Summer Lovin’

CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing

“Ice cream!” Lydia ran to the front door the second she heard the chimes of the ice cream van approaching the house.

I picked up my purse and we went outside. It was the last day of the summer holidays and I’d promised to treat her to a cone with a wafer and chocolate sauce. She’d been poised all afternoon, listening as the tune from the van got closer and closer. It had finally arrived on our street.

I didn’t make a habit of visiting the ice cream van, if I had I would have known about the cute butch behind the counter and I would have made sure I was looking a bit more presentable when I’d arrived with one hand holding onto my purse and the other holding onto a very excited and bouncy little girl.

We got there before any of the other children on the street; Lydia threw herself at the side of the van, trying to see the multi-coloured bottles of syrupy sauce lined up on the counter. The ice cream woman smiled at her, “What can I get you?”

“A double cone with wafer and chocolate sauce and raspberry sauce and sprinkles!” I tapped Lydia on the shoulder. “Please,” she added.

“Wow! That’s a lot to go on one ice cream,” the woman behind the counter told her. Then looking at me, “Is that alright with your mum?”

“She’s not my mum!” Lydia laughed. “She’s Auntie Jackie and she said I can have whatever I want because it’s the last day of the holidays and I’ve been a good girl all week.”

“It’s fine,” I added, “you can go full out with the sauce and sprinkles. Her parents are picking her up soon so they can deal with the sugar rush.”

She chuckled as she loaded the cone with ice cream, sauce and sprinkles, stuck in two wafers and then, just for good measure, a chocolate stick. Lydia took her prize in both hands and went to sit on the doorstep, concentrating her full attention on every lick.

The woman was smiling at me. “Anything for you?”

“No, I’m fine thanks. How much for that monster ice cream?”

“On the house.”



“Well, if you’re sure… thank you.”

“My pleasure,” she winked as I moved aside for the next customer.

I went to sit beside Lydia, watching the woman hand out her ices, and the parents and children handing over their payment.

We were still sitting there when she’d finished serving and she gave us a small wave as she moved back into the cab and drove off, the chimes from the van announcing her impending arrival on the next street.


I breathed a sigh of relief once Lydia had been collected and was on her way back home. My brother and his wife were tanned from their week of sailing and full of grateful thanks that I’d been able to look after their child – even if she was now complaining of tummy ache. I was grateful to get my house back to myself and pour a large glass of chilled wine.

I’d just sat down in the back garden when I heard a noisy engine stop outside the house. There was something familiar about the chug chug of the motor; it ran on for a few seconds and then cut out. My doorbell rang. Sighing, I put down my wine and went to answer it.

The woman from the ice cream van was standing on my doorstep, the front of her t-shirt soaked through with glistening, white goo.

“I’m really sorry to bother you. I hope you don’t mind. I was refilling the ice cream maker and managed to spill the whole lot down me. I’ve got a clean top,” she waved another t-shirt at me, “but I’d really appreciate being able to wash some of this off.” She gestured towards the sticky mess and I could see that it had spilled onto the front of her jeans too. “Would you mind if I use your bathroom?”

“Of course, come in, come in. It’s just at the top of the stairs.”

“Thanks, you’re a gem.”

I stepped aside and she bounded up the stairs, two at a time. I couldn’t help but appreciate her arse as she moved.

I retrieved my wine from the garden and waited in the kitchen while she cleaned up. She reappeared five minutes later, looking clean and fresh in her new t-shirt but still with a stain on the front of her jeans. She caught me looking at her crotch, “Hopefully no one will notice when I’m behind the counter,” she laughed.

“Would you like a drink?” I didn’t want her to go back to her van yet. She was totally my type: short, neat hair; bright sparkling eyes; a smile constantly playing at the edges of her mouth; dressed simply in a white t-shirt and blue jeans with a pair of roughed-up baseball boots sticking out from frayed hems. She was fairly flat on top and had a nice rounded arse.  It had been a while since I’d been so instantly attracted to someone and I didn’t want her waving goodbye again too soon.

“That would be great, thanks.” She glanced at the wine glass in my hand, “I’m driving though, so best make it something soft.” She held my gaze.

“Something soft?” I repeated. “Me?”

She stepped towards me and ran the back of her fingers over my cheek. “Mmm, soft,” she murmured. Her fingers carried on moving, stroking down the side of my neck and then across my cleavage.

I put my wine glass down on the counter and brought my hands onto her hips, drawing her closer to me. She cupped my face in both her hands and kissed me. She tasted of ice cream.

