New release... Smut by the Sea 3

Smut by the Sea Volume 3 is with us just in time for summer holiday season! The perfect companion to lazy days on the beach...

Here's the blurb:

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

From exotic locales such as Croatia and Australia to the coastal caves of England, Smut by the Sea Volume 3 has it all. Whatever your interpretation of naughty seaside fun, there’s something nestling between the covers for you. Kinky role play, gorgeous artists, bobbing boats, sexy cougars, hunky hermits and more abound in this exciting collection of stories from erotica’s finest authors.

Did someone say kinky role play? Here's an excerpt from my story, A Hint of Piracy.

Smut by the Sea Volume 3, published by House of Erotica, is available at:

Amazon UK
Amazon.com
All Romance eBooks

Dungeon Crawl: A Hint of Piracy

Hello, crawlers and welcome to the dungeon this week. Apologies for my erratic participation, but those spuds don't water themselves, you know. I talk of my allotment, clearly. Anyway, as promised in my Smut by the Sea write-up, here is the extract I read, which is from A Hint of Piracy, contained in the forthcoming Smut by the Sea Volume 3. More news on that very soon. Happy crawling. 

*****

It wasn’t exactly what I was expecting when I sat Danny down in a quiet corner of a cosy pub and decided it was time to tell him I liked a little more than missionary in my sex life. He was way ahead of me, it turned out. And that’s how I came to be sitting there in our room in a rather sumptuous guesthouse, wearing a pirate hat from a kids’ costume, perched on an antique oak chest and sipping tea from a fine bone china cup. And that’s how Danny came to be curled up inside said chest, while I scoffed all the complimentary biscuits.

It started in Britain’s Smallest House: that hunch that he had something to tell me as much as I had my own confession to make. “I quite like small spaces,” Danny said, peering into a storage space filled with folded blankets beneath the bench seating. I didn’t know if he was talking about the house we were visiting or actually referring to the cupboard.

I’d wondered aloud how anyone could live here for real. “It’s ridiculously tiny, even for me,” I said. I’m five two. In heels. “It’s cute and everything, but there’s no room to... swing a cat.”

“Swing a cat, huh?” he murmured, still staring into that narrow hole, holding up the hinged lid that doubled as fireside seating. And my mind ran through a series of half-formed images that started with actual small, furry animals being swung in the manner of a Monty Python sketch and ended in the brig of a sailing ship, a bit like the one moored off the quayside that had been done up for the pirate festival the following weekend. I was the captain, of course, in this pleasant little fantasy, and Danny was my captive, of course. Although in the couple of months I’d known him I hadn’t yet worked out how to convey the fact that my favourite view of him was when he was on his knees in front of me. And that I’d rather liked it that time he’d half-jokingly said, “Yes, mistress.”

When I was asked to go to Conwy to do a couple of travel pieces by a magazine I freelance for, I invited Danny along to make the most of the free digs. It was perhaps a little early for romantic weekends away, but this was semi-work. And, I thought, maybe a bit of “getting away from it all” would give me the opportunity to come clean. It’s not like I’m a raging dominatrix or anything, but I really needed to find the time to mention that I had certain preferences, before our internet dating relationship turned any more serious. Certain preferences I had never found myself in quite the right relationship to express before, and which I certainly wasn’t ready to add to my online profile (Interests: tying men to my bed and fucking their brains out). But I had this inkling Danny might not be so very shocked at the things I hadn’t listed.

“You look like you want to climb in there yourself,” I said. I mean, seriously, the man was staring intently into that dark space while there was a queue of folk outside waiting to pay their £1.50 each to explore this curious tourist attraction. It’s so tiny—officially the smallest house in Great Britain as verified by The Guinness Book of Records no less—that only two or three people are allowed in at a time.

“Hmm,” he said, glancing at me, with that look. I mean, That Look, with capitals and bells and knobs on. That Look that might have meant, “Please keep me in a cage in your bedroom because I’d very much enjoy being your sex slave.” Or was it, “What the hell are you getting at, woman”?

“Ok, Mr Terse. We’d better get moving; there’s about a hundred people waiting to get in here. And if we’re doing the castle before I have that interview, we need to hurry.”

In fact, we were probably inside for ten minutes at most. It’s only two rooms, after all. And the narrow bed in the loft space creaked loudly. Yes, we tested that, me pushing him down for a quick cuddle and kiss the way you do when you’re still only weeks into a relationship that holds great promise. Back on the quayside, the breeze was pinging halyards against the steel masts of little yachts to play that classic seaside tune that’s usually accompanied by the squawks of herring gulls about to swoop on your fish and chips.

“I wonder what it’ll be like here next weekend when the festival’s on,” I said. “I think I prefer it now while it’s a bit quieter.”

“I dunno, it could be interesting. I wouldn’t mind being taken prisoner by a beautiful pirate captain.”

Hmm, wavelength alert. Was he on the same one as me? “Are you saying I’m not beautiful and cruel enough for you?”

