The Presence of Absence

CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing

When you are inside me, exerting your pressure millimetre by millimetre until I stretch impossibly to accommodate the entirety of you, every other experience and yearning is pushed out of my being, and there is only that moment of knowing-you-knowing-me in this deep intimacy.

I can wish for that moment to last for an eternity, to forget there is any more to my life than this – than you. But –

the moment ends.

You depart and I contract. No longer the unfathomable vastness of a universe, now a mere ant on the earth’s surface, a speck of dust in your eye that elicits a single tear before you wipe me away.

I exist in this all – or nothing – state.


I login to another plane. My heart leaps. My cunt awakens. Would you meet me there?


The appointment is set. And I do my hair and I pee a dozen times and I wait for the flicker and the tone that tell me we are connected. At last.

You are there! I can see you. I can hear you. But my body strains, confused: I cannot smell you; you don’t reach out to touch me. I am floundering in this middle-of-nowhere presence of your absence. Pixelated promises offer empty disconnection.

It’s me, you shout, I’m here. Can’t you see me? Can you hear me?

And I do and I can and it is not enough.

Not enough.

Not enough.

The call ends and I cry.


I close my eyes and I summon up the memory of the last time we were actually together. The exquisite presence of your presence. When you were inside me, exerting your pressure millimetre by millimetre. 


I wrote this piece as a way to express my yearning and my disappointment. Digital platforms attempt to trick our minds into believing we are together – but our bodies tell us, undeniably, we are not.

Would you like to explore and express your desires using the written word? I can help. Click here to find out more.

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!

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.

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.

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.

The Perfect Ending

CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing

The fantasy had been running through my head all day like a buzzing film projection on a loop. The images were smoked and fuzzy around the edges and the sound dipped in and out depending on where I was and who I was with. Every so often, in the moments when I found myself alone, the playback froze and I could indulge that particular still in more detail.

I stepped into the screen and really felt myself to be there. My lips tasting the lipstick of your kiss. The whisper of your delicate sighs. The irresistible urge to feel you melt deeper into my embrace until our edges became flowing silk.

My body carried the sensations all day long: an invisible ache that wrapped me in a promise of later, later, wait ‘till you get home, respite will be waiting for you there.

The final bus ride was near torturous as the vibrations from the engine magnified the buzzing hum I’d been carrying in every cell. I walked the last block home without feeling my contact with the ground, my senses now overwhelmed with their own inner kinesis.

Finally, in the shelter of my apartment, I locked the door behind me, stripped off my outside trappings, and lay down.

My hands travelled over my skin as I replayed my favourite fantasy scenes. After the day-long build there was sure to be a thunderous climax.

Except there wasn’t.

There was pleasure. There was heat. And then there was a quiet peaking: the molehill to the mountain of sensation that I’d been feeling throughout the day.

As I gazed at the ceiling through resigned eyes I realised that the true pleasure of this experience wasn’t about the orgasm, it was about savouring the hours and hours of tingles and throbs and aching that had led to this moment. It wasn’t about ‘one moment in time’; it was about the capacity and the pleasure of my body all the time.

And the fantasy?

It’s not over either. The film projection can be rewound, replayed, even rewritten. I can spend a moment or a lifetime. It’s not about the perfect ending after all.

The Good Boy

CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing

I handed the plastic tray back to the air stewardess, most of the food untouched. The movie had finished, it would be a few hours before the next meal was served, and the lights in the cabin were being dimmed. I walked my feet up and down on the spot. If the plane did manage to stay up in the sky for the duration of the flight, and I survived this long-haul ordeal, the last thing I wanted was to arrive in Australia and promptly die of a DVT.

Australia had been a lifelong dream and it had taken me until now, until the grand age of 43, to finally pluck up the courage to get on the plane. I wasn’t enjoying it one bit.

“You could try and get some valium,” my friend Susie had suggested. “Or take a dirty book – that always takes my mind off the flight.”

I’d gone for her second suggestion and pulled the book I’d borrowed from Susie out of the seat pocket. This had better work. The drone of the plane’s engines filled my head and every slight change in its sound signaled how close we flew to disaster.

As I reached overhead to switch the reading light on, the young guy in the seat next to me did the same. The backs of our hands brushed each other for a second and we were both illuminated in the blue-white spotlights.

He extracted his book and held it in his hands. I glanced across. I saw a well-read, leather-backed book, and long, slender fingers. Then I read the title: The Bible.

As I looked up I noticed that he had also been checking out my choice of reading. The cover of Master at Midnight featured a picture of a woman, head thrown back, neck exposed, with a man’s hand entwined in her hair. I refused to feel embarrassed. This guy was simply a stranger on a plane, in another eight hours we would arrive in Sydney and I’d never see him again. I opened my book and started to read and he did the same.

