It is my pleasure to welcome Eva Lefoy for an interview for her novella Lover Enslaves: 24 Hours in Mumbai. Today we have 10 questions and an excerpt, along with where to buy links and where else you can find Eva online. Now, on with the interview!
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.
Next Friday, 13 December, I’m going to be joining some lovely fellow erotica writers and poets to read some of our work at Sh! in Hoxton. I went along last year (or was that earlier this year?) when DL King visited the UK, and it was a blast. Looking forward to doing it again. If you are able to come along, please do – the writers are a wonderful bunch, and the Sh! ladies are great fun and terrific hosts – they also have the nicest pink champagne. 
Bookings can be made by clicking on the picture, or below:
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.
It is my great pleasure to present the following interview from Matthew Stillman for his erotic retelling of the King James version of the Book of Genesis, Genesis Deflowered. Wonderful, detailed and insightful responses. Over to you, Matthew!
This kind of project has the potential to cause some controversy, considering the uneasy relationship sex and religion often have. What inspired you to take on this project (Genesis Deflowered being the first of several planned books I note), particularly since it seems, from looking at your website, such a departure from your usual work?
I was helping my friend Jill Hamilton of the brilliant and hilarious blog “In Bed With Married Women” do some research on a piece she was writing about strange erotica on Amazon. I found books about being bred by goblins, sexually inclined snowmen, lusty leprechauns and the like. I had never written erotica or been a big reader of it and rolled my eyes at this particular stripe that I was finding. But I followed the “if you liked this then you might like THIS” path that Amazon sends you on. I came across a book that was an erotic retelling of Mary getting pregnant.
I read the sample and ,to my mind, it was awful writing. Cliche. Brimming with typos. Sloppy.
But the comments/reviews were amazing. There were not only lots of them but they were summarily glowing.
“This book made me feel closer to Jesus”
“Now I know how scared and proud Mary must have been to have been approached by God this way”
“To think that my Lord Jesus came from a union like that makes me feel good.”
I was amazed.
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.
The Scent of Summer is my upcoming erotic novella. It incorporates two typical fantasies – sleeping with the neighbour, and the age-old older man/younger woman scenario. Far from being a pure smutty story or a romance, The Scent of Summer instead seeks to explore how the heat of attraction can scorch as much as compel.
Home for summer, and left alone in her family home, Suvi is about to settle into holiday reading when she sees, across her garden and onto her neighbours’ verandah, a man she doesn’t recognise. She wants him at once, but being 19, and him close to her father’s age, she doubts he’ll think the same.
Johann, visiting his friends the Parkers from Vienna, loves the Australian summer. Especially with an enticing young woman lounging about in the garden next door. But under Mick Parker’s eye, and knowing the girl is unlikely to respond to his advances, he will not act on his desires.
When chance conspires, and Suvi and Johann are left alone, the cool of Australian beaches, the heat of summer, and hot lust cannot be denied. Nor can the realisation that what Suvi wants and Johann wants are vastly different, and that the steamiest sex and desire can also burn people to the core.
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.
A day late this week, but I wanted to get one done!
Another Water and Dust story for Kink Bingo. I seem to be writing them backwards, for this is set before Hideaway from the other week. This is for the food square, and is about 1700 words. This picture below is of a Splice, what they are eating in the story. As far as I know, you can’t get them outside of Australia and New Zealand (if someone in the UK would inform me otherwise, I’d be most grateful. 😉
—
“Fancy something sweet? I fancy something sweet.”
The words broke the silence of nearly an hour. Marc looked across the lorry cabin to Brendan in the driver’s seat, and blinked. “What?”
“There’s a service station up ahead, and we need to get petrol anyway — ”
Marc sighed, and passed over his credit card. He’d be claiming it back from Brendan’s father anyway, though considering how thus far he was failing in the job he’d been sent to do, it seemed somehow… off.
Still, paying for petrol and ‘something sweet’ wasn’t going to break Tobias Cavanagh’s bank. Even if the items came plated in gold.
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.
