Bad erotica. I asked for it, and you guys wrote it.

Oh, boy, did you write it.

From the very first submission (Kilted Wookie’s The Bank Job) to the very last (Maria Opens Up’s One Eye, Willy, and the Rose), this second #EuphOff has been a rollicking rollercoaster of gleefully purple prose, hilarious sexual puns and arousal-quenching innuendo that – quite literally at times – had me on the floor.

The sheer inventiveness of the various entries and the skill with which they were executed was amazing and I want to say ‘thank you’ to everyone who took the time to enter and craft these amazing pieces of glorious tat. (Despite what others may think, writing really shitty sex scenes well is actually pretty damn hard!)

Before I announce the supreme winner of the much coveted Bad Erotica Crown *cough cough* (and confer the excellence in bad erotic audio award), let’s take a moment or two to ponder the, er, ‘highlights’ of The EuphOff: Part Deux


Kilted (Master of the Disturbing Plumbing Simile) Wookie:

Like a plumber unblocking a stubborn drain, he plunged into her, hammering her like a farmer erecting a fence post in the soft earth.

The Bank Job


Beck (Goddess of Going Where No Man or Woman Has Gone Before with a Household Appliance or Piece of Infrastructure) and her Kinks:

He rose to his feet. Slapping his throbbing milkshake gun on her face pillows. Stroking his milkshake maker until his creamy warmth coated her voice tunnel.

Jack & Liv


The Other (And Spectre-acularly Galor-ious) Livvy:

Glory Wholl stalked across the casino, her voluptuous figure swaying inside the velvet dress. This was not her first mission as Ernest Blohard’s seductress assassin but was likely to be her hardest. Her target’s reputation preceded him and her loins fluttered at the conflict between her professionalism and throbbing desire.

The Spy Who Loved Me


Dawnrotica da Vinci (A.K.A cherrytartblog):

The sound of her moans, the silky feel of her secret studio as he fondled her fufu and stroked at her love bud inflamed his passions even more.

The Artist’s Passion


Oleander (Would Make a Red Pen Leak with Excitement) Plume:

“I don’t care for a rough gutter, so I wax,” he says. I lick his silky sack before moving above the fold to inhale his dingbat. “Suck my font, Devon, suck it!”

Literally Literary


Tabitha (Take Me to Questionable Heaven and Back with Dirty Auto Parts) Rayne:

“Feeling a little greedy are we?” he says with a wicked glint in his eye.

“Yes, I’m always greedy for you. I want you to pump me hard with your big pneumatic breaker – separate my tyre bead from my trim, make me squeal like a broken fan-belt!”

– A Visit to the Mechanic


Cherrie’s (I’m Just Pruning My Rosebush) Delights:

I let my hands slide downwards. They paused near the entrance of my love garden.

– Landscaping


Ninja (You Had Me At Hard Drive) Sexology:

Sheila squealed like a dialup modem connecting to AOL as he plunged into her throbbing love tunnel.  “Oh baby, yes, I need more RAM!” Sheila cried out in ecstasy.  Matt relentlessly pegged her CPU, shuddering as his hard drive completed its data dump.

– Tech Support


  Tamsin (Ewe Baaaaaaad Girl) Flowers:

Elementa craved for the rough touch of Willie’s strong hands on her ripening flesh. But Willie fulfilled his needs elsewhere. His black sheep, Guilda, was the love of his life …

The Stella Gibbons Euph Off …


The Lady Whose Title Before I Clicked Made Me Think My Childhood Memories of Watching The Goonies Were About To Be Forever Altered (A.K.A. Maria Opens Up):

As his fingers touched her, she remembered all the times Willy’s willy had plundered her petals. All the times the old prospector’s mining trolley had lumbered down her throbbing tunnel of love, all the times his pick-axe had struck liquid gold hammering her depths.

– One Eye, Willy, and the Rose


So, to the winners. Continue reading


Elust header Photo courtesy of Charlie in the Pool


Welcome to Elust #76

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing,

relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #75? Start with the rules, come back November 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!


~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Sex and the post-birth vagina

Lonely Things

Just the two of us


~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Tiny, shiny, bity snaps of steel…

I have fallen in and out of love with myself


~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*

I had An Abortion


Continue reading



A couple of weeks back, the Sinful Sunday monthly prompt was ‘Shoot from Above’. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to do a photograph for it but the prompt itself really fascinated me as this angle is not something that I’ve attempted before and I thought it would be both challenging and fun to experiment with it.

