Snogging for Sommer! Win a free prize!

asnogforsummerToday I’m snogging for Sommer Marsden, a fabulous fellow erotica writer who is more than deserving of our support. Please click on the Smut For Good banner above to learn more, to help her family fight cancer, and to visit other writers’ blogs where you can read their kissing excerpts and win other prizes! But before you do, read on to see how you can win my prize!

Heartfirst ChapbookI’m giving away a copy of my chapbook, Heartfirst, to one lucky reader (chosen at random) who either comments below or tweets this link:  http://blissekiss.co.uk/a-snog-for-sommer/         (don’t forget to tag me so I know that you shared the link). Or blog it, facebook it, do whatever kids are doing these days to get the word out–just be sure to either tag me somehow or send me the evidence. :) I’ll give you 48 hours because I’m feeling generous.

A bit about my snogging excerpt: I had to dig around quite a bit to find just one kissing scene in my erotica. I finally found the only mention of a kiss in my entire chapbook (that’s some dirty writing!) and was delightfully surprised where it surfaced. This excerpt is from a story entitled For the Moment, originally published in Sudden Sex: 69 Sultry Stories, edited by Alison Tyler (who I like to call the prominent princess of pornographic prose).

I looked up just as she parted her lips with the tip of her tongue, meeting another pair of lips. Even through the crimson darkness I could tell it was hard, deep, hot. My ultimate butch-on-butch fantasy coming to life. I had felt them moving on top of me—knew it was inevitable and was quite pleased it was happening so soon—sensed its fruition just in time to catch that first glimpse of my own personal goddess-sent, ambrosia-dripping dream. As the intensity of the kiss mounted, their fingers—working individually, then in tandem, then separately again—increased the intensity with which they fucked my cunt. They stretched me wider as the two pairs of lips worked each other over and two pairs of hands heightened my already sensitive sense of touch. Surprised by each new movement, varying changes in tempo, one pressing harder here, the other lighter there, switching my entire body into high alert with their notable differences, their shared passions—growing even more fervent as we built upon the blaze.

I gasped, sunk my teeth into flesh, screamed out, grasped for whatever was within reach, as one twisted her fist into my cunt and the other worked her hand into my ass. Realizing I had again been squeezing my eyes closed, so completely absorbed in the all-but-overwhelming sensation, I consciously engaged my field of vision to take in these beautiful butches—admiring the definition of their muscles, lines cut sharply across their unique strengths, intention set deeply in each of their faces.

Please don’t forget to visit other writers’ blogs who are also Snogging for Sommer today, win prizes, donate if you can, and share widely! Oh, and comment or share the link to win my prize! Yay!!

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My Rainbow Shelfie is Gaymous!

rainbow shelfieI have super big exciting news that I’m just here to tease you about because I can’t exactly share said super big exciting news just yet. It’s barely in the beginning stages…so just know to stay tuned. ;) And I’ll dish just as soon as I’m able. I promise! But I’m not an all-tease-and-no-play sort of gal, so until I can share the news, please scoot on over to Alison Tyler’s recent post that made my fabulous rainbow shelfie gaymous! And see what I have to say about my love of color-coded bookshelves and why so much erotica is lying on the top. (Not-so)secret: She’ll make your shelfie famous (or gaymous–depending upon its orientation) too! She’s a real giver, that prominent princess of pornographic prose!

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Love in the Time of Solitude

imgresGabriel García Márquez changed my life. I first read One Hundred Years of Solitude when I was somewhere around twelve years old. Plagued with insomnia and not understanding how it came about, this work of art presented me with a perfectly logical explanation: I had caught it from my father. Though we both endured sleepless nights under the same roof, my father and I rarely interacted. Rather, we were like passing ships in the night, acknowledging each other’s presence and then going our separate ways. He had his infomercials. I preferred the company of my books.

I would get swept up in the worlds Gabo so expertly crafted to the point that it would be hard for me to return to mine. Never having to suspend disbelief, magical realism was a genre that fit me exquisitely. The way he presented the seemingly unexplainable demonstrated another option: That magic has a place in reality. It’s all around us. If only we’re willing to be generous.

This snippet is less risque than my usual erotica excerpts, but it feels right given the recent passing of one of my literary saviors. Read the entirely of my story, Twisted Realities, in Twisted edited by Alison Tyler and published by Cleis Press and see how many nods to García Márquez and references to his work you can spot! (I had to resist the temptation to go overboard–stopping short at working Macondo into my story–but many of my references are quite obvious. A few slightly more subtle for the dedicated magical realism fan.) I feel honored and grateful that my bit of Gabo-inspired erotica was published before he died. Rest in peace, rest in power, beloved Gabo!