More for Kink Bingo today (Kink Bingo), this time for the square ‘gag/silence’. Once more from the Water and Dust universe, like last week, but this time, much earlier in Brendan and Marc’s relationship, from around when they first met. And dramatic it was too! This one is about 1500 words.
–
They ran up the stairs, and tumbled into the bedroom they found there. One double bed, a chair, and an upright cupboard, with a bathroom off to the side. A large window faced onto the main road. It had no curtains, and let all the brilliant light through, washing the room yellow.
Brendan pointed to the cupboard. “There!”
The cupboard was really too small for both of them; they’d both have to squash themselves in, and uncomfortably at that. But Brendan whispered that that would convince Walker that they couldn’t possibly be hiding in it. So Brendan clambered in first, tucked his knees to his chest, and Marc followed, swinging the doors shut while his left leg braced one side and his right knee almost dug into Brendan’s side. As it was, he was hyper-aware of being that near to Brendan, their proximity closer than they’d even had in the truck. The cabin had been restricted, but this allow no movement. To do so would alert Walker to their presence, and that would be the end of it.
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.
This is the fill for my Kink Bingo square ‘ritual’. Not especially sexual or graphic, except for the end, and part of my Water and Dust universe, but not within the timeline of what I’ve published here so far.
This vignette (900 words) describes Brendan and Marc’s morning ritual.
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.
A short piece, 1300 words approx, f/m. Art and painting is the theme (which I seem to come back a lot I have to say…)
–
He made himself cry for her. Not sob, nor weep and wail, but cry, silently, with tears running down his face.
She took photographs while he did. She had him sit on a stool in front of the blue egg-shell wall in her kitchen, made him take his shirt off. First middle distance, so she could capture his chest, concaved a little as he hunched, his shoulders rolled forward as his hands were kept between his knees – she asked that he didn’t touch his face, rub his eyes (later he would tell her that was the hardest part of it, not to wipe himself to keep himself neat and tidy.) The kitchen was warm, so his nipples remained soft as rose buds under his chest hair.
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.
I was at Eroticon over the weekend…
This did not happen at Eroticon. But I thought it might be a fun idea to play with. Vignette, 650 words long, f/m – voyeurism of a chocolate kind…
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.
Word count: 2250
Content: Erotica, NSFW, F/m, BDSM
Setting: Contemporary
Notes: First written in two parts for Wanton Wednesday, and then a final part for Wicked Wednesday.
–
The box Larissa brought with her contained black cord, a jar of honey, a silver spoon with a long, spindly handle…and a triple crown cock ring.
Oh hell…
The last item K. picked up with pinched fingers, like he was holding a dead mouse by the tail, and examined held out from him as far as his arm could stretched, eyes glancing at it almost sideways.
Larissa giggled, and he looked at her sharply. “No.”
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.
Like a clap of thunder, the music stops. The DJ shouts “Fuck!” and the dance floor is restless rather than pumping, edgy and discordant rather than in harmony. There are calls of ‘what just happen!’ and the DJ still cursing about a technical glitch, and everyone waits. The lights are garish without the accompanying beats.
Jeroen’s hand squeezes her shoulder, Orhan fingers dig into her back, and a chill falls over her body.
There are times like this when she freezes, and she feels herself watching the scenario play out before her, rather than participating. Where she doesn’t see herself as in control, as teasing and stroking the men either side of her, but as the meat in the sandwich, as someone – or even something – who could be tossed between two uncaring men like a toy, whose arms and legs could be pulled off on a whim, and the sight of her limbless would be amusing rather than cause for sympathy.
She stills herself, eyes down, not meeting either Orhan or Jeroen’s. She doesn’t need their reassure, not right not. She needs for them to relax their hold on her, needs to break out from the cage of their arms. Her breathing becomes more rapid, her chest heaving. She rolls her shoulder under Jeroen’s hand, hoping, hoping she’ll get away without needing to fight… and his hand flexes, not quite away, but he asks, in a normal voice, now capable of being heard in room, “You ok?”