“Beautiful enough, certainly, but you haven’t been very cruel to me. Yet.” Oh, how corny. He leaned over me for a kiss. And yet, despite his superior height and his broad shoulders, there was a tiny dip of his head that suggested something. Gentleness. Deference. Submission?

“No. Not yet.” I decided it was his turn to wonder. “That’s because we haven’t been to the castle dungeon yet.” Yeah, yeah, I know, it was all getting silly. He was there joking about being locked in confined spaces, flogged and tied to the mast of a pirate ship (or did I make that bit up?), while I was offering to be mean to him in the dungeon of a medieval castle. I should really have just come out and said it: “Danny, I would actually like to do all those things to you. For real. In fact, I have this pair of handcuffs at home that I ordered over the internet but then shoved to the back of my sock drawer because I was too embarrassed to even open the box. I’d very much like to see you wearing them.” I should have said it—although I’d perhaps have to make it clear I meant the cuffs and not the socks. But I was still worried we could be having a serious wavelength malfunction and he might have run away to escape my evil clutches.

I really didn’t want him to run away. He was too delicious for that, all dark eyes and floppy fringe and scruffy air about him even when he’s in a shirt and tie for work (Occupation: logistics manager and tea lackey). All squeezable and pliable and eager to please, especially with his tongue.

I strode off up the hill to the castle, leaving him to follow and hoping the sway of my hips was giving off just the right air of confident allure.

Anyway, the castle was busy on this sunny Saturday lunchtime and, of course, the dark, damp doorway to the lower levels looked highly inviting to a never-ending stream of kids and their weary parents. I snatched a quiet moment to back Danny into a gloomy corner. I stood so close I was penning him in—and he let me—and whispered, “So now I’ve got you in the dungeon, what should I do to you?”

He pressed his back into the damp stone and his fingers curled around the cold iron grid at his side that was blocking off some dangerous underground nook from accident-prone tourists. It was as if he’d very much like his wrist to be chained to that iron. Or maybe I was making things up again.
He only managed to whisper two words—two words that sent a rush of blood to my pussy—before we heard shrill voices getting closer and had to move on. “Dastardly things,” he said, in a delightfully breathy voice.

An InLinkz Link-up

Smut by the Sea Swim Team

Who's with me? I can't go to Scarborough and not have a little dip in the sea, preferably around high tide. The lifeguards seemed a little bemused last year when Tabitha Rayne and I wrestled ourselves into our cossies under towels and launched ourselves into the waves. That's Tabitha pictured... oh no, sorry, that's the Birth of Venus by Botticelli. Tabitha isn't joining us this year, sadly, but Anna Sky has already kindly offered to hold my towel.

Find out all about the Smut by the Sea event - happening this Saturday, June 14th, in Scarborough, UK - and pick up tickets at smutbythesea.co.uk. 

I'm also doing a reading and it's probably time I decided on a story. I think I'll pick an extract from the coming-very-soon More Smut for Chocoholics, which gives me a choice between some Aztec jungle femdom or two guys working in a brewery... I'll probably go for the brewery; you can't beat a pint of real ale. Here's the start of A Steamy Brew to give you a little taster....

“Here, new boy, try this,” Nigel says, holding out a handful of little brown nuggets and once again failing to remember my name even though I’ve been here three months now.

“What are they?”

“Taste one and see if you can guess.”

“Is this a trick? Is it actually edible?” Nigel’s always playing a joke on someone; he makes me nervous. Or maybe it’s the line of his jaw that makes me nervous. Or the thick hair on his forearms. Nigel usually disobeys his own brewery’s rules about covering up to avoid scalds or burns, instead shoving his sleeves up around his elbows. What is it about a bunched sleeve that I find so much hotter than fancy shirt cuffs?

“Of course it’s edible, would I tell you to eat something if it wasn’t edible?”

“Er, yeah, I think you would.”

“Ah, you got me there.” He reaches out his free hand and rubs his knuckles hard on my scalp, doing goodness knows what to my hair. At least I’ve learnt not to put gel on it when I’m bound to get a face full of hot vapours from the wort tun at some point during my working day. But his hand in my hair gives me that tight little feeling in my throat; it’s similar to trying to breathe through a mouthful of steam, to be honest. “I would, you’re right, but not in this case. This is edible. In fact it’s the food of the gods, it’s been venerated for centuries, millennia even, more precious than gold.”

“It doesn’t look like much. Looks like chopped up coffee beans or something. It’s not coffee, is it? I can’t stand the stuff.”

“It’s not coffee, but you’re not far off with the bean angle. Here, taste.”

