If You Have to Ask...

If you have to ask, the answer is obvious

There are two questions that women simply hate being asked when they're having sex...All right, there are probably plenty of questions a woman hates to be asked during sex, but these two are particularly infuriating.

1. Are you close/almost there?
2. Was it good for you?

Now, on the face of it, these questions should not annoy us. I mean, they demonstrate an interest in our enjoyment of the experience and are, therefore, being spoken by a thoughtful man, right? Wrong. And I realize a man reading this will probably be thinking 'I can't win!'. Well, you can, it's just that being thoughtful and considerate doesn't require having to ask these questions. In fact, I would argue that neither are really about our pleasure at all.

What's Going on When A Man Asks 'Are You Close?'

When a man says those words, or any others to that effect, what we girls here is, "Can we hurry this along a little?" or "Oh, for fuck's sake, what's taking so long?"

Now, that may not be what's intended by the question, but it is what's implied by it. And, if there's anything likely to throw cold water on our burgeoning orgasm, it's being rushed. That's not, of course, to suggest that the female orgasm is always a long time coming (pardon the pun), because nothing could be further from the truth. Guys, if you don't believe me, ask a woman how long it takes her to reach climax when she's masturbating.

But the truth is that the mechanics of intercourse don't always give us what we need. For most women, it's all about the clitoris and, typically, the in-and-out action of sex doesn't give us anywhere near enough contact where we need it.

So, if you're a guy who wants to speed things along, rather than trying to gee your gal up like a horse, make sure you're giving her stimulation where she needs it. If the thrusting of your pubic bone against her clit isn't doing the trick, get your hands involved.

If You Have to Ask, The Answer is 'No'

In regard to both, 'Are you close?' and 'Was it good for you?', what jars me most about these questions is that it actually demonstrates a complete lack of interest in me. If you were paying even the slightest bit of attention to me, you would know the answer to both of those questions.

I've had one guy respond to that with, 'well, you're always quiet'. I wanted to tell him that I was always quiet, because it had never been particularly good for me. Instead, I plumped for a little eduction in the non-verbal clues that women give off.

Now, to me, this ain't rocket science, but to him it was something of a revelation. The fact that a woman's heart rate, breathing, muscle spasms (and not just the obvious ones), skin and eyes are all giving him constant updates, much like Twitter, as to her level of arousal and impending (or not, as the case may be) orgasm, was something entirely new to him.

To me, this made it very clear that when he's thrusting away, he's really only focused on himself and his own climax.

And that, my friends, is why asking a woman whether or not it was good is not expressing an interest in her enjoyment. If he were interested, he would have been paying attention at the time. The only reason to ask, after the fact, is to stroke his own ego.

So, boys, do us girls a favor and stop asking stupid questions!

5 Things Women Should Never Do During Sex

Are there things you shouldn't do or say while in bed?

At heart, I’m a bit of a fool, a clown, a joker. I like to laugh and I love to make other people laugh.

Unfortunately, that desire to be funny is often ignorant to the first rule of comedy…Know your audience. This, combined with an insensibility to the concept of ‘there’s a time and place’, has made for some rather awkward moments.

Make Love Not Laughs

What I quickly discovered was that men, by and large, do not find sexual intercourse amusing. Essentially, when they’re in the mood for fucking, they’re not in the mood for laughing. Although this is a lesson I learned quickly, I remain unable to refrain from making gags.

Here are just a few of the things that I’ve discovered women should never do during sex:

1. When the man you're about to sleep with takes off his clothes and stands naked before you, don’t tilt your head to one side and say, “Hmmm, I’ve never seen one like that before.”

2. When giving your man a blow job, he won’t see the humor in you taking the description literally and blowing rather than sucking on his manhood.

3. When he’s going down on you, he will not appreciate it if you attempt to throw your voice and make your pussy say ‘hello’.

4. Never grab his penis and pretend it is a karaoke microphone. He will not enjoy the unedited version of 'Total Eclipse of the Heart' sung into his pride and joy.

5. Similarly, when the above are not producing so much as a titter of laughter, do not grab his penis and pretend it is a stand-up comedian’s microphone. Giving the tip a little tap with your finger and asking, “Is this thing on?” will, surprisingly, not lift the mood.

What is Wrong With Me?

Why do I feel the need to do any of these things?

Well, partly, because I disagree, I think sex is funny. Or at least, it can be. And, I’m of the general opinion that it should be. Laughter is a great way to bond with the one you love, so why not laugh and bond, while you’re loving the one you love? I’m not suggesting that we should all dress up in clown costumes before we get down and dirty, but there’s nothing wrong with a little giggling while you’re making the beast with two backs….is there?

