDSM, Erotic FIction, Erotica, Writing

The sky is beautiful from up here. Sentimental shades of pink and gold streak across the fading blue and she knows she’s only a few minutes from darkness. Soon the sky will go black, the stars will glitter in their thousands and half the city beneath her will go to sleep while the other half begins to wake; the nocturnal half. The ones that inspire and create, that dance and sing, the ones for whom the daylight holds no interest. The city is always more exciting at night.

She stands here, with the sliding glass doors of the balcony wide open, the cool breeze of the evening air brushing against her skin. She doesn’t care that she’s completely naked; some four stories up she’s quite out of sight, and for the creatures of the night that stir below, she is the least interesting thing they will see this evening. For those few that do notice the svelte, bare skinned figure at the door of the balcony, well, they’re in for a show aren’t they?

He should be here by now. He said 7pm. It’s now 8pm and the sky has turned a magnificent midnight blue colour. Any earlier excitement she was feeling in anticipation of this evening is now turning into annoyance, but she has resisted the urge to text or call, he knows where she was. He knows she is waiting. He is doing it on purpose.

By 8.15pm, the click of the hotel room door opening did nothing to startle her composure. She stands still on that very spot and listens to the sound of footsteps across luxurious carpet, a jacket being removed and laid carefully on the bed, his breath in her ear as he joined her where she stood.

“You’re late.” She doesn’t move.

“I know.” He doesn’t care.

“You’ve been drinking,” she says, smelling the indisputable but subtle aroma of alcohol as he plants gentle kisses from beneath her ear, down her neck, and across her shoulder.

“I’ve had a couple.”

As his lips find their way back to that spot behind her ear that sends charges of electricity throughout her entire body, she tries to maintain her irritation at his lateness, but the almost imperceptible tilt of her head and not so well hidden hitch in her breathing is enough to give her away.

His hands find her waist, sliding slowly down to the curves of her hips. Strong hands on soft skin; her body is already beginning to betray her and her annoyance is fading by the second.

“Close the door,” he says gently, allowing the back of his left hand to move upwards along her spine, reaching under her hair to the nape of her neck.

“Where were you?” She asks, closing her eyes tightly, trying to focus on anything but his touch.

His hand immediately closes around a clump of her hair and he yanks hard, repeating himself with more conviction.

“Close the door.”

She resists the temptation to exhale audibly and instead bites her lip and follows his command, sliding the glass door closed slowly as the sound of laughter, chatter, and bustle on the street below gradually fades to silence with the click of the lock.

Somehow the quietness of the room seems so much louder than the noises she has just shut out. A deafening stillness that is heavy with anticipation. His hands continue their journey over her body, tracing lines he knows so well like he’s discovering them for the first time; gently, carefully.

“Hands on the glass.”

….To be continued…in my new Amazon Kindle title, Taboo!

Sweet Agony

BDSM, Erotic Poetry, Poems, Poetry

When you play with the line between pleasure and pain
The torture and ecstasy, again and again
My spirit is willing, my soul’s for the taking
My mind’s not my own, my body is shaking
Like ripples on water, you tease at your will
Make me rise like the tide as you take your fill
Complete me, consume me, then leave me to crave
Unnerving desire; your good little slave

The slap and the bite, the sting and the ache
The burning, the quenching; what music you make
With your touch, and your taste, and your words in my ear
Leave me wanting, and wanton, and euphoric with fear
In the juxtaposition, in the light and the dark
On my mind and my body, leave no question, leave your mark
The crescendo you weave is engraved on my soul
Take my all, take my everything, take me once, take me whole

Why I Write…

Poetry, Writing

Writing is a compulsion for me. Since I was old enough to pick up a pen, I have wanted to write words. They fascinate me; how emotive they can be. The idea that a collection of words, placed in the right order, can weave images in the mind of another person, can create memories for the reader that may not ever have otherwise existed, and how sentences, phrases, whole paragraphs, or entire books, can stay with us throughout our entire lives…that’s magic.

When I was younger I wrote a lot of poetry. An over active imagination combined with my ‘teenage-angst period’ inspired some pretty dark musings about life and love; as a result of my woefulness I read a lot of Sylvia Platt, and her ‘Epitaph for Fire and Flame’ was engraved on my mind for many years. I felt like I knew ‘real’ pain and understood her heartbreak like no other. Obviously, I later learned that I had no idea what I was talking about and that ‘pain’ I felt was the cocktail of pre-pubescent hormones that were flooding my system at the time and screwing with my emotional balance. But still, writing gave me an outlet for how I was feeling back then and while some of my stuff was published, other bits were just for me; tiny fragments of my soul, immortalised in words, helping me to chip away at whatever needed chipping away at in a bid to discover who I was.

