Forget that last post!
(Put that bugle away!)
I've just now sent my "novel" MISTER ANONYMOUS to Amazon for publication.  It supersedes what I was clumsily attempting a couple of years back with "Mastering the Master".  It's vastly superior to that and shows that a writer should always consider and reconsider and reconsider again before loosing her work onto social media.  (Maybe somebody need to tell POTUS that!  If they can tell him anything.  Has anyone else noticed by the way the similarity between his small pursed mouth and the average anus just prior to defecating?)
Yes - I feel MISTER ANONYMOUS might even be ploughing new ground in erotica - intelligent, left leaning literary porn.  I'm hoping it manages to arouse the reader but at the same time get her (and him) to question the genre.  I'm hoping!
If anyone's reading this you have nothing to lose - you can get a free sample of the novel just by clicking on the image in Amazon's website.  

Erotic Serial for your delectation and comment. Chapter One.

MASTERING THE MASTER

In which sexually naive Naomi embarks on an exploration of her (size 16) body and captures the heart (and other organs) of wealthy film producer, Gregory Samson.

The staff elevator descended.  Its jaws opened and Naomi, together with Chantelle, her friend and co-worker, were disgorged into the hotel’s lobby.  It was the end of their shift and they felt a stiffness in their muscles that only a deep bath would sooth away.  Heading for the revolving doors, a commotion by the reception desk halted and intrigued them.  A tall muscular man and an almost skeletal woman were being fussed over by Claude, the manager.

“VIPs!” said Naomi, a certain distaste in her voice.

“Do we ever get anyone who isn’t a VIP?”

“Or thinks they aren’t!”

Wendy, plump and mousy, bustled past them to take up her place beside the telephone.  Chantelle grabbed her arm and she came to a sudden halt.

“So who is he?”

Surprised by her emergency stop Wendy blinked, recognised Chantelle and shook her head.

“Come on!  You haven’t signed the Official Secrets act, Wend!”

Dipping into her pocket, Wendy retrieved, with some difficulty due to the tightness of her uniform, a slip of paper.  Reading from it she announced ...

“Gregory Samson.”

“Is he famous?”  Naomi asked.

The receptionist shrugged her shoulders.

“He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t.”

“What does he do?”

“What do any of them do?” Chantelle quipped.  “They walk around and money sticks to them.”

Come on ‘telle!”  complained Wendy.  “Got a job to do!”

The two women stood awhile watching as their compatriot bustled away in the direction of the celebrities.

Naomi, assuming her friend had got what information she had wanted, made to move off but Chantelle had her arm linked into hers and Chantelle wasn’t going anywhere.  Turning to look at her friend, Naomi didn’t have to form the question that was on her lips.

“Look at this rain!” Chantelle bluffed.  “Not think we should hang on awhile?  Let it blow over?”

Naomi looked out through the revolving door they were intending negotiating and it was true, the heavens had opened.  Rain was bouncing up off the pavement.  Buses and taxis were rushing past sending up waves of dirty water.

“I’ll miss my train!” she bleated.

“There’ll be another in half an hour!”  Chantelle said, her eyes still fixed on the new arrivals who appeared to be in some kind of dispute with Claude.  “Let’s sit down see if it clears - just had my hair done.”

Reluctantly, Naomi allowed her friend to guide her towards a couple of chairs in the lobby.

As they did so, to their right, a service door swung open and a young man appeared pushing a trolley laden with towels.

“Hey Zeb!” Chantelle called out.

The young man turned.  His eyes skimmed across Naomi before settling on Chantelle.

“Chanty Tell!” he smiled.

“Two gins please!” she snapped.

“You’re not guests!”

“0h come on, Zeb!  Sneak us a couple and who knows what I’ll do for you one of these days!”

“You all promises lady!”

“Collect enough of my promises and one day you’ll be able to redeem them – I promise!”

“You get me the bag!”

“It’s sack Zeb! Naomi corrected him.

“Yes!  And she get me it, If I no careful!”

“Oh come on me and Naomi know the scam – sneak us a couple!”

“What scam’s that?  Naomi asked.

“Hospitality cabinets!  You’d be surprised how many devout Saudi Moslems appear to develop a taste for whisky and gin when they’re staying in this hotel.”