Apparently, there is.

Surely, there's nothing wrong with a little
laughter during lovin'

I have, actually, lost boyfriends (or potential boyfriends) at the cost of being amusing during intimate moments.

Now, I can accept than an individual does not share my sense of humor. What I cannot quite get my head around, though, is why it seems so outrageous to find comedy in the act of making love.

The conclusion that I’ve reached is a simple one: Men (or at least the men that I’ve known) don’t like you to laugh or make jokes during sex, because they believe you’re laughing at them rather than with them.

With the exception of No. 1 in my list of things women should never do during sex, none of my attempts at humor are (or can in any way be construed as) mocking the man in question. And even, No.1 was said in good humor with tongue firmly in cheek.

But, who knows, maybe my need to find humor in sex says more about me than the men who don’t share it. Perhaps it speaks of nervousness and insecurity, or a fear of true intimacy. Who knows?! What I do know is that I find 'funny' sexy, and if I ever met a man who could laugh with me during sex, I would be an incredibly happy woman!

A Steamy Slice of 'Dirty Little Rich Girl'

Cover of Dirty Little Rich Girl
by C. L. Knight

Her lips remained parted, but she exhaled a long breath, before allowing any words to pass through them. “That’s how we play the game, isn’t it?” she eventually asked, her voice low.

“What?”

“You think I’m some spoilt bitch,” she explained, lifting both hands and pushing back the hair that had fallen across her face. “And that turns you on,” she added. “You also think I’m nothing more than a cheap whore,” she smiled, tilting her head to one side, as she gazed at me. “And that really turns you on.”

“So, what? You’re teasing me?” I snapped, my eyes narrowing slightly.

Her lower lip stuck out in a thoughtful pout, as she shook her head. “It’s only a tease if I don’t have any intention of following through,” she calmly stated, taking a step towards me.

I let forth a quick burst of humorless laughter, as she continued to approach me. “You’ve got to be kidding,” I told her.

“Are you telling me you don’t want it just as badly now as you did before?” she challenged, one eyebrow arching as though daring me to contradict her.

I wanted to simply say, ‘yes’. I wanted, so badly, to tell her that I was no longer interested; that she was an itch and she’d been scratched. I wanted that to be true just as much for my own peace of mind as I wanted to wipe that smug look off her face. However, I couldn’t make the words come. And, as the seconds passed, I realized I didn’t have to say anything. My silence was speaking for itself.

“Clayton’s going away for the weekend,” she smiled. “This weekend,” she emphasized.

“Look,” I sighed, my eyes dropping to the leafy ground at me feet. “It’s not going to happen again.”

“Why?”

“Because your husband won’t just fire me if he finds out,” I snapped, annoyed that she couldn’t connect the dots on her own.

“I know,” she replied simply. “He’d probably kill you, but what a way to go, huh?” As she spoke, she stepped nearer until she was no more than a few inches from me. She was so close that I could feel her breath on my cheek.

“You’re insane,” I responded, my gaze meeting hers for the first time in several minutes, and suddenly noticing how dark her brown eyes had become. “Why?” I whispered.

“Why what?”

“Why do you want to risk everything you have?”

“Like I said,” she breathed, her face drawing ever closer to mine. “What a way to go.” As if in slow motion, she brushed her lips gently against mine in something that was not even quite a kiss.

The scent of massage oils and whatever else she’d be covered with at the spa suddenly seemed overpowering. And, as my lips claimed hers, in what definitely was a kiss, I pushed her back against the car door.

My tongue raced over hers, diving in and out of her mouth as I felt the familiar rush of heat at my groin. My lips continued to press roughly against hers, as my hands grasped the hem, of her skirt and began pushing it upwards.

Her fingers moved rapidly over my chest, grabbing handfuls of my white dress shirt and tugging me closer. Until they hurriedly moved on again, searching out the muscles across my chest.

As my fingers found a pair of lacy panties, I was aware of the garment’s very damp crotch. And I found myself confronted with the image of Stockwell between her thighs just a few hours earlier. My tongue slipping from the warmth of her mouth, I instantly released her. Stepping back, as though I had been belted by an electric shock, I lifted my hand to my head and agitatedly ran it through my hair.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, utter confusion creasing her brow, as her kiss reddened mouth fell open in shock.

“I…umm,” I mumbled. It was ridiculous. I knew it was ridiculous, but somehow, I just couldn’t bring myself to slide into her on Stockwell’s old seed.

“Wait a minute,” she breathed, rising her left hand and pointing an index finger at me. “Clayton,” she mumbled. “Is that what’s bothering you, that he banged me this morning?” she asked, a slight smile quirking at her lips.

