I Have Moved!

Hi there.

If you’re wondering why this blog wasn’t there and now is here again… well, it’s a long story. But I am proud to announce that it did lead to me getting self hosted.

So, this entire blog has moved house to Lady Laid Bare Dot Com.

Come and find me there, for more of this lark. I’m leaving this up as a sticky post for the time being, just so you can all find your way to my new corner of the web.

The Catharsis and the Catalyst

I spent most of last week in a continued state of fretting. Which is not as lovely as a continued state of frotting, but anyway. My worries were about 95% related to the story I was trying to get finished. It was a story I’d started writing about a month ago, in reply to a call for submissions which I eventually didn’t submit it for because I got carried away with having more words than was allowed.

So when a suitable call did come along, I decided to finish this story. Which all went fine and dandy up until the point where I actually had to write the sex.

And when you’re an erotica writer who falters at the sex bit, that’s probably not a good thing.

The faltering ticked over to Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday. It went on for Glob knows how long, because I’m a bint and I couldn’t bring myself to just sit down and WRITE THE GODDAMN THING.

Eventually, I decided it had gone on for too long. I sat down, with research material (*sexy books) at hand and got down to the crunch of it.

I knew I was on to a good scene when I felt arousal stir in the pit of my belly. It took me by surprise, because I generally don’t write to arouse myself. But this scene… I think it was something beyond just normal arousal. It struck a chord in my heart and loins because I actually felt the relief that came for the characters. The utter joy of finally being together.

It might sound sappy, but it was true.

And it was also true that, in a moment of curiosity, I let my hand slip down the waistband of my trousers and touched myself to see just how much it was affecting me.

I was dripping wet.

I lay back on the bed, fully clothed, but with my trousers and pants pulled down and frigged myself. After a pretty shitty week, it was rather effective as catharsis. It was quick, it was immensely satisfying and I was back to pottering out the scene not too long afterwards.

One thing it wasn’t was the end of my sexual catharsis. It was the catalyst for a night of slow lovemaking and gentle touches that made me feel like a million pounds worth of human.

And I finished the story the day after, so double bonus.


Sunday Snog – Charmer (Smut By The Sea Vol.2)



I’m joining in with Victoria Blisse’s Sunday Snog, and sharing a little kissy snippet from one of my stories with you. This one’s from my contribution to Smut By The Sea Vol. 2.




Light hearted, sexy fun by the sea is the theme of this erotic anthology, edited by Victoria Blisse and Lucy Felthouse.

From the sun soaked beaches of Brazil to the altogether cooler coastal towns of England, Smut by the Sea Volume 2 has it all. Whatever your interpretation of naughty seaside fun, there’s something nestling between the covers for you. Amusement arcades, beach houses, mermaids, honeymooners, shipwrecks, sex toys and more abound in this exciting collection of stories from erotica’s finest authors.


My story is called Charmer, and it’s a story about old loves, second chances, and… well, trying to keep up with kids today. In this excerpt, Miranda, who’s just had a chance encounter with her old flame Charlie (the titular Charmer) is taking a stroll with him down Brighton Beach….


As Charlie and I sauntered up the beach front, I let myself relax. He was still as wonderful as he used to be. And as talkative.

“And then she buggered off with some playboy from Switzerland. All very painful.”

“Cried for months, did you?”

“Oh yes, many, many months. And then I thought, fuck it, I can do better.”

“Ah yes. I never really thought you fit a woman called Ermintrude.”

“I know. How can you be 27 and have a name like Ermintrude?”

“27 going on 84, that’s what that was.”

We giggled like two mad teens. Under the pier, Charlie sat down in the sand and gestured for me to sit next to him.

“You know, Mirrie… I never really got on with her in the first place.” he said, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.

“Oh yeah? Why is that?”

He breathed in the warm summer night air and smiled at me. “Because there was only one woman for me.”

Swift as a devil, he placed a kiss on my lips. It made me tingle all over and ignited a long-dormant need for carnality. As he tried to pull away, I pulled him back and devoured his lips. He tasted like vodka and long forgotten touches.


Oooh… I know, right? Well, if you would like to read the rest of that lovely story, and 14 other equally lovely stories with a seaside slant, you know what to do….

