Kristina’s one of DSW’s most popular live readers as well as being one of the top erotica authors in the UK (her 1998 novel Asking For Trouble remains one of the most talked-about Black Lace books ever). A new release from her is always going to be a treat.
A mini collection of erotic flash fiction and short short stories.
Ranging from a few paragraphs to a few pages, the nineteen tales in Short Hot Nights give a glimpse into the lusts and loves of a myriad people with one thing in common: a need for kink.
Meet sadists, submissives, spanking fans and seducers as their sexual adventures are captured in these snapshots. Whether it’s back alley or boardroom, heartbreak or happiness, every twisted encounter offers an invitation to more.
Includes previously published and brand new pieces.
Out now on Kindle: £0.99/$1.29
From the author of Asking for Trouble and Thrill Seeker
“Kristina Lloyd is one of my favorite writers… Her atmospheric style sends me into orbit” – Alison Tyler
And here’s an extract…
I don’t call him Sir or Master or refer to him as He. I call him Alec because that’s his name. Sometimes, when he hurts me, I’ll call him a fucking bastard. That usually gets a laugh.
For him, I wear clothes I wouldn’t be seen dead in elsewhere. I’m all tits and ass, cocksucker-red lips, and impossible heels. I totter to greet him at the door, already hobbled. “Look,” say the shoes, “she’s made herself vulnerable for you. She’s telling you she wants her power removed.”
As if he didn’t know.
For me, he wears what he wears to the boardroom: steel-gray suit, crisp white shirt, his collar loose. “Don’t you ever wear a tie?” I once asked.
He grinned. “If you wear a tie then you’re a suit. No need for a tie if you own the fucking place.”
He doesn’t own the fucking place. He just acts as if he does, using quiet confidence and leisured commands that brook no refusal. I know how that place feels.
“On your knees,” he’ll say softly. “That’s right, good girl.”
His tenderness undoes me, his hunger screened by a self-control employed to coax another into surrender. Creep up on your target. Don’t startle it. His words feel abusive, manipulative, and they make me so wet.
Every time, I allow myself to be fooled, pulse drumming hard in my cunt. Before I know it, it’s too late to escape. The gentle hands that tipped my chin higher, that swept hair from my face, are clamped to my head, holding me like a vice as he fucks into my mouth. Above me, his breath is choppy, and in his voice I hear gravel and ashes, the base urgency of lust surfacing at last.
“Yes,” he hisses. “Take it! Go on!”
Lipstick bleeds between us, and my mascara carves black tears through primer, foundation and powder. This is how he undresses me, taking my face off first. My clothes stay put, just about. He’ll shove down my top, scoop my tits free and twist my nipples till I squeal. He might fling me onto all fours, flip up my skirt and nudge my underwear aside for access. Or he’ll keep me on my knees, cuff my wrists to my ankles and make me come with his fingers in my knickers.
But before my dismantling, there is a pause. Carefully, he’ll slip off his jacket and hang it on the chair-back. The shirt follows, then shoes, boxers, trousers and socks, everything draped neatly for reassembling later. As he strips, I watch, my arousal swelling at the flash of hair in his pits, the shifting of muscle beneath his skin. Then he’ll stand before me, magnificently naked, his thick, eager dick upright against his belly. And for a moment, as if it’s a warning, he’ll let me gaze at the big, brutal body I’m about to be overpowered by.
And that’s when I remember we are equals in this game, at that pause when he undresses to please me.