Kay Jaybee

Everyone Needs A Bedtime Story

Tag: Best of (Page 2 of 2)

Release Blitz from Cleis Press: Heart Meets Mind, Best Lesbian Romance of the Year

Best Lesbian Romance of the Year, Volume 1, is Radclyffe’s seventh term editing the Best Lesbian Romance series!

“[Radclyffe] presents a view of lesbian life that isn’t common yet, but is growing.” —Straight Arrow Reviews

Romance is as eternally new as the unique connection between lovers, and so too these eighteen stories of attraction, desire, and passion from best-selling romance authors JL Merrow, Sacchi Green, Giselle Renarde, D. Jackson Leigh, Teresa Noelle Roberts, Radclyffe and others. The stories in Best Lesbian Romance 2015 will have you falling in love with love all over again. A celebration of the swooning sensation of a first crush, the dizzying feel of a first touch and the raw electric elation of sexual passion are all captured here. Radclyffe, the highly lauded romance novelist and master editor always covers the full range of lesbian love- a real spectrum of experience with plenty of room for passion and possibility, as praised by The Advocate, “Every story the human heart can tell.”

BLR cover photo


Waterfall by LT Masters

She propped herself up on her elbow, her head resting on the palm of her hand. “I always go for a swim first thing in the morning. Wanna join me? The water would be good for your ankle.”

She tossed me my T-shirt, helped me to my feet and knelt down to inspect my ankle. It was still tender but nothing like the day before. “You should be able to walk today as long as it’s not too far.”

Seeing her in front of me on her knees was having the kind of effect I wouldn’t want her to see. I took a step back, hoping that she hadn’t noticed the wet spot forming in my panties. The heat in her eyes told me she had definitely noticed. I looked away and motioned toward the river. I leaned on her and hobbled to the river. Seeing the waterfall up close in the early morning light was mesmerizing, like something out of a fantasy movie. The water spilled over the edge of massive boulders, crashing into the pool below. The rocks, the crystal-blue water. It was…

“Breathtaking, huh? Come on,” she said, grabbing my hand, pulling me forward. “Let’s swim.”

“I can’t,” I said. “No swimsuit.”

She released my hand and laughed as she pulled her sports bra off. “No need.”

My mouth fell open as she stripped off her clothes and dove into the water. Her body was so beautiful, muscular and golden brown. I watched as she swam to the pool beneath the waterfall.

“Hurry,” she yelled, waving to me.

Remembering that I hadn’t experienced anything similar to a shower in three days, I quickly stripped off the T-shirt and thong and joined her in the water. She’d already seen me topless. Hell, she’d spent the night in the same sleeping bag with me in nothing but my thong. At least in the water I’d be submerged. The icy-cold water made me gasp but it soothed my aching body as I swam to meet her, and I felt refreshed.

“This is the first time I’ve been here with someone.”

“Really?” I said. “What’s so special about this place?”

“Let me show you.” She swam to where the water was falling into the pool.

I swam closely behind her, and when she disappeared under the surface I did too. The water was pounding into the pool, creating a magical sea of bubbles underwater. I swam fast to keep up with her, trying not to stare at the long, shapely legs or firm ass in front of me. Within seconds we surfaced.

She lifted herself from the water and leaned over to help me.

“What is this place?” I asked.

“Nature’s canvas.”

I stood in awe, trembling, hugging myself. We were in a massive cave behind the waterfall, shut away from the outside world. Glimmers of sharp sunlight slipped through the cascading water, illuminating and reflecting off the stone walls. On the other side of the waterfall the water drained from the pool, splashing over the rocks, creating a small stream that lazily cut its way down the mountainside. The rocks we stood on were polished smooth and I slipped a little as I turned to look around.

“Careful,” she teased, “don’t aggravate your injury.”

Playfully she grabbed my hands, lacing her fingers between mine. Dangerously close, I attempted to move away from her, but my back was pressed firm against the cold stone wall. She kept hold of my hand and moved with me. I shivered from the chill of the stones and the excitement of her warm body pressed against mine.

“Are you scared?” She gazed at me, her eyes hungry and full of desire.

“No,” I lied.

She lowered her gaze to my erect nipples pressed firmly against her breasts. My fleshy pale 38Cs pushed flat against her much smaller breasts and her bronzed, muscular chest made an interesting sight. The contrast was…sexy. Hot. Erotic…


Buy links






Happy reading,

Kay x

A Little Bit of The Best of…

While I’m busy writing away as the other me- (Jenny Kane)- I’ve been enjoying looking back over my Kay archive- and reminding myself as much as your good selves, what I’ve written! I know it sounds daft, but some of the pieces I’ve created- especially the short stories- tend to get forgotten the moment they are submitted, as I rush off to write the next piece.