“No,” I lied. “I just….It’s just that I…” The movement of my hand as it ruffled through my hair became more frantic. “I mean, for God’s sake, the guy’s come is-”

“It’s all right,” she suddenly blurted, the smile not wavering as her hands disappeared up her skirt and remerged tugging a pair of black panties. “Actually,” she hummed. “As it happens, I had something else in mind.”

I simply watched her, as she kicked the underwear aside and her lithe body moved from the side of the car to the trunk.

“Come here,” she grinned, jerking her head.

When I tried to swallow, I realized my mouth had gone dry. My feet however, were following her command without any conscious prompting from my brain. As I reached her, she grasped my hand and tugged me in front of her, while she pressed her back against the trunk.

With both hands, she gripping her skirt and pulled the hem until it reached her waist.

My eyes immediately darted down to her pussy; the soft pink lips and small strip of hair glistening with her arousal. Once it was right there in front of me, what had happened earlier that morning mattered much less and my hands found themselves unclasping my pants.

“I had something else in mind,” she repeated, murmuring before leaning forward and running her tongue along my lower lip. “I want you,” she whispered, “where my husband’s never been.”

My mouth fell open when she turned in a half circle, her butt pressing against my groin, as she leaned forward over the trunk of the limo.

She glanced over her shoulder, blonde hair covering part of her face. She shifted her hips, rubbing the soft skin of her ass across the front of my pants and prompting my cock to twitch beneath the pressure.

If you like what you've read here, then you'll love the rest of Dirty Little Rich Girl, which is available right now on Smashwords.

A Nugget of Naughty Little Rich Girl

Cover image for
Naughty Little Rich Girl

Naughty Litte Rich Girl is my first crack at an erotic short story intended for men. It is, of course, also suitable for woman who like it hot and hard.

One evening, I was driving the pair home from the Met. At the time, they had been married less than two months and she, obviously, still felt the need to put in her best work. From the back of the limo, I heard her giggles; high-pitched screeches that belonged to a five-year-old. Flicking my eyes to the rearview mirror, I watched her manicured hand with long, bright red finger nails, rub its way up his thigh before cupping his groin.

“Ooh,” she crooned. “Nice.”

He gave a soft groan in return. “Do you want it, baby?”

“Oh, yeah,” she replied, her voice even higher than before. “Baby wants it bad.”

His hand, which had been out of view, somewhere at the small of her back, slipped up to her neck and I watched, as he pushed her head towards his groin.

She didn’t resist. In fact, she glanced at him with an impish grin, until she could no longer see his face. All the while, her fingers were sliding down the zipper of his pants, reaching between the fabric and slipping the wrinkled, dark, but surprisingly rigid cock from its confines.

The image of her young, plump, red lips, slowing closing around that old dick was arousing and grotesque all at once. It was beyond captivating. I tried to keep my mind on the road, I even contemplated bringing up the panel that closed the rear of the limo off from view. However, if I did that, there was a chance they would both realize that I’d already seen more than I should have done.

So I sat there, shifting uncomfortable as the swell in my pants became more pronounced. Occasionally, I looked at the empty street ahead, but mostly my eyes were fixed to the rearview, watching the hypnotic sight of her head enthusiastically bobbing up and down, her face completely curtained by her long, blonde hair.

My right hand left the steering wheel and unconsciously dropped to my groin, rubbing through the material of my black dress pants, while the sound of her eager slurping and screeches of pleasure filled my senses. The screeches were too loud, too pornography 101, to be genuine, but that didn’t matter.

“Oh yes, baby,” Stockwell moaned, his head tipped back and his eyes squeezed shut. “Daddy’s going to come!”

The motion of her head became faster, the nails, which clung to his thighs, gripped harder and the her mouth sucked more energetically.

“Yes, baby, yes!” he cried, his hips jerking upwards and his face contorting in that unmistakable mix of agony and ecstasy.

Her head remained at his crotch for a few seconds, as she continued to lap loudly at what, by that point, must have been a flaccid shaft.

His fingers stroked her hair, while his eyes remained closed. “Good girl,” he mumbled. “Such a good girl.”

“Hmm,” she hummed contentedly, finally lifting her face from his lap and sliding the zip closed as she did. “You know I’ll do anything for you, Daddy,” she said in that baby voice, I knew she only used when he was around him. Righting herself, she sat back in her seat, her left hand wiping daintily at the corners of her mouth, while her eyes locked onto the rearview mirror and the eyes she found staring back at her.

I wanted to look away, but I could not. Besides, there was no point pretending I hadn’t seen what I’d just seen. So I waited, heart pounding and cock still straining at my pants, for her to turn to the man beside her and begin an outraged diatribe on the perversity of his driver.