She looks up, meeting Orhan’s eyes first. He stares down, frowning, concerned. The pressure of his fingers ease, and instead he rubs her back. Jeroen likewise rubs her shoulder, rough enough to be friendly. She turns to both of them, smiling, feeling the air in the space between them, freer once more.
-
Next: 49. Nibble
Image found on flickr, by Brandon Fick, used under the Creative Commons License.
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.
A new song starts, a quicker, more rolling beat, and Orhan’s hands drift further down, now emphatically on her hips, fingers splaying, digging in. The line of politeness has now been crossed, and sex can be the only intent. She smiles, and in time with the music, turns in her centre spot, and slides her arms around Orhan’s neck, resting her wrists over each other. It brings his smiling face closer, so their noses are nearly touching. Her breasts meet his chest, her nipples pushing against the material, eager to rub against his muscles, and behind her, Jeroen closes the gap, and now nothing could pass between the three of them, not even air.
She’s never been good at just moving her hips, but she tries, gently gyrating them. The two men pressing against her mean she’s restricted, but it creates a tender friction. Orhan moves in counterpoint with her, and she can feel his jeans rubbing through her dress. Not on her clit, but on the pubic bone, which almost serves as a shield over her clit. She senses it, not quite ready, not quite there to be excited and teased. Close though; the stirring in her stomach is quickening as she continues to dance almost solely with her hips.
Then, from behind, Jeroen slips his hands upwards, and they sit under her breasts. She bites her lip, holding in a sigh. Orhan smirks, and winks at Jeroen over her shoulder, upwards to accommodate his height.
“You move very… nicely,” Jeroen says, his voice low, so much that she more feels his words than hears them. She is about to respond, when he glides the edge of his large thumbs along the underside of her breasts.
And swiftly, she wishes that she was naked, and her clit begins to hum.
-
Next: 48. Wait…
Image found on flickr, by Pat Pilon, used under the Creative Commons License.
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.
Orhan lets go of her hands, moves them to her waist. His fingers rest at the place were her stomach ends and her hips begin; a place, she’s always thought, that marks where touching above is gentlemanly, and below is sexy. It’s the perfect place, she thinks, for him to linger for a while, between chivalrous and seductive.
The music changes, a slow beat, its rhythm lulling, almost soft. The kind that makes her step gently from one foot to the other, a slight shift in weight rather than taking her foot the ground. Jeroen in front of her falls in pace with her, while Orhan moves his knees; she feels his thighs bump softly against the back of her own.
The music starts to seep under her skin. Her pulse falls in with the beat, or so it seems, for it throbs right through her, from the base of her neck to her clit. The lights too flash in time, and the three of them, together, sway like they are connected by more than clutching hands and sensual desire. For a moment, she closes her eyes, and she enjoys the warmth of the two men, and the surrounding sound.
When she opens them, Jeroen tries to move closer, but she shakes her head, lolling it in time to the music.
“Take it slow, take it slow,” she says, exaggerating her lips so he can read them, so she doesn’t have to shout.
Jereon rolls his eyes, but with humour, and keeps that tiny distance that would take only a nudge from someone passing by to close. Though it is like they are in a bubble, enclosed and separated by a membrane of light and sound waves from the other dances, moving in time with them, but not able to touch.
-
Next: 47. Undulate
Image found on flickr, by Brandon Fick, used under the Creative Commons License.
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.
Word count: 1500
Content: Erotica, NSFW, m/f
Setting: Contemporary
Notes: Originally written in two parts for Wicked Wednesday.
In the fresh Stockholm summer, they stumble from the party through the glass doors onto the deck, him catching her by the arm, both giggling as their wine just manages to avoid sloshing over their nice clothes. The faint evening chill surrounds them. Her brief, berating thought of ‘you’ve just met him’ is shouted down by the ‘but he’s sexy’, and she leans against his shoulder, and they sway towards the thick wooden railing, his hand resting on her hip.
She can’t look back at him, though she wants to see his sweet face again. They’ve been chatting animatedly for hours, but now, shyness flattens her, and all she can do is stare out over the sloping grass towards the inlet. The pines on the opposite shore are stark green, shooting straight up into the evening sky, pale blue, starting to fade.
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.