Who am I?

I’m a writer. That’s what I have learned. Of course, I am so many other things as well, but that is the only thing that has stayed with me throughout my entire life, from the first time I ever got given a ‘lined’ piece of paper and wrote a story that began with the phrase, “Once upon a time…”.

I was five.

And I couldn’t stop.

I tried to stop. I figured that, of my two biggest loves in life (writing and singing), I was only slightly above average at best, and both worlds are competitive. I could never be ‘the best’ at either, and since I’m such an unforgiving perfectionist, I wasn’t satisfied with being ‘average’, so I tried to stop. I gave up both and went about doing things I was good at, but that I didn’t love nearly as much. The whole time I wasn’t writing the strangest thing happened to me; I became depressed. I thought in stories, paragraphs, sentences, and phrases, and I didn’t let them out. My mind became a whirling mess of all the things I wanted to say, but had no outlet for, and along with other life events that inevitably happen along the way, I found myself in that darkest of dark black holes. I found ‘actual’ pain. And still, I didn’t write.

I’m a trooper. I won’t let this black cloud ruin me. Squash it down. Push it away.

Of course, that doesn’t work. If there’s no outlet, you just create an overflow, and that creates an avalanche, and that causes people to break.

So, I broke; at what should have been one of the happiest times in my life.

I’m a strong believer in fate, and at this most crucial point, a dear friend of mine offered me an opportunity to work with her, on a magazine she owned, no less.

I still loved words, but I wasn’t a ‘writer’, at least not in my own mind, so I started editing. Taking clumsily written pieces about things of no importance to me and making them interesting. Satisfying a desire to see words as they should be.

She encouraged me to write for her and another strange thing happened; people liked my writing.

Long story short, after a while, I took a leap of faith and gave up my ‘office’ job to be a Freelance Writer. It’s still a competitive industry, but the digital explosion and exponential growth of the internet has afforded me the opportunity to earn a living writing web content and become an expert on subjects that I never thought in my wildest dreams I would know squat about. Namely, I get paid to write about nutrition and fitness, dieting and weight-loss, testosterone boosting and penis enlargement (true story), herbal supplementing and clean eating. The rest of the time, I write whatever comes into my head; stories, poems, articles…about life, and love, and sex.

I do something I love. I no longer suffer from depression. I get the chance to write for myself, to write for other people, to have my writing read…and once again, I. CANNOT. STOP.

The words, phrases, sentences, and paragraphs still whirl around my head, but now I let them out. Sometimes they lead somewhere, and I create something worthwhile, sometimes they are beginnings, middles, or ends, to things that I haven’t yet figured out; but I put them down, I file them away, and maybe one day I’ll uncover the rest of each particular piece.

My ambition in life is not to earn my fortune writing (although it would be nice), it’s not to write the next best seller (again, that would be awesome!), but it is to write something that stays in someone’s mind. A beautiful collection of words, masquerading as a sentence, that speak an honest to goodness truth to someone’s soul and has them remembering the words, in that specific order, in that particular manner, immortalised as something that is emotive or meaningful to them, for whatever reason.

Because the fact that a few otherwise non-consequential words, written in the right order and read at the right moment, can evoke powerful reactions that can last a life time, that, for me, is magic. That’s what real magic looks like.

That’s why I’m a writer.

An excerpt from At His Beck and Call

Erotic FIction, Erotica

Ok, so here is an excerpt from the first book in the Masters Series, At His Beck and Call (a teaser is available on Kindle right now!) The first time Anna and Nathan have sex. 

A little back story…After some, quite hands on, flirting in the office a few days earlier, Anna has been hiding from her boss, pretending to be at home with a migraine…Nathan has turned up, unannounced, at her home.

“Do all your employees get a personal visit when they are feeling a little under the weather?” For some reason she felt mildly cocky, knowing full well he could almost see her knickers and feeling she had the upper hand for a moment because he was in her home.

“No,” he said simply. “So, why weren’t you in today?”

“I had a migraine,” she said, noting the clipped-ness of his manner and mirroring it herself.

“Uhuh,” he nodded slowly. “I’m surprised you didn’t have one yesterday, you had a heavy weekend.”