But her head never turned, her eyes didn’t even move. She simply continued to stare into my eyes, until a half grin quirked her lips.

If you enjoyed these teaser, check out Naughty Little Rich Girl by clicking here.

Careful What You Wish For | A Teaser

Cover of Careful What You Wish For

The following is an excerpt from my new release, Careful What You Wish For. It's contemporary erotica about a husband and wife who decide to spice things up. The following contains content suitable for readers 18 or over. If you're under 18, please shield your eyes and click away. If you're over 18, enjoy and please feel free to let me know what you think in the comments below.

No longer was the kiss patient or seductive. It had turned possessive, hungry and demanding. And it was not the only part of his body to do so. His hands eagerly clamped both of my buttocks and he tugged me roughly to him.

My eyes shot open, as our bodies sharply came together and his semi-erect manhood prodded my hip. Throwing both arms around his neck, I pulled him close, as my tongue battled with his, claiming possession of his mouth.

Just as quickly as they had grabbed me, his hands left my ass, moving swiftly up my back and pulling on the zipper of my dress.

Untangling my arms from him I shimmied the spaghetti straps from my shoulders and lifted my arms out of both loops. The top of the dress slipped down, pooling at my waist, while he grappled with the clasp of the strapless black bra.

Wrenching his face away from mine, he tilted his upper body backwards, pausing before slowly peeling the lacy underwear from my breasts. As they were gradually revealed to him, a soft smile twitched at his lips. It was there for just the briefest of seconds, before his head swept forwards. His tongue licked fiercely at my right nipple, before sucking it into his mouth.

My fingers swept up to his hair, desperately trying to grip a handful, but it was too short. Instead, I ran them restlessly over the back of his head and arched my back, partly in enjoyment and partly in encouragement.

I whimpered weakly when the silent request went unheeded and he pulled his face away.

As his warm mouth left my body, his thumb rolled slowly of the wet areola and flicked teasingly over the rigid peak, causing me to pull my bottom lip between my teeth and bite down hard.

His lips meanwhile, alternately kissed and sucked their way down my abdomen, as he slowly sank to his knees. When he reached my naval, his hands grasped the dress that clung to my hips, as his tongue gently probed my belly button.

With only slight resistance, the dress fell to the carpet, forming a circle around my feet. If Alex was surprised or amused by my lack of underwear, he didn’t show it. His lips simply continued their journey south, while he placed his left hand gently at the back of my nylon-covered right knee and coaxed me into lifting the leg.

My body felt so limp, I was unable to do anything but acquiesce to his direction. Everything felt surreal, as though I were watching myself, as I glanced down to see him toss my leg over his shoulder. Then, in slow motion, his hand stroked its way up my thigh as his mouth drew closer to my body.

The warmth of his breath, teased at my damp outer lips and, squeezing my eyes closed, I bit down on my lip once more.

His tongue moved in one long, slow stroke, starting at my perineum and tasting me all the way up to my clit.

“Yes,” I hissed, as my body shivered violently. His large, strong hands quickly moved to my lower back to steady me. However, I got the distinct feeling that his hands would be no good if he continued to graze his teeth over my clitoris. Not that I was going to ask him to stop. Even if I ended up collapsing in a heap, I wouldn’t have cared.

Shifting his focus lower, his movements became more rapid, as he eagerly lapped at the fluid that coated the whole of my sex. And then, suddenly, his tongue was thrust inside.

“Fuck,” I gasped, my hands roaming wildly over his hair, as he dove in and out of me at a speed I wouldn’t have believed possible.

The orgasm was so close, every muscle in my body had become tense, my breath was coming in sharp, shallow pants. And then, the deafening sound of a zipper being pulled down filled my head.

Darting open, my eyes drifted down to the blonde head between my legs, which rhythmically shifted back and forth. No, he hadn’t unfastened his flies. My gaze snapped to Steve, whose hand was slipping between the gap in his pants.

“Are you okay?”

Wrenching my eyes from my husband’s erect cock, as he eased it out of his pants, I found Alex’s concerned eyes peering up at me.

“Yeah,” I whispered hoarsely, attempting a smile.

If this teaser has whet your appetite, Careful What You Wish For is currently available from Smashwords.com.

Why Do Women Love Erotica More Than Men?

On the face of it, the ‘sex industry’ is a male-centric one. However, when it comes to sex in literature, it’s all about women. Women, predominantly, write it and women, by far, are the biggest consumers of it. Why? And, more importantly, why is it helpful for an author to understand what goes on in his or her readers’ heads.

