Thursday, 17 March 2016

until then...

funny how we set a plan in motion sometimes, just by speaking it out loud. So I was thinking, and the think got bigger, and the plans got bigger….

and the book is starting to take shape.

so, rather than waiting until the summer, I will grab these characters while they're hot and take a step away from here, for now.

I'll be back to introduce you to Flynn, the Irishman with the shaggy blond hair, the surfer's body and the  iron determination of a truly dominant man, and Jenny, the sparky young English woman who can more than match him, in and out of the bedroom.
Flynn may have thought he knew what he wanted, but that was before he met Jenny.
Jenny always knew what she wanted.

so, until then,

miss me,

Ivy xx

Saturday, 12 March 2016

Martini at midnight

His voice was deep, the thick scottish curl in every vowel as he ordered his drink. His dark suit was cut to make the most of his long legs and wide shoulders and could not hide the muscles it covered, any more than he could hide the scar that ran along one cheek.
She stepped up, out of the shadows. She wore silk: the darkest midnight blue gown, down to the ground, split to the top of her thigh. Her sky high heels were like pincers but as he looked into the mirror and caught her eye in the reflection, she might have walked on air.
He said her name. Not the name she would have given, but her true name. She froze, her confidence knocked, and he lifted one eyebrow, noting. Without asking, he took her wrist in his hand and led her away from the bar.
Outside, the heat of the day was still playing in the couples that wandered the softly lit Mediterranean town. Music played, something low and sweet she hadn't heard before, that spoke to her heart. She turned to tell him, to ask him what it was, when, without warning, he swept her into her arms and crushed her mouth with his. Like a match to a flame, she felt her own fire set alight under his and as he started to break away, as he moved back, a slow smile already on his lips, she hurled herself at him, her hands in his hair, her body in his arms, her heart in his play.
She couldn't say which one of them led the way to the soft grassy hillock beside the bar any more than she could say which one of them unclasped her dress, or which one ripped his jacket away, or his shirt, but as her skin met his, as her hands clasped him and brought him to her, she closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of their love.
All around them, unseen, the little town played its usual song, but there, under the heavy, swollen moon,  it was just them. Guiding him to his back, she sat astride him. Her breasts shone like ebony in the pale light, her dress lay discarded on the grass, and she wore nothing but her high, high heels. He set his hands on her waist and lifted her up, teasing her, holding her over his cock, until neither of them could wait any longer.

Tuesday, 8 March 2016


so I got to thinking, about how much I enjoy writing this little blog and how sweet you all have been in  reading my snippets of erotica and letting me know you like my writing. I only originally started this because I found a few bits of naughty writing here and there and I thought they'd be fun to share, but as time has gone on, I have found myself more and more caught up with my day-life and less and less able to commit to writing other things, and then… as I say, I got to thinking… and thinking…. and my thoughts got a little naughty… and I was thinking how much more fun it would be to write like this -

and not to finish the story at the end of the page.

you have me, here, writing weekly teases until June. In June, I will take what I have and start playing with it, see where it grows, where it leads me, and if it works out I'd aim to have finished my first erotic novel by spring 2016. 

between now and then, please do let me know what you like in my writing, so I can please you.

I do so love to please…


Sunday, 6 March 2016


My skin looks incredible. I shine. The basque clings to my body. The fit is everything I could ask for and I feel a flutter of excitement as I pick up the card, again.


Suddenly, I know who has sent me the stunning lingerie.

I look into the mirror and the woman who looks back isn’t the woman who worries if her skirt is long enough, or if her hair is straight enough. The woman in the mirror doesn’t care if it is eight in the morning or eight in the evening. I smile, the slow, knowing smile of a woman who knows she already has what she wants.

The woman in the mirror, is me.

I take time with my make up, sweep my hair away from my face. I want him to see me. I already know what else I’m going to wear but at the last minute, I hesitate.

Then I remind my self: surrender.

I run my hands through my hair and let my fingers travel down, over the sheer fabric, tracing the pretty feather embroidery, touching the little rose-gold ‘s’ charm. I close my eyes as my hands cover my body, as I luxuriate in the smooth silky fabric, following the lines of the basque that celebrates every curve. My fingers savour the softness of my skin, and as I trace the suspenders, as I feel the tug of the naughty peep-hole briefs, I know I can do this.

I slide my feet into my heels and pluck one single item from my wardrobe: my long black coat.

At the door, I check my lipstick, but I don’t need to check my body again. I know I look good. The soft silk of my coat is cold against my skin and outside on the street, the light breeze plays around the hem of my coat. I pull the belt a little tighter. My heels click on the pavement and I walk with my head high, knowing my own power. At the entrance to Macari’s, I stop.

After all these years, would it be the same? Did he still know my mind, my heart, like he knew my body?

I already knew the answer. The huge dance floor was empty except for one man.

Tom. His uniform spotless, he turns to face me. Our eyes meet.

I let my coat fall to the floor.

