Cover for Jade A. Waters's The Assignment, Book One in Lessons in Control

The Assignment—Cover Reveal!

Hi everybody! I’ve been super quiet for a while, working away on my forthcoming Lessons in Control series—but today, I’m so enthralled to share all sorts of good stuff with you about my debut novel and the first book in the series, The Assignment. I’ve got news, excitement, and perhaps most importantly,




Wowsa! Yes, that’s right! I do! So, let’s start with the cover…

Cover of The Assignment by Jade A. Waters

OMG. I can’t even tell you how pumped I am over this cover! First, there’s the super snazzy lettering that I love. Then there’s the hot ass couple the design team picked to represent the book’s heroine, Maya Clery, and the entrancing hero Dean Sova, who leads her out into a world of all sorts of sexy fun. On top of that, Carina Press rocked my world by managing to capture a touch of the Bay Area water scenery in that glorious pier in the background. Why is this so awesome? The Assignment and all sequential books are set in this very area, where coastal views are everywhere—and since in real life I’m rather fond of these views, I wanted that love of the area to transfer into the books. I’m just so ecstatic you can catch a glimpse of that on the cover. Hurray!

Speaking of the Carina Press team, I need to say they’ve been phenomenal in every stage of working on this series, from editing to all the ins and outs of setting up for press time. I’m tickled to be working with them, and of course, as we get closer to the December release date (currently listed as December 12th, but these things sometimes fluctuate), I’ll have tons more news and info for you.

Okay. Before I get to the blurb (I know, I know, delayed gratification!), I wanted to let you know a few things. First, you can pre-order The Assignment on Amazon Kindle or at various other e-tailers linked below. I’d also love for you to mark it as “Want to Read” on Goodreads or add the book to your shelves over on Booklikes if you’re a member there. And, while I will be posting news about the series here on my blog, I’ll be sending out more info about various events and other exclusive ditties through my currently quarterly newsletter, which will launch at the end of September. Not a subscriber? I’d love for you to join the fun, and as a special incentive, I’m offering all those who have subscribed by September 15th, 2016 a free, never before published flash story (about 1100 words) by me. That’s right—free story for you if you subscribe by 9/15/16! I do hope you will, and those of you who are already subscribed will be able to get this freebie after the deadline, too. 🙂 Thanks so much for subscribing!

All right. I think it’s time for something that tells you about the story, hmm? Ready? Without further ado, I’m delighted to share the official blurb for book one in Lessons in Control, The Assignment:

What would you do if someone offered to fulfill your wildest fantasies?




Dean Sova is everything Maya Clery craves. From the first touch, their connection is intense. After leaving her troubled past behind, Maya thought she was happy—she is happy—but meeting Dean forces her to acknowledge dark needs she longs to explore yet has never had the courage to face.

Her perfect match, Dean encourages Maya to set loose the submissive urges inside her in a series of assignments intended to open her mind and test the limits of pleasure…but Maya isn’t sure she can fully let go of her inhibitions.

What would you do if someone offered to fulfill your wildest fantasies?

The answer seems obvious. You take the offer and hope the price isn’t too high.

Book one of Lessons in Control

This book is approximately 81,000 words

One-click with confidence. This title is part of the Carina Press Romance Promise: all the romance you’re looking for with an HEA/HFN. It’s a promise! Find out more at


Wow. I am way damn excited. Are you? I sure hope so! I promise I have more info to come, but in the meantime, if you’re intrigued and needing something to tide you over until the official release of The Assignment, please check out my Free Reads page to enjoy some of my work. And if you’re a visual person, feel free to hop on over to my Pinterest boards for some Maya and Dean visuals that inspired me as I worked. Also, make sure you’re following me on Twitter if you aren’t already since I’ll be posting lots of info there, too, and please subscribe to the newsletter—don’t forget, a free flash story awaits for anyone subscribed by September 15!

Finally, I hope you’ll pre-order The Assignment at any of the links below. Thanks so much for reading and joining me on this exciting journey, because—in case it’s at all unclear—I’m bouncing off the walls for the release of this series! Yippee!!

Pre-order book one, The Assignment, today:

(eISBN: 9781459293588)

nook logo




P.S. We are planning a blog tour for The Assignment starting somewhere around late November and running through late December-ish. Interested in taking part? I’d love it so much! Please send me an email at with your name and website address if this intrigues you, and I’ll get you info once I have it!


Cover of For the Men

“73A” — Out Now in For the Men!

Happy Monday, everyone!

Today is a fabulous day—it’s the official release of Rose Caraway‘s super sexy For the Men: And the Women Who Love Them anthology, and I’ve got a story in this one!