Men And Women Are Different

No shit, Sherlock - right? Our brains are biologically different, they function differently, meaning that the weaknesses of one are compensated for by the strengths of the other. To my mind, this is all just as it should be - it makes us a good team. Much as both genders may hate to admit it, the truth is we compliment each other perfectly.

So, where men are very visually motivated, women tend to lean more toward imagination. In other words, for a man titillation is, usually (but not always), about what is right in front of his eyes. For a woman, it’s about what’s going on in her head, it’s about her ability to visualise, it’s what she hears, it’s what she feels, it’s the promise of what’s to come.

Why Do Men Prefer Porn?

Men tend to favour, especially when we’re talking about sex, instant gratification. Let’s call a spade a spade: men, by and large, want to fuck. There is a reason that men are renowned for wanting to skip the foreplay (although it must be said that some men enjoy foreplay just as much as women do).

In the main, men want to get down to business as quickly as possible, this is evidenced in most porn films. The actual act may take longer than by rights it should, but penetration usually happens quickly. At the very least, a shlong is wapped out within the first couple of minutes.

I suspect, in some part of their pre-evolutionary male brain, this has to do with getting the mating business over quickly, so as to reduce the time you are vulnerable to attack by predators or competitors.

But regardless of the reason, male fantasies tend to get straight to the point; there’s no messing about, the woman’s already up for it, he doesn’t have to do much (if anything) to arouse her, he’s in there quick and, if he’s feeling in a generous mood, he has his fantasy partner screaming his name, just before he reaches his climax.

Men prefer porn, because it’s in-your-face, it is what it is, it gets down to it quickly, if you’re lucky there may be a threadbare plotline. It’s just all about the sex and, usually, it’s about the man’s enjoyment of sex.

Because men’s brains are wired to crave quick, sudden sexual encounters and their natural inclination places prominence with visual stimuli, it’s little wonder that they prefer a five minute burst of porn to an evening in the company of an erotic tome.

Why Women Love Erotica

Now, that’s not to suggest that women don’t enjoy a little porn, too. Many of them do, but let’s no kid ourselves. Porn is made almost exclusively for men. It’s a multibillion dollar industry that depends on male customers to survive. There is very little porn made for women; films with a story, with delayed gratification, a slow build of sexual tension. I think you’d be hard pushed to find porn that chooses to combine romantic love and sexual desire. And that, on the whole, is what women are after.

Don’t get me wrong, we know there is excitement to that sudden rush of hormones that leaves you incapable of controlling yourself; ripping off a lover’s clothes with shaky hands, in a desperate need to feel skin against skin. We women know the value of a quickie. We know that fucking can be exciting and it has its place. However, we are aware that there is a veritable cornucopia of sex, a vast array of ways to (in the words of Primal Scream) get your rocks off. Variety really is the spice of life.

So, why do women prefer erotic literature, well, quite simply, because it offers that variety. Porn is usually formulaic and, more importantly, leaves nothing, zero, zip to the imagination. Erotica, however, can be set anywhere, in any time, it can shift; the characters can quite literally shift. Sometimes encounters are quick and dirty, sometimes there are pages and pages of frustrated longing followed by slow sensual love making - usually, there is a mix of those two extremes and everything in between.

The point is, she is not bound simply by the garish images in front of her eyes. A woman’s imagination is forced to do some of the work for her and it will, undoubtedly, prove more arousing than anything that is pushed right in her face.

Writing Erotic Literature For Men

With all that said, you might assume that erotic literature is a woman-only zone. While I have no doubt that the audience for erotic literature will remain predominantly female, I do think it is possible to write erotic prose that men enjoy. Of course, erotic male literature needs to reflect male fantasies, desires and preferences.

Both male and female erotic authors need to implement a different box of tricks if they plan to aim for a male audience. To my mind, it would be difficult to write a work that would appeal equally to men and women, without having sections of the book that a man would want to just skip over. So, if you want to write erotic literature for men, you have to keep a man’s mind….well, in mind.

However, with the proliferation of porn and the ease with which it can be accessed, I can’t imagine literature ever superseding it in the lives of men. That said, perhaps the ubiquitous nature of porn will have exactly that effect. Maybe men will realise, as they search for increasingly hardcore and bizarre content, that what they really need is the freedom to use their imaginations. One can only hope!

How to Write Good Dialogue

Sometimes, when it comes to dialogue, less is more

As a reader, I always appreciate good dialogue. Well written dialogue tells us something about the character who is speaking, it can add a great deal to the story telling, create drama or, in the case of erotica, sexual tension, arousal and excitement.

Bad dialogue, on the other hand, has the exact opposite effect - it can suck the life out of a story. In my experience, badly written dialogue instantly reminds me that I’m reading a work of fiction. I no longer believe in the fantasy world - it ceases to be ‘real’ to me.