Her kiss grew more insistent and her hands tightened around my jaw. I pushed my thigh between hers and ground it hard up against her. Her legs squeezed around me. She pulled back from the kiss and let go of my face. “I want more of you, Jackie.”

The sound of my name shocked me. I’d been lost in the fantasy of a hot encounter with a stranger but now I was all too aware that I wasn’t a stranger to her: she knew my name and where I lived. What did I know about her? Only that she drove an ice cream van! I hadn’t even stopped to ask her name.

She sensed my unease and stepped away slightly. “Is something wrong? Is this not what you want?”

I picked up my wine glass to take a drink. Was I already a bit tipsy? Was that why I’d come on to her the way I did? No, the glass was still nearly full.

It had been a long time since my body had told my head what to do. And yet the slick sensation of my wet pussy lips was unmistakable. My body wanted this. My body wanted more of her. Her naked skin against mine. Her tongue in my mouth. Her fingers in my cunt.

“I can leave if you want.”

“No. It’s just that… I don’t even know your name.”

“Kim. My name’s Kim. Do you want me to leave? It’s okay if you do.”

“I want you to stay.”



“Do you want me to slow down?”

“No. I want… I want…”

“Tell me.”

“I want you to lick me like an ice cream.” I blushed. I sounded like something out of a budget porn movie.

Kim laughed. “With sauce and sprinkles?” She stepped back towards me and gently placed her lips on mine. Her tongue barely entered my mouth, teasing me, making me think even more about how it would feel lightly flicking over my clit.

Her hands blindly undid the buttons on my jeans and I pushed the fabric down over my hips. My underwear followed and I managed to step out of them without breaking contact with her delicate kisses.

My body was in full control now. My body told my mind what to do next: guide Kim’s hand to my cunt. Let there be no mistaking my willingness and how much I wanted this.

“Let me lick you.” Kim manoeuvered me onto the kitchen counter and lowered her head. Her tongue was smooth and silky like whipped ice cream, and made me shiver even though it burned hot. She fingered me while she licked. Slow, sensuous moves – just right for the balmy summer’s evening.

I closed my eyes. My body remembered this.

My body remembered the pleasure of sweetness.

My body remembered the building heat and desire.

And my body remembered what came next.


Have you explored your fantasies lately? How about writing your own sexy story? My free book is here for you if you fancy giving it a go!

Time Piece; Time Peace

I have fractured time

Taken it apart into a billion little pieces

And scattered them into the winds.

Where once I could chronicle

the beginning

the middle

the end  

Now time is everywhere and nowhere.

Now there will never be a ‘right time’

And we will never ‘run out of time’.

It had to be done:

The tick tock of days passing  



Tested my sanity

And my patience.

When? When? When?

Not now. Not now. Not now.

So I took time apart

Deconstructed the regimented cogs

And made yesterday a tomorrow

And tomorrow a today

And never always

And some day a certainty.

I dwell in the spaces of fractured time

Remembering: we have already met.

[photo credit]

Intimacy During Isolation

An alternative way of thinking about intimacy that isn’t reliant on bumping genitals or swopping saliva…

Two years ago my best friend and I learned a new form of intimacy. She had just been diagnosed with cancer; I lived in another country but made the promise to be with her for every week following her chemotherapy sessions.

The word ‘intimacy’ is generally associated with sex. In fact, it’s even used as a euphemism for it. Because of this, we often think of intimacy as being reserved for our sexual relationships: they ­are the people we get to know intimately, genitals and all. Except it’s not always ‘all’. Sometimes the only thing we really know about our sexual partners is how they like their genitals touched (and sometimes we don’t even know that). If we do the work in the relationship – you know, the communicating, listening, and understanding-each-other work – we may also get to intimately know their beliefs, their values, and their heart. But it’s not guaranteed. It’s all too easy to assume you know the person who is lying naked beside you and whose body was just joined with yours. But even that depends on whether the sex was a performance – being the person you think they want you to be – or came from a place of true, mutual self-expression.

Yes, sex can be an incredibly intimate act. But what happens when sex is taken off the table?

Not since the AIDS epidemic of the 1980s have we had such an abrupt disruption to our sex lives. (It is worth noting that, although medical advances in the treatment of HIV have been great, nearly a million people die of the virus each year: our sex lives should still be cognisant of the risk.) One of the key differences between the health guidance relating to HIV and that relating to the COVID-19 coronavirus is that we now find ourselves socially isolated from all physical contact: during lockdown, if you don’t already live with a partner, or if you live with a partner who is symptomatic, opportunities for hugging, kissing, and sex, have been taken away.