“Ssh!” Zeb hissed, glancing around.

Chantelle turned to her friend.

“Ever known a Saudi check his bill?  Zeb has the key to the cabinets.”

“You lady with promises.  If you want drink gin you must keep close mouth.”

“Now that’d be tricky, Zeb.”

Checking to his left, then to his right and finally looking upwards towards non-existent cameras, Zeb reached under the bottom layer of towels and retrieved two miniatures of gin.

“I give you glass too to make it look like you drink the water,” he said and handed them a couple of plastic bathroom tumblers.

Chantelle smiled – met his eyes.

“I be in old man’s home before I get what you promise.”

“Be worth waiting for though, Zeb,” she called out as he trundled away.

Expertly Chantelle broke the seals on the two miniatures, emptied the contents into the two tumblers and stashed the evidence in her pockets.

“Breakfast gin?” said Naomi.

“Get it down you girl – warm you up.”

Naomi took a sip.  Felt a warm glow flower in her throat and blossom in her chest.

“Gregory Samson,” Chantelle mused thoughtfully, as Claude personally escorted the man and his companion towards the lift.

“Like the strong man.”

“Mm?” Chantelle seemed to have slipped into a day-dream.

“Don’t you know your bible?”

“Look, Naomi, you forget I’m not a good Catholic girl like you.”

“No, of course.  You’re a good time girl.”

“Given the opportunity.”

“Even so,” said Naomi, “you must know about Samson.  His girlfriend gets to work on him.  She cuts his hair and he goes all limp.”

“Tell you something,” Chantelle leered. “If I got to grips with our Mister Samson there - well I’d ensure there wouldn’t be anywhere on his bod left limp!”

Naomi shook her head.  Typical Chantelle, she thought.

“Gregory Handsome!” Chantelle purred.

“Out of our league!”

“Speak for yourself, girl - if I could manage to get to work on him with my subtle charms ...”

“And what subtle charms would they be then?” Naomi countered.

“Don’t know as yet – have to see what situation might arise – or what situation I might cause to arise.”

“For instance?”

“Well I could arrange to just happen to be in the private lift when he drops off his car one night.”

“The private lift?  He’s that important is he?”

“Sure to be – the way Claude’s fussing.  Anyway - stop breaking my train of thought.  Yes he’s in the lift – I get in.  I just happen to be wearing a dress with a plunging neck-line.  It’s quite short too – showing off my milky white thighs to their best effect.  Our conversation veers in the direction of oral sex.”

“As it often does when one’s in a lift with a stranger.”

“I pleasure him all the way from the basement to the top floor.  Whoosh – all the way!” 

Chantelle paused in her story to lick her lips in a theatrical manner.

“My daily allowance of protein!  In one serving!”

“You are disgusting, did you know?”

“Oh come on!  Don’t tell me you wouldn’t!”

“I’m engaged remember!”

“Derek!”

“Yes.”

“Derek!!”

“There’s only one way of saying Derek. Derek!!!  Don’t tell you you’ve ever said oh oh oh Derek!!!!”

“He’s ...”

“Yes?”

“He’s reliable.”

“Naomi! - we aren’t supposed to fall for men who are reliable.  Reliable is boring.”

“He suits me.”

“You are denying yourself girl.  Open yourself up.”

“To?”

“Fate.”

“Think I’ll settle for reliable.”

“Does reliable Derek ...?”

“Stop it!”

“Does he ...?  Thrill you?  Excite you?  When you ... you know - does he ...?”

“He believes in the sanctity of marriage.”

“What?  Oh my God, you and he have never ...?”

“He thinks we should save our ...”

 “Oh my god!  What century you living in girl?  I can’t believe ... How long you been going out with him?”

“Eighteen months.”

“You aren’t ...?  Oh my god, you’re not a virgin are you?”

“None of your business!”

“Oh my god - you are!”

“No I’m not – technically.”

“Technically?  You’ll have to spell that one out for me.”

“Just after sixth form ...”

“You are a late starter girl!”

“Just after sixth form I had this boyfriend and we ... well, you know ... but it wasn’t that ...”

“What?”