Initially, I had all sorts of ideas involving our stepladder and an empty, raised vegetable bed (don’t ask) but the weather has been totally pants here recently and, as a girl who really feels the cold, taking the picture I envisaged just wasn’t going to happen. Then, as luck would have it, I remembered that we have a, um, hook, above our bed (*whistles nonchalantly*) and that I could probably hang my camera off of it by its strap. Continue reading


Clover Clamps

When I was younger, I used to think that there was something wrong with my nipples because, contrary to what Cosmopolitan and every romance novel I’d ever read seemed to say, having someone touch them or lick them or suck them just didn’t seem to do anything for me. For a long time, they were just sort of there – a nice distraction for my partners but nothing really special for me in the sexual arousal department. Gentle thumbing, delicate licking, or soft kissing during vanilla sex?


But my relationship with my nipples and my attitude towards nipple play changed entirely when I began to consciously explore BDSM, pain and submission because, as I began to understand my kinks and my response to various forms of stimuli, they suddenly (and almost out-of-the-blue) became a hot switch that could be flicked to devastating effect. In fact, I would now go so far as to say that, played with in the right way, they have the power to send me screamingly close to an orgasm.

For me, pain and vulnerability definitely play staring roles for when it comes to nipple play, both directly and indirectly. A firm pinch, strong sucking, and the involvement of teeth are all things that really (really) float my boat, and most especially if they’re combined with something that’s more softly arousing. M fucking me with his fingers while he tortures a nipple with his teeth? That’s going to get me worked up and begging pretty damn quickly. Conversely, if something else uncomfortable is going on, the gentle, quiet application of M’s mouth to the tip of my breast can feel utterly amazing. For me – as with most D/s play that really pushes my buttons – it’s about Yin and Yang.

But the type of nipple play I adore most?


I’m pretty sure that the act of applying nipple clamps is as much a factor in my response to them as the wearing – the threat, the anticipation, the knowledge that the hurt will be sustained, not fleeting. That moment when M sucks on my nipple to harden it? That tell-tale chink of metal that sometimes gives away his intentions if he’s chosen to use clovers? The gentle brush of them against my areola moments before they bite down and ruthlessly eat into my flesh?

Everything inside me tightens in the very best of ways. Continue reading


So, I didn’t have time to do a Sinful Sunday session this week and the only images in the photo bank that I’m happy with are these ones of my little assets. They’re from the same session as this image, which I posted a couple of weeks back, so I hope you can forgive the lack of variety. (Cheeky Minx, Charlie, and Dawn tell me there can never be too much boob, so I’m taking them at their word!)

I kind of like the way these photographs work together as a group (full-size/aspect versions below) but, of the three, the middle picture’s definitely my favourite.

Which do you like best?

EDIT: PS – I’ve you’re the owner of small boobs (or a lover of them!) I’d adore it if you’d join in with my Little Doves project.

Screen Shot 2015-11-09 at 11.20.41

Continue reading


I never thought I’d be promoting bad erotica. Ever. But, here I am, running a contest to see who can write the very worst euphemistic, smutty prose.

Go figure.

Obviously, I can’t enter my own competition and win this lovely collector’s edition of Andrew Lang’s Fairytales from Around the World or this box of smutty magnetic poetry (I hear that wouldn’t be ethical, damn it!), but I can write a suitably appalling contribution for your collective ‘enjoyment’.

And I have. (Oh, God.)

Clench your throbbing love tunnels, folks.

NB: The #EuphOff – Part Deux ends this Friday, 6 November, at midnight (GMT), so if you’d like to take part there’s still time to enter – just click here for the rules and details on how to submit your piece. You can also see the current and past entries by visiting this page.




Image: MoneyPen Waggener

“You certainly have a hefty portfolio, Mr Lehman,” purred Nordica. “In fact, it’s been quite some time since I’ve seen a package so … impressive.” She batted her lashes seductively.“How, exactly, were you thinking of investing?”

Mr Lehman smirked, grey and shark-like, his overly white teeth glinting beneath the bright artificial lights of the office. As he leaned forwards, she watched his eyes fill with fetid, lustful greed. “Oh, I’ve definitely got some ideas, Ms Rock.” His voice coiled and stretched, curling over the desk between them like cloying, oily smoke.

“Have you now?” Nordica raised a provocative eyebrow. “Perhaps you’d care to elaborate?”

“Oh, it would be my absolute pleasure to.”

As Mr Lehman rose, Nordica couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped her lips. Balance her chequebook! but the outline of his too-hefty profitability index was clear to see beneath the fine wool fabric of his slacks! And was it her imagination, or could she actually make out his heavy balloon payments swinging precariously beneath? Continue reading


Death Kiss

Image: Death Kiss, Pilar

I’m a serial story starter – and a horrible story-finisher. In fact, if there was an award out there for the writer with the most unfinished pieces on their hard drive, I’m pretty sure I’d be a shoo-in. Here’s how it usually goes:

  • I get an idea!
  • I get very excited about it.
  • I start banging away madly on the keyboard.
  • I get distracted by children/husband/animals/loveable-yet-crazy family members/moves to the other side of the world/Twitter
  • I reluctantly park the story to attend to said distraction.
  • I (eventually) pick up where I left off.
  • I make the fatal mistake of re-reading what I’ve written and start editing what I’ve got down so far.
  • I begin to question the validity of my idea/story.
  • I get frustrated by my lack of progress.
  • A new idea pops into my head that I get very excited about!
  • I abandon the previous exciting idea (which no longer seems so good) in favour of the new one.
  • Lather, rinse, repeat.