Friday, 26 February 2016


Listen to my voice.
Can you hear me?
I know I'm not that loud, not that brash - I know my accent is soft and lilting. I know that my laugh is a high, girlish laugh and that my sighs are nearly nothing - but right now, in the soft candlelight, in the heat by the fire - right now, I need you.
Can you hear it?
Listen, really closely. Listen to the sound of my fingers on my skin, the sound of my touch. This - this is my hands on my breasts. Soft at first, then hard - squeezing my nipples, pulling them out to you.
Did you hear that? That was the sound of my heat rising.
A moan escapes me. I can't help it. It's always been about my nipples for us, hasn't it? You love how I love them; I love how you love them.
I saw another man looking at them, today. My nipples were hard, pointing behind that cream shirt you bought me. I was wearing the lace bra. I knew he could see the dark circles behind the white lace. I knew he could see the way my nipples caught at the lace, my full breasts straining behind the thin cream silk.
I caught him staring, and he looked away.
I smiled. You would have liked that, wouldn't you? You would have liked knowing that he wanted me, but that you had me.
Do you hear the sound of my fingers, now searching deep inside of me? The sound of my juices?
Your name is on my tongue, your taste on my skin -
Listen, hear me come.

Sunday, 21 February 2016

take it

With one hard push he slammed her down on the bed. Like an animal, like a beast from the forrest, she stretched up to him, arching her hips, drawing him down on top of her. He stopped for just long enough to  meet her eyes. Throwing himself onto her, he grabbed her hands, pinned them down with one of his. Tugging at her shirt he ripped it open, tearing away the thin lacy bra beneath without a second thought.
Her breasts stood proud and beautiful, her dark, perfect, bullet shaped nipples aching for him as he needed them. She twisted under him, trying to free her hands. Her legs came up, binding his hips, pulling him toward her. As he lowered his mouth to her breasts and down, down, his tongue destroyed her. Her hands free, she gripped hold of his hair, pulling him closer, pushing herself into his mouth, but he knew what he wanted.
They both knew what they wanted.
Rearing up, he turned her onto her knees. With every last scrap of will, he held himself back but she looked over her shoulder and met his eyes.
"Fuck me," she hissed.

Sunday, 14 February 2016

happy valentines day

The cold air in the unheated theatre touched her nipples, left them standing proud. She wasn't tall, her head only just reaching the top of the hoop as she sat in its turning circle, but her legs - it was her legs that fascinated him. Dressed in nothing but fishnet stockings and that scrap of lace - what was it? he thought. Was it a body stocking? Was it a two piece? It seemed to lie so perfectly on her olive skin, laced together with her long black ribbons, the bow falling behind her as she leaned back.
He could watch her for hours.
She twisted, and stretched out her legs, then dropped. Without warning, she let herself fall back, one leg catching on the hoop, one stretched up. She reached with her arm, turning and turning around and around.
Lost in the world of her acrobatics, a small smile spread over her face. Later, the little theatre would be full of people staring up at her, shouting things, calling her - but now, there was no sound to fade away behind her music. Just her, and the hoop.
She took both hands from the side and dropped again, but this time she turned at her waist and came back up. The hoop spun, almost without her moving it; they'd been together so long, she and the hoop - like a solid steel lover. It was there for her every time, catching her every fall, there to support her, to display her. It held her.
She pulled up, this time stretching both legs out, splayed. Maybe, on some level, she knew he'd be there. Maybe she had chosen her costume, knowing how her nipples caught at the thin lace, how the scrap of fabric barely concealed how wet she was for him. Maybe she knew he was watching her, as she slowed the spin and dropped back, hanging from the hoop, again. 

He stepped closer. Each time she spun around, slower and slower, she saw his frame in the doorway. The closer he came, the slower she spun, and she let her tongue run lazily over her lips, wetting them, readying them.
Under the lights, the lace covered nothing of her ballet dancer's body. He found himself watching for the shadow of her tiny belly button, but it was the fishnet stockings, and the long, delicate black suspenders that fascinated him. He stopped at the stage.
"Can I help you?" she said.
He opened his mouth, and then closed it again. Yes, he thought - god yes, she could do anything she wanted for him. To him. She could bend him, twist him - she could use him, hang from him like she hung from her hoop - but it was more than that.
He held up the single champagne coloured rose.
She sat up, stopped the hoop. Dropping down onto the stage, she walked toward him, her feet barely sounding on the wooden floor. she pushed her hair back, out of her eyes.
"Do I know you," she said. 
She looked him up and down, and they both knew she did. 
"I…" he started.
Her lips moved in that same, knowing smile. He felt his cheeks flush with red. His cock hardened under her gaze. He ached for her - hell, he hurt for her.
He'd do anything for her.
"I just wanted to say, I think you're beautiful," he told her, quietly. "I think you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."
She reached and took the flower from him, but as she would have stepped up, would have taken hold of his hand, he backed away. She was too good, too perfect, for him. She was everything he'd ever wanted - she was everything a woman could be. Everything.
"It's ok," she said, her hand stretched out to him. "You can touch me."
Slowly, moving inch by inch, he let her lead him. His fingers found the lace and he closed his eyes as her nipples hardened even more, under his touch.

"Come with me," she whispered. "Just for today. Be my valentine."