I’m Editing An Anthology! – Call For Submissions: Flappers, Jazz and Valentino

*steps up to the mike, clears throat*

So, ehm… I’m editing an anthology for House of Erotica….

Yes, you’ve read that right – I’m editing my first (of hopefully many more) anthology! I’m flapping with excitement, I am. So, if you’ll allow me to get into writer mode for a second…

The anthology, which, as I said, will be published by House of Erotica, is called Flappers, Jazz and Valentino – which gives you some idea of what I’m looking for. Invoke for me the spirit of the Roaring Twenties, of the first talkies, dancing girls, the speakeasy, glamour, Josephine Baker, Charleston dancing, anything you can think of.

And make it steamy. Make it so steamy, my glasses will fog up upon reading your story. Trust me, that’s a sign that you’re doing it right.

I’m ridiculously excited to be editing this anthology – and I look forward to seeing what you come up with. Here’s the call for submissions in full – with the pretty cover for you to enjoy. And if you want to contribute, I’m looking forward to reading your story!

Flappers, Jazz and Valentino

AW MA GAWD, it's so pretty!

AW MA GAWD, it’s so pretty!

Editor: Jillian Boyd

Publisher: House of Erotica

Deadline: March 30th, 2014 (earlier submissions preferred)

Word count: 3k – 7k

Theme: Historical erotica

Pairings: Any

Heat Level: Anything from romantic and erotic to burning hot

Payment: Royalties will be split 40% of the net profits with contributing authors, exact values will be given once we know how many stories will be in the final anthology.

Rights: Six Years

Submission limit: up to two stories per author.

Author Jillian Boyd is on the hunt for hot historical erotica – stories set in those heady days of the Roaring Twenties. Whether it’s the glamour of the flapper, the spirit of Gatsby or the whisky-soaked excesses of the speakeasies, I want you to make the Twenties sizzle and spark with red-hot lust.

The stories needn’t all be about flappers and gangsters (although I’d love to have some in the collection) – let your imagination fly! But don’t forget the storyline – and the sizzling sex, of course. I want characters that fly off the page and spark off each other. I want fun, frolics and occasional frivolity.

As far as the ending goes, a Happy-Ever-After is good, but I have no problems with a Happy-For-Now.

The No-No’s: No scat, bestiality, under age sex, golden showers, rape or forced sex or incest of any kind and necrophilia.

Formatting: Please format your story in Times New Roman, 12pt font, double spaced with each new paragraph indented by ½ inch. Use quotation marks in dialogue. Since this is a UK publisher, I would love it if you use UK spelling and grammar in your story/stories.

Submit your story by emailing it as an attachment with the following filename.


In the body of the email, please include your legal name, pen name, word count, the type of pairing in the story (eg. M/F, F/F, etc…) and a short author bio.

Send your submission(s) to jboydwrites(at)gmail(dot)com – you can also reach me there if you have any questions or need clarification.

Authors must own their rights to the stories and not have had them published anywhere else. Please note the publisher has final approval over the stories included in the manuscript.

To Minxy Malone, Thanks For Everything

Recently, I found an article on The Frisky asking people what the first book that they masturbated to was. It got me in a bit of a thinky-backy kind of mood, and even as I’m typing this, I’m scanning my brainbox for books I used to read to get aroused.


That’s what I did for a long while. Just read books, look for the dirty bits and read them over and over again until I got aroused. Nothing really came of it, other than a, quite frankly, very frustrating hunt for more dirty bits in other books. Seriously, once I figured out the books which tended to have a bit of fumbling in it, I was at the book store more frequently than anyone I knew.

Which is a sad thing, really. People should read more.

But anyway. The main problem with my modus operandi was that it felt like I’d bought up the entire store’s stock of romance novels after a while. We’d usually only get translations of books, and the lust does tend to get lost when taken out of the language it is originally set in. Or so I think.