My story, “73A,” is one that’s particularly dear to me. It’s an older piece that definitely has some early Jadeisms all over it—it’s pure sass and ultra playful—and while at one point it was destined for another anthology, I couldn’t be more thrilled that it ended up in Rose Caraway’s hands. For one, she’s a joy to work with, time and time again. Two, the story is in second person—a form I don’t get to write in enough, but that I rather enjoy (especially since my start in erotica was sexy letters to special someones)—so I’m tickled to get it out into the world. And finally, the concept of this anthology is goddamn hot, hot, hot. It’s meant for you fellas, and of course, all of us ladies who love reading stories “meant” for the men. I happen to be one of these ladies, and this story is one I hope both the men and their lady loves will enjoy.Cover of For the Men

Now, I can blather on about the girl from 73A (her name, as you’ll see when you dive into the full story) and her sassy, sexual liberated self that leads her to entrance the painter on her patio, but instead, I’m going to share a snippet with you. The first line of this story popped into my head, and, well, I had to run with it. I hope you enjoy…

Excerpt from “73A”:

You’re working on my fence right now, and all I can think about is sucking your cock.

It’s a startling urge, seeing as how I’ve known you as long as you’ve been working on my patio fence—two days, plus the last three hours you’ve been squatting and bending, rolling that brush over the slats as deliberately as I want you to spread your hands over my body—but once you turn and smile at me through the glass door, it’s settled.

I check out your buddies, confirming both of them are hard at work, huffing and grunting on the far end of the enclosure. You gave one of them grief yesterday for not making enough love to his wife. Your logic was sound, and exactly the reason I called in sick today.

Well, it’s only half the reason. The rest is that I’ve realized watching you and thinking all these thoughts has left a wet spot on my couch.

I get up to change and you notice. You pause midway through your roller stroke, a coat of white over the top of the slat but a dejected shade of primer on the bottom. You peer through the glass like you’re probably not supposed to do on the job, but I don’t mind. Your eyebrows weave together, curious, so I dip my shoulder and wave with only my fingers. Once out of view I strip off my clothes, swapping my bra for one with little coverage and extra lace, then I cover it with a half-buttoned blouse. My damp yoga pants are replaced with a short skirt, and I decide panties are useless before heading back to my seat on the couch.

The wet spot there is somehow exhilarating, and I add to it a pussy already drenched in longing for what you might do if I invite you in.

You’ve gotten distracted by the other two men in my absence, but I’m ready now. I slide my legs apart a few inches, providing you a clear view should you turn around and pay attention again. I lower my hand, caressing the short fuzz that covers my outer folds before circling my clit with my fingertips.

You laugh at your partners, then check on me. The smile you had when you turned falters—not in any sort of frown, but in a definite state of confusion. This makes me excited, and I nudge my legs farther apart so you can watch.

You’re caught; you look back at them to check if they can see this, but the boys are preoccupied. Immediately, your eyes are on me. I sink into the couch, guiding my fingers over the pool of wetness between my thighs. I’m breathing heavy already, exhaling ragged sighs that I want you to amplify with your touch, but you can’t hear me with the door closed. You can only watch as I flick my index finger over my clit a few times, ratcheting the quivering of my pussy up to a tremendous ache. With my other hand, I slip inside, fucking myself with one finger as I imagine what you’d feel like plunging into me…


Oh, yeah. I had so much fun writing this little story…and I hope you enjoyed the snippet! Our girl manages quite an adventure with the painter on the patio, and I do hope you’ll check it out. For the Men is now available on Amazon, Smashwords, and Itunes, and will be coming to you on Audible very soon. You won’t want to miss it—order your copy today!

Happy reading!


P.S. Have you joined my newsletter? The first edition is coming in just a few days, and subscribers have access to all the latest news and exclusives for books coming soon, too! Please join the fun. 🙂

B/W man's hands clutching breast of half clothed woman

Erotic Fiction: What I Want

I don’t know him yet, but I want to.

I want to know how his chest feels pressed against mine, naked. How the rake of his hands will feel over my breasts, and how deep he’ll thrust his cock inside. I want the breath that plays over my face now to spill over me, raspy and hungry, as we fuck together somewhere seedy and dark—our bodies colliding with the desire we’ve felt since we met here, not a word needing to be said because the way we danced said it all.