I hadn’t even got past chapter one when the plane started falling. It suddenly dropped, bumped us in our seats, and then rose again as we hit what the pilot called “a spot of turbulence”. I clutched my book and squeezed my eyes shut. “Please god,” I muttered.

“Are you praying?” His voice was warm and rounded with an upward, Australian inflection.

I opened my eyes. “I’m scared of flying,” I admitted.

“Do you want to hold my hand?” I nodded and his smooth fingers wrapped around my own. The plane stopped bumping. “Better?”

“Thank you,” I went to draw my hand away but he added his other hand over the top, now clasping mine gently.

“Reading helps,” he said motioning to the discarded books in both our laps. “I’ve done this flight a lot, it’s best to find something to distract you.”

“Thank you,” I repeated and he released my hand. We picked up our books again, he opened his but I just help mine in my lap. He looked serene and calm as he read on through the passages of Corinthians. A theology student? I wondered. He didn’t look much older than 21 or 22 and, even in the unflattering, artificial light of the cabin, I could see he had a handsome yet boyish face.

The plane started lurching again and I automatically grabbed at his hand. He held it tightly and, with his free hand, switched off both our overhead lights. “I know something else that helps,” he told me.

“Anything,” I told him, “oh Lord, just make it stop.”

His free hand worked under the blanket that was covering my lap and I felt his thumb rub firmly over the top of my thigh. “Yes?” he paused and waited for me to respond. “All you need to do is just focus on my hand,” he added.

“Yes. Please, yes,” I responded, pulling my concentration away from the bouncing plane and honing in on the sensation of a stranger’s touch. His thumb moved closer and closer to my groin in tight circles. I was still grasping his other hand and felt an invisible line connecting our bodies. As long as he keeps touching me, we’ll be safe. It was an irrational thought, but it was all I had.

His thumb reached my mound and kept on circling. I shifted in my seat to open my thighs and allow him to continue his journey. The circles moved down, working a path along the length of my pussy lips and back up again. He applied consistent pressure and kept to a steady pace. It was hypnotic.

I wriggled a little further down into my seat and felt his thumb make contact with my clit. The layers of fabric between his touch and my flesh were beginning to annoy me. I wanted him to touch me. As if reading my mind, his fingers worked open the button on my jeans and deftly slid down the zip. Now his fingers walked a path underneath the elastic of my knickers and slipped smoothly into the well of moisture he’d created. He stroked me gently and my clit grew hot and swollen.

He soothed and stroked over and over, up and down, and around and around. Every now and then he dipped a finger inside me – just one slender finger dipping in and stroking up.

He held me in this place of languid bliss, making no effort to hurry me to orgasm.

My entire being was poised under his fingertips as he caressed my clit and lips. I relaxed under his touch while my body responded; I grew harder and slicker.

Another dip inside me, a sweep up and over my clit, and I felt my orgasm begin to release. With each touch my body rose higher and higher until I was flying.

He cupped his hand over me and whispered, “It’s okay now.”

Barking at the moon

CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing

I have no idea what phase the moon is in at the moment. Recently the nights have been heavily clouded and rain has run its tears down my window pane. I’ve not seen her for days.

Is she waxing? Waning? Half? Full?

She makes me howl.

She makes me weep.

She casts her glow across my sleeping body, studying me without my consent.

She wakes me in the night and we lie together, barely touching but palpably connected.

Until she slips from me.

Deserting me again.

And I start the day alone.

Where does she go?

To comfort another lover? On the other side of the world?

I miss seeing her face and feeling her cool touch.

I miss studying her, observing her shape and judging her mood.

And yet she never truly leaves me.

She is within me.

Tugging at me.

Filling my breasts and wetting my cunt.

She is relentless.

She gives me no respite.

Even as I sleep.

She comes for me again, and again, and again.

And I come for her: again and again and again.

photo credit: Pezibear on Pixabay

Desire is…

CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing

Desire is a plant with tendrils that reach and encircle, binding to you, wrapping around you, holding you in their embrace.

Here: desire is wrapped around your heart. You desire to be loved and adored, appreciated and wanted, the most important and beloved one.

Here: desire has woven itself around your soul. Oh to be seen, to be understood, to be known as the true you. A connection of soul to soul. Deep into your core.

Here: desire trails sensuous fingers over your body. Reaching between your thighs. Yes, there, where it feels exquisite and divine. This desire is hunger for touch. And for sweet release.

Desire changes and grows and flowers and dies.

Only for a new seed to take root and find a hold.

Entwining around your heart, your soul, your body; your blossoming joy.

What do you desire?

photo credit: Maike Bergold