The first book that got me properly hot under the collar (but, amazingly, didn’t yet prompt me to masturbate) was Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl by Belle De Jour. I bought the book on my first ever holiday to London, in despair of it being our last night there. I lay on my bed in the hotel room, opened it up, and started reading.

And then there was that opening line. “The first thing you should know is that I’m a whore.”

That first line drew me in so quickly that I kept reading for a very long time indeed.


The first book that I masturbated to… I think it was a collection of erotic stories written by famous female writers. It was edited by Imogen Edwards-Jones and called In Bed With. You had people like Adele Parks and Esther Freud contributing, but under assumed, “x-rated” guises (a combo of their first pet and first street they lived on, I think, which made for names like Pom Pom Paradise and Tutty Monmouth….).

It was a total eye opener. Well, it was at the time. It wasn’t a very good book, I think. But it did make me broaden my horizon… because one of the stories (“Twice Shy”) addressed two subjects that I didn’t even know I would find arousing. I’d always been squeamish about anything to do with anal sex (thank you very much for that, Sex and the bloody City) and even more so about spanking. So, I was more than a little hesitant to even read this story at first.

Again, in hindsight, it wasn’t particularly an erotic masterpiece, but in the end, I got off on it. More than a few times, in fact.

So, those were the two instrumental ones. I’ve since had a lovely string of stories lead to an even lovelier string of orgasms (KD Grace’s Vegging in Best Women’s Erotica 2010 comes to mind…). And, of course, I’ve taken up writing erotica myself.

But you can bet your sweet behind on this: I don’t think that me writing erotica would have even happened if it wasn’t for those (and many other) books.

The fucking awesome orgasms that happened from reading them? Bloody lovely bonus.

Fiction – Embracing The Cliché – Part One

I wrote this story a while back, and since I’ve not yet found a home for it, I thought I’d share it with you dudes. Aren’t you lucky. Read part one after the jump (no naughty bits just yet…)

Journalist Kristina is deep in the shit. Literally. Whisked away from the comforts of London and dropped on a farm in a rural town in the States with a camera crew and an entirely unfit wardrobe, Kristina’s job is to follow a cowboy around on his daily duties. 

Said cowboy is not best pleased with this. Daniel McKillop is a surly, brooding bastard. Who just so happens to be ridiculously sexy…



Erotica ~ Pound A Punnet

Hello. I’m currently feeling a bit under the weather. Must be bronchitis, I think.

Anyway. Since the bronchitis has apparently affected my ability to write a decent post, I have decided to spoil my readers with a story of mine that is x-posted on Cliterati. Enjoy…



Pound A Punnet

Though it was still early in the morning, Covent Garden market was already buzzing. I breathed in the morning air, as I made my way out of the busy tube station. For once, London smelled like sun and summer, instead of its usual pong of gasoline and regret.

A nearby busker provided a soundtrack for my tour of the stalls. Granted, he was terrible- I mean, “Oh, What A Beautiful Morning”? – but so far, I was rather enjoying this day already.

There were far too many tempting things on offer. To my left, a stall with pretty shawls and shiny bracelets. To my right, a Paperchase, which I really should have gone in to because I need more pens in my life. But today, my attention was drawn to a new stall.

At some point since I’d last been there, a fruit stall had materialized. A good one, apparently, as I had to fight my way through the crowds to get to the front, nearly body-slamming my way into a couple of pensioners in the process. I could see why the crowd was there. The most succulent melons, ripe and plump strawberries, and glistening apples lay seductively on display, tempting masses over to this stall.

I admired some of the juicy looking cantaloupes. Picking one up, I studied it. Trailing my fingers over the lightly ribbed skin, I was tempted to bite right through it.

“D’you want to try my strawberries, love?”

Startled by the interruption , I nearly dropped the melon onto the floor.

“Excuse me?” I said, wildly turning my head to see where this voice had come from.

Then I noticed the vendor, holding out a punnet of strawberries for me.

“Try my strawberries. A pound a punnet. Come on, love, you won’t regret it!”