The secret to good writing, be it dialogue or anything else, is to do it in such a way that the author’s ‘hand’ cannot be seen. As soon as a reader becomes aware of the writing process, the reading experience is ruined.

Words, Words, Words…

As a writer, I understand that writing good dialogue is not always easy, because you’re often trying to balance several things within your character’s words. However, I have formed some ‘rules’ to writing speech, that help me to ascertain the difference between good and bad dialogue.

• All dialogue has to have a purpose. If characters are speaking for the sake of speaking, you’re wasting a reader’s time. So, if the words coming out of your character’s mouth aren’t advancing the story, telling you something about him/her or another character - silence really is golden.
• A character’s words have to suit their personality, background and culture. And each character’s style of speech must be different. If you think about it, every single person has a different style/rhythm of speech. The same should be true of your characters. If you’re writing a character who would drop his aitches, then don’t be afraid to write, “He was always very ’andy with his fists.” If you’re writing a character who comes from a southern state in the U.S., make sure that’s evident in her speech - the words and vernacular she uses.
• There is a balance to be found between dialogue that sounds natural and dialogue that is bordering on painful to read. It’s always a good idea to listen to the way people speak. However, what you’ll notice is that almost everybody talks with a lot of ‘ums’, ‘errs’ and pauses. These should all be used sparingly in dialogue, however, as it looks ugly and reads very clumsily.
• Get to the point. Again, in normal, natural speech we all have a habit of rambling around the houses somewhat, before we actually get to the crux of what we’re saying. Now, there may be a character for which this style of speech is perfect (be warned, however, some readers will find this type of character annoying). However, if you use that technique with every character, you’re reader will soon want to stick pins in his or her eyes.
• Avoid clichés. I think, generally speaking, many authors go to great lengths to avoid clichés, but they can still creep up on you. Cheesy dialogue, especially in erotic novels and stories, can be intensely off-putting. Remember, perhaps more than any other form of fiction, it is important for erotic authors to transport their readers into a different world, one they can fully immerse themselves in. If you’re rolling out clichés of any kind, you’re killing the atmosphere.

Typically, I find that if a stick to these guidelines, my dialogue reads naturally and my work is not littered with two much jibber-jabber from my characters.

Do you have any golden rules for creating good dialogue? Do you disagree with any of mine? Feel free to share them below.

　

Getting Inside a Man’s Head

There are, of course, many ways to tell a story. Usually, my preferred method is first person narration. I’m unsure exactly why, but this seems to be the narrative form that a naturally gravitate towards.

I think it has something to do with my tendency to inhabit the character, almost as though I were an actor playing a role (is that just me?). However, that doesn’t completely explain it, because I try to inhabit all of my characters and, although not impossible, it would be difficult to tell a story from the first person perspective of each and every one of the characters.

Anyway, I have a new idea for a story, which is a modern spin on The Taming of The Shrew. However, the essence of The Taming of The Shrew can be viewed as quite misogynist - something I’m eager to avoid. To this end, I think it’s important to really get inside the heads of both lead characters, Katharine and Peter. Peter (Shakespeare’s Petruchio), in particular, needs to be portrayed in a way that makes his masculine posturing inoffensive, so that he remains attractive to a predominantly female audience.

What this long preamble is getting to is that, for the first time (in an erotic work of fiction), I’m going to attempt to tell some of the story from a man’s point of view. On the face of it, nothing radical - plenty of female authors write first person narration from a male perspective and have done for hundreds of years. But it got me thinking - can we ever really get inside the head of a member of the opposite sex?

Well, as men make up half the population, we all know quite a few of them and, chances are, we grew up with some of them and may even live with a few now. So, I tend to think we know them pretty well…In fact, most women think they know what men want, especially when it comes to sex. Do we really, though?

In truth, our opinions of men - and theirs of us - are based more upon clichés than on fact. Of course, some clichés are true, but we can be very wrong about what men think. Moreover, most of us, make the crazy assumption that all men are the same, particularly if we’ve been hurt by one. Ask a group of women the following questions and you’ll get consistently similar answers.

• Given half a chance, would a man be unfaithful? Women say: Yes.
• Do all men separate sex and love? Women say: Yes.
• If a man’s getting his kicks, does he care if the woman is sexually satisfied? Women say: No.
• Do men measure their masculinity by how many women they’ve slept with? Women say: Yes.
• Do men think with anything other than their genitals? Women say: No.