Today I thought I’d share a little from one of the tales in my Best of… collection- I still can’t believe I have one of those!!


Fourteen of the very best erotic tales of dominance, submission, bondage, and romantic lust, are delivered with lashings of kink from the pen of Kay Jaybee. From the sexual adventures recalled by a woman as she stares at her favourite shirt, to a deliciously dirty orgy on a bed of cardboard boxes, the after-hours education of a rookie soldier, and the bizarre obsession of an Egyptologist, each story shows why Kay Jaybee has been hailed as ‘a master of the craft of erotica’ (Oysters and Chocolate). As a girl writes messages of lust on the body of her best friend’s lover, and a mistress’s employment of ropes and chains on her slave co-insides with the application of emulsion, we discover just how Kay has earned her reputation for producing ‘super-heated kinky stories,’ (Kd Grace), which are ‘a sublime pleasure to read’ (Violet Blue). 

It’s a very odd feeling to read a blurb like that about your own work! I know I often say it, but I honestly can’t believe how much has happened to me ‘writing wise’ in the last ten years. That I have enough stories published with Xcite to warrant them publishing a ‘Best Of…Collection’ is an amazing feeling.

Best of KJB

The stories tucked inside The Best of Kay Jaybee come from the Xcite anthologies I’ve had work included in since 2008, (such as Maggie, The Basic Rules of Anal Sex, and The Fuck-Me Cabbie),  as well as my three solo Xcite collections, Quick Kink One (The Shirt), Quick Kink Two (The Bride wore Rubber) and Yes Ma’am (Lying in Wait).

As you’d expect from me, there are a fair number of dominance and submission related stories included in this anthology, but there is also a heap of romantic lust, explored fantasies, and happy kinky threesome play.

If you’ve never read any of my work before, then The Best of Kay Jaybee is just the right place to start before you venture on to discover my novellas and novels.

Here’s a taster from Finger Music for you…

Finger Music

The subdued light of the room reflected off the whitewashed brick walls, gathering in one bright spot on the polished floorboards. In the centre of the glow, a pair of oversized brogues were firmly planted either side of a long metal spike; a spike that, as Sally’s eyes slowly rose, turned out to be attached to a double bass. The first member of the jazz trio hired to play in the bar where she worked that evening had obviously arrived early to rehearse.

It wasn’t the presence of the single musician that halted Sally on her way to the staffroom, but the sound he was creating. The wooden panels beneath her feet resounded to the rhythm, humming against her trainers, as she stood transfixed.

Ignorant of even basic jazz, Sally watched as the man played, his bulk equal to the challenge of supporting the instrument, his eyes tightly closed, lost in his music as his digits danced up and down the fret with a speed and agility that belied his thick fingers. And yet, as she watched, Sally realised she’d been quite wrong. This man wasn’t bulky; he was simply tall, fit and immensely strong. A flicker of unexpected electricity climbed up her spine.

With his eyes still shut, a patina of perspiration gathered across his forehead as his fingers increased speed with the tempo of the music.

Sally pushed her back to the door and, bending her knees, slid quietly to the floor, her eyes never leaving those nimble fingers. Vaguely aware that she had never witnessed anything as erotic as those smooth digits as they skilfully played, Sally began to wonder how else he might employ such dexterity.

The tune he’d been playing morphed seamlessly into another, slower this time, calmer, a more sensual glide taking over from the heady yet graceful hammering of the previous melody. Sally glanced up at his face, suddenly realising where she was; sitting on the hard wooden floor, half an hour before the bar opened. Her manager, fellow waiting staff, and the other members of the jazz group could walk in at any moment, expecting Sally to have everything all set up for the evening ahead.

Although his eyes remained shut, Sally felt caught out. She didn’t know if the man was aware of her presence or not. Scrabbling back to her feet, she tried to shake off the hypnotic beat that resonated in her ribcage and between her legs. Trying to stop herself allowing her imagination to mentally replace the double bass fingerboard with her own spine, Sally self-consciously began to edge toward the staffroom door.

‘Did you like it?’

His voice was almost as deep as the notes he’d been playing, and seemed to echo into the abruptly quiet space.

‘I … um … yes …’ Sally felt an uncharacteristic blush cover her usually pale cheeks. ‘I hope you didn’t mind me listening.’

‘That is what I’m here for.’

Already aroused by her fantasies about his manual dexterity, Sally felt a further tug at her crotch as his right eyebrow lifted, and a blast of searing-eyed mischief scorched her.