“Oh, I see.”

Shaking my head to level myself, I gingerly took a strawberry from the punnet, but hesitated to put it in my mouth.

“Go on, take a bite. They’re top notch. Grown in my own garden.”

“Alright then.”

In one go, I bit through the moist, red flesh. Instantly, I was hit with an explosion of flavors. So tart and sweet and fleshy… oh god, it was the best. I devoured the rest, until the juice was dripping down the corners of my mouth. Realizing that this wasn’t exactly flattering, I wiped off the residue with my sleeve. Also not one of my brightest ideas, since it left a stain.

The vendor shot a cheeky grin at me. “Told you!”

I blushed and tried to compose myself.

“Wow… They’re great! Do you really grow these yourself?”

“The whole lot. And I’m very proud of that.”

“Well, you should be.”

“Can I interest you in a punnet then?”

Between looking like an arse with a strawberry-stained mouth, and actually having the pleasure of eating them, I chose the latter.

“Yeah, go on then. A pound, you said?”

I fiddled with my wallet, as the vendor bagged the punnet for me. As I reached over to hand him the pound, our hands met, which caused me to take a decent look at him. His sandy locks, piercing blue eyes and cheeky smile made me tingle all over.

It took me a full minute to realize that I was staring at him.

I couldn’t help it.  I imagined what it would be like to lick strawberry preserve off his chest.

“Have a good one, love. And come back soon. I might have some grapes for you by tomorrow…” he said, letting go of my hand and heading off to serve another customer. But his promise of grapes lingered tantalizingly in the air.

Later that night, I sat in my kitchen, staring at the nearly-empty punnet on the table. This was ridiculous. I’d exchanged about ten words with this man and now I was imagining being bent over his wheelbarrow and fucked up the arse in the middle of his veggie patch.

I had to go back.


The next morning, I took a gamble and exited the tube a stop earlier, at the market. I had no idea if the vendor would be there, but fuck it, it would be worth it.

I practically flew out of the station, nearly slipping on the cobblestones. My inner radar scouted the square.

“Come on…” I muttered. He must be around somewhere.

A part of me still felt like this was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever done. I mean, I’m not that fond of fruit. Why would I risk work for fruit? Even if the fruit in question was the juiciest, most succulent fruit I’d ever tasted….

Who am I kidding? I was going for him. Juicy, succulent him.

And when I spotted him, in the same spot as yesterday, I sighed with relief. He was still gorgeous, his fruit still looked like manna from heaven. All was well.

I didn’t want to look too eager, so I sidled my way up to the stall, pretending to be interested in various other things besides his ripe melons. He spotted me eying an apple.

“Well, well! Did the promise of my grapes tempt you back to my little corner of the market?”

He held out a small bunch of very luscious-looking red grapes. “Go on. You know you want to.”

Oh yes. I wanted to. Badly.

I took one between my fingers and wasted no time in biting it. The juices trickled down my blouse and I let out an elongated moan.

“See, I knew you’d like them.”

“My god, these are delicious!” I licked the excess juice from my fingers. He grinned, rightfully proud of his home-grown crop. “How much ?”

“For you, a pound. Always a pound.”

His eyes lingered on mine, and I nearly forgot about the existence of fruit altogether. My god, was he ever gorgeous. As he turned around to get a bag, I lustily stared at the outline of his perky arse in those tight jeans.

“Thanks, love. Here you go,” he said, handing me the bagged grapes, “and do enjoy. And remember to come back tomorrow. I’ve got oranges you won’t be able to resist.”

He shot me a killer smile and winked. Suddenly, I felt very wobbly.

I scurried away from the stall, only to stop around the corner to catch my breath. Pearly beads of sweat formed on my body, and my cunt throbbed with a dull desire. Fuck him and his perfect fruit.


For the next few days, I kept trying to resist going back to Covent Garden to get another glimpse of the vendor and his perfect fruit. But no matter how hard I tried (and I do admit, I didn’t try very hard) I always ended up back at his stall, fondling another piece of fruit.

