Archive for October, 2011

Letting Go – a paranormal erotic tale (extract)

Posted 24 October 2011 By Polly J Adams

She went to him in the night.

She heard him moving about the house, sounds drifting down from upstairs. The rush and clunk of water in the ancient pipes, the bang of the bathroom cabinet, the buzz of his electric toothbrush. She heard all of these things, her senses fine-tuned. Alone in the house so much during the day, somehow things had become sharper for her, more intense.

Some things, anyway. Others: dulled, blurred, indistinct.

By the time she reached the bedroom he was flat on his back, the lights out.

He hadn’t bothered to draw the curtains and the room was lit by the cold blue light of the half moon.

She paused.

The bed was like a landscape in the eerie light. A white sheet was twisted, half-covering him. His body looked as if it had been sculpted from marble, only a slight rise and fall of the chest betraying the illusion.

She almost turned and left, but she couldn’t.

She was drawn to him.

She had to be here.

She had to join him.

*

She lowered herself gently beside him, propping herself up on one elbow so that she could continue to study him.

His head was turned away from her, his dark brown hair looking black in the moonlight, the stubble thick, several days’ worth. His chest was well-muscled, a thin covering of dark hair stretching from nipple to nipple, up to the notch where his breast-bones met, and down across a belly that had once been taut six-pack but was now just a little more softly-defined. At his belly-button the hair thickened and then was lost beneath the white twist of sheet.

She reached for him, one finger, a long nail making gentle contact with his chest. She pulled her hand towards herself, drawing the nail through his chest hair. He twitched. She hadn’t expected him to be so well out of it, so quickly.

Her nail reached his nipple, scratched across it, and he twitched again, opened his mouth as if to speak, then sighed, settled again.

She moved her finger back to the centre of his chest, dragged the nail down over his ribs, his belly, and finally pushed down beneath the tangle of sheet.

There, where the hair thickened yet more, the side of her hand came up against the base of his cock. She pressed the flat of her hand against him, teasing the beginning of his shaft, feeling it stiffen against her palm.

This story continues in the full ebook, Letting Go, available from

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Paranormal erotica, anyone?

Posted 22 October 2011 By Polly J Adams

This one kind of crept up on me, all unexpected!

My main interest is writing contemporary erotica. Real people. Real places. Things that can and do happen.

It’s not that I dislike other genres: I’m a big fan of traditional ghost stories, detective stories, thrillers, fantasies and more. It’s just that I hadn’t anticipated writing any at this stage in my career.

But then I had an idea for a ghost story. One rationale for ghosts is that they exist because they have unfinished business, they can’t tear themselves away from our world after death. There’s lots of scope in that to write a story of intense passion about the spirit of someone who just can’t let go.

The story almost wrote itself. It’s a love story, full of passion. And, of course, full of sex. I’m really quite pleased with it. And the icing on the cake: my publishing partners at James Grieve Press have come up with a gorgeously atmospheric, sexy cover.

Here’s what it says at Amazon:

She almost turned and left, but she couldn’t.
She was drawn to him.
She had to be here.
She had to join him.
She couldn’t let him go.
Ever.

Intensely passionate and erotic… a story of love, loss and sexual abandon, from the author of You and Easy As One, Two, Three.

Letting Go is available from:

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Easy As One, Two, Three – an extract

Posted 19 October 2011 By Polly J Adams

Back in the changing room and God J’s chest and arms hurt from that last machine!

She stripped, wrapped a towel around herself and took her washbag to the shower.

Hot water was good, and she stood there for a couple of minutes letting it wash over her. Eyes closed, she remembered his smile, and the way his t-shirt clung to his wiry, fit body.

She took a handful of shower creme and started to rub it over herself, lingering on her breasts. Her nipples were hard and she dragged her finger nails around them, then flicked them with her thumbs. Once, twice… over and over.

She wondered what he was like naked. Neil. His thin, hard body, tightly packed with muscle. Hairy? Maybe just a few wisps of short hair down the centre of his chest and around the nipples, a thin tangle spreading down from his belly button.

One thumb still flicking a nipple, she ran her other hand down over her belly, found her narrow strip of hair, felt the soft warmth. She pressed her fingers against herself, a steady pressure on her clit, her middle finger resting gently between her lips.

What was his cock like, she wondered? Long? Broad? How would it feel in her hand? How would he taste?

She started to move her hand against her pussy, grinding her clit with the base of her thumb while her fingers played with her lips, squeezing and pulling and occasionally dipping inside. God she was wet!

Maybe she would book a fitness assessment with him. That way she’d get a whole half hour of his undivided attention. The gym had assessment rooms just off the main gym area where an instructor would weigh you, measure your body fat, your flexibility, your strength.

She would let him work her hard, do her best to please him.

And then she would ask him if there were any other tests. Anything else they could measure.

He’d falter, look away, then back again, and there would be a spark of fun in his eyes, a glint of mischief. “What kind of thing did you have in mind?” he would ask.

“Well,” she’d say, leaning forward so that he couldn’t help but stare down her cleavage. “I’ve been told that I have a suck like a thirsty camel. Can you measure that?”

He’d be taken aback. He’d lean away from her in his chair and laugh and for a moment she would be tempted to pass it off as a joke, but then she would see the outline of his hard cock pressing against his tracksuit.

“I don’t know,” he would say. “I don’t know how we could measure that.”

“I could demonstrate?” she would say, not letting him look away.

She would drop to her knees, run her fingers up his hard thighs, hands clawed, nails raking. She would find his stiff cock and trace its impressive length with one fingernail.

Dipping her head, she would take the end of his cock through the thin fabric of his tracksuit trousers and press with her lips and tongue and then she would work along its shaft.