He knew. He knew exactly why she hadn’t been in the office. But he wanted to hear it from her.

Well, she certainly wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of hearing her say he was the reason she had pulled a sicky.

“Heavy? Not really,” she attempted in her best ‘I have no idea what you might be referring to’ tone.

He said nothing, he just stared, searching her eyes for something that might give away whatever it was he was looking for.

“Was there anything else, Nathan?” She had him on the back foot and she knew it. His eyes darted to her incredibly short shirt and knickers combo and Anna’s stomach flipped wildly at such a subtle gesture.

“So, you’re not sick anymore?” He said in his low, ultra sexy tone. His eyes remained on the line of her shirt as he took a slow step forward.

“Nope,” she managed, a little edged by his movement, it felt once again, predatory.

“No migraine? No headache?” He stepped forward again. Now only a foot or so away from where she stood in her living room. She had the overwhelming sensation to step back from his advance, and yet she could not move.

“No,” she said quietly as he stepped forward again, now only inches from her; so close that she could smell his heavenly scent, making the hairs on her body stand and bristle.

He stepped forward once more, forcing her to take a step back and find herself against the cold wall. He was practically on top of her, she could almost taste his skin and the feel the material of his tshirt brush gently against the protruding hardness of her nipples.

His mouth moved to hers, taking her lips with a forceful kiss that almost had her knees giving way beneath her. His tongue invaded her mouth almost violently and within seconds his hand slid along the inside of her thigh, slipping beneath her shirt to the line of her thong. His fingers lingered on the delicate fabric, brushing her clit for only a second but sending shock waves of pleasure ripping through her already sensitive body.

He pushed slightly at her thigh and she willingly parted her legs enough for him to touch her more easily. As his fingers slipped easily into her already slick, wet folds; his kiss stopped briefly, open mouthed and waiting; savouring that sweet moment.

Anna gasped at his touch, at the feel of his fingers expertly toying with her from the inside. She had thought about those hands so many times before and wondered just how perfectly they would pleasure her, she was not disappointed.

Already the waves of her own climax were beginning to wake from deep within her. Stirring and pouring to the surface like a long awaited tidal wave. And then his hands were gone, moving swiftly to the buttons of her shirt and slipping the garment easily off her shoulders. He paused for a second and allowed his eyes to wonder over her nearly naked body.

Under normal circumstances, Anna would have felt incredibly vulnerable at that moment, being assessed so openly by critical eyes, but she didn’t. She felt admired, adored. Something in the way he looked at every curve and every line, took in every inch of her and appreciated it like a fine work of art. She had never felt so beautiful before in her entire life.

She barely noticed as he undone his own trousers and positioned himself, grasping his throbbing manhood with one hand while his other slid around to grab her backside and lift her leg so it wrapped perfectly around his torso.

And then it happened. As his huge, beautifully solid cock slid deep within her she felt every inch of him take over her body and mind. He filled her so perfectly it was like they were built for each other; as if their bodies were molded to fit together. She had never felt so consumed before, so utterly taken by a man that she was willing to give herself to him completely.

He moved slowly at first, savouring every second as she arched her back and gasped at every movement of his within her.

Their bodies rocked together in perfect synchronicity, driving himself into her over and over, deeper every time, and yet every thrust not deep enough to quell either of their desire. She never wanted it to end, the smooth glide of his thick cock inside her was euphoric. His hands grabbed her hips as he pulled her onto him, his head arched down towards her peaked nipple as he sucked gently, rhythmically with his own movements. She gripped his shirt at the waist, tugging at the fabric as she tried to pull him closer, deeper, harder.

The stirring awoke within her again, much faster and harder than before, from deep inside she felt her own body rising to its crescendo. With every thrust it grew stronger, heavier; she felt his body react to hers, his cock thickening, his breathing harsher. She knew he was close. She needed to feel him find his release, knowing it would be enough to push her over the edge.

Their movements became frantic, she pulled him in tighter, her leg gripping his waist desperately. A few more seconds was all she needed before her body exploded around him, and with it, he came hard and hungrily, guttural groans escaping his mouth, fingers digging into her hips, shuddering and shaking while she collapsed into him, just barely managing to stay on her feet.

They stood in silence for what seemed like an eternity, catching their breath and letting the final ebbs of their mutual ecstasy dissipate, bringing them gradually back to reality and the realisation of what had just happened.

TBC