Part of me felt utterly ridiculous. It was like I had gained an unhealthy obsession with produce. My colleagues were now officially labeling me “Fruity Girl”, and I don’t think it was due to the constant stream of bananas and grapes on my desk.

My fantasies about him were becoming more and more graphic. In the last one, he was fucking me on the table of his market stall, yelling, “Get your blueberries! Pound a punnet!”

He called me his “Pound Lady”, since he seemed happy to offer me anything for a pound. I wondered if it meant that he had taken a shine to me. In that case, what had I done, other than show up?

Either way, I needed to see him again. I needed that weird, primal lust I felt when I was near him. So, I decided to do something potentially very stupid.

That morning, I watched him from afar. His head was shorn this time, and I momentarily mourned the loss of his sandy locks. Mainly because I had fantasized about entwining my fingers in them whilst being eaten out like a kiwi fruit…

I waited until he left his stall for his midday break, and followed him towards his van, which was parked nearby.

Swallowing, I approached him.

“Ehm… hello.”

He turned around and, upon seeing me, grinned widely.

“Ah! My gorgeous Pound Lady! What brings you to my van? Anything I can rustle up for you?”

“Yes, you did mention some apples earlier in the week,” I said, trying not to look like I was a big lying twat, “and I was keen on getting a closer look.”

“Ah, my prized apples!”

He opened the doors to his van and I watched, as he rummaged through the countless boxes of fruit and produced an apple. He fingered the waxy, red skin and smiled. “Yep, this is definitely a favorite of mine. Care to try?”

I nodded and took the apple from him. And, of course, the first bite was one to savor. Such sweet skin and a heavenly core… I moaned again, letting the taste linger for a moment.

“So good!”

“Well, that flatters me enormously.” he said, beaming. Then he added, “You know, I’ve never seen anyone eat fruit in such a sensuous way. You make tasting a rare art form.”

“Wow… thanks, I guess. It’s good fruit, which helps.”


He frowned, as if he was trying to catch me out on something. “I was hoping it’s because you find me attractive.”

I nearly choked on my apple. Shit! How did he… Oh right, because I’m the most conspicuous person in the world.

“Well… well…ehm… Well, you are quite nice to look at.”

“Hmm… Go on?”

“And… and you are charming. And I like your fruit. And…and… fuck, you’re making it hard for me to focus.”

“Shall I take over?” he said, stepping closer towards me. “For some reason, you keep coming back to my stall, and I’m guessing it has fuck-all to do with my good fruit and more to do with how much you want to do this.”

Before I could protest, he pulled me in and enveloped my mouth in a wet, hungry kiss.  The mid-afternoon sun beat down heavily on us, and I had to stop to catch my breath and wipe the sweat from my brow.

“Fuck…” I sighed. “You have no idea…”

“How much you wanted that? How long you’ve been waiting for it? How much you want me to fuck you between the apples and pears in the back of my van?”

“Yes, yes and oh my sweet god, yes!”

He wasted no time after that. Pulling me into the van, he made immediate work of ridding himself of his clothes. My god, he was gorgeous. All tanned flesh and hard muscle… he made my entire body shiver with delight.

With his pants and boxers around his ankles, he yanked my skirt up and pulled my moist panties down. The earthy smell of vegetation filled my nose, as we kissed again amongst the apples and pears.

His hip ground against my pussy, making me moan. His kisses were sweet and moist, and his body sweat and musk. I could feel his hard cock pressing urgently against my thigh.

“Wait! I don’t even know your name!” I cried out, immediately berating myself for putting a momentary halt to these luscious proceedings.

“Do you need to?”

“Well, I’d like to know who’s cock’s going to be inside me in a few seconds!”

He chuckled. “Mine.”

He settled over me, his breath hot on my skin. His eyes were dark and full of lust. I felt very aware of lying semi-naked in a fruit van in the middle of Covent Garden. But the kiss that followed more than made up for any hesitation I might have had.

