BEST Women's Erotica Indeed...💋

Hello again to all my hotties and heaux.

I'm back from the edge of the universe and ready to write again. I think a fire has been lit under my ass, and it's all because of this: 

Best Women's Erotica of the Year, Volume 3

I am so honoured to be included in this amazing anthology, which includes some scintillating and orgasm-inducing stories from twenty-one authors, old friends and new discoveries alike.

In fact, the stories are so fucking hot, I'm wondering why the hell *I'm* in there. I'm learning not to question; I'm just grateful that I am.

This collection, edited by the lovely Rachel Kramer Bussel (@raquelita),  contains empowering tales of women owning their sexuality, their fantasies and their own desires.

Each and every tale in this book has left an impression on me, all of them spine-tingling. And amazingly, it feels like some of these brilliant writers have snuck into my room, and ready my dirty diary, pulling fantasies out of snippets from my dreams.

In Overexposed, Brandy Fox has photographer Shannon reunite with the only man who had been able to reach her emotionally, the man she'd been comparing every other lover to for ten years. She sees past his life circumstances, stops hiding from the world - and her past - behind her camera, and learns how to live again.

Dee Blake takes a love of reading, and of books, to a whole 'nother level in Bibliophile, showing the world that you can't judge a book by it's cover, and that paper and ink can play more into today's modern society than technology and e-books. In fact, this shows that words can be sexier than pictures if you're truly paying attention. 

If you're into cosplay, as I am, then you'll love B.B. Sanchez's Guyliner and Garters, where fantasies come to life but reality is a close second. 

Damn.

I literally cannot choose any more. My darling friend Sommer Marsden takes masquerade a step further than Hallowe'en with her holy-hot-as-hell (you'll get the pun later) Demon Purse, and the ever-talented Tamsin Flowers stepped inside my brain with her birthday surprise Red Satin Ribbons.

I've only mentioned five authors here. There are plenty more to discover and explore.

But don't take my word for it. See for yourselves. Check out the links below.

Amazon.com

Amazon.ca

BWE Blog💋💋💋

In the Beginning...

So here I am again, trying to do this writing thing.

Life is complicated, of that there is no doubt. A lot of it gets in the way of what we'd rather be doing.

What I'd rather be doing, more than anything, is writing full time. But there is no time for that. More specifically, there's no money for that.

Money isn't everything, as people tell you. And it's true. But it's what's needed to make your life easier. Bills need to be paid, people need to eat, cars need to run, etc. And as a lot of my author friends will tell you, there isn't a lot of money to be made as a writer. Especially with piracy running rampant throughout the web.

So I work two jobs. Neither of them pay much, and one of them is so soul sucking that at the end of each day, I wonder if I even have the energy to remember my name, let alone sit down and write everything that's running through my mind.

And there's a lot running through there. It's the damn NYC marathon.

I'm not going to lie. I know I make a lot of excuses, instead of actually doing it. But it's because my brain has figuratively turned to mush. Once in awhile, I have - what I feel is - a flash of brilliance (and when I say flash, I mean FLASH). I posted one in the previous entry.

But anyone who thinks that sitting down in front of a computer, or a notebook for those who choose the old fashioned route, and spinning a brilliant tale is easy, I dare you to try.

It's not, which is why not everyone does it.

I have probably about thirty stories in progress, and plot lines for another ten. I have scraps of paper shoved into notebooks, pockets of purses and sweaters, and in places I'd never expect to find them. I'm a lot like a few writers I know - Alison Tyler being one of them. She's always commenting about how she finds cards and notes in the weirdest places.

I find a lot of beginnings. I've spoken on this before. I'm great at beginnings, so-so in the middle, and I SUCK hardcore at endings. So all those WIP's I've mentioned? All beginnings, possibly flowing to the middle.

If I have managed to complete a story that's longer than a flash, I'm always second guessing it. Does it make sense? Why did the character do this? Does this story sound too much like that one? Even long after it's been published.

But it's something I love to do. It's something I WANT to do.

So, here I go again. Back to the beginning.

I might have someone re-design the blog for me - just rip it apart and do it fresh. But, TBH, I designed this myself. I'm very proud of it. So, maybe I'll just tweak it.

Maybe I'll leave it as is.

Who knows? Stick around to find out.

This Wish I Wish Tonight

Star light....

He kissed me. 

On that rooftop, with the mist causing the lights to halo, making the black of night turn grey, he cupped my cheeks, ever so gently, and with no hesitation, he kissed me.

My knees didn’t just go weak; they melted. 

It wasn’t just surprise and shock that caused my heart to race, and then to stop.

When I had texted him with the words – I’ve always wanted to be kissed on a rooftop. Wanna oblige? – I never expected he would take me up on it. He was sober. Me? Not so much.

Star bright...

Friends. It’s a word I take very seriously. Especially with him.

