Friday, 27 May 2016

SEX BY NUMBERS (more than just a summer holiday read)

"Waking up isn't always's especially unpleasant if you are not aware that you've been sleeping. Sometimes, you've been asleep for years and not even  realized...and while you've snored and snoozed your way through your existence, in that moment when you blink your way back to consciousness, you realize that everything has changed.

This is the dilemma that faces Lucie Maddox when she finally wakes up. What she thought was right and true when she went to sleep twenty eight years ago, is no longer right and true. The rules have changed and are encapsulated in her hubby’s statement…

“Sorry Lucie, it isn’t working.”

Those five words are the catalyst propelling the narrative into action. Nothing will ever be the same...everything has changed.

It's "appearance and reality" in all its mucky action. How our lives appear to be and how they really are.

Lucie is a survivor, she has to change, she has to grow...her marriage has died because of sex and she finds her way to her new, improved life through sex...dirty magazines, Internet porn, Internet dating...Sex By Numbers is a book infused with hot sex, from pretty much the first page. If you are looking for exceptional erotica, you'll find it here.

It takes adroit, astute writers to dwell on such acute themes but Francis Potts and Nico Maeckelberghe handle their narrative with an effortless, easy confidence. They show a fondness for their characters, teasing them tenderly. I laughed out loud on more than one occasion as Lucie claws and clambers her way out of the emotional carnage of her  wrecked marriage.

Lucie's dilemma is one that many of us have is of our time. Her bid for freedom, isn't just one of cutting loose from a marriage that has died, months, years ago, it is a bid for freedom from convention...the tight, suffocating hegemony that is in place, for no apparent reason, other than that it is how it always has been done and will be done until hell freezes over.

I think that Sex by Numbers is more than a light hearted holiday read...I think that Nico Maeckelberghe and Francis Potts are saying a lot about the times we live in, our sexuality, our sexual orientation...and now, at last, in 2016, is the time to finally celebrate sex and our fantasies in all their  wonderful dimensions and above guilt free."

Sex by numbers is at Amazon UK and at Amazon US  

Francis Potts is @FrancisPotts at Twitter

Friday, 20 May 2016


A while back, billierosie asked me what it's like being a dominant. This post tries to answer that question.

I should start by saying that it's one of those questions where different people will undoubtedly have different answers. There's no 'one size fits all' type of dominant, and I'm not even going to try to create a typology. Indeed even the terminology is flexible. Dominant/submissive isn't quite the same relationship as top/bottom, with the conventional understanding being that the former is more about power exchange and the latter about the administration and receiving of pain and pleasure. Useful links in this connection – though note they all offer different opinions – are:

here here and here

I would say, though, that the essence of domination and submission is about having a sexual relationship – or indeed several, or many, sexual relationships – that include a particular dynamic. The nature of that dynamic is that my play partner is seeking excitement and gratification through being controlled, and I'm seeking those things through exercising that control.

What that means for me is that I need to think in a very precise way about what my submissive is seeking. Do they want the experience of being taken back to some point in their life, perhaps a point in childhood, where they were controlled and perhaps punished by a father figure? Do they want to experience control (and reward) in the same way that one might use with a family pet such as a dog? Do they want an experience they can fight against and yet be forced against their will, as in an interrogation scene? Do they seek a more spiritual and meditative experience, the kind that's common with rope bondage?

There's a sense in which being a dominant isn't about being bossy and bullying – or if it is, that's because the submissive feels the need to experience those things. It's about recognising what your submissive needs and being, as I've sometimes put it, the vehicle through which the submissive can express and explore their desires. My gratification as a dominant is about being successful at doing that.That's not to deny the gratifications of hearing the thwap of a flogger hitting flesh and the soft shriek of shock and pain, seeing the way skin colours up when it's been tortured, and smelling the sex in the air. Those are all great turn-ons. But the key thing for me is taking the trust of the submissive and proving to them they were right to trust that I can deliver the fantasy-into-reality they were seeking. That's the thing that gives me a crazy smile on my face for days after an intensive play session.