As we kissed, he ever-so-slowly rotated his hips. I could feel the pressure of his erection against my wet lips and it drove me wild in a way I hadn’t really felt before.

“D’you… d’you have a condom?” I stammered, when he momentarily broke away. He fished into his pants and pulled one out with a triumphant grin.

“Of course I do. I’m a good guy, you know.”

I watched him sheath himself and uttered, “Christ, I hope you’re not.”

Grinning, he pushed my legs apart and straddled me. He entered me, ever so slowly, and my breath faltered. He filled me, and when he moved, the friction was almost unbearably pleasurable.

He pressed his lips to my ear and whispered, “You gorgeous woman. I’ve fancied you from the moment I laid eyes on you.”

A weird giggle-gasp escaped me. He continued his quest to sex me up aurally. “How could I resist you?” he growled. “With those full lips, wrapped around my grapes…”

I wrapped my thighs around his waist, because fuck, I wanted him deeper. My fingers etched marks into his strong back.

“Oh Jesus, right there,” I whimpered, as he hit just the right spot. He sped up, his hips flowing in a smooth rhythm.

“There, right? It’s good there, isn’t it?” he breathed.

“Fuck. Yes! Fuck me harder!”

He pounded into me, and every single sense became amplified. The sound of his balls slapping against my cunt, the rocking of the van, the ever-increasingly sweet smell of the fruit surrounding us… it was so much to take in.

“Oh Christ. Oh god, oh god …” he cried out. “I can feel you. I can feel your pussy…. Oh god!”

He sped up to an almost frantic pace, only to fall completely rigid and emit a thundering cry. As he climaxed, he leaned over me and kissed me again, half moaning into my mouth. Whilst he rode out his pleasure, I felt myself burning and tensing up. My climax made me gasp for air, and it took me a while to get my breath back.

Every tiny nerve ending felt sated. He lay on top of me, trying to compose himself.

“Well… that’s a… lovely way to spend a lunch break.”

“I’d say I can think of other ways, but nope.” I said, before drawing him into a languid kiss.

“Hmm… you’re one hell of a customer.” he chuckled. “And you taste better than anything that grows in my garden.”

“Maybe you should plant an entire allotment of me then?”

“An entire allotment of Pound Ladies? I’m not sure my libido can handle that!”

“Right, best to keep it at just the one then! What time is it?”

He checked his watch and let out a heavy sigh. “Five to one. I’ll need to be getting back soon.”

“Fuck. I’ve got work. Fuck work.” I pouted. “I kind of want to stay here.”

“Well, we can’t just lie here naked between the fruit forever!”

“Why not? We’ve got food and we’ve got entertainment in each other.”

He wiped a stray lock of hair from my brow. “We could also do the sensible thing and see each other again some time. You know, outside of the space of this van or the market.”

“Are you suggesting a date, Mr. Greengrocer?”

“Tonight, after I get off from work. We could go out to dinner and catch a show. Or I could cook for you.”

“Or… we could just do this some more…” I suggested, biting my lip waiting for his answer.

“I like the way you think.” he grinned. “How about I make you the most saliva-inducing, heart-pounding, orgasmic dessert you’ve ever eaten?”

I grinned back in reply.

After we got ourselves decent, we headed in separate directions. A while later, staring out of the window in my office, I let my mind drift back over our van liaison. I didn’t know what it was, but something told me that the vendor was a guy I was keen on getting more of.

And with an unfaltering grin on my face, I bit into his juicy apple.


© Jillian Boyd, 2012

Boss Man

(author’s note: Purely fictitious. Written in a fit of horn. Enjoy. Also, the name of the man in the story is a shameless nod to one of my new favorite books…. )


He bites his bottom lip when he’s thinking. Or trying to pretend that he’s thinking.

He winks at me, in that way that only someone who has a mental image of a non-stop fuckfest in mind can do.