‘Oh yeah, right.’ Her limbs felt awkward and clumsy in the presence of his obvious confidence. It was as if he knew what he’d done to her. As if he’d summed up her physical condition in just one look.

From nowhere, Sally remembered a line in a book she’d once read that had made her scoff: “it was as if he could see right into her soul”. At that moment it didn’t seem like the romantic clap-trap she’d taken it for. It felt hot and real, and the black cups of her satin bra no longer felt big enough to contain their contents.

‘Would you like to try?’ He gestured to both Sally and the double bass in one go, by tilting the instrument in her direction.

‘Um …I …’ Sally’s throat seemed to have dried in upon itself, but her feet shuffled toward him anyway, her eyes glancing between the entrance to the staffroom and the door that led back into the main bar. ‘I should be getting the room ready for your gig; the others will be here very soon’

‘There’s plenty of time.’ Dismissing her task as unimportant, he grasped her wrist and smiled. Immediately Sally felt his pulse match her own, as he stood her so she was sandwiched between the double bass and his body. As his arms passed around her waist she inhaled his intoxicatingly musky odour, her head filled with sudden flashes of a love scene from the film Ghost. She really hated that film. A giggle escaped Sally’s lips.

Ignoring her nervous laughter, he said, ‘You need to place your fingers like this -’ He splayed his hand and rested it over her chest, making Sally take a sharp intake of breath.

Huskily she spoke. ‘You seem to have missed the double bass.’

‘Basics first, honey.’

Sally’s sense of humour and feelings of uncertainty escaped in a further strangled chuckle.

‘Are you ticklish?’ He moved his hands gently, fixing them upon her firmly, as if holding a set of strings.

‘No! Look, this is silly.’ Sally giggled as she wriggled away from him, aware of something dying inside her as she left his grasp. ‘All that is missing is the potter’s wheel!’

He scrutinized her carefully. ‘I wouldn’t have had you down as a chick-flick romance sort of girl.’

With her self-consciousness climbing to a whole new level, Sally scrubbed a stray red hair from her eyes, awarding him a mental point for understanding which film she was referring to without her having to launch into an explanation. ‘I have a housemate; she makes me watch crap movies.’

His eyes narrowed sceptically. ‘That would explain it.’ A giant right palm came forward, bringing Sally back to the matter in hand. ‘I’d like to teach you. Come on.’

‘Someone might see.’

‘Now why would that bother you, I wonder?’ He was mocking her, but despite the silence, Sally could still sense the music; and something in her yearned to hear it again. ‘I was only going to show you how to play.’

Sally swallowed. She couldn’t believe how badly she wanted this man. She didn’t even know his name. He was just an anonymous part of the jazz trio, the remaining members of which would surely be arriving soon.

More than a little aware of her damp knickers, Sally gave in to her reservations and allowed herself to be pulled back against him. The top of her head only reached as far as his neck, and he rested his chin comfortably on her shoulder. He whispered now, the breath of his words caressing her earlobe, ‘Close your eyes and feel.’

This time he squeezed her tightly between him and the double bass and, as if she wasn’t even there, began to play.

The shock of the notes as they rang through her body, throbbing between her pussy lips and igniting her breasts, dried her throat further, sending her imagination into overdrive. Bringing the instrument closer, the musician squashed her chest beneath his fast moving arms, making her very aware of the bulge that had developed in his trousers behind her lower back.

So engrossed was she in the sensations the man and his strings were creating, that at first Sally didn’t notice that his arm had moved, and was diving inside the thin black T-shirt that formed part of her waitress uniform. Without breaking his stride, the bass player popped her small breasts free from their satin holster and continued his fingering. This time though, her bare flesh and hard, taut nipples had replaced the strings directly, and every nerve in Sally’s body shot to her pussy.

Colours danced behind her eyelids, flashing blue and green before, with a firm thrust forward of his groin, and an increase in the speed of the flowing notes, blazing reds and oranges lit up the inside of her eyelids. The lust that the music had been quietly nurturing, combined with the deft touch of his large yet incredibly gentle fingers, abruptly centred itself on her snatch.

Forgetting where she was, and that they might be disturbed at any moment, Sally moved to meet the thrusts. Her arms, previously limp at her sides, reached around to his back, so she could clench the stranger’s arse. Pulling him nearer, Sally could feel the erection that was becoming more defined by the moment.