Why do we think these things? I suspect it’s because the vast majority of us have met a man who fulfils the criteria. The problem is, we tend to tar them all with the same brush. All men are different, just as all women are different. We have vastly different tastes, as do men. Not all men are promiscuous and not all of them are disrespectful where women are concerned. We can never truly get into another person’s head, because each and every one of us is completely different - that’s true of a woman or a man.

But this train of thought brought me to a bizarre conclusion. If women and men are all individuals and, therefore, just as difficult to penetrate (no pun intended) or second-guess, then writing a female character is just as difficult (or easy) as writing a male character. In other words, I shouldn’t have to put on my special writing-a-male hat in order to achieve a rounded character. Regardless of whether it’s a man or a woman, I should approach writing in exactly the same way.

And I think, on the whole, that’s a good rule for a writer to live by.

I should never assume that a male character would think the way I do, but that’s true of a female character, too. Just because she’s a woman, doesn’t mean that the two of us are in any way alike. Male characters, no more or less than female characters, need to be their own people - completely separate from my views, opinions or emotions.

Do you have any specific techniques or rules for writing male (if you're a woman) or female (if you're a man) characters? Do you think I'm talking nonesense? Let me know in the comments below. 

Is PayPal Our Moral Compass?

Well, when it comes to erotic fiction, apparently the answer is “yes”.

This is something I knew nothing about, until I read Marlene Sexton’s blog, and was horrified to learn that earlier this month, PayPal began dictating the content of first BookStrand, then All Romance ebooks and, most recently, Smashwords.

In case you are unaware of what’s going on, PayPal is refusing to do business with these companies, if they continue to publish certain material. The material in question (at the moment) is pseudo-incest; the most popular of which being ‘Daddy’ stories around step-father/step-daughter relationships and ‘barely legal’ erotica; barely legal referring to young women, who are only just passed the age of legal consent.

Consequently, BookStrand AR and Smashwords have all adjusted their ToS to rid their virtual shelves of ebooks containing this content.

Now, of course, PayPal is a company, which can choose to do business (or not) with whomever it wants.

And, on the face of it, these demands by PayPal shouldn’t bother me. I’ve never written any pseudo-incest or barely legal material and, to be honest, neither genre appeals to me as a reader, but that is absolutely not the point. The point is, where does it end? Bear in mind, consenting sex between step-relations or with an 18-year-old woman is perfectly legal. So, what about illegal stuff? Should kidnap, murder, burglary, bank robbery, assault and white-collar fraud be banned from all forms of literature? If so, we’re heading for very bland times boys and girls!

As a writer, or simply as a human being, we have the right to free speech, to freedom of thought and to express our creativities without censorship. There may be many people who find pseudo-incest and/or barely legal erotica distasteful, but once we open the floodgates to censorship, there is no stemming the flow.

Moreover, where does PayPal get the notion that it, in some way, has to police its customers’ and users’ morals? Aren’t we all adults, able to make up our own minds over what we find morally acceptable?

However, my main ‘beef’ with this whole issue is that it’s indie/erotic authors and readers who are being targeted and victimised. After all, will PayPal prevent you from buying a film with sex, violence, rape - there are plenty of ’em that are very ‘mainstream’ - from a big entertainment retailer? My hunch would be not.

PayPal is a huge company that is quite within its rights to refuse to do business with any publisher it chooses. However, the irony of this does not escape me. In attempting to take a moral stance, PayPal is actually behaving in an immensely immoral way, by preventing creative freedom and bullying indie authors and publishers, who are powerless against the might of a huge corporation.

Snippet of Better Off Forgotten

Cover Image for Better Off Forgotten

Better Off Forgotten is an erotic suspense novella, which follows Faith Toulson’s attempts to come to terms with a tragic event in her past. The only problem is, thanks to a bout of trauma induced amnesia, she only has fragmented and disturbing dreams to go on.

In an attempt to escape the nightmares, she spends an evening drinking and is more than a little tipsy by the time her boyfriend, Ben, gets home.

“Oh, no you don’t,” he stated quickly, taking the glass from my fingers. “You’ve had enough.”

“Well, I think you need to unwind a little yourself, Benny,” I suggested, reaching out my bare foot and rubbing it against his ankle, before sliding it up the outside of his calf all the way to the knee.

This caused him to smile, but I could see he was trying to fight his wayward lips, as they quirked. “You can’t get round me like that, you know?”

“Oh, really?” I asked softly, leaning forward and grasping his belt in my left hand.

He immediately, placed his hand over mine and began to remove it from his waistband. “You need to get some rest,” he said, seriously. “You’re going to feel this in the morning.”

“I want to feel something right now.” I told him, while my right hand moved to grope at his crotch. Unfortunately, my reactions were a little sluggish and he took a step back before my hand reached its goal. “Ben,” I whined in frustration.