Being dominant can be demanding. It requires me to think about what I'm doing at every point: planning what I'm going to do, doing it, being alert to issues that arise during play, and following up afterwards. For example: will it be feasible to tie someone up in a certain way given their known health condition and the way rope constriction can affect muscles? If the sub has, for example, asthma that means they need their inhaler available at all times, is it to hand? Does a particular fantasy – for example being treated as a non-person through the use of a hood – trigger something bad in the sub when it happens for real, so the scene needs to stop? And how do they feel after the whole experience when they've had time to reflect on it?

I've sometimes wondered, incidentally, how dominants manage in dom/sub relationships that are 24/7 because frankly, I don't think I could keep up that level of attention all the time. I'd assume those relationships are more like master/mistress and slave, because they surely can't exist on the basis of being permanent domination sessions.

How, then, did I get into domination? It started fairly early with pre-pubescent fantasies that involved the kinds of things we now term 'power exchange'. As a teenager I found pulp magazines that told me, if nothing else, that I wasn't the only person to have such fantasies. Shortly thereafter I found sexual partners who were similarly exploring their sexuality and not averse to being tied up. And on it went from there.

In real life I'm a pretty laid-back person. I don't impose myself on others, have a particularly dominant bearing, or other obvious trappings of being a 'dominant person'. But I'm generally a good listener and try to understand what my submissive wants. I have a wicked turn to my sense of humour. I've taken time out to understand the range of 'tools' I use in bdsm – from rope and bullwhips to gags and candles. I know what they do, and wide range of ways they can be used.

And I was lucky enough, a decade ago now, to meet the submissive who is now my partner. We met in a fetish club; I was doing an impromptu bondage demonstration and she was a volunteer…

By way of a conclusion, I'll offer these thoughts.

A dominant isn't someone who 'feels dominant to their core', was 'born to rule others' or feels they should always be privileged over others. People who persistently act that way can usually be described using other, less savoury terms such 'pain in the ass' – or perhaps 'bully'.

It is, of course, important sometimes to act in such ways, because that's part of the play of domination and submission. But if someone starts taking that kind of role as the key part of their personality they'll quickly find themselves being laughed at.

A dominant is someone who takes the gift of submission and works with the submissive to make it something more beautiful and more meaningful to both parties. This is why domination is a craft. It requires dedication, self-reflection and an open and enquiring mind – as well as a balanced personality, a sadistic imagination and a rigorous approach to what is safe, sane and consensual.

I'm a scribbler of smut. A writer of erotica. Of the two novels, two story collections, five novellas and many short stories I have published, these two stand out as ones that explore the dom/sub dynamic in some detail:

Addicted to Rope – novella, from here here

and various other places.Sex, Art and Aromatherapy – short story, individually published on and ebook store here

 and various other places.

Friday, 13 May 2016

MILK MAID, erotic lactation fetish

The breasts, particularly the nipples are highly erogenous zones for both men and women. Stimulation of the breasts and nipples form an essential part of sexual foreplay for both sexes. But in women, the breasts are also there for the purpose of suckling an infant, the process of feeding a baby for the first few months of its life.

The breasts of a female produce milk and for some, form part of a fetish, or paraphilia, known as erotic lactation fetish and going on the stories I find on the Web there are helluva a lot of people playing around with the fantasy of suckling; both in the giving and receiving of a partner’s breast milk.

Erotic lactation can be part of a BDSM scenario. A submissive woman may be ordered by her Dominant partner to be milked in the same way that a cow may be milked, thus reducing her to the level of an animal. And as with any Dominant/submissive relationship, it may be the submissive who is controlling the events. It may be that her own humiliation is part of the scenario. Her desires, and the acting out of the play itself satisfies sexual desires.