At this moment, he clutches me to him. His fingers laced into my hair halfway through the last song, and I can feel the bulge he’s been harboring in his jeans for the better part of our dance. We haven’t broken apart since we gelled together, and this panting between us has nothing to do with the rhythm of our dance. It’s the beat of our longing, pounding and deep, filling us as we barely drift across the floor and I roll up my hips to feel him closer. I am wet for him, wet since I saw him at the bar, and I want him to know what that feels like, what indulgence he’ll find in me, needing and hot, waiting for when we will leave here.

As the next song starts, he kisses me. I still don’t know his name. In a past life, I wouldn’t want anyone to know that I’d come here to find someone, something, the perfect match for my lust in this moment. I wouldn’t want anyone to label me a slut, or any of those other words that drip from the tongue with so much scandal, even now. But to say I care about these things would be a lie, because my wants are mine to fuel, to breathe, to live. The touch of his tongue to mine is like fire, an inferno drawing us nearer, making the will to stay on this dance floor a quiet voice I cannot hear over the sound of my heart.B/W man's hands clutching breast of half clothed woman

“You want to go somewhere?” I ask.

He nods; he is like me. His body knows what needs to happen, knows desires are the essence of life and meeting them, when they’re right, is what should be. And so we slip out of this place and away in a cab. We direct the driver to a shabby motel not five minutes away while we toy with buttons, zippers, and hems. We are silent as we take the hallway down to the room the receptionist granted us, a near closet at the base of the stairs that neither of us really glances at after we switch the lamp on inside.

Once the door snaps shut, I push him back against it. His fingers find the edges of my panties, shoving inside me while I bring my lips to his face. His kiss back is greedy, wild, his tongue so far in my throat I am gasping, my hand sliding against his belly and into his briefs. He is full and hard, throbbing against my touch, and his fingers in my cunt make it difficult to breathe. He lets me go to grab my shoulders, and he steers me to the bed. Then he sits me on this frumpy mattress while I unzip his pants and take him into my mouth. He moans when I swallow him deep—but this is just the start of it, what I want. I claw my fingers over his hips as I suck harder. Once he pushes me back and down, he climbs over me as I envisioned when we danced. His fingers are quick beneath my skirt, slipping past the soaked barrier of fabric to plunge into me, over and over, making me cry aloud.

“I want to fuck you,” he says, and I fumble for my purse, writhing on his fingers as I fish the condom from inside. I hand it to him in a frenzied squirm because the craving inside me is so intense and hot. I don’t care anymore that we’re still clothed, that he is in me and thrusting deep before I take a breath, that I am moaning at how good this feels, at the rough scrape of his chin on mine when we kiss. He slides his fingers under my shirt, digging them into my sides as I draw up my knees, and I let him all the way inside. When I touch myself, he drives faster. The motion is hard enough to move me up on the bed, our sweat drenching our clothes and the tremor inside me becoming whole. Real.

It is the very thing I’ve wanted since we crashed together on that dance floor.

“Yes,” I moan, because it is washing over me, racking me. He bites down on my lip when I jerk up, coming so hard he must feel me squeezing him inside, urging him to join my bliss. He slides his hands around my shoulders, and he clutches me as he groans against my mouth.

“Fuck, yes, yes!”

When he comes, I suck in air, his air—the raspy, hungry breath I craved. And once he rolls away, we lay there, our bodies numb, our throats dry. Both of us are spent with the wants shared between us.

I feel him peering at me after a few minutes, his cheek on one hand while the other grabs my thigh.

“Was that good for you?” he asks.

“Oh, yes.”

Then I turn to him and smile.

“But I’ll want more.”


Picture of panties around red shoes

Elust #84: Apple Thighs, Tether, Rebellion, and More!

Elust 84 header
Photo courtesy of A to sub-Bee

Welcome to Elust #84

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #85 Start with the rules, come back August 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!


~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

About Those “Apple Thighs”
Why the Hell Haven’t I Rebelled Yet?


~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

IDENTITY – hiding the evidence
friday flash–service


~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Good In Bed

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!


Erotic Fiction

Pubic Disturbance
Colds and Lust
Sex Machine
A Dirty Bathroom Floor
I’m Sorry I’m So Silent
S’il Vous Plaît
Edge of Morning
Dancin’ (Most) of the Night Away
Airport Arrivals

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

42 Kinds of Casual Sex
Living in Fear – An Essay on Male Entitlement

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

How To Give A Bare Handed Spanking
Reconciling dominance and love
She’s a Very Kinky Gor

Body Talk and Sexual Health

Run the good race

Erotic Non-Fiction

We Made A Resolution To Make Love Everyday
The 20 Minute Orgasm
More on cunt, corridors & Schroedinger’s cock
Stoned Birthday Sex
Room with a View
I’m Not Done With Your Throat Yet
It’s a strange path to trust.