What does this have to do with my friend and me?

Well, I want to offer you an alternative way of thinking about intimacy and, in doing so, suggest that we use this period of social isolation to deepen our connections in ways that aren’t reliant on bumping genitals or swopping saliva.

I found my best friend when we both nine years old. Only three years later, my family moved away, and we became penpals-by-necessity. Fast forward another ten years and we were living a mere 50 miles apart. But only for a short while: she then moved over 3000 miles away. We continued to stay in touch by letter, and then email, but the gaps in between got longer and our knowledge of each other’s lives became increasingly less current.

By the time she was diagnosed with cancer, the distance between us had narrowed to the present 400 miles: too far for a day trip, and certainly too great a distance to support her through her treatment. So I travelled, for a week at a time, to help with laundry, cooking, and companionship. Suddenly we found ourselves with all this time and no outside distractions. We had shared history from childhood but, now in our forties, we didn’t fully know each other as adults.

Over the next few months, we told each other the stories of our lives from the intervening years. The heartbreaks. The dreams. The moments of despair. And those of renewed hope. We reminisced about our childhoods, and I discovered she remembered so much more about that time than I did and could tell me things about my younger self that I had long forgotten.

Story by story, we became fully-formed characters in our own lives, and in each others.

Also during this time, when she was too ill or too tired to talk, I wrote. The first draft of my memoir – Desire Lines – took shape from an armchair in her lounge, and occasionally a table in a café when we just needed a bit of space from each other. My stories brought me to a deeper place of self-knowing and understanding, as well as giving me practice at being seen by others: one definition of intimacy is “into me, you see”.

By the end of her treatment, there was a new level of intimacy to our friendship. We had seen each other at our lowest (I had a particularly harsh bladder infection during one of my visits; she hadn’t had anyone clear up her vomit since she was a child). But, more importantly, we knew more of the stories that made up the tapestry of each other’s lives.

During this time of COVID-19 and the crucial need for physical distancing, I invite you to share your stories with your loved ones, and to ask them to share theirs with you too. Friends, family, and lovers all have their own stories, and you are one thread that weaves into their tapestry – as they weave into yours.

I know my friend so much better now, but I, like many others, didn’t get to see my mum on Mother’s Day. She’s over 70 and I realise I know so little about her – she’s never told me her stories. My partner and I live together and have 20 years of shared stories, but there is still space to deepen our relationship and to be surprised by facets of her that haven’t featured in our life together. And I have other friends who I cannot currently visit but can call on the phone or video. Once we have each had an opportunity to express our current anxieties and uncertainties about life in the time of coronavirus, there is time for us to talk; time to tell our stories.

An invitation:

Invite someone you know to share a story-telling session with you. Let them know you want to get to know them better and to deepen your knowledge of each other. Ask for their consent to have this kind of conversation, and then take turns at sharing.

If you don’t feel comfortable sharing your stories with another person at this time (because, we are all dealing with the current changes to our lives in our own ways, and intimacy with another may not feel do-able or wanted at this time) you can alternatively deepen your self-intimacy by journaling and writing your stories, for your eyes only.

Some suggested story prompts:

  • What did you most love to do as a child? How does that feature in your life now, if at all? How do you feel about that?
  • Who have you loved? What has that love been like?
  • Ten years ago, what did you think your life would look like now? What’s happened in those intervening years to shape where you are now? Do you have any regrets? What have been the highlights?
  • What is your secret passion in life?

small talk; big hunger

CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing

I hate making small talk. I don’t want to discuss the weather, or last night’s TV, or the football results. I don’t want to hear a blow by blow account of car journey in rush hour, or how long it took for the bus to arrive, or how rude the driver was. I’m not interested in listening to the rules of the latest fad diet, or how many steps the Fitbit recorded, or whether it is better to be an M&S size 16 or a Next one.

I want deep. I want meaningful. I want pregnant pauses and comfortable silences.


Today, I want to spend time with you. And, honestly, I’d happily take whatever I could get. If that meant listening to you read aloud a shopping list, I’d do it, avidly. If it meant throwing lightweight conversational openers into the mix, and watching you bat them back and forth with another, I’d toss away, merrily. If I was only able to be with you for the length of time it took to drink a cappuccino and say what I thought of last year’s X Factor contestants, I’d sip slowly and make up opinions, but I would be there until the last bubble of milky foam had dried on the inside of my cup.

When I’m hungry for you, even a tiny morsel of small talk can help to satiate me. The words become inconsequential as I feed off my other senses. Watching you as you speak. Listening to the rhythm of your breathing. Hoping for a hug hello, and goodbye. Pressing my face into your shoulder and inhaling your scent: long, slow, deep. Tasting the chemicals of your presence: I know we are compatible because of this.