A scenario I come across frequently, is that of combining an infantilism fetish with that of lactation fetish. A man or woman has a desire to be treated as a baby. This may mean wearing diapers, defecating and urinating and having to be cared for, bathed and changed. And for some, a total return to infancy, which will include suckling from the breast.

On the other hand, erotic lactation may have nothing to do with infantilism. It can be that one or both participants get off on suckling from the breast, or being suckled.

Much has been written about children’s psychosexual development from Sigmund Freud onwards…but I don’t believe that anyone really knows for sure as to why either infantilism or erotic lactation fetish occurs.

I read a lot of erotica, but I have not found anything delving into erotic lactation in fiction.

 And so I made up my own tales.

The adult Joel is on a desperate quest to find a “mommy”. Joel wants to be twelve years old; he also wants a mommy and is lucky enough to find his ideal partner in Sally.

In “Will you be my Mommy?” Sally hints to the reader that she plans to initiate breast feeding Joel – she has already hinted that she loves to have her nipples sucked and bitten. In the follow up tale, “I’m sorry Mommy”, Joel and Sally are now lovers; lovers that act out the mother and son fetish absolutely seriously. They also have mind blowing sex within the framework of erotic lactation, which concludes with Joel suckling milk from Sally’s breast.

I am planning to bring out these two stories, later in the year, in a single volume.

Research on the Web informs that it is possible to induce lactation without a woman being pregnant, through routinely massaging the breasts and nipples, by persistent suckling and/or by use of hormones. I am reliably informed that the persistent and continued use of a breast pump, has a pretty good chance of inducing lactation.

Here is a comment from a guy who schedules his day and night time routine around his wife’s production of milk.

“I’m in an ANR (Adult Nursing Relationship). There is no Infantilism involved. My wife loves it…it was she who instigated it. It took some time for the milk to flow, but practicing was fun. Now I feed daily, in the morning and in the evening and she pumps when I am not there. It is highly erotic, but more than that, feeding from her brings a closeness that we both love. It is impossible to argue, or be distant, when your daily routine involves such intimacy. We both love it and I cannot see it ever stopping. I’m not sure how common this is but probably it’s more than people assume. Believe me, there is no more beautiful sight than my wife, leaking milk and begging to be suckled.”

Friday, 6 May 2016

AT MY FEET by Michel Arnaud

I've just finished reading "At My Feet" by Michel Arnaud and I love it. I love it because it's a great story from a new, talented, lyrical writer, I love it because Michel has reminded me how good it is to laugh, and I love it because it has made me think, really think.

So, let me pose a question…what do you think about control? I’m curious, it’s not really that important, it's not such a big deal, but let’s just play around with words for a few minutes. Control, isn’t even that mighty a word, yet for a small word it has several definitions. For instance, it’s just occurred to me, that coming from billierosie, you may have assumed that I'm talking about a Dominant, submissive relationship, where one person has control over another…bdsm, the source of lifestyle choices for some, a fetish game for others.

But I'm not talking about playing with control as bdsm sees it, in stories, in fantasies. The whooshing of whips, the clinking of chains, the harsh tightening of thick rope and all the other jangling things that make up a night time, or a weekend of play in fiction.

Neither am I talking about self-control, nor a different sort of control...something, or someone who is out of control, who needs to be controlled. I am talking about the control we think we have over our own lives and that particular concept is the central theme running through Michel Arnaud’s book…His protagonist, Antoine Cassernet, exerts such a tight control over his life that it is nothing short of miraculous.

Antoine Cassernet is a high flier in the world of banking, his annual salary cuts the sort of figure that most of us can only dream of. He has a beautiful wife, Sandrine, a wonderful country home in Normandy, France…he also has two mistresses and as we meet Antoine, he is about to take on a third; it only takes a few little steps for Antoine’s life to unravel.

I'm not that big on control these days and Michel Arnaud has reminded me why. Those little steps unravelling our lives, big steps too, can hit us at any moment. Many of you reading this review, will have had your life plans changed, drastically, dramatically…often for no apparent reason. And there is nothing, nothing you can do about it.