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Poly and Pets

Writing about Writing

Why Write Erotic Fiction?
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Cover of Rachel Kramer Bussel's Begging for It Anthology

About Those “Apple Thighs”

Like many women, I’ve long harbored nagging body hang-ups. I’ve heard we all have at least one thing we wish we could change—weight, breast size, hip width, nose length, belly roll, ass curve, etc., etc. I’ve certainly had my fair share of these “one things,” things I either wished to vanquish or worked ridiculously hard to at least adjust somehow. I remember a multi-year stint as a child convinced I would get a nose job when I was 18, but it turns out, I was destined to grow into the full-sized nose I had from birth. I hated my hips for the longest time because I was born with those, too (really), and I spent a lot of my teen years with bruises on them from bumping into things since I somehow didn’t grasp how wide they were. Both these features have since balanced out, and while they’re no longer issues, certain “one things” have persisted over the years. The big one, no matter how fit I am or what I do, is the hereditary trait most of the women in my family share: the “dreaded apple thighs.”

Apple thighs, I’m sure you’re thinking. What in the hell are those?

Apple thighs, you see, are very distinct in shape. They’re not quite like their oft-dwelled upon cousin, thunder thighs, but a round, fleshy version that tapers at the knee. This taper is what resembles—in some odd way that my mother explained to me when I was a wee little girl—an apple. And we of the women in my family are doomed (yes, doomed) to have these cursed apple thighs, no matter if we are thick or thin, short or tall, curvy or straight. Those fuckers just happen, and despite this, in my family, they get a lot of negative attention and commentary. As I have learned, apple thighs are bemoaned and bad, and as beautiful as one of us may be, we’ve still missed out somehow by having these big ass curvy thighs.

Now, I’m going to be extremely straight with you today: I’ve worked with some real body image issues over the years, which ebb and flow and for which I’ve even sought a little counseling to better deal on occasion. I’m all over the #allbodiesarebeautiful movement because I believe in it through and through, and though I have my wavers in spells, deep in my heart, I know these apple thighs are part of me and something that, most of the time, I’m okay with. But when I have my doubts—about them, or any other part—I have to think about the whole picture. I have to come to terms with who I am and love me just as I am.

That’s why, of all the stories I’ve released into the world, “Apple Thighs” is one of my most cherished pieces. It’s out now in Rachel Kramer Bussel’s Begging For It: Erotic Fantasies for Women. I wrote it one night after a particularly grueling day having heard another family member snigger at those “pesky apple thighs”; I’d come home and taken a peek at them in passing, and I thought the poor things needed a break, once and for all. I’d already had a few years in the circus, where I loved to dress up wearing leotards, tights, and thigh-high stockings—which I intentionally used to flash my thighs—so I’d had a good wave of embracing them. I’d even discovered how handy they were in my pole classes (because grip, hello). Still, I felt like this positive acknowledgement of their existence needed to be more drastic.Cover of Rachel Kramer Bussel's Begging for It Anthology

I needed to write a character who recognized her body for what it was and not only accepted it, but learned to love it, right there in the course of the story.

From that, Cassie and her post-counseling bus ride was born…and I went one step further, too, not dooming her with my apple thighs—but giving them to her as a gift.

Cassie is a bit down on her luck when we meet her, but on her bus ride—with the perfect co-passenger—she has that moment I think all women with that “one thing” need: the epiphany in which we realize that yes, we are who we are, and yes, we are just perfect as is.

So without further adieu, I’m delighted to share an excerpt of “Apple Thighs” with you:

Cassie pressed her palms onto her thighs. She’d been blessed with smooth, unblemished skin most of her life, so even stocky as they were, her thighs had the consistent, unmarred fair coloring that covered the rest of her body. As the bus continued its roll down the city streets, the flesh of her thighs shook. She had thin calves and narrow knees, but above them her legs curved out to a substantial width. In truth, she had a lot of muscle in those thighs from years of dancing and running, but they were definitely the outliers from the rest of her body.

She pursed her lips and ran her hands back and forth, grazing her skin. She could rest on her tiptoes to keep her legs up so that her thighs didn’t appear so wide, like two sturdy pancakes smashed out on the seat. But she kind of liked the way they looked. They carried her. They made her womanly. Plus, she was able to outrun all the women in her former running group—big, strong apple thighs and all.