He lifts a piece to my lips. And I start to wonder if being put on the rota to work the bank holiday was such a coincidence after all. Nigel just said it was my turn, that everyone has to work a couple a year. But it means it’s just me and him in the brewhouse today. And, as I wonder, I start to hope. Hope that perhaps he’s seen me looking at him with more than a passing glance. Hope that my gaydar is working and that he prefers blokes, and that he’s single, and that he’s open to opportunity and that he might prefer a little blond like me to all the chunks of manliness usually found swaggering around this place, chucking kegs about as if they were scatter cushions. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no weakling, but some of them lay it on a bit thick.

I part my lips and let him push the nugget inside my mouth, feeling a tingle where his fingers brush my skin. Christ, it’s been too long since I had a shag, I’m getting a semi over the feel of one square millimetre of another man’s skin on me. Admittedly, it’s a man I’ve been fantasising over, imagining him coming up behind me while I’ve got my face over one of the hot brew vessels.

He lets the piece of whatever it is go and pulls his hand away and he has this look of amusement on his face and I don’t know if it’s because of what I’m about to taste, or because he knows what’s going on in my head. And my crotch.

I roll it around my tongue but get nothing beyond realising that it’s hard as a nut.

“Bite it. Go on.”

God, he’s fucking with me. And God, I’m enjoying it. I bite.

And then I splutter. “Fuck, that’s disgusting.” I spit out the pieces into my palm. “I thought hops were bitter, but that. Fuck, it’s like eating burnt, I dunno, walnut shells or something.” I do that fl-fl-fl-fl spitting thing where you try to get every last speck of something out of your mouth, but still I can feel the grit of it on my tongue.

It's nearly here... Smut by the Sea

Hello, long time no see and all that (the joys of holidays without internet access). I'm bringing you some info from Victoria Blisse today all about the Smut by the Sea event in Scarborough on June 14. I'll be there, I've agreed to do a reading (eek) and I'll post again soon about what I plan to get up to. But for now, over to Victoria:

Smutty fun by the Sea in Scarborough.

Smut by the Sea on the 14^th June is the second time the smutters have taken over Scarborough library. Last summer we had a fabulous time check out the photos and blogs here and this year we’ve got even more for you to enjoy.

Sessions from  bestselling authors Victoria Blisse, KD Grace and Lucy Felthouse on different aspects of erotic writing set you up in the morning. Start with inspiration with Victoria, then KD Grace helps you write better erotica by finessing sex. The last workshop of the day gives you the tools you need to wow editors and get your stories accepted and will be led by Lucy Felthouse.

After a free lunch (oh yes, such a thing exists!) we’ll be enjoying the Reading Slam, short, sexy snippets from some of the smutty authors in attendance.

You’ll get tasters of some of the best erotica and erotic romance in the country and their books will be available to purchase at the book stall too.

All day you’ll be able to browse the stalls in the side room, check out Steph’s Ann Summer’s goodies, hot books from attending authors or pick something unique up from our craft stall. Then of course you’ll want to have a go on our unique erotic tombola –  the prizes are truly thrilling! 

Tickets are selling fast, but there are some left. So what are you waiting for? Join us for lots of smut and laughter at Scarborough library on the 14^th June from 9.30am.

Quotes from last year’s Smut by the Sea Attendees:

“In between the readings there was another key component that made SBTS such a fantastic experience, and that was the chance to chat, to share ideas, to meet people face-to-face who we had only ever talked to online before and to discover that they were just as amazing face-to-face as they are on social media.” KD Grace

“For an amateur erotica author and long-time consumer of smut, the day was a perfect mix of readings, more formal Q&A but also the chance to mingle with all the participants and ask questions. I was blown away by how friendly everyone was, and how much advice I was given.” Anna Sky

“So, lovely people, smut, PVC, fish and chips and ice cream – how good a day is that?!!” Slave Nano

Oh my, I'm late...

...For a very important date. The announcement of my Sunday Snog winner, in fact. I went off on a weekend away in deepest, darkest northern England and forgot that this would stop me picking my winner. Even my mobile signal was patchy, although the view of the Milky Way at night was pretty damn clear. 

I know you're all dying to know what highly scientific method I used to pick a winner. Well, I wrote all the names in biro on the flesh of a willing sex slave before beating him to see which one looked the reddest. Oh, no, I just made that up. I wrote all the names on little bits of paper, fed them into a willing sex slave's mouth, then waited to see which one was still legible when he spat them out. Oh, no, that was just a dream. I got someone to wank over the bits of paper and decided which got the directest hit... Ah, no again. I put the bits of paper in my teapot, shook them up a bit and pulled one out whilst looking in the opposite direction and humming a little fanfare sort of noise. Yes, that would be it. I'm  not sure where the fanfare came from. But I can never think of teapots again without thinking about Slave Nano's reading at this year's Smut by the Sea event. He read this excerpt out to us, shared here on Giselle Renarde's blog, the unabridged, uncensored and highly amusing version. 

Anyway, fanfare please... The winner is Anonymous. Ha, that's disappointed you all, hasn't it? But thank you to Anonymous, who said 'I've been wanting to read this anthology!' for your comment. Your wish is about to come true via the modern wonder of email. Hope you enjoy it. 