As soon as she grabbed him, his hands abandoned the bass entirely, wrapping themselves around her. Keeping up his tactile fingering, and as if Sally herself was the instrument, he carried on playing, her breasts, torso, and stomach replacing the fingerboard and strings. The only thing missing was the music, yet it was buzzing through her as, shifting his stance a little, he centred his entire musical prowess on her breasts, her nipples becoming the sole objects of his agile playing…


If you want to find out what happened next, you can find The Best of Kay Jaybee in e-format and paperback from all good stockists, including-

UK- http://www.amazon.co.uk/Best-Kay-Jaybee-ebook/dp/B009YYRM3Q/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1352239489&sr=1-2

US- http://www.amazon.com/Best-Kay-Jaybee-ebook/dp/B009YYRM3Q/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1352239753&sr=1-1&keywords=best+of+kay+jaybee


Happy reading,

Kay xx

PS- And yes- that is me on the cover- who’d have thought I’d ever be a cover girl

FREE READ: Quick Kink One- The Shirt

I thought I’d give you an early Easter gift today- a free read! A complete story from my Quick Kink One collection!



The Shirt

I have a favourite shirt. It’s black, plain, and simply cut. The supple matt fabric clings flatteringly against my chest and stomach, without managing to make me look like I’ve been vacuum-packed into it. Its thin granddad collar leads down to a satin ribbon-edged v-neck, which reveals a hint of generous cleavage. Yet it, that shirt of mine, doesn’t make me look slutty or tarty, just, well… tempting. Or so I’m told.

Perched on the edge of my bed, I stare at my favoured garment, hooked over the bedroom door, waiting to be placed with its colleagues amongst the clutter of my ultra-stuffed wardrobe. I can’t help but smile as I recall the hands that have run over that shirt. Men’s hands, women’s hand, delicate hands and calloused hands; digits that have dared to trail around the neck-line, perhaps lingering over, or accidently straying onto, the flesh beneath.

Rather than shove it in with it’s fellow shirts, I have a sudden urge to hug the material to me, to feel the caress of its soft sheen against my skin. With a reverence which I usually only reserve for large bars of chocolate, I lift the shirt from its hanger and lye back on my Queen sized bed, holding it to my face. It smells of cleanliness and the washing powder I habitually use, but mostly it holds the scent of promise, the promise of getting dirty all over again.

Closing my eyes, sinking my head back into the plump pillows, I think of the last set of hands to travel across the inches of fabric that make up the distance from the black shirts neckline to its hemline. A short length, but, when time is taken, it can become a frustratingly long journey. A frustrating, arousing and deliciously tense journey. There are times however, when those who encounter my shirt are in no mood to take their time.

I can see him clearly. He is standing only inches from me, and the air between us positively tingles with electricity. I could never love him, the man who currently adores me in my favourite shirt, but that’s alright, because he could never love me either. Lust however, is in no short supply.

This is the black shirt that inspired this story...

This is the black shirt that inspired this story…

Shutting my eyes tighter, rubbing my shirt across my cheeks, my forehead and my eyelids, I begin to reminisce on the moment we first gave into the silent eroticism that seems to swim between us each time we chat over the counter of the little bookshop I own.    I clutch the fabric tighter as I think of his fingers, thicker than any I’ve encountered before, and yet somehow, for all that, incredibly dexterous.

That first time he followed me through from the shop floor to the small stock room behind, his hands were on the waist of my shirt before I’d even shut the door properly. As I look back, my pulse-rate increases, and behind my eyelids I see how, in his urgency, he threw me against the poorly painted grey wall. His palms, rough from manual labour, pushed my breasts, squeezing them so tightly through the material of my top that I squealed.

Continuing to trail that same freshly ironed shirt down my body, I can virtually feel his left arm wrap around me, hoisting me up. With my weight supported by the door, and my legs hooked around his waist, I’d gasped into his neck, as my companions right hand shot up my shirt, yanking my bra beneath my tits. Manhandling them, with a combination of exquisitely arousing nips and pinches, he treated my breasts as if he was kneading a couple of cottage loaves. I remember how he murmured into my ear then, telling me how I filled his night time fantasies, how badly he’d wanted to be alone with me, and how, when he pictured me, it was always in my gorgeous, low cut, beautiful black shirt.

Sitting up on my bed, I swiftly remove the red top I’m actually wearing, and pop open the bra which has become tight and uncomfortable at the thought of my lovers hot agile fingers. Picking the adored shirt back up, I stroke it across my hardening nipples, making myself moan softly into my recollections.

He dropped me then, so that he could take off his faded blue t-shirt. I stood, my pulse racing in shock at the intensity of the last few minutes of activity, my breath snagging in my throat at the sight of a smooth firm torso, that hadn’t been overworked, and yet spoke of strength and, somehow, confidence in its owners abilities. An unexpected Celtic cross tattoo sat centre stage on his chest, just beneath the neckline of his t-shirt. It intrigued me. I hadn’t known anyone with a tattoo before. Reaching out questioningly, I began to trace its outline. He’d laughed at me kindly, unable to understand my surprise at how it felt the same as the rest of his skin, amazed that I’d never touched one before.