He stares openly at my tits.

And I’m okay with this. Fuck, I openly stare at that perfect arse of his, clad in those awful work pants.

On the really boring days, I busy myself by staring at his crotch.

One has to pass time at work somehow.

He’s not perfect. Far from it, but then again, who’s ever perfect?

I’m not. If I were perfect, I wouldn’t have these intense feelings for my superior. Feelings that as of late seem to center themselves in the tangle of nerves that make up my cunt. 

A cunt that aches for his cock.

Jezal Ilyas

The dirty fucking bastard.

I can’t have him. Nobody can. But my cunt is exceptionally greedy. She has taken over any rational thought I may have about fucking my superior, and is practically screaming for me to just take his dick and stick it up her. Treacherous filly.

And he knows. Oh fuck, does he ever know and does he ever try to make me give in.

Work has become unbearable.Like a Mexican stand-off of sexual tension. There are no words but the necessary ones. But the eyes tell a story beyond the boundaries. In the eyes of Jezal, there is a burning desire, one that swelters in the summer heat.

And as I watch him, casually playing Frisbee with a few of my other co-workers, I make a decision. I’m going to have him.

Late June. A work picnic on Hampstead Heath.

Jezal looks like manna from heaven, even without his usual business attire. Tanned, nearly golden in the sunlight. Muscles rippling under his tight tee. That smile amplified to the point of madness.

I like it.

I excuse myself from my co-workers, in the hope that I can get something to quench this enormous thirst I have. And perhaps in the hope that somehow Jezal has followed me to help me quench the other enormous thirst I have. 

“One pound fifty.” the sour-faced vendor says, handing me the bottle of water.

“How about a “please”?” I mutter, handing over the cash. He remains quiet, instead opting to scowl me away from his stand.

I shake my head and walk off.

Sitting down at a secluded spot, I sup at the water like it’s the only thing keeping me alive. It trickles in spurts down chin and onto my breasts.

“I’ve never been so thankful for a summer’s day like this.”

I raise my head and find Jezal towering over me. He’s grinning like a fucking shark.

“And why is that? An excuse to wear a tank top?”

“Guess again.”

“Hmm… let me guess. It has something to do with butterflies? Long walks on the Brighton seafront?”

I stand up and face him. I’m so close, I can nearly taste him. He smells like musk and sweat with hints of that ridiculously expensive cologne he got at the office Christmas party. 

He smirks. “Guess again.”

But before I can take another guess, he pushes me up against the tree and presses his mouth, and his entire body with it, against me. I kiss him back and our tongues meet and devour each other like ravenous wildebeests. Fuck, he tastes so sweet.

Jezal wastes no time and nearly tears his top apart. I moan aloud at the sight of that body, that body that’s been occupying my dreams for the past million years.

I frantically work at his belt buckle, undoing it just enough. He pulls my skirt down and growls.

“We’re not supposed to be doing this.” he says, but still he pulls down his jeans and frees his hard cock from his boxers.

“I know. But that’s the fun!” I giggle, and pull him close enough to seem inconspicuous to the world, which seems like an impossible thing to do, considering both Jez’s bum and my fanny are out.

As we kiss again, he spreads my thighs as far as he can. One finger slides along my sopping folds. He then licks it, which makes me shudder.

“Fuck, you taste good.” he breathes. “God, you drive me mad.”

“And you think you don’t?”

I need to be inside you right now.”

“What are you waiting for?”

And then he stops waiting. Opens me up and slides himself inside me.

The eternity of tension between us is enough to make the sparks fly across the Heath. He grabs my hips and pounds into me, his mouth covering mine.

It’s fucking for dear life. It’s a release of the things our eyes said when our mouths couldn’t. And it’s so good, it feels like my body is being smashed and built up piece by piece.

The orgasm comes swift but hard, both for him and me. I hang on to the sturdy tree as my hips buck, while he rides out his climax as his come spurts into me.