Incidentally, the 100th Sunday Snog event has raised £234.72 for Medecins San Frontieres, smashing the £100 target to smithereens. (Now there's a word.) A big thank you to Victoria Blisse for organising it all.

100th Sunday Snog!

Well, this may be my first Sunday snog, but it’s Victoria Blisse’s 100^th. Lucky her. And to celebrate, she’s raising some money for charity and organising a bumper giveaway. She’s already raised more than a hundred quid for Medecins Sans Frontieres and she’s rounded up dozens of authors to give away some freebies on their blogs.

I’m going to give away an ebook copy of Smut by the Sea Volume 2. Comment on this post for your chance to win. I’ll use some highly scientific method to pick a winner if I actually get more than one commenter! You’ve got until midnight on September 27^th to enter. And if you’d like to go off and have a chance of winning dozens more prizes, then all the authors taking part are listed on Victoria’s Blisse Kiss page.

This snog is taken from my story in Smut by the Sea Vol 2, Stuck on the Edge. Gareth and Claire's last paddle in the sea before they’re meant to be going home from their little island hideaway is getting a little out of hand:

Gareth swam up beside me, the arms of his t-shirt wrapping round his biceps. I put my feet down, feeling soft sand between my toes instead of shingle out this deep, and let him get his arms around me. You’d think I might have been getting used to the temperature by now, but in fact I felt like my lips might be turning blue. He kissed them. And somehow his lips were still warm. As mine melted against his, it felt like the rest of my body was a marble statue. Only my lips were real, flesh and blood, pulsing with heat. His tongue was hot too. He darted it out and I opened my mouth to let him in. My throat felt tight and deep within my frozen belly a little spark went pop.

I may have moaned a little. He drew back and said, “You did once tell me you fancied sex in the sea. And somehow we’ve never got round to it.”

“Are you kidding me? Sex? Here? Now?” My voice rose in pitch until I was sure it was audible only to bats. I was shaking and my mind was already wondering how long it would take for Gareth to run to the warden’s cabin, for the warden to radio for help, for a helicopter to arrive, winch me up and transport me to the nearest hospital to be treated for hypothermia. And frostbite. And crazy, irrational lust. My nipples were already rock hard because of the cold, but now they were tingling too. Because of the lust.

The long and the short of it: Part 2

Okay, I give up. 

Last September, I wrote about a novel I'd started work on but was struggling to progress because of all the short stories I was writing. I now have another novel and novella started, but, guess what, I'm struggling to make any progress because of all the short stories I'm writing. 

So, I've decided to stop worrying about it, admit that I actually love doing the shorts and let the longer stories sit. I'm going go all taoist on this one and just go with the flow. I'm sure there'll come a point at some time in the future when I look at my list of stories and realise there are no current calls for submissions that have tickled my fancy. And in that natural lull, I will sit down and concentrate on something longer. Honest. 

The thing is, short stories are great for trying out new things, playing around and having fun. (Which sounds like a recipe for a good night in, too...) These are the calls I have been unable to ignore at the moment, although meeting some of the looming deadlines is going to be a close one while that thing some people call real life (not to mention the odd good night in) keeps getting in the way:

Men of the Manor (Cleis Press, ed Rob Rosen) August 1st.
Romance between wealthy aristocrats and their hard-working estate staff with a pre-WWI backdrop. I have a kitchen garden in mind.

The Big Book of Domination (Cleis Press, ed DL King) August 1st.
I need to explain? I reckon the title says it all. And it says: 'Get writing - now!'

Locked Up (Storm Moon Press) August 31st
Men. And chastity devices. What's not to like? Scroll down through the calls to find this one.

Sapphic Smut in the City (House of Erotica, ed Lucy Felthouse and Kev Mitnik) January 1st
I'm not really a city kinda girl. But I have a great idea from a visit to Paris years ago, that gives a very different view of life in the city of love.

Smut by the Sea vol 3 (House of Erotica, ed Lucy Felthouse and Victoria Blisse) March 31st
I am, however, a seaside kind of woman. And my writer's brain is brimming with ideas for coastal fun. 

And if you're very quick, there's still time to get a short in to Alison Tyler's call for bondage stories. She wants 500 to 1,000-word pieces and has extended the deadline to July 25th.

Smut by (and in) the Sea

I read from one of my stories on Saturday evening. Out loud. To actual, real people, right there in the same room as me. And it was fun. People even sniggered in the right places. I’d do it again (something I’ll probably regret saying at some point in the future). It was probably a good job, though, that my story was one of my milder offerings. 

I was at Smut by the Sea in sunny Scarborough, the first event of its kind that I’ve attended and I read from my story in SbtS volume 2. Fortunately, I work in a politically incorrect environment which makes me perfectly happy to utter four-letter words out loud without embarrassment.