“Inspiring.”

“You poor thing!  You do masturbate though, don’t you?”

Chantelle’s question set Naomi’s eyes bulging in their sockets.

“I mean surely you fantasise – not necessarily about... Derek.”

“Stop it!”

“You do, though don’t you.  I mean look.  Can you imagine Gregory there.  Peel the clothes off him with your eyes – tear off that shirt - reveal his bulging muscles – unzip him and whip out his ...”

“All right!  I get the point!”

“You’ve just said you don’t!  No, but do you not do that?  Let a face - a body - form itself in your mind – and allow your fingers to slide south.”

Naomi shook her head at her friend’s frankness.

“Oh come on - you must masturbate!”

“I’m not saying.”

“Well that’s something!”

“What do you mean?”

“Well at least you didn’t deny it.  Have you got a rabbit?”

“A what?  The landlord doesn’t allow pets.”

“Tell me you’re joking.  Please.  You can borrow mine

“Borrow your rabbit?”

“It’s a vibrator.”

“Oh!”

“Not oh!  Ohhhhhhhhhhhh!”

“Ssh!”

“Well. Yes that’s what you need.  It’ll wake you up.  I’ll bring it in for you tomorrow.”

“I don’t want ...”

“Don’t worry we have an understanding – he accepts my unfaithfulness and I accept his.  Gregory Handsome.  Have to see off the totty first.”

Totty?”

“I’m referring to the giraffe who arrived with him.  It’s a word my dad uses.”

“Not very PC!”

“Ironic that with my dad having been a PC, but yes she’ll have to go.”

“What you going to do?  Push her out of a window?”

“If I have to.  All’s fair in love and war.  Don’t you shake your head like that, Naomi Chapman, you’ll still expect me to speak to you when I’m Lady Gregory Samson.”

“Not think ...?”

“No harm having ambition is there?”

“Ambitions and fantasies are not quite the same thing.”

“You’ll see.  Right!”

”What?”

Chantelle, placed the plastic tumbler on the table, clapped her hands together and launched herself from her seat.

“Shopping!”



Are fantasies dangerous?

Pornography – does it emancipate us from Freudian hang-ups or does it shackle us to our animal appetites?   

It’s a question that every writer of erotic fiction ought to be prepared to address.  My work is out there on kindle, listed alongside sub-standard fiction merely concerned with the mechanics of genitals docking in a variety of ways.  I may comfort and console myself that my work is superior to there’s but in the end I am working within the same genre – working towards the same ends – driven by the same goal.  Essentially – and frankly - if a reader fails to masturbate after reading one of my short stories then that story has failed to deliver.

But in providing the cuisine to fuel sexual fantasies am I consoling the reader or am I complicit in twisting their character?   

How much of the sex in the head, we pornographers provide, overflows harmlessly into tissues, bed-sheets and underwear and how much accumulates dangerously within the psyche? 

Take this man!  He turns a page and a glossy woman proffers her vagina – he flicks through Freeview and is rewarded with a free view of a woman simulating masturbation with a phone – at a click of a mouse he locates an “Adult” site, selects “POV” and a young woman feeds on what appears to be his penis.  He reads a story in which an unabashed girl strips and rides him.

The images and the prose pitch into the man’s head – they become addictive – more time is spent seeking them out.  Gradually – gradually - the woman up the street always willing to chat, the girl in the office who flashes a smile, the lass walking home at night - all reveal themselves to have ulterior motives.

These are not pleasant thoughts. 

But we can’t deny that pornography is profitable.  It’s implicitly threaded into the capitalist tapestry.  It tastes like money.  And, let’s face it, is at its most honest when it’s a commodity than when it’s a marketing strategy.  But how else (in the absence of smelly-vision) can a company sell perfume than to present a skimpily-dressed Thin-derella with cum-filled eyes walking out of a frothing sea? 

“Sex sells everything and sex kills” sings Joni Mitchell.  And sometimes it does.

So – behold the hypocrite!  Writing “tastefully”, “humorously”, “wittily” within a contaminated genre – hoping that the fantasies I create and to which I, myself, masturbate, are being read by the “right” type of reader who can successfully compartmentalise reality and fantasy.

Well?