 

My first four, semilucid nights at Misericordia Hospital were spent in a haze, and for that reason I was unsure as to whether or not I had imagined him. So picturesque, dark curls offsetting his hazel eyes, an exquisite blend of feminine and masculine, he looked like he had walked off the GQ pages of my dreams and materialized by my bedside to check my vitals. I could only recall brief flashes of him coming and going. I heard his voice, reading something about a woman too disturbingly beautiful for this world, how she ascends into the heavens, and then his words faded away in the distance. I saw him taking a syringe to my drip line and then everything went blank. I even thought I could recall his scent, trailing off into the night. My body—a much more reliable source than my mind at this point—distinctly remembered feeling how he positioned himself on the edge of my bed one night, the heat of his thigh pressing up against mine. Then gone.

Surely it had to be the drugs.

 

It gets quite racy later on…I promise!

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Review: Overflow: Tales of Butch-Femme Love, Sex, and Desire

Overflow Miel Rose’s Overflow: Tales of Butch-Femme Love, Sex, and Desire had me in its grasp from the get-go. Anything dealing with butch/femme will inevitably draw me in. But Overflow is a whole lot more than just a catchy title with a pretty cover. It Delivers. (Capitalized because this book delivers in a major way.)

The book’s namesake was one of my favorites–all witchy and woo…right up my alley. There was also how it opened with talk of acupuncture and the pericardium. I happen to have a heart condition that affects this very same protective layer, so it spoke to me on a variety of levels. But no matter the state of your heart, you’ll undoubtedly find something that works in this story. It quickly heats up, tugging on more than just your heartstrings.

“My cunt was all fire and water, burning and sloppy wet. Her fingers drummed against the roof of my pussy and I was getting lightheaded from the lack of air and the overwhelming feeling that if I didn’t come soon I might explode. Tarn shifted her hand, her knuckles finding a new and glorious place inside me. Her hips started thrusting faster, driving her fingers deeper into my pussy, and I could tell she was close, so close. I rocked my hips back at her with all my might and slipped my hand between my legs.”

I had read “Farmhand” before in The Harder She Comes. Loved it the first time. Adored it the second. I appreciate the fact that Rose, a fellow femme, chose to write from a butch’s point of view in this story (it’s not always easy to put yourself so thoroughly in someone else’s shoes…or boxer briefs, as it were).

“My hand flew to my clit and started stroking with a hard, vicious intensity. I watched Taylor’s face as she watched me rub my cunt, and that alone could have pushed me over. But I also had her fingers pounding my asshole, her other hand putting increasing pressure on my wind pipe, her filthy whispers in my ear telling me to come.”

The rawness of “Love Letter” really struck me. It truly reads as a confession–to the point of almost inducing a sense of guilt into the reader. As if you shouldn’t be privy to such private thoughts. As if you’re actually reading a love letter not addressed to you and the recipient might catch you any moment. Rose gifts her readers with quite the gaze into a fiery romance that perhaps burned too brightly. A voyeur’s ultimate wet dream. And, as someone who communicates so much non-verbally, mine as well.

“For awhile there, so much of our conversations had nothing to do with words. The words were just a structure for all the feelings that we poured out through our eyes at each other every time you met my glance. I wonder if we could still communicate like that. I wonder if I packed this whole letter behind my eyes and radiated it out to you, simply saying, ‘I’ve missed you’, if you would understand.”

I find it incredibly beautiful how Rose doesn’t shy away from vulnerability in this collection, drawing the reader in deeper. Nor is Rose afraid to infuse politics into her smut. Because when isn’t butch/femme political? Surely much of what we do in bed are some of our most radical political acts. And then there’s how we exist in the outside world as well.

“You being willing to fight for femmes, you trying so hard to stay on top of the misogyny that threatens to rip us and our community apart, this is what made me powerfully in love with you.”

My very favorite story had to be Second Date. Not only because it’s about Daddy/girl play, but yes, largely because that’s the dynamic that these two characters delve into so tenderly, timidly, and provocatively.

“I have not told you about how this kind of treatment has the tendency to open this deep and vulnerable rawness inside me, cracks me open like a pomegranate, my red jewels spilling everywhere. Because, baby, it has been awhile since I let a butch touch me like this and it is only our second date, and I like you way too much for the small amount of time I have known you. I am not ready to be cracked open for you, all seeds and red juice…I do not want to be that girl who gives you access to her pussy and her heart on the same night.”

I have been that girl. I know precisely how that feels and was a bit short of breath reading how accurately Rose describes these feelings throughout the whole of this touching and blazingly erotic story.

“My ass is moving against your palm in anticipation, and then empty air as you raise your hand and let it fall with a loud smack on my bare skin. You repeat this again and again, the pain hot and sweet, sharp and then diffused in the moments I am allowed to process it. I am counting in my head and then losing track as you begin to concentrate on my sweet spot and every slap of your hand sends vibrations deep into my cunt. I have never been so close to coming from a spanking before and when you stop so abruptly I cry out in protest.”