Cassie fanned her fingers over her thighs and rubbed her palms along their length again, sighing. Her skirt caught on her wrists as she glided her hands up, crumpling it at the top of her thighs. She peeked at the seat across from her. Two older women sat there, the one by the window staring out and the one on the aisle reading a book. They didn’t notice her. No one in front of her would see what she was doing, either. She turned her head, checking out the seat behind her at a diagonal. No one there.

But the man behind her cleared his throat.

Cassie flattened her skirt and shoved her hands to her knees, her face burning as she whipped it forward.

Oh, fuck.

Had he seen what she was doing, mindlessly stroking her thighs?

More importantly, was she insane, rubbing her thighs like that in public?

As if in answer, the man lifted himself in his seat. Cassie held her breath. The entire bus was frozen in time, the driver watching the road, and the other occupants reading books, listening to iPods, or chattering about the news. But this man slid around the seat and sat beside her, not a word coming from his mouth as he peered forward.

She turned her head slightly, examining him from the corner of her eye and realizing she’d seen this guy before. She’d even smiled at him once, the last time she’d been stuck on this bus. He was handsome, his face peppered with the tiny hairs of one who didn’t shave everyday, and he had hazel eyes that shimmered thanks to the sun streaming through the window beside her. When she saw him a few days ago, he’d been wearing a baseball cap—but now his sandy blond hair was loose around his ears, making him look a tad older than he once had. Mid-thirty, late thirties…Cassie couldn’t tell. But she could tell that he was some sort of painter, his tee shirt and jeans always speckled with dried paint. Today he wore a spot of fuchsia on his right thumb and a streak of red along his left wrist.

She straightened her head again, her nerves on high. Had he seen what she was doing?

She felt his scrutiny on her then, and a chill fogged her body. When he spoke, his voice came out a deep bass that prickled her skin.

“Do you mind if I sit here?”

Cassie shook her head, her fingers latched around her knees. Her legs suddenly felt hugely exposed, though she did choose to wear this skirt in public, and apparently had no problem touching her thighs a minute before.


“It’s a better view,” he said.

Cassie bit down on her tongue.

Maybe he meant the window. Or being one seat closer to the front of the bus.

Or maybe she really was an idiot.

“Yeah,” she said, her heart racing. “Sunny outside today, isn’t it?”

The man raised an eyebrow and smiled. Cassie broke out in goose bumps. She hadn’t made an ass of herself on this bus, had she?

She willed herself to look back at him, wondering if her thighs had turned as crimson as her face—because wow, was she blushing, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. The sensation ran the entire length of her body in under a second.

“It is. But that’s not what I was talking about.” He gazed directly at her thighs, then back to her face. “Please don’t stop on my account.”

Cassie didn’t move.

The man kept grinning at her. She was surprised she didn’t find it uncomfortable, or awkward. In fact, she shifted slightly on the bench, keenly aware of how hot it was at the apex of her apple thighs.


Cassie pinched her lips together. Great, now she sounded like an idiot, too.

The man scooted forward in the seat, enough to block her from the view of any other passengers. He was tall, and with the muscles in his arms alone, it was clear he was strong beneath his jeans and tee shirt. She could do whatever she wanted right here in this seat, and no one would be the wiser.

Cassie shook herself. Was she actually thinking about this?

The man put both hands on his thighs, then tilted his head toward her legs before dragging his hands in an upward motion.

He was modeling what he wanted from her.

Her stomach knotted but her heart thumped in her ears. His smile was so sweet, so warm. So encouraging.

She slid her hands up her legs, halting them mid-thigh. Her fingers were shaking.

Now the man cupped his thighs, and Cassie did the same.

Beneath her panties, her groin swelled with heat. The flush running through her body was like a teasing caress, and she gripped her thighs again. He met her eyes and nodded.

“May I?” he asked.


I hope you enjoyed that teaser of “Apple Thighs,” included in Begging For It, Erotic Fantasies for Women. You can find out more about this anthology from Cleis Press on its Tumblr Page. It’s edited by the fabulous Rachel Kramer Bussel, and is available now in paperback and in a few more days on Kindle. I hope you’ll please check it out!

Happy reading, and may you love your apple thighs, too. 🙂


Cover for Ophelia the Second by Dayv Caraway

“Ophelia the Second” – Featured on the Kiss Me Quick’s!

Cover for Ophelia the Second by Dayv Caraway

Cover art by Dayv Caraway

There is something extraordinary about hearing one’s own stories read aloud. It’s an opportunity not just to know that your story has been read and heard, but to understand how a reader might translate what you’ve written. In grasping that—for just a second—you can almost relax into your words, listening to them as though they’re not your own, potentially savoring them in a different way than what was experienced when you had the pleasure of writing them.