I hadn’t been able to confine my exploration to his tattoo however, and soon I was passing my palms across his back, arms and legs in long sweeping moves, determined to discover every inch of his frame. I imagined I was a sculptor, running her hands over a finished masterpiece, searching for imperfections. I found none.

All the time I had been examining his upper body, my companion had been returning the favour. With my shirt now rucked up around my neck, and my bra disposed of, he’d had easy access to my chest, with which he was undeniably fascinated.

I pinched my own nipples as I lay against my duvet, recalling how I’d eyed his crotch. A wave of desire had enveloped me at the sight of the bulge straining beneath his filthy jeans.

Picking up on my silent message, he’d grabbed at the belt that kept my denims in place, and deftly kneeling, had bought my trousers to my ankles. The fast pace of our coupling then returned, and before I had time to register what was happening, I was crying with relief as the stale air of the stockroom brushed my newly naked pussy, quickly to be followed by a probing finger, and then, wonderfully, a hot wet tongue.

Experiencing the same twitch of longing between my legs as I do when I’m with him, my snatch rippled as I lay against my bed. I removed the remainder of my clothes, and dragged the shirt down from my chest to between my open legs. Wet patches dotted onto the black material as I massaged it across my clit. My mouth went dry as I remembered how he had attacked my cunt on that initial glorious meeting. Not gently, not slowly teasing me until I begged for more, but with a full on, fast, rough, bucket load of lips, laps, sucks and nips, that bought me shuddering to the quickest and most intense climax of my life.

A quiver ran down my shoulders and began to flutter at the base of my stomach as I thought on. Of how I’d pulled him to his feet the second I’d finished shaking; of how I’d copied his gesture with belt, trousers and underwear, and knelt before him. His cock, thick and deliciously stiff had tasted of salty sweat, of busy days and hard work. The aroma alone had made me want to come all over again as I engulfed his length, hungrily moving him up and down my throat with an urgency that rivalled his own.

Suddenly, I realised I’d been echoing those past moans into the silence of my bedroom. One hand caressing the fast staining shirt between my legs, I returned the other to my right breast, tweaking the nipple far harder than I would when normally stealing a few moments of solo pleasure. I reclosed my eyes.

The tell tale swelling of his dick, and the taste of pre-come droplets gathering on my tongue, had informed me that he was about to come in my mouth, but then he’d pulled away. I’d been temporarily disorientated, until he told me, a look of pure lust creasing onto his rugged features, that he wanted to finish inside me.

Quickly positioning my unresisting body onto all fours on the dusty storeroom floor, he came up behind me, and only waiting to grab a condom from his back pocket, rammed his cock unceremoniously inside me. I had heard of people who claim to have been rutted like an animal, but until then I’d thought them to be either exaggerators, or wishful thinkers. Not any more.

Discarding my now sodden black shirt to the floor, I dug my nails into my clit, making myself yelp with painful ecstasy as I reminisced over his wild pumping, his totally abandoned need to consume my body with his. I spasmed under my own sharp touch, and scratched at my breasts, wanting to experience the strangely urgent pain he’d sent through me as he announced, in what can only be called a guttural growl, that he was about to come. The second he spoke, he’d sent a loud smack across my prone arse with the flat of his palm, making me scream in both shock and delightful agony as a second orgasm soared through me. With a final pump, he’d shot a spray of hot spunk into my body, accompanied by a very male groan of satisfied relief.

Taking a deep breath to steady my thudding heartbeat, I let my hands fall away from my shaking body. Retrieving my favourite shirt, I smoothed it carefully out over the crumpled bedcover. Damp and creased, it seemed to sum up the encounter I’d just happily relived.

The bookstore lorry driver and I have had many similar meetings since that first intense encounter, all of which take the phrase ‘quickie’ to a new level. We know very little about each other really, but I know that he loves my black shirt almost as much as I do, and that his fingerprints will always be invisibly yet indelibly marked across its fabric forever, no matter how many times I wash it.


I hope that hit the spot! You can find The Shirt in Quick Kink One, and in my Xcite collection, The Best of Kay Jaybee!

Best of KJB

Buy links-

Quick Kink 1



The Best of Kay Jaybee



Happy reading,

Kay xx

Happy Easter

Page 2 of 2

Powered by WordPress & Theme by Anders Norén