A fair few people know that I write smut. Very few know about it in any more detail. A colleague who I asked to do a wee proofread of my mini short story collection, Miranda’s Tempest (blatant plug alert), for me is probably still recovering from the experience. So it was fabulous to be in an environment in which people could talk about their work openly and with pride. It was good to actually meet people I’ve chatted to on Facebook or Twitter. I even eventually won something on the tombola.

And in honour of the theme of the event, and of my story in the anthology, Tabitha Rayne and I did take a dip in the sea, although she looked far more glamorous than me in her itsy bitsy polka dot bikini. I felt more like one of those stoutly built ladies who swim the channel clad in granny cossies and smeared in grease. The lifeguards stood watch, with a somewhat incredulous look on their faces, after telling us it would be freezing. ‘It’s not that cold,’ I said as we emerged from the waves like Bond babes.

‘That’s because you’ve gone numb,’ one replied. And he was right. But it didn’t stop me joining a local group of sea swimmers the next morning. The hardy folk at Sea Swim go out every Saturday and Sunday from May to September for a good long swim. With them, I got a different view of Scarborough and the neighbouring coastline, literally from sea level. They were even literary and artistic – reading poetry and viewing Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus before the dip and penning their own poems or snippets about a Yorkshire Venus afterwards. To be honest, by then my numb hands were shaking a bit too much for legible handwriting. But there’s got to be a smutty story out there about The Venus of Scarborough.

The mock pirate ship that took holidaymakers up and down the bay also made me think of Odysseus’ travels by sea, particularly the brave hero lashed to the mast so he can hear the song of the Sirens without being lured to his death on the rocks. I wrote about his wife Penelope and her 108 annoying suitors in the final story in Miranda’s Tempest (blatant plug alert), but maybe it’s time to turn my attention to her husband...

A big thank you to Victoria and Kev Blisse for all their hard work in organising the event and to all those who helped on the day.

Oh I do like to be beside the seaside...

It's nearly time for Smut by the Sea, which takes place in Scarborough, UK, this Saturday.

There's an amazing line-up of erotica authors who'll be reading from their work, including.... Janine Ashbless, KD Grace, Lucy Felthouse, Victoria Blisse, Liv Honeywell, Lexie Bay, Slave Nano, Ruby Kiddell, Ashley Lister, Tabitha Rayne, Gemma Parkes, Rachel Kincaid and Jennifer Denys, a special show to launch Slave Nano's book Adventures in Fetishland and a Q&A on how to write erotica and get it published. There's also an erotic marketplace where you can buy books, sex toys and cake, amongst other things (I can't decide which is my top priority. Decisions, decisions.)

Entry during the day is free. Yes, you read that right. Free. 

In the evening there's the launch party for Smut by the Sea Volume 2, with readings, a Q&A, a burlesque show with Moorita and a goodie bag full of, well... goodies. Tickets and all the info you need at the Smut by the Sea website.

I fully intend to have a swim in the North Sea while I'm there. I've been googling and I gather that South Bay is the place to be. I'm actually in the picture above, a little black dot in the Irish Sea. Here's an excerpt from my Smut by the Sea Vol 2 story, in which Gareth and Claire are larking about off the north-west tip of Wales...

Gareth aimed another splash at me, but the foamy water missed. Instead, he stumbled on the stones. He fell like he was playing some kind of extreme Twister, trying to put down hands and feet to keep his clothes out of the water. It didn’t work. He went in, arse first.

“Shit and bollocks,” he said with a sigh.

I laughed. That proved a mistake. In a provoking-him kind of way. He jumped up, water streaming, and lunged for me like a rugby player. I did that crazy kind of run where you try to lift your feet out of the water to go faster without splashing yourself up to the eyeballs. It didn’t work. He grabbed my waist and flung me into the deeper water. I thought his “shit and bollocks” something of an understatement. The cold took my breath away. Literally. My lungs emptied in one great gasp of shock. The Irish Sea in May. It’s not warm.

“I. Cannot. Believe. You. Just. Did. That,” I stuttered, teeth chattering.

“Oh stop being a wimp,” he grinned, splashing me some more just to make sure. There was probably a tiny spot of my left eyebrow that still wasn’t wet. 

Read Your Smut However You Want! by Lucy Felthouse

Lucy Felthouse is visiting today with some great news about Smut by the Sea Volume 2. Over to you, Lucy...

Firstly, I want to say a huge thank you to Tilly for letting me loose on her site today. Thanks, Tilly!

So, Smut by the Sea Volume 2 has been out for a little while now, so I apologise for being so slow in getting this guest post out, but things have been incredibly busy – but I’m not complaining. I’d rather be busy than bored!

Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that you can now read your Smut by the Sea Volume 2 however you want to—i.e. eBook or print. Yes, I said print! :D Most of the eBook sites now have the anthology available, but what’s even more exciting is that if you want a delicious print copy  in your hand (I’ve got ten here ready for Smut by the Sea the event on 22nd June—they’re gorgeous), you can bag one, or two, or fifty... we really don’t mind. Just head on over to Amazon UK or Amazon US (links here: http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk/published-works/smut-by-the-sea-volume-2/) and grab your copy for an absolute bargain price.