It takes a long time before either of us get our breath back. We cling to each other like lovers reunited.

And then we walk back to our group. We exchange a knowing grin before Jez goes back to his Frisbee game and I go back to watching him.

Nothing’s changed between Boss Man and me.

Except that his come is sticking between my thighs.

Who said work was boring?

Sweet Grace

He let me into his plush hotel room in his bathrobe,  with a grin plastered on his face. It was his first time, I thought. Only men that hadn’t paid me for sex yet had that smile on their faces. I felt bad for him and the 200 euros he was about to fork up.

I sat down on a chair near the window. Outside, the city was illuminated, and the faint tones of music could be heard from down below. The synthetic perfume that filled the room was almost pleasant.

“Champagne?” he asked, bottle in hand. I nodded, and let him serve me what turned out to be a very light and bubbly experience for the mouth.

“Shall I pay first?” he asked, sitting down beside me.

“Best that you do. You wanted one night? First time discount, that’s 200 euros. You get to decide what goes on. Lucky you.” I said, not intending to sound so jaded. I’d grown weary of the business though. And weary of first-timers who didn’t know how the fuck to handle me.

But from the look in his eye, this one seemed different. I studied him, and couldn’t help smiling. He was a handsome fuck, that one. I liked his hair. Brown, wavy… Good to hold on to…

He sipped from his flute and stood up again. Took my hand and twirled me around. I found it quite charming.

“Sweet Grace.” he whispered. “I would like nothing more than to pleasure you until you faint from the sheer ecstasy.”

He then literally swept me off my feet and carried me to the bed, where he sat me down on the edge. “Tonight is your night. Enjoy.” he said, before untying the strings that held his bathrobe closed. As it dropped to the floor, I had to catch my breath.

He was perfect.

As he kneeled reverently in front of me, and slipped my panties down, hiked my skirt up… I prepared myself for what was to come.

And indeed, when his tongue delicately lapped at my clit, I felt completely swept away.

And I sincerily hoped that it woulndn’t be the last time our paths crossed.

In The Cut

(author’s note: this does include a smidge of knifeplay and blood, so if you’re squeamish, look away. Or read something else by me 🙂 )



“Are you ready?”

A loaded question. Of course I’m ready. I’m bound and gagged and waiting. 

But at the same time, I’m not. I’m anxious. Watching him flick the cold steel between his fingers.

“Close your eyes, pet. It will be alright.”

I close my eyes. Wait.

But I don’t even feel the first drag of the knife. Nor the second. My body numbs me.

Then I become aware of  warmth. Trickles. I open my eyes and watch the dark red trickle down my thigh.

Master looks at me. “Alright?”

I do my best to nod. And to my surprise, it doesn’t even hurt.

He has marked me.

And I truly feel like His now.

Aurelia (A Dirty Kind of Grace part 1)

(Read the prologue here)

I’d been called many things in my life. Bastard, motherfucker, faggot, shithead, wanker…. But never whore. I didn’t think whore was the right word to call me. Sure, I fucked everything that had two legs and a pulse, male or female… But I never considered myself a whore.

These words have a way of puncturing my soul like a needle through fabric. And she had a way of making it bleed.


Fuck almighty, she was the most glorious creature I had ever seen. The only woman I’ve ever loved. And the only woman with the power to rip my heart out from my chest and stamp on it. And she did, repeatedly.

I wanted to hate her. Despise the flesh on those bones. But I just couldn’t. Even now, hours after it happened, I couldn’t bring myself to hate Aurelia Davide. Because she was still the best thing I had going for me in my life.

Sitting in the dark of my flat, I couldn’t stop thinking. I tried to come up with ways to apologize. Ways to talk me out of what I was in and ways to once and for all convince her that I was a Good Man. But what was a good man, I wondered?

Someone who had dignity, probably. Someone who wouldn’t have… wouldn’t have a jealous bone inside him.