Available from:
Amazon UK
Amazon US
All Romance eBooks




Happiness Is A Fish You Can’t Catch

I don’t often think about my childhood. This is for many, many good reasons, all leading to the fact that it was a very traumatic one. But every once in a while, memories pop up in my brain.

I was young… about nine or ten years old, I reckon. Sitting in my bedroom, pillocking about as you do at that age. I noticed some magazines under my bed, but as I read a lot, I didn’t think too much of it.

Until I actually took a second look at them.

The first thing I noticed was that they were definitely not Barbie fan magazines. I don’t know what tipped me off, really. I mean, apart from the massively-breasted naked woman, the words “sex” and “babes” and said naked woman sitting in a bit of an uncomfortable but very revealing position, there was really no way to figure out that they were sex mags, really.

I, of course, joke and jest.

It didn’t take me that long to figure out who they belonged to. Unless my mother had something to tell me, they were definitely my dad’s.

As was the porn film I found in between our old videos a few years later, as we were packing to move.

My dad’s always been an interesting specimen to observe. I reckon he’s part human, part Daily Mail. And he was never more interesting than when it came to his views on sex. Not that I remember a lot of what he said (because I’m not blessed with an extremely good memory, unlike my other half) but from what I do remember, he talked about going to Thailand because “the women would want to cater to his every whim”.

His stone-age views on sex, race and the entire shebang have thankfully not really affected me. But I do wonder why those magazines ended up under my bed. And why my dad read them.

This Is Not A Test

In the early hours of this morning, when light was still on the other side of the world, ILB left on holiday. After one last kiss, he buggered off to visit 47 and his missus in Germany. And although I was a big supporter in getting him there (second only to 47 himself, who actually bought the tickets), I can’t help feeling a bit bummed out.

It’s a definite case of not knowing what to do with myself. I’m low on funds, so I can’t go for a shop in central London. I’m low on moral, which for me means that I’m having trouble even blogging this entry. And I’m low on energy, which stems from having a pretty intense week last week. The next few weeks will have their intense moments as well, seeing as I’m packing up my stuff again (temporarily moving in at Casa ILB to save money for a bigger place). Oh, and Christmas will happen at some point, I assume. Probably around the 24th-25th.

It’s like life is all happening right now. Come January, I will have been living here for six months. And with me moving again, it’s another new situation to get used to.

But for now, I wait. And I try to make stuff happen to take my mind off the fact that the love of my life is in Germany. I genuinely hope he’s having a whale of a time and comes back with lots of crazy stories.

And part of me… well, let’s just say a very specific part of me is hoping for some smashing welcome home sex. If the safe travels sex was anything to go by, it will be EPICMAZING.

It’s a Kind Of Magic (In My Pants)

Just leaving this here for you. Ponder it. Study it. Muse upon it.



Sort of Human

So, regular readers and followers of my Twit-feed might have noticed my absence. I thought I’d take a minute to explain myself, before regaling you with another story.

I don’t know how it started. I knew I had stuff to do on Sunday (like post the weekly question on EM and take up Cat Grant at 1K 1H) but I just forgot. There were other things in my head and they seemed to be taking over.

I wasn’t in a state to tweet or post a blog. I’ve cried for most of this week, for just nothing at all. Well, mainly because I miss my friends and I miss cuddles and being just myself. I knew I needed to not be here.

So, I decided to just disappear. Should have told you guys. I’m sorry. But there was just this overwhelming need to have a break. I read a lot in the past week. Seven books at a time and that. It did me well, because I feel a bit better now.

Not all better, mind, but I feel… sort of human. Not that I was anything other than human before, but you know what I mean.

I think now’s the time to make plans. I’ve been planning what to write, what to do and where to go. Still no further in finding a home for myself in the UK, but I’ll make that work. I think most of my break has been due to stress from trying to find roots for myself. I can feel it in my neck. All the stress I ever get hits my neck.

So, I’m back now. In moderately human form. I’d say bring it on, but give me a moment!

Protected: It’s Good To Learn

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Love Yourself

(author’s note: this is just a little fictional diddle. With some truths though. I’ll leave you to figure out what they are. Enjoy.)

I don’t like my cunt today.

It’s just… hair and flesh and curls. Bit dry. My inner lips seem to be playing hide and seek. I emit a deep sigh. It’s always something, isn’t it?