And don’t forget to let us know what you think—us authors and editors thrive on feedback, you know...

Happy Reading!

Lucy x

*****

Excerpt from On the Big Wheel by Lucy Felthouse

Brigit loved the seaside. She always had, probably because visiting it was a rarity. Living in the centre of England meant that even the nearest seaside town was over an hour and a half away—and the nice resorts even further.

Which was why her boyfriend, Allen, proposed a long weekend in Brighton. He knew how fond she was of the seaside. Unsurprisingly, she agreed delightedly.

“It’s a long way,” she said. “But it doesn’t matter. We’d never go anywhere if we lamented the length of the journey.”

As it happened, the travelling wasn’t too bad. Miraculously the M1 was clear all the way down to the M25—and even that notorious motorway wasn’t experiencing its usual havoc. A straight shot south on the M23, then the A23 took them towards Brighton, and they navigated the one-way systems and lack of road signs and—eventually—found their hotel.

“Wow,” Brigit said, stretching luxuriously after getting out of the car, “that didn’t take as long as I thought. Shall we check in, dump our bags and go and explore?”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Allen replied with a grin.

They slammed their respective car doors, grabbed the bags from the boot and headed into the hotel. Fifteen minutes later, after using the toilet and freshening up, they were back outside.

“Nice choice of hotel, babe. I like it.” Brigit said.

“I’m glad. I researched it well,” Allen replied.

“The bed looks nice and comfy.”

“Well, I’m sure we’ll be able to give it a decent road test later.” He winked at her, and got a slap on the arm for his trouble.

“You’ve got a one-track mind, you have.”

“Well, what do you expect when I’ve got a girlfriend that looks like you?”

She giggled. “Charmer.”

“That’s me. Okay, now I’m back in good books,” Allen said, “what do you want to do? Now, I mean. Not at bedtime.” He waggled his eyebrows.

Brigit stuck her tongue out at him before replying. “I dunno. Just look around I guess. Get our bearings. See what there is to do around here.”

They walked hand-in-hand towards the seafront, then along it in the direction of the pier. They passed the burnt out shell of the West Pier, and Brigit wondered aloud whether it would ever be rebuilt or demolished. Or would the blackened skeleton be left there forevermore, a reminder of what once was.

Soon, they drew close to Brighton Pier. Brigit turned to Allen with a grin.

“What?” he said, then followed her almost manic gaze down the length of the pier, towards a building with fake turret-type things and some very real flags. He sighed. He couldn’t be sure from here, but he thought it was bound to be the amusement arcade. “Oh, you want to go in there, do you? I wonder why?” His voice was laden with sarcasm in his last sentence.

“You know damn well why. Come on!” Brigit tugged him along the last few metres of the pavement and onto the wooden slats of the pier. “Ooh, we can have fish and chips when we come out, if you want.”

*****

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.

Contains stories from Victoria Blisse, Tilly Hunter, Rachel Randall, Giselle Renarde, Tamsin Flowers, Lucy Felthouse, Kate Britton, Jillian Boyd, Bel Anderson, Cass Peterson, Delyth Angharad, T C Mill, Erzabet Bishop, Tenille Brown and Annabeth Leong.

Buy links: http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk/published-works/smut-by-the-sea-volume-2/

*****

Lucy Felthouse is a very busy woman! She writes erotica and erotic romance in a variety of subgenres and pairings, and has over seventy publications to her name, with many more in the pipeline. These include Best Bondage Erotica 2012 and 2013, and Best Women's Erotica 2013. Another string to her bow is editing, and she has edited and co-edited a number of anthologies. She owns Erotica For All, and is book editor for Cliterati. Find out more at http://www.lucyfelthouse.co.uk. Join her on Facebook and Twitter, and subscribe to her newsletter at: http://eepurl.com/gMQb9

Victoria Blisse Talks Smut

Well, what a pickle. I've got Smut editor extraordinaire Victoria Blisse here today and I'm sure she'll be expecting cake. But I'm out! I'm over at Erzabet Bishop's blog with a mini interview of my seaside favourites. Big thanks to both of them.

Here, Victoria explains what she's looking for when she's choosing a hot seaside story:

What makes a good beach story?

Lucy Felthouse and I have edited two volumes of Smut by the Sea now and I’d like to think we have managed to find some top quality pieces of erotic fiction based on the coast. Here are some of the things we look for.

Setting:

This may sound a bit obvious, but we need to know the story is set by the sea. We don’t want a story that could be set anywhere, we want signs that it is near the ocean. Sea birds, fun fairs, sand, arcades, ice creams, the scent of salt on the air are all examples of things we like to see.

Emotion:

Evoking a feeling of holiday fun is what the Smut by the Sea anthologies are all about.