It’s really quite exhausting.

And the story corpses? Well, once I leave them to die, that’s it. I don’t often think of them again – or visit their folder tombstones.

But the other night I saw this tweet by Malin James:

Screen Shot 2015-10-28 at 15.43.29

And it made me curious. Curious enough to open up my slush folder and begin wandering about my story graveyard, revisiting the decaying word bodies I’d abandoned and left for dead.

The results were surprising. Shocking, even. Why? Because in amongst the dross (and, believe me, I’ve written some real shit in the past) there were some stories I can’t believe I didn’t try harder to save. A few of them I don’t even recall penning or even what their plot arcs were supposed to be (which is kind of alarming in its own way and makes me worried that I may be suffering from early-onset alzheimers), but other pieces I remembered, once they were in front of me, incredibly clearly. To the extent I could even recall my initial joy in envisioning them.

One of them, in particular, really caught and held my attention. It was the start of a short story, provisionally titled Bang, that I began writing for Skye Warren’s Take the Heat criminal romance anthology call nearly two years ago (official death date, as determined by folder date stamp: 18 December 2013). I never finished it (obviously) but, upon re-read, there’s just something I like about it. And I’m thinking maybe I shouldn’t have been so hasty in consigning to the draft cemetery.

Herewith, the bones of the story. The only question now is whether to try again and give it some flesh …

Continue reading


Stay Silky Serum 3

Reviewer(s): Jane
Product: Stay Silky Serum (personal lubricant)
Manufacturer: Smile Makers
Price: Not available at time of publication
Ingredients: Aqua, Glycerolum, Propylene Glycol, Methylpropanediol, Carbomer, Sodium Benzoate, Sodium Hydroxide, Dipotassium Glycyrrhizate


Initial thoughts

I have a sensitive eco-system.

By which I mean that, in general, my body does not tolerate fragrance, certain fabrics, certain metals and certain skincare products well. Non- stainless steel or pure metal jewellery? Tends to bring me out in a rash within five minutes. Angora wool? I’m usually scratching like a demon in about the same amount of time. Skincare products with heavy scents? They often sting my skin or give me a bout of eczema.

And it’s the same with personal lubricant. If I get one whose contents don’t agree with me, my vagina very quickly (as in, within a few hours) launches an all-out protest in the form of a yeast or BV infection. As such, I’m pretty fussy about what I use, and M and I don’t tend to stray from those lubricants we know work for us/don’t upset my natural biochemistry.

So when I received one of the new Smile Makers water-based lubricants, Stay Silky Serum, for review my heart lifted … and then sank. Because, after getting all excited by the lovely packaging, I checked the ingredient list and saw that two near the top of it (product contents are always listed in order of greatest ingredient quantity to least) were ones I know to avoid, namely Glycerolum (a synonym for Glycerol, which, in turn, is a synonym for Glycerin*) and Propylene Glycol.


Because, nine times out of ten a lubricant containing these two chemicals (or a derivative of them) will upset me and cause one of the two situations above.

Now, in fairness to Smile Makers, a lot of water-based lubricants on the market contain one or both of these ingredients – including the big boys like K-Y and Astroglide – so they’re certainly not alone in using them in their product(s). But, that said, there’s no getting around the fact there’s an increasing amount of literature advising the avoidance of formulations that contain them, such as this piece on Prevention.com, this excellent Storify (which came out of the Woodhull An In-Depth Look at Personal Lubricants session run by sex educator Sarah Mueller) and this article by Chemical and Engineering News. Many of them point to reactions similar to my own.

So, where does that leave this review?

Well, given my likelihood of reacting to it, I couldn’t (for obvious reasons) test the Stay Silky Serum on myself. Which left putting it through its paces, externally, on M. Continue reading


Auguste_Rodin_-_Nude,_c._1900–1908Will my vagina ever be the same after I’ve had a baby?

Will I be looser, less toned?

Will I tighten up again?

Will sex feel the same after I’ve given birth?

Will my partner still enjoy having sex with me?

I’m 99.9% certain that every pregnant woman has asked herself these questions (or a variation of them). If not out loud, at least in her head.