I found myself wanting to excerpt the fuck out of this book, which tells me that Rose’s words speak for themselves (trust me, it’s just something you have to experience), but instead of going on and on…I’ll sum it up by saying that overall this collection of stories is well put-together, the pace and variety were delightful, and it was hot, hot, hot! Not a single one among the bunch that didn’t get me going. Some seriously scintillating sagas. But what solidified my greatest appreciation for Overflow is that I found myself lingering over every word–not just the more salacious text. Rose truly accomplishes one of my own personal goals by putting smart smut (erotica that reads as fine literature) out into the world.

Sprint, don’t run, to get yourself a copy!

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Review: Sudden Sex

sudden sexWho doesn’t love a good work-related fantasy? After all, work is an often less-than-pleasurable activity that swallows up far too much of our time. So who wouldn’t want to mix a little business and pleasure? I’m of the belief that it only adds to worker morale. And apparently so does, Lucy Felthouse, author of The Not-So-Blushing Bride in Alison Tyler‘s Sudden Sex: 69 Sultry Short Stories. Felthouse does something interesting and somewhat surprising for a short short (each tale in this anthology maxes out at 1500 words)–the great majority consists of buildup. The reader is made to wait as the narrator draws out the disclosure of his secret fantasy. One element I particularly enjoyed about this story is that the bride is far from conventional (as you may presume from the title). She knows what she wants. Then she goes and gets it. Without the slightest frill, nicety, or apology. That’s the type of bride I can get behind.

Also included in this collection is a story by the name of Possessive Tense by Raziel Moore. (And if you know me at all, you know I loooove word play, so this was a winner for me right from the get-go–a story dripping with possession.) Moore really cuts to the chase, starting off hot and heavy. (I adore a saga that starts with a well warranted F-word.) And although we, the readers, never quite know exactly what activities are transpiring between the Dom and sub in this taudry tale, this only adds to the allure. Intrique piques the interest. “If she kept sounding like that, so delicious, so vulnerable and needy, I wouldn’t be responsible.” Possession never sounded so good.

Bulging with 69 stories, this steamy anthology surely has a little something (or a lot) for everyone.

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Dearest Lovebirds & Those Who Fly Solo

tumblr_lm30zh7YUA1qzu0qfo1_400Dearest Lovebirds & Those Who Fly Solo,

Ah, February. That annoying little month when it’s still too cold outside to really be enjoyable; the stores are taken over by everything heart-shaped, red, or pink, and cheaply gaudy; and then, thankfully, it’s all over halfway through this shortest of months. I could take to my soapbox about the self-deprecation inspired by such a ridiculous holiday, but instead I’ll encourage us all to take a more careful, dare I say loving, look at our relationships with ourselves.

It may seem obvious to say, but we are in lifelong relationships with ourselves. Why wouldn’t we want to prioritize this relationship above all others in our lives? As poet C. JoyBell C. wrote, “The person in life that you will always be with the most, is yourself. Because even when you are with others, you are still with yourself, too! When you wake up in the morning, you are with yourself, laying in bed at night you are with yourself, walking down the street in the sunlight you are with yourself. What kind of person do you want to walk down the street with? What kind of person do you want to wake up in the morning with? What kind of person do you want to see at the end of the day before you fall asleep? Because that person is yourself, and it’s your responsibility to be that person you want to be with.”

From approximately the age of twelve until just recently I wore the same ring every day. Never took it off. It was a poesy ring that I received as a birthday gift (after dropping endless hints that it was the only thing I wanted). I wore it with the words (vous et nul autre – French for “you and no other”) facing me. I posed it in that direction as a reminder to put myself first. A visual promise that I was to go against my very nature and prioritize my relationship with myself. It was a private vow to take better care of myself than I do those around me. Through the years I’ve slowly gotten better at it. Just the other day my hand decided that I was done wearing it. I think I’m finally – finally – in a place that I don’t need that daily reminder.

Only through learning how to enjoy our own company, being able to delight in the stillness of self, are we able to truly know self-love. So take yourself out on a date. A nice date. Fancy, even. Take yourself out for a movie. Or to an art exhibit. And then, as songwriter/poet Tanya Davis wrote, “Take yourself out dancing, to a club where no one knows you, stand on the outside of the floor until the lights convince you more and more and the music shows you. Dance like no ones watching because they are probably not. And if they are, assume it is with best human intentions. The way bodies move, genuinely move to beats, after-all, is gorgeous and affecting.” Gorgeous and affecting. Yes.

Have a hot romp with yourself. Light candles. Put on something that makes you feel sexy. Take your time. Do yourself good. Maybe even try out something new – I would love to offer up a juicy list of examples but since this is a PG-rated column, I’ll simply suggest that the internet is your friend. As are the helpful folks who work at fun, local stores such as Frisky Business. Or, something I like to do, read erotica aloud when you’re all alone. Check out my blog for some succulent snippets. The possibilities are endless, really, when you commit to dating yourself.