That’s why today, I’m tickled to share that the fabulous Rose Caraway has once again honored me with a narration of one of my stories. This time, she’s featured “Ophelia the Second” on The Kiss Me Quick’s Erotica Podcast, and she does a tremendous job of it, too. This particular story is part of Best Women’s Erotica of the Year, Volume 1—and while I had the opportunity to read it live myself back in January, hearing it performed by the incredible Rose has made it twice as special for me. Extra bonus: Big Daddy’s sexy ass intro totally made me blush. 🙂

So, I invite you to please hop on over to The Kiss Me Quick’s to listen to “Ophelia the Second” with your own ears. It’s a sweet little erotic romance that’s got a lot of my theatre background worked in, and it still makes me smile. If you’d like to know more about the spark that ignited “Ophelia the Second,” please feel free to check out my Q&A with our incredibly talented editor, Rachel Kramer Bussel. You can also grab your copy of Best Women’s Erotica of the Year, Volume 1 right here.

Cover of Best Women's Erotica of the YearAnd finally—since I know you’ll love Rose’s rendition of this story—please indulge yourself in more of her fantastic readings of my work. Rose has honored me with previous readings of “The Doll,” “The Flogger,” and “Soundscapes”—an exclusive for The Kiss Me Quick’s Podcast.

Oh, and that delicious podcast? It’s something you should regularly indulge yourself in, too. 😉

Happy listening!



Picture of panties around red shoes

Elust #83: Say You Want to Cook for Me, La Belle Dame, Salty as His Cum, and More…

Elust 82 Header Holden and Camille
Photo courtesy of Holden and Camille

Welcome to Elust #83

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #84 Start with the rules, come back July 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!


~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

London Crows and London Kisses

I am Her. She is Me.

You Say You Want to Cook for Me


~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Unusual Liaison

Community. Respect. Friendship. Fucking.

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Dirty Little Secrets

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!



You Know

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

My Bed
Secular Submission
My therapy
from “hard limit” to “want”
We Measure the Nostalgia
The Cure and The Cause


Smut in the 6ix – Porn Conference & Gala

Erotic Fiction

Typing Errors
La Belle Dame
Sex and chocolate
The Imprisoned of HIM-HER-THEM
The Gift
Becca’s Story
Rope and Fixtures
As salty as his cum…
Dominating the Doctor

Erotic Non-Fiction

Teen Sex in Woolly Tights with 60s Beat Music
Dear Sadist: Your Cruelty Is Your Love
A male dom, the straight girl and the bi girl
Owned, Leashed, & Beaten
Jan 2015 Owned & Collared by Mistress Claire
Rinse The Days Filth Away
Power On
Keeping tally

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Formative Kink Epic Fail: “Buck Rogers”

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

If it was easy anyone could do it
What’s a service submissive?
Prescient Words

Writing About Writing

What if aspirational meant something else?


ELust Site Badge

Sharpie on thighs "I want to feel you here"

On Skin Writing

I have loved skin writing for as long as I can remember.

When I was a young girl, I was the one constantly scolded by teachers and parents for inking up my skin. I’d spend half an hour drawing an elaborate sketch on my thigh beneath my shorts while I learned algebra, or I’d doodle all over my forearm while I gabbed on the phone. There was a combination of factors that appealed to me when I did it—from the glide of the pen over my skin to the unique words, image, or design I’d set out to put there for whomever to see. I liked the look of ink on skin, and the way people told me I wasn’t supposed to do it. It was more appealing to me than a tattoo, because I could change it to fit my mood, and scrub it all away for a new blank canvas if I didn’t want it to endure. Then, skin writing was just a thing I liked to try; but later, it would turn into a huge turn on for me.

When I was 18, I saw The Pillow Book at a small theatre in my hometown. It was the first erotic movie I ever saw, and everything about it excited me: a writer heroine, her discovery and search for sexual experiences, sexy images of flesh, calligraphy against skin, Ewan McGregor, full frontal male nudity, pure devotion, and a Romeo and Juliet style twist. I left the theatre moved by the story, but more by how exotic and erotic the look of all that calligraphy had appeared on the flesh. I’d had a tattoo in mind for a couple years by then—one I swore I’d get after the publication of my first book, which is indeed going to happen—but even that didn’t strike me as much as this story’s concept had. When Ewan McGregor ripped open his shirt and said, “Use my body like the pages of a book…of your book,” I had a whole new notion of what skin writing could do. It was the using of someone’s flesh in creation of a story to be read and understood—and I craved this, someone else using my skin like I had all those years.