So I’ll take your small talk, and feed it to my big hunger. And should we have the time to go deeper, longer, to find the point of silence, I will show you the dark cavern where that hunger lives, and invite you to stay a while.

Like my writing? Read more here.

Do you trust yourself?

Somewhere along the line I forgot.
I forgot to trust myself.
I looked to others:
For advice
I asked the same questions over and over again:
Who am I meant to be?
Am I enough?
Where am I going?
But I never quite believed their answers.
So I kept on asking.
And questioning.
In confusion and indecision.
Until someone asked me the question:
“What if there is nothing wrong with you?”
And my simple answer was:
“Then I would trust myself.”

The question was raised as an invitation on social media by the very splendid Lauren Marie Fleming. And, as I journaled my response, I realised that the many desire lines I’ve walked and written about are all evidence of self-trust.

A fundamental belief and faith in the liberating expression of choosing my own path.

Which made me think of you, and us, and the question:

“Do you trust yourself?”

Note: None of this is a ‘one-time, done-and-dusted’ thing. We ebb and flow, change and evolve, find our faith and lose it, over and over again. Which is why prompts for self-reflection can be so helpful: those simple reminders to check-in with ourselves, to assess where we are at, and where we want to go next.

Metaphors are my kink

CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing

I can’t believe I’ve only just realised this!

When I’m writing, I see the pictures in my mind, and often those pictures are metaphors rather than the literal thing I’m thinking of.

Take Desire Lines, for example. In town planning, desire lines refer to the bespoke paths that pedestrians make and take rather than following the pavement or walkway that has been laid down for them.

But, for me, desire lines, are a metaphor for the paths we take on our unique sexual explorations and expressions.

Realising that metaphors are a kink for me only became truly apparent when I wrote a piece earlier called ‘Let Me Be Your Pianola’.

I got a definite thrill from seeing and feeling those pictures in my mind’s eye.

Creating the metaphor feels like a sexual act in and of itself.

It turns me on.

Curious to read more?

Here’s the Pianola piece (content warning: the metaphor alludes to BDSM practices)

You know the pianola, right? Those self-playing pianos you saw in the old movies. It looked like magic as the keys moved up and down and the music came out with no-one touching them: maybe a jaunty honky-tonk piece or an old time favourite.

The ‘magic’ comes from a roll of paper with holes punched in it. The positioning of the holes corresponds to the notes and the tempo. As the roll rotates, the music plays.

When we are in a scene, You are the composer and I am the pianola. Your deliberate and considered placement of marks and holes on my paper-skin cause me to sing to Your tune. You set the rhythm and pace. You create the tone. You play me. It can look – and feel – like magic.

Each time we meet You produce a different roll. You thread it inside me, aligning me with the music You are most hungering for that day (or night – I love it when the music plays in the dark).

I’m craving Your music. My voice calling out Your notes. You.

A Kiss From You

CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing

I have imagined your hands in such great detail.

I’ve dreamt of your hands stroking and smoothing my anticipatory skin. The slight drag where your calloused pads catch, reminding me that you are more used to working with hard, inanimate objects than with sensitive, malleable flesh.

I’ve pictured the shape of your fingers intertwined with mine, and felt our hands meeting: palm to palm in Shakespeare’s holy palmer’s kiss.

And I’ve fantasised about the eventual moment when your fingers slide inside me, reaching and beckoning to release more and more of me.

Despite having such a strong imagined familiarity with your hands, I have never imagined your kiss.

Strangely, a kiss from you feels so much more intimate than surrendering my body to your touch.

A kiss from you would mean tasting the story of your day: the bitterness of the coffee you drank this morning; the sweetness of the biscuit you did not refuse; and the richness of the steak you ate for dinner.

A kiss from you would mean a shared breath. The very essence of life being drawn from my lungs and into yours. The oxygen fuelling the blood pumping through our hearts. No pretending now that this is just a carnal exchange – not now our hearts are involved.

A kiss from you would mean your lips, your tongue, your teeth: exploring, tasting, sucking, biting. Densely packed nerve-endings sending out scores of messages to my biddable body: blood rushing faster; breath now in audible gasps; slumbering parts of me being awoken and engorged. And parts of you too.

A kiss from you would mean a thousand different things.

After the kiss there would be no going back. Regardless of whether we ever saw each other again, we would be joined forever at a cellular level. The intimacy shared through the kiss would not be just about the physical and the emotional, it would impact at an even deeper level: it would be – in that moment – a merging of our souls.