But, this felt more than friendly. More than someone obliging a fantasy.

Maybe it was the gallon of wine I’d consumed. But my body tingled. My pussy clenched, and I could feel dampness slicking my thighs that had nothing to do with the weather.

I heard a holler from behind him. We were being watched.

I didn’t care. I’d put on a show. 

Just please don’t stop.

In the middle of the magic Mother Nature was creating around us, something was unleashed. I barely had a handle on my self-control as his tongue explored my mouth, his hands remaining steady on my back.

The first star I see tonight...

I wanted to whisper to him to put his hands on me… 

to run them over my body... 

I wanted those long fingers to tangle in my hair… 

pull at my curls so he could take my mouth harder…

wetter…

faster…

slower.

A bundle of contradictions and ellipses, feelings and hormones crashed and clashed in my mind and body.

As his lips encased mine, as our tongues danced in a first moment, time stopped for me, and it seems I wanted harder than I’d ever wanted before.

Dared I ask?

Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight....

©Miz Angell 2017

Writing again - sort of

Excerpt from untitled WIP:






I kissed him goodbye, took a deep breath, and went ahead, so he wouldn’t see the tears in my eyes.

I preceded him out of the room, heard him walk away, with no more words to say.

I couldn’t watch as he parted the curtain and walked out of my life. Those brief moments spent together were some of the most exciting I’d ever experienced, and my heart broke to think that I would never see him again.

He lived the life I wished I could. No strings, no responsibilities except for himself. On days when life gets too rough, I know I’ll spend time wishing I could be that lucky, wishing I was with him.

He touched my life in the way he touched my body: with passion, flair, laughter and spontaneity. In the 24 hour period we were acquainted, I’d been more relaxed in my skin than I have been in 20 years. I found myself moving more freely, laughing with abandon, flirting with not a care in the world. I danced, I sang, I loved. I was free from all chains, all reality.

In 24 hours, I managed to fall in love; not with a man (completely, the jury is still out on that, as fucked as that sounds), but with life and it’s possibilities.  Yes, he was the catalyst for that. I knew it wouldn’t last, it couldn’t last, and I didn’t let myself think about it, because I know I’ll never feel that free again.

He made me long, he made me want, in ways I haven’t for a long time. He made me bleed love and life, and then injected me with it just as quickly as a junkie shoots heroine. He himself is a drug – quick acting, and just as addictive.

And just as painful to quit. Because I’m sure I will never see him again.

Do I regret our short acquaintance? Never. This was a time to live with no doubt, and no lies. It was the most honest I’ve ever been with someone, with the people around me. No reason to hold back, no reason to regret.
 

I will never claim to know him in any way. We barely spoke of anything of any importance. We barely knew each others names.

And even as my name and face fade from his memory the further away he gets, his will never fade from mine.

As Prince wrote – life is just a party, and parties aren’t meant to last.

Neither were we.

I hope to see him again. I hope that it’s before I’m too old to enjoy another night like the one we had. I hope, at some point, he looks back and remembers, even vaguely, our night, and it makes him smile.
 

Because I’ll never forget.

Beginnings...or is this the end?

Remember when I said I was doing this? 

Well, I’ve finally done it.

Six years ago, I started on a journey to earn my certificate in Publishing, and ten crazy, mind-bending, incredibly educational classes later, I’m FINISHED!!

Just don’t ask me exactly what I learned. It was a harrowing experience, to say the least.

Not only was I dealing with being one of the oldest in my classes – sometimes even being older than the teachers – but in the six years it took me to do this, I lost my father, my grandfather, my surrogate grandparents, had my grandmother in the hospital several times, took care of my mom as she tried to put herself back together after my dad’s death, lost two friends to suicide, and three to cancer. My best friend was diagnosed with Parkinsons, and my father-in-law with dementia. And in all of that, fighting my internal battles with (self-diagnosed) depression, weight issues, lack of confidence and increasing self-doubt, questioning after every assignment if I was even smart enough to deserve to be there, and wondering whether or not my marriage was going to fall apart.

It’s a lot for anyone to have on their plate.

The fact I managed to graduate at all is a miracle. But I did it. Now, the question I face is the same one that graduates all over the world face once that piece of paper is in their hands – what do I do now?

My original thought was to open my own boutique e-pub house, which is why I began this in the first place; to become a writer/editor extraordinaire like my idols Alison Tyler, Sommer Marsden and Dayle Dermatis. But then, after a few courses, I realised something -  I hate editing. 

I have no patience for proper sentence structure, or the Chicago Rules of Style. I don’t care if a participle is dangling, and I could care less if I end a sentence on a preposition. The way I write is the way the language sounds to me. It’s musical and flows, and sometimes choppy and crude to fit the situation my characters are in. If I had to tear someone’s writing apart and ruin their vision because they forgot an adverb? I just couldn’t. So, no editing for me.