“You are very drunk,” he stated, keeping a firm hold on the glass that still contained the last of the wine.

“So what if I am?” I moved around to his side of the table, but he matched each step with one of his own, keeping the small obstacle between us.

“I’m not making love to you when you’re too drunk to remember it,” he said, keeping his eyes on my face.

I quickly realized that I wasn't going to win this way, chasing him around the table was undignified and it was making me dizzy. So I stopped and stood motionless. “Oh, come on, Ben,” I began. “It’s not as though you’re taking advantage of me.”
“That’s exactly what I’d be doing,” he spoke in a tone that suggested he couldn’t understand why I didn’t see this the same way he did. “Just because we’re in a relationship, just because we’ve made love before, that doesn’t make it all right.”

It was at that point, I glanced down and noticed that his body was far from disinterested. His head may not have been willing to succumb to it yet, but there were parts of his anatomy that were definitely not taking the moral high ground. All I had to do was tip the balance of power, until his brain had no choice but to follow the demands of his body.

Lifting my hands to my blouse, I began to slowly unbutton it, while I spoke. “If you came home and I was passed out drunk, I’d agree with you,” I told him softly. “But I am still very much aware of what’s going on and what I’m doing.” By the time I’d finished speaking, the blouse was completely open. I pulled at the edges, yanking it down my arms and throwing it to the floor.

“Faith,” he said, finding it difficult to swallow.

A Little Taste of First Blush

Cover of 'First Blush'

The following is a small excerpt from my latest release, First Blush, it was my first crack at a Regency erotic story and was both challenging and fun to write. Please feel free to let me know what you think in the comments below. Enjoy!

“Maria,” he called. “I asked you to turn around,” his smooth voice gently reminded. Even though I had my back to him, I could tell he was smiling.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I braced myself. This was not simply about facing him, it was about facing my future. A future that would require me to become an obedient, dutiful wife. A future in which Thomas would have possession of me, of my body. Tearing my eyes from the bedclothes, I twisted my head towards him, as if in slow motion.

He smiled, as he lent against the closed door. “Have I told you how beautiful you look?” he asked, pushing his weight onto his feet and taking a step towards me. “Well,” he continued, not waiting for a reply. “You are incredibly beautiful.”

For reasons I could not explain, I was unable to hold his gaze and my eyes darted to the floor. It was not as though I had never heard those words from him before. Now, however, they were imbued with something more; these words were an opening gambit in a game I was unfamiliar with. Oh, I understood the mechanics of what was about to happen. My sister, who had married two years previously, shared the secrets of her own wedding night when my marriage to Thomas was announced. She warned me that the first time he entered me would be painful, but assured me that it would be over quickly.

What troubled me, was not the fear of discomfort, but the fact that the act was clearly an indication of dominance; a man claiming his wife as his property. Elizabeth did not articulate this, but it seemed implicit to me, by the very fact that a woman is quite literally impaled by her husband. Every rebellious instinct indicated that I should be disgusted by the notion of being dominated and possessed by any man. However, the thought of Thomas doing so, created a quivering sensation between my legs that belied my desire to reject accepting him as my lord and master.
“It is going to be all right,” his calm voice nudged, as I continued to examine the patterned carpet at my feet. “Tell me something,” he said, suddenly changing his tone from the soft, lover’
s voice to a lighter, conversational quality. “Is this the Maria I am going to be married to for the rest of my days?”

My eyes lifted to see him unbuttoning the black tailcoat he wore and shrugging it from his shoulders.

“What do you mean?” I asked, raising my left eyebrow quizzically, a habit my mother had been unable to deter me from.

“I thought I had married a headstrong, passionate, insatiably curious, fiercely wilful woman,” he explained, throwing the tailcoat over the back of a nearby armchair. “Suddenly, she has turned into a shy, introverted mute.” His eyes sparkled, as they met mine and his lips rose into a broad beam. “It is perfectly natural to be nervous,” he added.

“I am not nervous,” I snapped, scowling in response to his grin.

Hello & Welcome to Nighty Knight

This blog is dedicated to the erotic literature of C.L. Knight, and will offer sneak previews of my latest work, a glimpse into my writing process and an examination of my love for erotica.

We all love naughty nights, afternoons and mornings. Well, here, you can get the naughtiest!

I write a broad spectrum of erotic fiction, ranging from short stories to full novels; romance with a hint of erotica to steaming, writhing prose. Above all, I enjoy writing fiction that will both titillate and fascinate.

If you want erotica that is more than just a graphic sex scene for the sake of a graphic sex scene, then you've come to the right place. So, sit back, relax and enjoy. I won't bite - hard.