When Antoine Cassernet’s life plan hits a brick wall, he panics, trying to regain his footing. How has this happened when he thought he’d got it all worked out? He becomes suspicious; paranoid, he must have action. He resorts to subterfuge…going to dark, sinister lengths to prove that someone has betrayed him.

Antoine’s jealous rage is worthy of an Othello, being fed a filthy poison…drip, drip, drip, by a scheming Iago.

Michel Arnaud is an astute observer of human nature...human frailties, he has a keen interest in the way people use language. His writing style is fun...he gently prods his characters into making statements that have the air of the absurd...he makes me think of the ways Samuel Becket, the playwright, uses language. Like Becket, Michel offers a sort of tragicomic view of human existence. And again, like Becket, Michel conveys a real fondness for his characters.

Control over our lives is an illusion, but it is an illusion, that it seems, is necessary to ground us emotionally. I think that I knew it before reading At My Feet...but it's good to be reminded.

So if your life plan is flowing smoothly, your controlled days merging from one to another in a rosy glow…well, that’s great, good for you, but watch out, remember Antoine warned.

Michel Arnaud describes At My Feet as "a tale of love, sex and jealousy, where nothing is quite as it seems." It's more than's an engrossing tale, told with finesse by an exciting erudite new writer whom, I know, we are going to hear a lot more from.

At My Feet is available at Amazon UK and Amazon US The poster image is by Gary Walker at Look4Books

Friday, 29 April 2016

Disappearing into the Light by A. Aimee

"About the mystical union between Rachel and Albert, the main characters in A.Aimee’s books, Good Pussy Bad Pussy – Rachel’s tale and Good Pussy Bad Pussy in Captivity."

By some wild, crazy, roundabout path, Albert had guided Rachel to a place where nothing but total surrender was possible.

She was no longer Rachel Somers with an identity to protect or preserve. He had freed her, as lovingly and as carefully as any man could, of whatever it was she thought she was. He had stripped her bare. Left her with nothing she could identify with, and in that strange, naked state of being no woman she knew, she found herself connected to a sexuality so powerful that it jolted her beyond her everyday reality into some awesome cosmic plane she did not recognize.

"This is not me," she thought and tingled all over with pleasure. "This is not anyone." And that was when he plunged headlong, headstrong, into her, finding in her a depth she did not know she possessed.

So she spread her legs wide, baring her soul and allowing him entry everywhere – allowing him anything, everything. And then, when he raised himself up above her, supporting himself with his powerful arms, looking down at her with an intensity only he possessed – she knew she would love him always.


Then for one short moment, the real Rachel Somers, the woman inside the woman inside the woman inside this body she was inhabiting, sighed softly and laughed. And though no one else in the entire universe heard her, she did. And she knew she had found a place and a peace and a platform which belonged to her alone.

And there she stood, perfectly poised. Perched, before that formidable plunge into the cosmic void when all the Light hit her.

"Oh Albert," she heard herself whispering softly to herself, "you are the most strange and wondrous man I have ever known." And the echo came back immediately from somewhere deep inside her, "And I am the most strange and wondrous woman I have ever known." And it was true, so true.

Then, right before she let go and jumped, heart first and ecstatic, into the nothingness before her, she knew, once and for all, now and forever – that no matter what happened, nothing in life could ever separate her from Albert. Ever. Nothing. Not even separation itself.

So she closed her eyes and let the passion – his passion and hers – and the passion of living and  loving and of being alive all wrapped in one – finally carry her over the edge.

And as she flew fast, hurtling through space towards her Infinite Self, she cried out, delirious and joyful as the beloved sacrificial lamb does when suddenly it is released from the agony of the limitations of this earthly existence...

And as she disappeared into the Light, her heart sang and she gave thanks...

Buy Links for the Good Pussy Bad Pussy Books
Good Pussy Bad Pussy – Rachel’s Tale

Good Pussy Bad Pussy In Captivity 

Friday, 22 April 2016

First Tango in Paris 2 – The Conclusion.