Like yesterday, when I didn’t like my hair. Or Monday, when my eyes looked a bit duff.

I don’t like things. I don’t like me, I guess.

I stretch in front of the mirror. I’m sitting wide-legged and bleary-eyed in front of the squiggly mirror in the bedroom. This has become a morning routine. A very, very sad and ridiculous one, granted. But one I need.

“Inspecting yourself again?” he asks, walking into the room. I sigh again, but this time out of happiness. He’s wearing two white towels. One across his shoulders and one around his gorgeous waist. Why him? Why, out of all men in the world, did I happen to land him?

He’s gorgeous. Thirty-one glorious years old and blessed with the genetic make-up of the illegitimate love child of… well, of any two perfect men in the world. And he’s just come out of my shower. His moist chest glistens in the sunlight. There’s little I can do to keep myself from literally frothing at the mouth.

“Yeah. I didn’t mean to. I just… yeah.” I mutter, as he wraps his arms around me.

“And what’s wrong this morning? Wonky tooth? Wayward freckle?” he chuckles.

“My cunt. It’s not right.”

“What? Woman, you are some kind of crazy.”

“I’m not though! It’s not right, I tell you! Look at it!” I say, pointing frantically at my cunting cunt.

“Oh, I am.” he says, lowering his hand to rest on my mound. “I look at it every day. Shall I show you why it’s right?”

He leans over me and entangles his fingers through my pubic hair. “I like how it curls. It feels soft and tickles and I just… I like it.”

“Right, so you like my fuzz. Why? Doesn’t it feel disgusting when you… when you go down on me?”

“Not at all. I quite like it. And I don’t mind the odd hair between the teeth.”

“You freak!” I say, nearly putting my arm out to swat him on the shoulder.

“Mm. Call me a freak, but I like it. I also like…” he says, his voice low and nearly growly as his hand slips down and sidles between my puffed-up lips. “How this feels. So soft and moist. It’s the perfect sensation.”

“Keep going.”

I’m enjoying the sight of his exploration. His fingers feel good and – although I’m not keen to admit it – I’m slowly getting over my disgust. And as he spreads me further open with those perfectly dexterous fingers of his, I can feel myself tingling.

Even more as he flicks over my clit. God, what is that man doing to me? Even the slightest touch from him can set me on fire. Fuck, why him? Why is he standing here, in my bedroom, hunched over me… practically frigging me?

Because he is. And it’s wildly distracting me from my own self-disgust. I watch his movements in the mirror, fascinated by the way his fingers twist and turn. Wetness slowly drips between my legs and I writhe in delight.

“See how you’re becoming more rosy? How your sweet moist is spreading, making you so, so deliciously wet? I fucking love that.”

He hasn’t even finished the sentence before he slides two fingers inside me. I gasp, as he finds the right spot, the spot that needs those greedy fingers the most. The pressure of his fingers is driving me insane. It feels weird and hot and wonderful and I want to come right then and there.

“Now, you can’t say your cunt isn’t right. Cos this feels right, doesn’t it? The pleasure feels like just the thing you need. Think of the pleasure she gives you. Think of how beautiful she looks when she’s aroused. Now… that’s alright, isn’t it?”

“Oh dear Jesus!” I cry out. I can’t help pushing out and I watch, shuddering as I gush wildly over his hand, straight onto the carpet. He holds me down as my orgasm makes me flail. But still, he keeps fingering my g-spot, and before long, I come again. And again.

After three times, I cry out. “Enough! Enough! You’ve proved your point!”

He chuckles and grins. Fuck him. Fuck that dirty, gorgeous, muscular, shitting perfect bastard. I think I love him.

“I love you.” I whisper, completely exhausted. He picks me up from the chair and carries me to the bed. “I love you too. And you, my dear…” he says, before kissing me passionately… “You need to love yourself.”

And I think I’ll do just that.


I`m not even gonna bother putting this in Italics.

My bag was stolen from my dorm in the hostel last night. It had all my documents in there, including my ticket home. I don`t know about you, but that doesn`t really put me in a sort of sexy mood.

I`m fucking done with it. I`m going to make sure that I`m on the train either tonight or tomorrow. I am a 21 year old woman, with heaps of dignity.

And I want my mummy.