And I did. I had many a jealous bone, and they were all hurting, smarting from the sight of Aurelia with… him.

I didn’t know him. But I knew of him. It was her man. And it was something I could never be. And I tried to process it in the most fucked-up way I knew.

Revenge sex.

As I watched her nearly fuck her lover in the middle of the floor, I drank myself to near death. And in a state of numbness… I don’t remember what happened next. I think I took the girl outside. Tried to fuck her. But she said no. Why did she say no? Maybe she thought I was trying to rape her? But I wasn’t. I was trying to forget.

And now, I was still trying to forget. Forget the moment Aurelia stepped outside for a fag-break, probably puffed out from shagging face all night.

And the words played in my head, over and over again.

“Graham Connor, you’re a disgusting whore!”

But I wasn’t! Honest to God, I am not and never will be. I just… she drove me to it. Made me insane. And for once I just wanted to tell Aurelia that she made me into what I was at this very moment. As I covered myself with the warm, comforting duvet, I felt tears streaming down my cheeks.


But I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t anything, really. Defeated, at most. And I needed to clear my head.

In a reflex, my hand snaked down my pants. That was the only way I knew. Sex had become comfort, and fuck, did I ever need that comfort.

But as I stroked my flaccid cock, whispering little prayers that it would go erect so I might actually feel something tonight, I knew I was wrong.

But it still didn’t stop me.

 Aurelia Davide had ruined me for sex. Because no other person in the world would be as perfect as she was. And the thought of never having those plump lips, round hips and slick pussy to my own was maddening.

Do You Remember?

Do you remember me?

Sitting on the sidewalk next to my house, waiting with a bouquet of flowers in your hands. Freshly picked, you made sure of that.

Do you remember running home in the rain and having that first, all-consuming and disgustingly passionate kiss under the lamppost? We were so wet, we both got sick and held hands and swapped germs for a week and a half.

Do you remember telling me you love me? It was in room 503, in the Cavendish hotel, where we fucked for hours and hours afterwards, never even contemplating leaving the lush, plush confines of our confines.

Do you remember fucking?

Not making love, no, we never did that. Just wild, passionate, hot and sweaty carnal, deep fucking that wrecked my pussy for any other man that would come my way.

Do you remember loving me?

Please. Please tell me you do. Please tell me you can still feel like you did on that autumn evening when we whispered our undying trust to each other in front of our friends. Can you muster up that feeling?

Can you remember what we had?

Please. Find it in your heart to find me again. Muster up the strength to say the words I need to hear, before my heart dies of despair.

Remember me.

Love me.


The Projectionist

He had invited me up to his attic, to take a look at an old projector he had acquired. He wanted me to be his test audience.

Entranced by the duality of this man, I agreed. And soon, I found myself sitting in a corner of the room, watching him install the seemingly ancient piece of machinery. The crack of the film reel signaled that the projector was still very much working, and he grinned contentedly.

Abstract images flooded the screen. I couldn’t quite make anything of it, mainly because my attention was drawn to his mannerisms.

It was all in the glasses.

When he had them on, he was this a cheeky, geeky guy with an amazing smile and the ability to chat with you for hours without ever losing concentration.

And without them…

I smiled to myself, as I enjoyed the lingering look he gave me, glasses half on his nose. Then he took them off.

I knew that I could easily fall in love with every inch of the dirty, cigarette-smoking libertine he was deep down in that gorgeous body of his. Unbuttoning his shirt, undoing his grey undershirt, all done with full intent to drive my raging hormones insane.

And then that look. That look as he spun his trusty cigarette between his fingers.

It was his way of asking if I desired him.

And, as he unbuckled his belt, rubbing himself through his jeans, just once…

my entire body screamed “Yes”.

And with one lingering look…

I gave in to him.


This story is based on the short clip of Ned Mayhem’s scene on HeavenlySpire.com. I hope he doesn’t mind being my muse for this and that I make the people involved a bit proud. The screencap is taken from MeetTheMayhems.com