We hope you've all enjoyed the Free Erotic Friday instalments so far, and today we have yet another sexy treat for you!

Justine Elyot writes erotica and erotic romance, and elements you are likely to find in her work include: mustachioed melodrama villains, whips, wisecracks, knights in tarnished armor, damsels under duress, lovers, leather, aquiline features, and references to popular songs.

Welcome to Filthy Friday, Justine!

Sh! Do you want to hear a secret?

Is it that Sh! Women's Erotic Emporium is a beautiful, welcoming little shop with everything a woman could desire for her boudoir? No, that's no secret. I think we're all aware of that.

Is it that every Friday they are featuring a different erotic writer in their Frisky Free Erotica Friday series? Uh, I think you might know that, since you're here…

OK, here's the secret. I'm Justine Elyot (no, not that) and my latest book, On Demand is on shelves in supermarkets, which lays it open to accusations of being a rip-off of Fifty Shades of Grey. (Actually, that's not the secret either.)

But it's not a rip-off of that particular phenomenon, because it was originally published in 2009. So, as it happens, my latest book is also my first. Perhaps that's not really a secret. It is a bit strange, though.

I'll give you a taster of the kind of thing its carefree, sex-positive, outrageous heroine, Sophie, likes to get up to. (She's no naïve virgin and nary a 'holy crap' to be heard).

******

The feel of him, hard chest, taut shoulder, large crotch-bulge, was enough to chase away my doubts.   I wanted that, on me, above me, in me.

‘Reclining seats?’ I asked.

‘Of course.’

‘Good.’

In the underground car park, he bent me backwards over the bonnet and mashed his lips into mine.  That well-cut cloth was covering my feeble manmade fibres, rubbing them up and down, sparking them into static cling.  My nylon stockings nudged at his trousers, slinking up beneath his jacket and around his hips, wrapping around his back and clamping that central hardness right into the open maw of my skirt.

I ground my mound around it, enjoying the sensation of the fabrics pressing into me, while his tongue plunged downward and his hand excavated the hidden depths behind my blouse.  His fingers plucked and sneaked under the lacy cups; there was pressing and kneading and hot breath and jammed pelvises and mock-thrusting, and all beneath the spotlit concrete ceiling of the public car park.

‘Do you want it then?’ he asked, holding my wrists pinned to the cool shiny paintwork.

‘Maybe in the car?’ I whispered, moving my head sideways to check for CCTV cameras and irate attendants.

‘My command is your wish,’ he said, pulling me up as if preparing for an energetic jitterbug and spinning me around to the side of the vehicle.  He ducked inside the door, pressed the button to recline the passenger seat and bundled me on to it.  I was a little confused when he shut the door, leaving me supine on the chilled leather, but he soon reappeared on the driver’s side, kneeling on the chair and looking ravenously down at me.

‘Get your knickers off then,’ he prompted.

Thrilled at his excellent grasp of the command tone, I wriggled them down my thighs, past my knees, bringing my still-shod feet up in the air to release them from the legholes.

My escort put a steadying hand on one of the legs, indicating that he wanted them kept up in that position, moving his other arm down for a good feel of my newly-exposed parts.

‘Now that’s wet,’ he said, impressed.  ‘A good fuck is what you need.’

I couldn’t argue with him.  The speed, the suddenness, the rudeness, the wrongness of it all was the turn-on of my life.  It was dirty and slutty, but I like dirty and slutty, and so, it seems, did he.

In his haste to mount me, he lost a button from the placket of his trousers, swearing as it pinged into the distance, then he slipped swiftly and efficiently between my knees, levering me up by the bum in order to skewer my dripping centre in one move.

We groaned in chorus as it stole inside so easily, so satisfyingly, filling the hole in perfect proportion.

‘Do you do this often?’ he wondered, beginning to thrust.

‘Mmm?’ I replied absently, lifting my hips towards his, grabbing his bottom to push him greedily as far in as I could.

‘Pick up strange men in hotels for dirty sex?  I bet you do it all the time.’

It was on the tip of my tongue to protest, to say no, that I’m not that kind of girl, but before I did, my imagination stepped in front of my indignation and I realised that I liked this idea.  I imagined him as one of a string of anonymous men, using my body, day after day, week after week, in the hotel bedrooms, the toilets, the carpark.  I’m not a whore, but I felt like one, letting this man whose name I didn’t even know slam his cock up me within quarter of an hour of meeting.

‘Yes,’ I said.  ‘I do.’

‘Thought so.’

The windows had steamed up now and I had to spare a thought for the expensive upholstery, which was getting the pounding of all time.  I pushed my hands down, clutching at his belt, the buckle end of which slapped lightly against my bottom with each forward motion.  These were becoming more frantic now, the jingling urgent, his loosened tie flapping over my face until I sank my teeth into it, irritated by the tickling effect.  I could feel the quake, shuddering seconds away, and I accidentally kicked the dashboard quite hard, so that he stopped for a second and turned around to assess any damage.  Luckily there was none.

All the same, ‘I’ll make you pay for that,’ he vowed, ratcheting up the force of his thrusts, body-slamming me into a new realm of fierce sensation.  The more I pretended to be a hooker, concentrating on servicing my client and avoiding orgasm, the more orgasmic I felt, until the wave crashed and I yelled until I was hoarse.

For a while, it was as if our bodies had melted together; the sweet glue of our exertions filled the air and stuck us to each other.  The car seat was slippery now and my thin summer blouse drenched.  He unpeeled himself shortly before I had to pass out, crouching between my sore thighs, chafed to bits by that pure new wool I had so admired in his trousers.  Thank God they hadn’t been made of cheap stuff; I would have been skinned alive.

She's very good at being bad, is Sophie! If you're tempted to read more, On Demand is available all over the place, including Waterstones

My tale of BDSM exploration, Meeting Her Match is also available on the Sh! Website, along with a slew of anthologies featuring my stories.

Thanks for reading – and I wish you many hours of happy shopping at Sh!

******

We are huge fans of Justine’s, and if you’d like to find out more about her too, HERE is the best place.