I am honoured that Emma J. Styles comes to my blog this week, to talk about her latest book; First Tango in Paris, the Conclusion. Here’s Emma to tell you all about it.

Exactly as the title says, “The Conclusion” picks up where Pt.1 left off, 2003 and approaching my big four zero, which was celebrated in style with a considerable amount of food, wine and totally depraved sexual shenanigans (all explicitly described in the book). I have included in the book a cross section many of my finer sexual dalliances right up to 2016. They are very diverse in nature, whether it be in elegant sophisticated surroundings, or alone amongst a group of strangers in a sleazy Parisian cinema, experiencing the black “Mandingo” group in Miami or being used by a Portuguese bull and his gorgeous transgendered friend with the enormous fully functional appendage, to highlight just a few. However, one of my all time stand-out evenings had to be when unexpectedly chaperoning a very famous Hollywood movie star through a thoroughly debauched evening at a Parisian Swingers club, where the men outnumber the ladies by around four to one, for obvious reasons I don’t name her but it will be most clear as to who it was by my description (no, she didn’t have any panties on during this night either!). All graphically written and exquisitely detailed. The scenarios are numerous.

Due to feedback from reviews and emails resulting from the first book Paul my every supportive and most understanding husband gets to contribute a few thousand words, expressing how my sexual awakening and subsequent journey has been from his point of view. He also describes what he calls one of his finer moments, where he and two male friends of ours entertain a very needy American Lady in her quest for a depraved evening in a top London Hotel. In her words she wanted a night that would make “Emma Styles” proud! Upon reading his version of events I am more than certain the lady got her wish!   

This time I go into detail of how, when, and why the London Swinging finally got up and running, after lagging so far behind its European counterparts, this is also reflected across the entire U.K. The year 2011 was in fact a key date in the real explosion in Britain and all is explained as to why. In fact, I have included a comprehensive guide at the end of the book of all the best and most relevant Swingers venues and online resources.

The book is a roller coaster ride of my sexual adventures but also is most informative guide as all the places mentioned are all fully “Googleable”.

After the success of Pt. 1 and its topping the Amazon book charts the feedback from readers was amazing, with many using the book as a guide to their own personal weekend of swinging adventure. Several readers have recently become close friends and feature in a few of the more salacious chapters. Look out for the chapter “Mentoring Karen” where after an email exchange and a coffee in London we meet up in Southern Spain where I introduce her to the many delights of “Beach Dogging” – amongst a few other decadent things!

Finally, after spending much time writing and editing both books I feel that they comprehensively describe in explicit detail my journey from “Shy Kitten to Full Blown Cougar”. One that is always on the lookout for fresh prey (written with smiley face)

Emma xx  

And as if that were not enough, Emma is giving you a free read; Chapter 32 of Last Tango in Paris; the conclusion.