I found myself loving the marketing and PR classes the most. Maybe that’s where I fit in. But right now I just need to get my foot in the door.

I figure if I could start as a receptionist and work my way up, maybe that would help. And maybe, just maybe, I can finally find time to write. I'm sure you can tell from this blog - how sparse it is - that I haven't been following my bliss very well. 

Truth is, writers block has me in a tight grip - has for a long time now. The voices have stopped talking to me, and it seems like any form of inspiration deserted me a long time ago. I'm a dry well. I've never been so lacking for ideas in my life. And, though I've lamented it on this blog several times, the last six months have found me with no desire to write.

And that scares me more than not knowing what to do with my certificate. 

Even this post lacks the creativity and the wit (self proclaimed wit anyway) that I'm used to in my posts. Completely lacks organisation as well. Scattered pictures and derailed trains of thought litter my posts regularly, but this one seems a little more ... empty than usual. 

Maybe because I'm writing for the sake of putting something out there. Or maybe because I suspect I've been a talent-less hack all these years and the truth is just catching up to me now.

Wow, so we started with good news and are ending on a depressing note. 

And THAT my friends, is the story of my life. 

HOLY HELL - has it been that long....

Wow. It's been a long time since I've posted. In fact, I seem to have neglected this blog altogether. I'm so sorry.

I won't bore you to death with tales of writers block and shit happening at home. I will say that I've made lifestyle changes, for the better. Hopefully more good things will follow.

In the meantime, I figured I'd post something - anything - that was creative and in the erotica vein.

I don't have anything complete, but what I do have are a bunch of WIP's (works in progress for you non-writer types).

Sooooo, in order for me to not feel like a total failure, I'm going to post one of those.

Let me know what you think.




Tonight, I wanted you.

Shamefully, embarrassingly, desperately wanted you. I know I shouldn't, for so very many reasons. But then again, I've never been one to pay attention to rules, let alone play by them.

I wanted your attention. I was a whore for it. I dressed the part - short, flirty skirt with knee high fuck-me boots. Holey sweater with tight glittered tank beneath. Red - festive.

Glittery eyes - black and red. The night's theme.

Laughter throughout the night. Side glances down the table. Comments and innuendos, playful, flirty, fraught with meaning, hints.

Dares.

Whipped cream on my coffee, lifted by a scarlet tipped finger, sucked into glossy lips and a promising smile.

Did you notice? Were you aware of me as I was of you, when I grabbed your arm and leaned in a little closer than normal? Could you smell my arousal, my thighs slick under my skirt? My black and red thong was no help against the rush of lust that coated my skin. Simply because you were near.

Had it been you driving me home, would I have made it there? I was drunk. But not so much so that I wouldn't have known what I was doing. That what I was doing wasn't what I wanted.

I would have dragged you to me, tasting smoke and beer on your lips. Pressed my body to yours. In my heels, I was almost your height.

Would you have read the signs? Could you tell that a tilt of my head, leaving my neck exposed is an invitation to nibble, or lick? Would we have moved to the backseat, where we could shed some winter layers, lying skin to skin? Or would we just have made out in the parking lot like two horny teenagers who couldn't get enough?

Or would it have been worth the speeding ticket to get me to your place, into your bed, where you could have me, how you wanted me, whichever way you wanted?

And will it still be there tomorrow, I wonder as I lay in bed, my hand drifting down to stroke my smooth lips, slipping into myself as I picture your smile, and hear your voice. Would the lust still fill me with a want so hot that it burned me from the inside out?

My fingers lightly pet my sensitive clit, the sensations beginning already.

Liquid courage.

What happens when the drink wears off - but the want is still there?

Too many places to hide.

No place to hide for long.


Comments?

YAY - A writing challenge you can see through...

Ms. Tyler, our lovely Alison, issued us a challenge this week, based on a query from the fabulous Nancy.

First, we answered her weekly Trollop With A Question (this is number 74 and they've all been fantastic and thought inducing. Go catch up if you haven't been keeping up.)

This week's question was interesting in and of itself, because it involved an item I've rarely worn, and therefore never had much cause to think about.

How many ways are there to wear sheer stockings?

And after we answered that, she challenged us to write her a flasher on that very subject.

It's been awhile since we've had one of Alison's writing prompts, and I was happy to comply with this.

So, here is my contribution.

Please enjoy. And if you get the chance, take on the challenge yourself.

They constrict around my wrists, the seams creasing my skin with every movement.

This was not what I had in mind when I ordered them from Paris. “The stockings your legs deserve” the tag line read. It sounded better in French, but that was the point.

When I dressed that morning for work, I felt very French, sexy, with my pencil skirt and ruffled blouse. Empowered even, as I brought my boss his coffee.

His eyes trickled, his chin lowered, telling me, without words, what he wanted.

On my knees, naked, my cunt twitches, as the silk tightens further.