Their phone torches pinged off the branches, sometimes finding the blackness of the voids in between. They picked their way through the gravestones, the edges(read more…)
Anaïs Nin’s Little Birds is an erotic short story collection which has been sitting on my shelf for some time, patiently waiting for me to discuss(read more…)
There’s something about every room I wander into that excites me, makes me aroused, just as if the softest of paintbrushes was running over my flesh, brushing the tips of my nipples with its tender sable. I have to slip my hand beneath my top and touch them through my bra to check, the feeling is so convincing. There they are, erect and willing me into each room, this feeling of arousal spreading, brushing my belly into knots and transferring the feeling between my legs as I realise what it is that affects me so: it is the smell of you.
If you like your erotic reading imbued with the literary, coated in metaphor and dripping sumptuous words, then I heartily recommend One Day the Devil:(read more…)
I love the readers of my blog, I really do. Without you, I would be throwing my naughty words out into the ether and hearing(read more…)
My aunt died very recently. I have very strong memories of her. She was often present in my childhood, and, apart from my mum, she(read more…)
I find that I am much happier and able to communicate better when I feel that I’m writing as Ina than I am when writing under my ‘other name’. It’s a weird piece of mindset that I feel stronger as a writer as Ina, less likely to care if I have a bad review (although don’t get me wrong, that’s still pretty horrible), and, most importantly, I feel more able to write as my authentic self using a name I wasn’t born with, married into, or adopted in any other way. What do I mean by that? I simply mean that, as Ina, I feel free to just… create. And to create my way.
“I’m absolutely terrified of being tied up.”
“The thought of a blindfold can make me physically sick.”
There: two things that only a very limited number of people know about me, and even less of them understand, or try to understand. Very few have watched the change in my demeanour and behaviour if I come into contact with items specifically designed to restrain, or the way I burn up and my eyes fill with tears at even the mention of a blindfold coming anywhere near me or, by extension, the very mention that it might.
She felt the Devil, long before he asked her to dance. Vivid dreams left her writhing, waking and finding herself on her stomach, breasts rubbing against the sheet, fingers already straying between her thighs. He took her in these night-time visions, claiming her, from her burning lips to her fiery cunt, growling against her flesh she would always be his, her desire the flames that licked his feet in supplication. She always awoke as he penetrated her – with his cock, his eyes, his dominance – and it left her dripping with molten need.