Chapter Thirty-Two: A Staring Role

During the following month, I arranged one of my regular solo excursions to Paris; this one, in particular, was dedicated to the memory of Yves. It was one of the more unusual and quite frankly most depraved and debauched afternoons that I’d so far celebrated in his honour, one of which I’m sure he’d have applauded wildly, and thoroughly approved of.
As per normal, I hopped on the Eurostar delivering me swiftly to the Gare du Nord, where Marc was waiting to drive me to the apartment. I’d called him the previous week just to let him know I’d be in town for a couple of days. We had our customary catch up over a drink, and being ever thoughtful he told me he’d been to the apartment and had gotten a few essentials in for me. He would never take any payment, each time simply telling me that “it had been taken care off”, I can only assume Yves had made some arrangement with him, it is something that is never discussed. However, he did accept my goody bag of gifts that I’d brought for him, he was particularly fond of a mature Cheddar cheese and Jacobs cream crackers, complimented by some Branston pickle, most strange for a Parisian. They will often like such things, but heaven forbid them ever admitting to it, in this respect they are “les tossers” (written with a big grin).
I’d often wondered what had become of the magnificent home in the South of France that Yves had owned and entertained Paul and I at all those years ago. Marc informed me that he’d bequeathed it to his beloved “Military” and as was his wish it was being used as a place for servicemen recuperating from life changing injuries sustained during active duty. This was typical of the man we knew, always thinking of others less fortunate than him, and so very patriotic.
My tribute to Yves began the following morning after breakfast with a trip to the lingerie department of Les Galeries Lafayette where I indulged myself in a stunning pair of Wolford – Silk crystal Hold-ups, always such fun and a great precursor to some naughtiness is a little shopping trip to this amazing store.
After a small light lunch, I returned to the apartment, where I booked a taxi before luxuriating in the bath for a while with a glass of wine, getting slowly turned on as I allowed my mind to wander, imagining every scenario that could happen in the execution of my “tribute”. I liberally coated my body with my favourite Chanel Body Velvet and encased my legs in my new hold-ups, accentuating the look further with a pair of high black patent platform heels. Feeling a warm glow of anticipation I went to the wardrobe and retrieved the “fur coat” from its protective cover and slipped into it with an overwhelmingly decadent feeling engulfing me. I had just enough time to demolish a nice large Jack Daniels before the taxi arrived.
I gave the taxi driver the address of my destination, which was located about fifteen minutes away in the second arrondissement. I’d read about it over the years and heard many people discuss it with great enthusiasm. It was a cinema, not just any cinema, but Paris’s oldest and only surviving adult porn cinema. It has a great reputation for being very welcoming and safe, especially so for the much revered single female. With its huge exposed-brick wall and expansive red-leather-style seats, it ranks alongside the very best small cinemas in Paris, in terms of both comfort and its retro chic styling. I’d rang the previous evening and spoke to the owner Maurice Laroche, a pleasant smiling young seventy something who’d been running it for well over thirty years. I explained my request in detail to him and he assured me that it would be no problem whatsoever and that he’d meet me in the reception at three o’clock, which he explained would be the best time for a good cross section of clientele that would work perfectly for what I was looking to experience. True to his word a smiling Maurice was waiting to greet me and whisked me quickly into his projection room, where he poured me a nerve calming large glass of white wine and lit us both a cigarette. He was so charming and put my mind at rest and any last minute reservations were well and truly replaced by an overwhelming aura of daring. Once ready he showed me to the entrance of the small narrow theatre with its legendary brick wall and its twelve rows of seating, he told me he’d reserved three seats on the back row just for me, and to go and enjoy the experience. The rows of seats had around seven or eight per row, so I had an unobstructed few steps to my seats. Discreetly, as I was getting seated many heads turned to look at the new arrival (having certainly been primed by Maurice). Once accustomed to the dark atmosphere I quickly saw that the place was about half full, with most customers in the rows nearing the rear. The film was a high quality stylish French affair, which added to the elegant yet “sleazy” ambience, which was exactly what I was looking for. I felt very secure, safe in the knowledge that Maurice would be keeping an eye on things from his projection booth; this feeling of security was reassuring and relaxed me very quickly into the moment. Over the next ten or so minutes I slowly undid the three coat buttons and untied the belt so that the heavy fur draped loosely over me, just exposing the tops of my hold-ups and a glimpse of cleavage, several men by this stage had moved to the row directly in front of me and were busy alternating between watching the film and checking out what I was up to behind them. Two men came and sat at either end of my row with just a couple of seats between them and me, I was instantly on fire, and felt my wetness begin to flow as I reached between my legs to prepare my vagina for public display, butterflying my labia and unleashing my engorged clitoris, which was longing to be touched by a few strange, anonymous hands. Eventually, all eyes were peering back my way; the film had become just a background enhancement, the audio giving this seedy scenario another kinky dimension. I could sense as well as see that many of the men were openly masturbating at this most slutty unfolding situation. It was at this point I snatched a huge hit of my poppers just before I let my coat fall totally open, fully exposing my naked body. I opened my legs as wide as possible, placing my heels on the tops of the seats in front of me, giving full easy access to my expectant and gaping pussy; it was fully open, ready to be entertained. This was like lighting a very short fuse, as in seconds numerous hands were coming at me from all directions, stroking and probing me, many vocally commenting on my rapidly increasing wetness. It was sleazy in the extreme, with numerous men politely queuing to take turns in kneeling in between my legs and use their tongues on me, lapping at my anus and vagina in unadulterated depravity, pure vaginal worship ensued, which I completely adore. Many skilled fingers and thumbs masturbated my protruding clitoris into their willing mouths, my ejaculations began to come thick and fast, each one more violent than the last, until I was being kept on the crest of one powerful gushing tsunami of female ejaculate after another. Men were gently jostling for position to drink from me while many were happy just to watch and pleasure themselves. At one stage there was a gent tonguing my anus as another nibbled on my clit, I was squirting like an uncontrollable burst pipe. It just wasn’t subsiding at all, and it felt like there was an unending fluid producing machine deep inside me, its tap stuck in the on position. I think it was the pure seediness of the situation and the novelty of the location that was making everything feel more intense and depraved. It was like my inner slut had escaped and was showing the audience how a true “salope” should behave in such sleazy company. It was everything that filthy wanton sex should be, and I adored every cum filled minute. It was two hours of pure debauched filth, and one that lives on in my memory, and hopefully Yves had been looking down on me approvingly, full enjoying the lewd and vulgar spectacle!
Appreciating a wind-down vino and cigarette with Maurice I thanked him profusely for his hospitality, and we chatted away until my taxi came to take me back to reality. Just as a side note he holds couples only evenings on Thursday and Saturday, well worth a visit, I’m definitely dragging Paul along soon, as I know he’d relish the decadence of it all. Just go and have a look at the web site for any relevant information. This establishment definitely caters to the more outrageous amongst us.