The thought mostly buried itself over the next decade. I had a professional career and didn’t usually have time to doodle on my skin, but sometimes, when I was bored, I’d Sharpie a word or symbol on the bottom of my foot. Later, this transformed into a love of henna. Whenever I could, I’d henna the entirety of a foot and all the way up my calf with some new design I liked. When I went on vacation, I’d mark up my hand with something to catch the eye. It still wasn’t the same as what had roused me in that flick, though—it was done by me, for one, and the henna lacked the same appeal.

Of course, that didn’t stop me from convincing an artist I dated in my late twenties from coming over to henna the entirety of my back. We’d shared a bottle of wine before I’d stripped down to my panties and stretched myself out on the living room floor. He’d squealed over the canvas of my back—literally squealed, because he was an exuberant, lively, playful man—and I clearly remember him sitting on my ass for a long time, waiting while he looked over my naked back and breathed these heavy, deep breaths.

“Anything? I can draw anything?”

“Yes, anything,” I’d said. He’d stared over me for what felt like forever, then spent the next forty or so minutes dragging paintbrushes and fingers across my skin to create whatever henna design he had in mind. He told me how he was playing along with the lines of my back, and not only did I love that what he was drawing was a mystery I couldn’t see, but that as he shifted on my ass to work, we both grew breathless until he called it done.

“Is it weird that I really want to fuck you right now?” he’d said. I’d shaken my head so fast, confessing I felt the same—and we’d fucked right there on the carpet, me flat on my belly and him trying his hardest not to wreck his design. Sadly, it rubbed off a little on his stomach (we might have gotten a bit into it), but nonetheless, I was still tickled to flash him what was left over the next few days.

After him, the urge quieted again. Henna seemed the answer, but my life was too busy to sit down for a session. Occasionally, I’d write memos with ink on my palm, even if I had a perfectly good post-it stack, or phone to jot a note in. Years later, though, I’d have the sexiest relationship of my life, where everything was an option, and want—pure want, desperate, vocal, speak it out loud want—was the name of the game.

I miss you, I’d told this lover via text. I want you, now.

I want you too. Now. Soon. How would you have me?

This picture is what I sent him in response.

Sharpie on thighs "I want to feel you here"

Needless to say, we found a way to get together soon after… But until then? I refused to wash off the words. I loved that I could pull down my pants in the bathroom at work and find that level of want scrawled on my thighs. That my chicken-scratch handwriting revealed my desperation on my very skin, and that he was making his greatest efforts to come strip me down to find it.

I told him later I wanted him to Sharpie all over me, call me names and scribe his lust for me on my flesh. He loved the idea, but our relationship was, unfortunately, fairly short-lived after that. So, I tucked the urge away for many more years.

I nearly forgot about it.

But one night, not all that many months ago, it flared up again. It was a coincidence with a friend, but it suited exactly what I’d always wanted—someone else writing on me, using my skin as he saw fit. We’d gone out to a party and both of us were dressed to the nines, and after a few drinks, he’d wanted to make a list but had no paper. I’d offered up a pen and the entirety of my thigh, and though he thought I was kidding, I soon arranged myself as best I could in the front seat of his car, the entire event furthered, somehow, by my efforts to not flash everything up the skirt of my sassy dress. There was something blissfully erotic in him gripping my leg, writing his message on my bare skin—especially as dressed up as I was. I remember holding my breath, because the combination of his own breath over my leg and the scratch of his pen turned me on more than I could ever admit to this friend. Well, that, and not knowing what it was he was writing in his hunch over my leg.

His scrawl ended up being a childish, silly note—but from that experience, I finally knew what about skin writing made me tick, and what elements, exactly, I was after: my skin, offered up for him to write whatever he pleased; him, shifting me about to scrawl on the curves of my body; that pen, marking me up in a gritty, vulgar way that completely contrasted how glammed up I was right then. And even though what he wrote ultimately irritated me, I still felt the burn of it when I tried to wash it away in the morning, and the memory of being used for whatever he wanted to write. That’s what I loved the most.

Skin writing has so much potential to it, whether it is done in a beautiful way as in The Pillow Book, or in a purposefully crude way like that memorable note on my thigh.

Which is why one day, I hope I’ll get all the elements just right—because it is truly a turn on for me.

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You Say You Want to Cook for Me

You say you want to cook for me.

You say it while we lie there, naked, your body wrapped around mine and your fingers coasting along my forearm. Your lips are buried in my hair, and you’re breathing me in, quiet. You’re hard behind me, nudging up against my cunt. I want to cook for you. Light up your face with something good, tasty.