A kiss from you would be my undoing. And also my salvation.

A Kiss From You is taken from my book, Desire Lines.

Read more chapters from the book:

Preface // Chapter 1 // Lilith and the Daemon: short story // Chapter 2.

So, you want to write an erotic story?

Have you ever thought about writing your own erotica?

Perhaps you fancy turning one of your fantasies into a story to gift to your lover?

Or maybe you’d like to share your story with a wider audience: on the web or in a book?

Or maybe you just want to write an erotic story for yourself – completely for your own pleasure?

If you’ve answered ‘yes’ to any of these questions you are probably also wondering where on earth you even begin… How you start writing… And – most importantly – who you are as a sexual being, and how you access that part of yourself to find out more about what your fantasies are.

I spoke with Nicola Humber of The Unbound Press about writing as your Unbound Sexual Self!

We talked about:

  • how our sexual selves evolve and change over time
  • how we can use writing to explore and express who we are
  • what it means to be an Unbound Woman
  • how writing can help you to reclaim your desires (and the words you want to use to express them)
  • how to start writing!

Here’s the video…

(If you want more support with writing your own sexy story, take a look at my free Erotic Writing Guidebook.)

Breathe Into Me

CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing

The first thing I noticed about you? Your breath. As you spoke to me on that crowded Tube train a sweet-sharp waft of peppermint snaked its way inside my nostrils creating a sudden and unrequested intimacy.

It was odd that you were talking to me. Strangers don’t speak to each other on the Tube. Except perhaps in an emergency or when some unexpected event unites them. But there had been no sudden plunge into darkness, no crazy person bursting into song; you had simply turned to me and begun to tell me your story.

We had been riding side-by-side for a good ten minutes and I hadn’t noticed you eating your peppermints. I was zoned out in that typical London commuter way: intent on getting to my stop and finally getting home and away from the crowds and noise.

But as soon as you spoke, as soon as your flavour reached me, I forgot about the no talking rule, and I forgot about the quiet sanctuary waiting for me at home. Your voice – your breath – wrapped me up in an insulated bubble; the sweetness of you made me salivate, while the sharper notes gave me an uncommon clarity. I inhaled your breath and I knew how your tongue would taste.

The narrowness of the Tube seats gave us no choice except to sit close. I usually ignored the unbidden pressure of another’s thigh against mine on my journey home, but this evening I shifted my focus directly to it. The heat from your body contrasted deliciously with the coolness of your breath. Safe in our anonymous bubble, I shifted a little closer, leant a little closer, inhaled a little deeper.

When you stopped talking I was suddenly bereft. The scent of your words had been my oxygen supply, making it possible for me to breathe easily in this cocoon we had created. I felt a wave of panic begin to rise as the noise and movement of all the other passengers began to infiltrate our safe space. I felt vulnerable and exposed: too many people, not enough space for me – and you.

My eyes darted to the scrolling sign at the end of the carriage: where were we?

Your voice told me the name of the approaching stop and that one word was enough for me to breathe again. Then your lips were on mine, your peppermint tongue tasted my own, and we were alone again.

Holding it together

Today I am held together by safety pins.


There’s the one carefully threaded through the side seam of my t-shirt where the overlocker cut too closely and the stitches are missing. I meant to sew it up but tossed the shirt in the wash and then wore it again having forgotten about the hole. The safety pin is fairly well hidden, and I’ve got a cardi on top too, so I’m sure no one will notice.


Then there’s the safety pin that I stuck through my heart last night to help me hold it together while the ghosts of loss tore through me, burning a trail of regret and sorrow. We had company so I wore my fake smile and played the perfect hostess. I plucked at the edges of the hole in my heart and hastily stabbed the pin in to hold them together, still ragged and bleeding, for just a little while longer. Just until I could find some time to be alone and to cradle my grief, holding it close and soothing the tears with the rocking of my body. I’ve not found that time yet and I can feel the pin beginning to strain as my grief swells my heart and makes it leak bloody tears. Soon, soon, I promise myself. But when? When will the hole be mended?


There is one more safety pin needed to get me through the day. This one is pierced through my nose. I wear it punk-style: Fuck conformity! Fuck the patriarchy! Fuck being the good girl, the professional woman, the pretty lady! I wear it in the office. I wear it when I see my family. I wear it in the supermarket as I buy toilet cleaner and tissues. However, just like all the other pins I wear, this one is invisible to the world. But I know it is there. I know who I am.


I am a woman holding it together with safety pins.