None of this means you’re cheating on your partner if you happen to be coupled. Just the opposite, in fact. Once you learn how to focus on yourself, there will magically be more than enough energy to share with those you love. For instance, I used to go to this yoga class regularly and noticed another woman who went to every class too. One day I was walking out after her and heard two ecstatic voices call out, “Mommy! Mommy!” as they flung their arms out in her direction. Her beautiful kids were just as delighted to see her as she was them. This simple interaction stayed with me. It led me to wonder: What would our world look like if all mothers took such good care of themselves? What if they were centered in themselves such that they had plenty to give healthily and happily to their children?

Let’s all take this approach and work on filling ourselves up first. So much so that the love can overflow all around us, spilling over onto those we love so dearly.

In (self) lust, love, and all things woo,

Kiki

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Squealing with Delight

securedownloadI’m terribly delighted to be kicking off the blog tour today for The Big Book of Bondage: Sexy Tales of Erotic Restraint published by Cleis Press and edited by the prominent princess of pornographic prose, Alison Tyler. I also have a story in this collection (entitled “Just Deserts”) but you won’t be hearing about it just yet. Our fearless editor had the brilliant notion to have various writers review each other’s work from this captivating anthology. I couldn’t help but select Kristina Lloyd’s intriguing piece “The Bondage Pig.”

A story about a bondage pig? Yes. Yes, indeed.

I love this story. All the more because it’s not my typical cup of tea and yet it still sucked me in. Decidedly so. I read book reviews all the time in which the reviewer lays out a caveat about kink not being their thing and then goes on to review a bondage book. If their preface is true, then why not review a book about vanilla sex? Or gardening? Of course you’re not going to be able to find something hot if it’s not something you’re into. That’s always been my philosophy. But “The Bondage Pig” threw all that out the window for me (and subsequently now I have higher expectations of those writers to open themselves up doing better reviews).

It’s true. At the heart of it all I’m a very dirty girl. Quite filthy-minded, actually. So I had a great appreciation for this story from the get-go. (The title undoubtedly piqued my curiosity.) Lloyd starts off innocently enough – a bored couple missing their sexual spark. Hard to imagine that this simple premise quickly weaves its way into being to the dirtiest tale in the book. (Yes, I said it. Quite high praise coming from me.)

One of my favorite passages appears in the story before we’ve even been introduced to the pig. The narrator is jilling off in a warm bath: “When I came, someone paused the universe. I shattered into a million little pieces and was blasted across time, at one with the dinosaurs and space travel and everything in between. Angels danced in my thighs, their revelry light, perfect and joyous.” I so appreciate beautifully crafted writing, especially in erotica. Not to mention interwoven threads of woo. But the rest of this story gets much more down and dirty – my very favorite kind of writing. As illustrated in the following excerpt:

“‘She’s going to come,’ Ralph said. ‘Just a little more. Keep going.’

I focused on the bondage pig, on its cantilever trays and stout, buttoned haunches. The color of the leather seeped into my mind. Such a beautiful color, red-black, like blood and ink. Jack slid a bunch of fingers into me, screwing left-right-left when my swollen tightness resisted him. I wailed to feel the fullness of him. His tongue skittered on my point and then, oh, I was gone, lost, tumbling though crimson skies as my orgasm pulsed and clenched. Over and over I fell, six distinct waves of pleasure coursing through my body.

‘Good girl,’ said Ralph.

Jack knelt up, his mouth shining with my juices. ‘Fuck,’ he breathed. ‘I felt that.’ I stared at him through my post-orgasmic daze. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. His lips still gleamed and his eyes were heavy and serious, altered by lust.”

I could pull passages out of this story all day but I don’t want to give away all the juiciest tidbits. (Such as when the narrator first becomes, ahem, acquainted with said pig.) You need to read it for yourself to fully appreciate how Lloyd sucks you into her twisted web of lust highlighting a bondage pig who is described in a myriad of ways including “grotesque,” “a Victorian curiosity,” “feral,” and “hung like a horse.”  I’ll just sum it up like this: A married couple and their boarder are enchanted by this treasured creature – lust-driven, truth be told. All three succumb to kinky temptations – first independently then the three coming together – all spurred on by the mystical sensations a pig has aroused in the air of their home. “This was the bondage pig who’d come to corrupt us, to drag us down a path of chaos and depravity. We weren’t to blame.”

Of course they weren’t.

Check out the rest of the tour in the coming days for this amazing book! Ms. Alison Tyler’s webpage boasts quite the impressive line-up and having devoured the majority of this delicious book already myself, I can only imagine what’s to come.

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