You say you want to travel the world together, to venture places you’ve never been. That I’ve never been. We can see every sight there is to see and discover things together. We can get lost in the Bermuda Triangle. Your fingers lace with mine, your breath heavier now. I want to see the world with you. Disappear with you.

I want to make you happy, you say.

Later, you’ll roll on top of me, body heaving over mine, lips pressing, suffocating. Rough. You know I like it like this, the way your entire body can shift me up, how you can bury yourself so far in me I think I’ll break. I want to make you come. I want your sighs, your shudders. I want you, always you. When you finish and I’m trembling, you’ll shove your fingers in your wake, thrusting them in the heat of your come to fill me against walls too tender and weak. I’ll be moaning, whimpering. I want you to come for me, forever. I want everything you have.

I want to own you, you say.

When I have surrendered, exhausted, blissed, you’ll curve your fingers around my neck. Your eyes lock with mine, two dark holes staring over me. I want your life. I want you. You are mine.

I’ll fight you. I always do. I’m twisting, writhing, crying against the novelty of our crimson, satin sheets. But my body is caught up in you, in the fingers of your other hand slipping inside every hole. Your teeth gnash my breast, and your inhalation reminds me who you are, what this is. Who I am.

I am yours.

You will fuck me like this until I come again.

On the balcony, you open up my robe. Your prying fingers are in my slit, with the neighbors right there on their adjacent patio. I don’t want them to see, don’t want them to hear how you speak to me. Not when you’re like this. But I want them to know how you love me. I want them to know I own you, body and soul. I’m quivering at the press of your fingers, hating that I love it when you do this. Hating you. 

Shadowed image of naked woman curled in ballBesides, don’t you want them to see you happy? you say.

After dinner, you brush aside my hair. Your fingertips graze the curve of my shoulder. When you kiss the back of my neck, it is warm and gentle. Tender.

But you are none of these things when you bend me over the oven. Your nails scratch at my thighs before your fingers dig inside.

Why do you make me crazy like this? you say.

I can hear your words over my utterances. They are raspy, angry things that make it hard to believe your fingers still feel this good. This is our once-whispered vacation—you inside me. My skirt is over my ass and you are fucking us away. Thrusting deep enough to push off my sanity, to make me forget.

I want to love you, you say. I want to, but I can’t when you’re difficult like this.

There are tears in my eyes when I come. You’re finished not all that long after, your semen dribbling along my thigh. I can feel it tracing an ugly path down to the inside of my knee, but I don’t move—not when you’re like this. Not as you button your pants, and wander off to grab your keys.

I think I want to leave you, you say.

I still haven’t moved once I hear your car, a rumble off and away in the distance. My fingers grip the burners on the stove, and I watch the white of my knuckles spreading over the flush of sated skin. Your come has made its way to my ankle, now, and I keep wondering if this could have gone differently.

If maybe I’d never said yes when you said you wanted to cook for me.

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Elust #82: Fishnet Queen, How Do I Love Thee, Take Me, and Much More…

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Photo courtesy of Teachers Have Sex

Welcome to Elust #82

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #83 Start with the rules, come back June 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!


~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Take Me

How Do I Love Thee:On Comparing Relationships

Asking all the questions…



~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Erotic Fiction: Fishnet Queen

I Manage My Expectations

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*

Wanna Have Sex With Me? – Here’s how
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!


Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Maybe I’m not a pervert after all
Bad Excuses
Engaging with Sexuality: A Personal Perspecti
I wish there were more porn
Cock Size: Does it matter?
Blue is not a “boy color.”

Erotic Non-Fiction

Watching My Wife With Another Man Story
Afternoon Cunnilingus & Birthday Sofa Sex
Why You Should Shave Your Partner
Oct 2014 Session – Mistress Claire
Two Days Later
Roping a cougarling
Divining Rods
Dorabella’s pink-velvet spanner

Erotic Fiction

Puppy Love
Quick & Dirty
She Says My Voice Changes for Her
THE BLINDFOLD – fear of the unknown
U is for undress…
Stay Baby…Stay.
kink of the week–glasses

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Slutfest Reflection
Love and Fairness
V is for……..
My heart turns blacker: the new rules


Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Blast from the Fetish Video Past
The whole person approach to Submission
Down on my knees
Dominant Doppelgangers, Dominant Opposites
Four eyes
BDSM and Depression: Therapy or Self-Harm?


Eden, Revisited: A Lusty Limerick

Writing About Writing

Stepping Stones
Centering Disabled Characters in My Erotica


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