All successful stories need to engage your emotions, so this kind of goes without saying. However, with all the Smut anthologies we’re looking for a light-hearted feel that makes sex fun and this is particularly essential in the seaside stories.

We want our readers to be transported to the coast, to feel the excitement of being on holiday. We love stories that make us feel like we’re in a very particular place, where when you read them you feel like you’re seeing all the sights, smelling all the scents and feeling the wind whipping in your hair.

Hot, hot, hot!

I’m not talking about the weather, many of the Smut by the Sea stories are set in the cold or the wet and are thoroughly brilliant. No, the kind of heat we’ve looked for has been sexual. We want hot loving and lots of it. The more ingenious, the better!

If you’ve got a bit of all the above, you’ve got a good seaside story. If you’d like to read lots of such stories pick up Smut by the Sea Volume 1 http://victoriablisse.co.uk/books/smut-by-the-sea and Volume 2.

http://victoriablisse.co.uk/books/smut-by-the-sea-vol-2

Here’s a snippet from my Story, Honeymoon Suite, which appears in Smut by the Sea Volume 2 http://victoriablisse.co.uk/books/smut-by-the-sea-vol-2

“I might as well confess all,” I sighed. “Come in a minute.” I ducked behind him when he stepped forward and closed the door.

I was encouraged to see he didn’t look too scared. Confused, yes but he even managed to wear that well.

“I’m not a lesbian,” I blurted. “And neither is Sam.”

Ben still looked dazed. I took the Kindle from his hands and put it down on a side table, then sat down on the edge of the bed.

“We’re not even married. She’s just my mate. “

“O--kay,” Ben exhaled. “Erm, why do I need to know that?”

“Because you work here, and I won this holiday as a honeymoon and Sam and I have been lying about being a couple so we could take advantage of that prize.”

“Oh,” Ben sat on the chair opposite the end of the bed. “Well, there’s two things you should know.” He leant forward, rested his arms along his knees and he looked directly at me. I wilted under his gaze. I was mentally packing my bags before he even said a word.

“Firstly, I’m an employee so honestly, I don’t care what you do as long as you don’t complain about it to me or make a complaint about me. Then secondly it doesn’t matter anyway. The company gives out quite a few of these holidays and as long as they’re taken they don’t really care if you’re married or not.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“Well that’s a relief, I can tell you,” I giggled as the anxiety lifted, holding on to my chest to steady myself after the good news.

“I’m glad to have been of help,” Ben smiled. “Anyway, my shift just finished so I’m off for the night.”

“Oh, right. Well thanks for bringing my Kindle back for me.” I don’t know whether it was the heady relief that gave me the bravery to carry on or if it was just the presence of a highly handsome man in my bedroom but I managed to sputter out an invitation.

“Look, I’ve got this huge bottle of champagne, a basket of fruit and a licence to call room service. Would you like to join me? You know, as a thank you.”

“Really, we’re not meant to erm, fraternise with the customers.” He coughed.

“Oh right, well, yes, then, well…erm.” I was completely embarrassed until he stopped me with his next sentence.

“But I’m off duty so I don’t give a fuck.”

“Ha, brilliant,” I laughed. “You pop the cork and I’ll order some...how do you fancy pizza?”

He nodded, stood and went over to pick up the champagne. “I’m easy,” he said, “you can go on top if you like –I mean choose what goes on top.” He winked. Was he flirting with me?

I shook my head and reached over to pick up the phone.

“Hi, yes I’d like a large pizza sent to my room, cheese and tomato will be fine, thanks.”

A pop and a fizz indicated the champagne bottle was open.

“Here you go.” Ben passed me a glass. “To your good health.”

“And yours,” I replied, clinking my glass with his then taking a short sip of the madly bubbling liquid. “Shall we sit out on the balcony?”

“Why not?”

I followed him out into the cool evening breeze, drink in hand. I was completely absorbed in the moment and had all but forgotten I was wearing nothing but my lightest nightie.

“I never grow weary of watching a Caribbean sunset,” Ben sighed. I walked over to lean against the balustrade next to him.

“It’s very beautiful,” I responded, looking over the beach and the sea, tinted orange, red and peach from the glow of the disappearing sun. “How long have you been out here?”

“A few years.”

“Don’t you miss home?”

“Occasionally,” Ben nodded, “but I’m mostly happy here.”

We slipped into silence. The world around hummed with noise, the slap of water on sand, the low hum of faraway conversation and laughter and the rustle of light breeze through palm trees.

I was thinking hard. How does a person go about seducing another? All I wanted to do was throw myself into his arms and kiss him but I was pretty sure that you had to build up to that kind of thing. How do you flirt? I’d never been very good at it. I was always surprised when a guy showed any interest in me at all.

As I thought and didn’t pay attention to what I was doing, my elbow slipped on the polished wood and knocked into his, throwing me completely off balance.

“Whoa, steady there.” He turned to face me and I fell into him, tossing the contents of my glass all over his front.