His hands in her hair would surprise her and she would think he was trying to stop her, trying to lift her head, but when she looked up at him she could see the urgency in his eyes.

She would hook her fingers into the waistband of his trousers and he would raise himself so that she could ease them down. His erection would be straining against his small black shorts and she would pull them down, eager to get at him in the flesh.

Released, his cock would jerk upwards to lie hard against his belly, long and broad and so damned hard!

She would take it in her hands and hold it there while she licked at his balls, and then slowly she would work her way along the shaft, lingering and nibbling and teasing. At its head, she would press her tongue against the underside of his glans, the most sensitive part, and slowly start to rock her head.

She’d be almost as desperate as him by then and she would raise her head and then descend on his cock, feel it sliding deep into her mouth, filling her. She would take as much of it into her mouth as she could and then rise, squeezing him in her mouth, dragging his aching cock through her wetness.

And… oh… she felt it building deep inside, felt the sudden rush of heat and pressure, the tightening as she rubbed at her pussy and flicked at a nipple and she was coming, hot and hard and wet in the shower, her mind full of Neil and his hard body and his cock buried deep in her mouth. Her knees nearly gave way, it was so intense, and she had to lean against the wall of the cubicle, gathering herself, getting her breath back, getting her grip.

*

When J emerged from the shower cubicle, towel wrapped around her and her washbag clutched to her chest, gym bunny was there. Melissa.

She was wrapped in a towel too, her shoulders and arms glistening with water droplets, her short blonde hair slicked down to her head. J met her look, then turned away, embarrassed, desperately wondering how much noise she might have made, playing and coming so hard like that.

Would the sound of running water have drowned her out?

Did it even matter?

She glanced back up, smiled, nodded and headed back to her locker. Let gym bunny think what the hell she wanted. But God she felt better for that.

This story continues with J’s encounter with Melissa and two gym instructors in Easy As One, Two, Three, available from:

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The Girls’ Club

Posted 14 October 2011 By Polly J Adams

Every so often we go for drinks and sometimes a bite to eat. Just a small group of us, rarely more than five or six, usually a slightly different mix each time.

Some of us have known each other since uni, others are more recent acquaintances.

We talk about all kinds of things, but at some point in the evening it always comes back to one topic. Sex. Lack of sex. Lots of sex. Good sex. Bad sex. Sex.

It’s a supportive group, and it’s fun, and it always gets downright steamy. Sometimes I wonder what people must think: that young couple at the next table, either blushing at some shared reference of their own or because they’ve heard J talk about her evening with two gym instructors earlier this week; the older ladies, powdered and dressed up and oh so disapproving of P, with her generous cleavage and her oh-so-appropriate use of the f-word; the leering wide-boys drinking Stella and craning to hear more.

The girls know I write, and up to now that’s not been an issue. Mostly I write under other names, in genres other than erotica; sometimes a few snippets make their way into my work, but that’s to be expected. It’s a dilemma all fiction writers face: should we censor what we lift from real life? Should we protect the innocent (and not-so-innocent)?

But with sex it’s different. It’s more in your face, as it were.

We’ve talked about it lots, particularly since a friend persuaded me to start scripting adult movies a little over a year ago. Now that I’ve turned to writing erotic fiction it’s become even more a topic we return to.

And recently I realised that, far from closing up and wanting to stop me from borrowing from real life, the girls are intrigued by the possibilities, drawn to them. The thought that I might write about their lives gives them a thrill. It turns them on. With at least two of my friends, I know that the prospect of me writing about their exploits has driven them to explore further, and deeper.

After some discussion, it emerged that, as long as I took care to hide identities, my friends wanted me to write about them and their lives.

The research has been fascinating. (I’m sure other erotica authors would agree with me that research is never a chore!) And some of the stories… Well, I’m having to make judgement calls: sometimes things that have really happened just don’t sound believable. Truth really can be wilder than fiction.

I’m enjoying this. And it’s Girls’ Club again this evening. Now that the anecdotes are starting to flow I can’t wait to hear what my friends have to say tonight.

Author’s Note:
17th October 2011: the first Girls’ Club story, Easy As One, Two, Three is now available, a story of how one woman’s fantasy led to steamy encounters with a friend, and then two friends…

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How to sell erotic fiction: four easy steps

Posted 7 October 2011 By Polly J Adams

1. Write it. Write it as well as you possibly can. Don’t write down just because it’s erotica. Don’t assume that people only want to wank to it so story and character and atmosphere don’t matter so much: no one’s going to jerk off to a story they don’t engage with.

2. Publish it. Either through a conventional publisher, or do it yourself, or use one of the newly-emerging models that are emerging somewhere between the two extremes (although be sure to avoid getting ripped off: new publishing models mean new ways to con writers, a group that has always been easy prey for some).

3. Write more and publish it. Write it better than you did last time. Give your readers no excuse not to get turned on. Give them no excuse not to seek out your other stories.

4. Repeat.


Flippant? No, I don’t think so.

Google “fiction marketing” and you’ll find all kinds of advice about using social networking to promote your “brand”, about careful tagging of your books at Amazon, about pricing and all sorts of other things. None of these are to be sniffed at: long gone are the days when authors could leave the marketing and promotion of their work to others.

But when it comes down to it – and particularly with erotica, it seems – one of the basic factors in success, other than writing excellent erotic fiction, is building up shelf-presence. Give your readers something to come back to when they’ve liked something you’ve read.

You might argue that this is all a bit rich coming from an author with only one book of erotic stories to her name (although I have lots of books to my other names!). This is a very good point. But just watch this space. I’d be a fool not to follow my own advice!

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