Jeroen blinks, and she realises that he hadn’t noticed Orhan attached to her. His expression sours, and he starts to slide away. She grips his hand tighter, steps towards him, Orhan in sync with her. She looks back at Orhan – his teeth are bright white in the flashes of light, and his eyes are open, accepting, while Jereon’s face is hard, irritated.
“More fun with three,” she says, adding a chuckle to make it seem the most obvious thing in the world.
But Jereon doesn’t respond directly.
She watches as the instinctive unwillingness to share flash across his face. His eyes looking on her greedily, possessively, and flicking with annoyance back at Orhan. But she keeps Orhan’s hand close to herself, holding it near the top of her thigh, and she looks up at Jeroen, unable to keep the begging from her eyes, but steely enough to let him know that this is all or nothing.
Orhan shuffles closer to her, and she can sense from how near he is that he will not need convincing. Jeroen purses his lips, and looks between her and Orhan. But he hasn’t let go of her hand, so she ducks her head a little bit, her eyes casting down, and she peers back up through her eye lashes, demure, pliant, and her body almost shudders when Jeroen drops her hand, and grabs her shoulders, pulling him to her with Orhan pressing in behind her.
“You’re too kind,” she says, teasing, not to let him know she was ever worried that he might say no.
“Just shut up and dance,” he says, wry, a fraction perturbed, as if his pride has taken a tiny blow.
Not because he’s had to share her, but because, in the battle of wills, she won.
-
Next: 46. Sway
Image found on flickr, by Dr Stephen Dann, used under the Creative Commons License.
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.
Again, her next words are cut by Orhan falling back next to Jeroen, forcing himself into the picture again. Once more, the contest is on. It does, she admits to herself, amuse her to let it continue for a while. Granted, it may well be a double or nothing game, but the night is still young. The night is always young, she believes, until dawn.
Jeroen swings back his beer, draining the bottle. “I think it’s time we danced.”
He doesn’t take her hand, but his fingers circle her wrist. She let’s Jeroen pull her to her feet, away from the table. With his grip tight on her wrist, she reconsiders her earlier assessment of him as ‘sweet’. She didn’t pick up on arrogance, or his power. Probably because she let Diarmuid distract her. Then again, Jeroen could be unaware of his strength. The grip isn’t bone-crunching, but it won’t take no for an easy answer.
She beckons to Orhan, a little wildly, insisting he join them. He starts to shake his head – conceding territory, but her hand is insistent. She wants to be fought over still, before the final decision. Jeroen is about to pull her out of view of the table, but Orhan stands and tumbles after them, grasping her hand, and they make a strange chain through the crowd, a moray eel snaking with electric flashes through the water of the tank, curving around the rock-like tables and the schools of people. Jeroen uses his size to mark the passage, though people quickly fill the space, she and Orhan still ducking and weaving.
A space in the crowd appears, and Jeroen dives towards it. She and Orhan are dragged there, and the three of them glide into the pool of light, forming an arc, with her the fulcrum.
-
Next: 45. Three
Image found on flickr, by .shyam., used under the Creative Commons License.
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.
Red by the River first appeared in Filament magazine, Issue 7, Volume II, December 2010. It was my first professional publication, and in a magazine whose philosophy I fully support(ed – they have unfortunately closed, which is a real shame.)
This short piece is about art, sunsets, and lovely red-headed young men, and is approximately 2200 words long. Also, erotica, and not safe for work images.
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.
“I do wonder, though,” Orhan continues, “if you are maybe taking a risk.”
He actually sounds concerned, properly worried for her safety. She isn’t sure whether she is touched or annoyed.
“There is risk in everything. And I can look after myself,” she says, flatly.
He nods, and she tries to detect a patronizing edge but can’t find it.
“No doubt. But we all need a little help sometimes.”
Warmth fills her, but before she can speak, Jeroen’s face pushes between them, and he claps Orhan on the shoulder.
“Say hi to—”
She doesn’t catch the name or names in the din. Orhan gives Jeroen a knowing glance – not irritation, but an acknowledgement of the game. He gets up though, and Jeroen takes his seat, swaying jocularly towards her and giving her a quick nudge with his elbow. He looks back though at the gathering, smiling with real joy.