First Tango in Paris is at Amazon UK  and Amazon US

Friday, 15 April 2016

I read Vivien Walden's book, Eating From The Cherry Tree last weekend. It's certainly an eye opener, it is also an incredibly honest book.

It's a book about sex, but there's no attempt to titillate, or arouse the reader. These things happened...there's a wise saying telling us that the truth is stranger than fiction, the events of Vivien's life illustrate the proverb perfectly.

No matter how much time I spend crafting my erotica.. I cannot hope to achieve the mood, the beautiful, yet stark reality of Vivien's life story.

It's an engaging narrative, Vivien tells her story in a refreshingly uncomplicated way. A happy childhood in a loving Jewish family, Vivien's  choices take her from prostitution to Madame of a high class brothel. There is no attempt to dissemble...this happened, this is how and why this happened.

If the reader is expecting shame, or guilt he/she will be disappointed...there's none of that in this book. Why should there be?

And snapping at the heels of illicit sex, come the secrets. Celebrities, politicians...a prerequisite for a Madame of a high class brothel, is discretion.

A few months ago I ran a blog post about a famous 1961 Court case. It was popularly known as the Profumo Affair and involved John Profumo, the Minister of State for War, a call girl, Christine Keeler and Eugene Ivanov, a Soviet naval attaché at the Soviet Embassy in London. Ivanov was also engaged in espionage. Christine was sleeping with both men. It was a security mess at the highest level. The case ended untidily, with a career in ruins, the suicide of a good man and the subsequent downfall of the Conservative government.

I messaged Vivien on Facebook. She knew everyone involved in that trial. It was a case that registered great changes in how sexuality was perceived, our personal attitudes to sex and our subsequent behaviours. Think about what you are reading and let the huge cultural changes that were precipitated by Vivien and her generation sink in. But above all read Eating From The Cherry Tree by Vivien Walden and enjoy.

Eating from the Cherry Tree by Vivien Walden, is at Amazon UK and Amazon US