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry.” I found my feet and steadied myself. I looked into his eyes and words dried up in my mouth. I didn’t worry about my wet chest butting up against his. It felt quite good, actually. He took my champagne glass from my hand and set it down on the table beside us. He didn’t let his gaze leave mine, not even for a second. The tension built. I gulped. He kissed me.

My eyes widened in shock at first then I closed them as I sank into the heat of the kiss. Ben held me tightly, our wet chests rubbing together through damp layers of cotton. He stroked my back as I desperately gripped onto his hips and our mouths pressed into one another determinedly. I was aware of a vague knocking, but I had assumed it was my heart or maybe my knees giving way beneath me.

“The pizza,” Ben gasped and pulled away. “You jump into bed, I’ll get it.”

Smut guest - Bel Anderson

I have fellow smut writer Bel Anderson with me for a virtual cuppa today, so over to her...

I’m thrilled to have a story, ‘The Beach House,’ in the brand new Smut by the Sea - available at All Romance, Amazon UK and Amazon.com.

The inspiration for the story came from two sources – the location was inspired by a childhood holiday and the male love-interest is pretty much based on my first ever lover. 

When I was about seven years old, my parents, sister and I stayed in a holiday cottage belonging to friends of the family in Lessingham, Norfolk. I don’t have great memories about the cottage itself – my abiding memory is that there were ear-wigs in residence and I used to fall asleep with my fingers in my ears, afraid that they’d crawl in! What I really remember are the dunes – miles and miles of them – and the rolling, grey North Sea. It was windy and wild and it stirred something in my soul. It has been the basis of two other, non-erotic, stories as well, one of which was published in a women’s magazine. I’ve tweaked the cottage and made it a sort of glorified beach hut for the purposes of this story, but the wildness of that part of the coast remains un-tweaked.

And onto the man… he wasn’t a childhood sweetheart but I was only seventeen and, yes, he broke my heart. He was five years older, wore a suit, smelt of aftershave and knew his way around a woman’s body. I consider myself lucky to have had him as my first lover because he taught me to enjoy my body with confidence and treated me like a woman. He had hair the colour of a red-setter’s coat, smiling green-blue eyes and he used to make me laugh. He was also a dreadful snob and had been brought up as though he was one of the aristocracy, which he wasn’t. I was too lowly to even meet his mother. Still, the great thing about memory is that you can be selective – and I have selected everything that was gorgeous and sexy about him for this story.

Here’s a small taste:

I step over the threshold and he reaches past me to flick the light switch, producing an electric-shock-type reaction from me as his arm brushes my shoulder and nothing at all from the bulb in the ceiling.

“Maybe the electricity’s off,” he says, flicking the switch a couple of times for good measure.

It is. The old card-meter is card-less. Bang goes any vision I may have been entertaining of a cosy fire and us writhing naked on the rug in front of it. I remind myself that it was never going to happen anyway; only in my filthy mind. In any case, if there still is a rug, it’ll be full of dust and goodness only knows what else.

“Oh well.” He looks at me, his green eyes clear and so, so beautiful in the half-light of the hallway. I make a snap decision. I reach up to touch his face and then slip my fingers slowly into the luxurious thickness of his hair. I stand up on tiptoe and I pull his head down to mine. He doesn’t resist. His breath, warm and clean, mingles with my own as his lips part and slowly, tentatively, find mine. A small moan of lust escapes me as his hot tongue slides delicately, almost politely, between them. I return the pressure as my chest heaves against his and suddenly he’s devouring me, his hands roaming from my hair to my face, to my throat and back again. I bury my fingers in handfuls of his thick hair, stroke the plane of his cheek, finger the smooth line of his jaw; everything I’ve been longing to touch from the moment I saw him this afternoon. I close my eyes and let all thoughts fall away. I just want to feel.

Bel has previously been published in anthologies by Xcite books, has recently had stories published in Smut Alfresco and  Smut by the Sea Volume 2. She is working on a non-erotic novel and also an anthology of erotic stories.

You can find her blog here: http://belandersonwrites.blogspot.com  and her work here:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Smut-Sea-Absolute-Erotica-ebook/dp/B00CFP1W5U/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1368034428&sr=1-2&keywords=Smut+by+the+Sea

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Smut-Alfresco-Absolute-Erotica-ebook/dp/B00BL6RF0K/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1368034521&sr=1-1&keywords=Smut+Alfresco

http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=ntt_athr_dp_sr_3?_encoding=UTF8&field-author=Bel%20Anderson&search-alias=books-uk&sort=relevancerank

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Dead-Sexy-Paranormal-Erotic-Anthology/dp/1908086505/ref=sr_1_5?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1363018292&sr=1-5

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Dead-Sexy-paranormal-stories-ebook/dp/B009YLRHEI/ref=sr_1_6?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1363018292&sr=1-6

http://www.xcitebooks.com/results.html?keyword=Bel+Anderson