“I have been lucky in Cambridge. I have made a lot of friends.”
“Real ones?”
He looks at her askance, a little put out. “As opposed to what? Mirages?”
She shrugs. “Some people disappear when you really need them. Like mirages. All fun, but no substance.”
He seems to understand, and says, “Well, I have both. There are always more superficial ones than real ones. Besides, it takes time for people to become real friends.”
Jeroen’s voice is so serious that there is a line of pain in it. She says to that, kindly, “You’ve worked on it.”
He nods, deeply. “Of course. You have to.”
She wonders about the people who have moved in and out of her life, the drift that is living. She wonders too for how many people she was a mirage.
She isn’t sure if she likes the idea of being so insubstantial.
-
Next: 44. To the Floor
Image found on flickr, by Leslie Kalohi, used under the Creative Commons License.
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.
A hand falls on Jeroen’s shoulder. From the smiles exchanged between him and the man and woman who are behind him, he knows them. Reluctance flashes across his face, but he excuses himself, and stands just a bit away from the table to talk with the couple.
Orhan casts his eyes down, as if that might hide his smirk. But before she can move closer to him, or speak, his face turned to hers, and he says;
“Do you always talk with strange men when you go out?”
She laughs. “I’d hardly call you or your friends strange.”
“But you do not know us. We might seem friendly and nice now, but who knows if that will last…”
She can’t tell if it’s a threat, or a test. Or a promise that they are both more ‘dangerous’ than they seem. But she sees another way that could be interpreted, and she chooses to pretend she’s read it that way.
She makes to stand. “I can leave if you’d like—”
A look of minor panic sets his face. “Oh no! I’m sorry, I wasn’t being, what’s the word…”
She settles back down again, though poised, ready again for faux-flight.
He snaps his finger. “Underhanded. Please, no, your company is… very nice.”
She turns her chin upward. “Just very nice?”
Orhan beckons her closer. She allows a beat to pass before complying. He almost speaks in her ear to say;
“Lovely and enchanting.”
She inclines her head, and leans away. “Better.”
He says, more genially, “I am only wondering what you want.”
She winks. “One can’t give all their secrets away at once.”
His hand caresses his bottle of beer. “I doubt it will be a secret by the end of the night.”
She smirks; she bloody well hopes not.
-
Next: 43. Jeroen
Image found on flickr, by Rodrigo Favera, used under the Creative Commons License.
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.
Diarmuid’s gaze swivels in Xavier’s direction, and he frowns.
“Right. That’s a problem.” He glances back at her, and then cocks his head at his two friends remaining at the table.
“Have fun.”
She thinks he means it. Almost.
Diarmuid leaves with his pint, Xavier oblivious to his approach. She can’t decide if this will be a train wreck or a dance, so stops watching, and turns her attention back to Orhan and Jeroen.
Jeroen chuckles. “Diarmuid finally doing something about that crush of his. At long last…”
Orhan nudges Jeroen, and he just smirks.
“I guess it is just us then…” Jeroen says. He shifts back on the bar chair, opening out his body. She acts on the cue, and stands to move over a few seats so she next to Jeroen and opposite Orhan.
And then, the mood sways as the lights change colour.
The friendliness between Orhan and Jeroen doesn’t vanish, but they are now not looking at each other. They lean forward, elbows out on the table – firm, a bit forceful – as if to edge the other out of her field of vision. It is unlikely that they imagine that it has served to make them loom larger in her eyes.
The men each try to steer the conversation – so much so that her attempts at words are lost as the one tries to one up the other, be the more witty or charming or cocky or whatever they think she will find appealing. It has the effect of deflecting attention from her, inviting her instead to watch the verbal sparring, the attempts to glare each other down while pretending that this is not what they are doing. It’s almost coy and feminine, but for the fact that their bodies are tough and able to make this physical.
-
Next: 42. Orhan
Image found on flickr, by Tim Parkinson, used under the Creative Commons License.
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.
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