Talking about the stark realities of your vagina after having pushed two babies out of it is not in the least bit sexy or erotic. I know that. But given that there’s an extremely limited amount of frank, personal dialogue out there on the landscape of the post natural-birth vagina, vulva and pelvis, and how it impacts/ affects one’s sex life in the years (not just days) following, I’m going to take Malin James’ FuckIt advice, hold up Hyacinth Jones’ I Accidentally Pooped on a Dude post as my honest sex writing talisman, and go there.

Fair warning, this post is graphic. It seriously, seriously is. If you’re here on this blog for sexy stuff or are at all squicked out by frank biological, anatomical, and/or surgical descriptions then you might want to look away now. In other words, this is not a benign ‘it’s important to do your Kegels after you’ve had a baby’ and ‘it’s usually safe to have sex around six weeks after giving birth’ kind of piece. It’s a ‘my bladder ended up nearly falling out of me’ kind of deal.

*Watches the last reader run for the door*

Still here? Okay, good.

I am the owner of a post-baby vagina. One that has been stretched, ripped, scarred, collapsed, and surgically corrected. To spell it out very clearly, my vagina is definitely not the same as it was before I had children. It is not virginally tight. It is not ‘porn pretty’. And guess what? Despite all this it still gives me and my husband a great deal of pleasure.

Before I gave birth my anatomy was in pretty good shape. Not only was I reasonably fit – I was regularly involved in activities like rock climbing and walking – I was also an active, albeit sporadic, practiser of Kegels, having early on in my sex life discovered the joys of being able to squeeze a partner’s penis with well-toned muscles. All beer and skittles.

Then I had my first baby.

I can still remember when one brave woman in my antenatal class voiced the question we were all dying to ask but weren’t quite brave enough to.

“Will my vagina go back to normal after I give birth?”

And the teacher’s cautious reply:

“Well, you’re never quite the same after you’ve had a baby.”

She left it there.

I wasn’t ignorant to the fact that things were going to change after having a child. Pregnancy tends to alter many things about your body – the size of your breasts (mine got even smaller), the look of your nipples (mine got bigger), your weight (stayed about the same), your shape (I’m slightly less boyish), the texture of your skin (up close, the skin on my belly resembles the film on boiled milk). Realistically, you just can’t expect to push something with a head the size of a rock melon out of you and have everything to remain as it was.

It’s just biology.

My son arrived quickly. As in he was fully out and screaming his 7lb 3oz head off within 45 minutes of us pulling into the hospital carpark. That timing included a ten-minute walk to the labour ward and the midwives trying to find a spare bed. In the scheme of things his birth was very straight-forward. But as he flew out, I ripped. Not through the perenium (one of the most common places to tear) but across both inner labia and the entrance of my vagina, directly beneath my clitoris.

Holy fucking hell did it hurt.

I remember the nurse who came in to stitch me up examining me and explaining what had happened. Then she asked whether I was bothered about the aesthetics of my labia and whether I wanted ‘just a few’ stitches to rectify the worst of the damage or whether I’d prefer a more comprehensive sew up to ‘keep things looking even’. (Are you kidding?! Stitch me like a macramé basket, woman!)

I spent the next three weeks peeing in a bucket of water in order to stop the urine stinging the crap of me whenever it ran over my torn, still-healing skin. And, despite the extra stitching? I still ended up scarred and asymmetrical. I must have sent M down there a dozen times to check the healing (I was too frightened to look myself) and, as always, he was endlessly encouraging, although pretty frank that things were ‘a bit of a mess’ (his words).

But the real challenge came when we tried to have sex for the first time.

Holy fuck, x2.

I couldn’t even cope with his fingers inside me. The thickened scar tissue beneath my clitoris was incredibly painful to the touch and there was no way M could get his penis anywhere near me. For four months we tried and I can remember bursting into tears at one point after yet another failed attempt and howling “Oh, my God! What if we can never have sex again?!” I’d never been more frustrated – it hurt even to touch myself – and, although he never once complained and was beyond patient and ever-calm, I’m pretty sure he must’ve been near his blow-job and hand-job limit.

I went to see my GP who, after she tried insert to some thin cylinders that had me practically climbing up the exam room wall, rapidly concluded I needed to see a specialist. He turned out to be lovely and reassured me that I just needed to give myself more time to heal. Crucially, he also told me to relax and that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a glass of wine or two before making any further attempts.

Finally, around month five, M and I succeeded in having penetrative (albeit tentative) sex …


… and almost as soon as we did, I immediately reallocated my worry quota to what my post-baby vagina felt like to him. I’d been doing Kegels like crazy post birth (as with most of the women in my antennal group, for the first few weeks after having my son I didn’t have quite the same ability to control my urge to pee and I was desperate to get control as well as my tone back) but I was still concerned that I might not feel quite as nice as I used to.

One of the things I love most about M is his honesty. He was both matter of fact and reassuring:

“Babe, you’ve had a baby. Yeah, things are a bit different. But you still feel fucking amazing around my cock.” Continue reading