Hello darlings, I’m in a FANTASTIC mood! Would you like to know why?

Well, if you’ve been following my work over the past year or two, you’ll know that the UK government has been hosting a gigantic freakout and ballyhoo over the availability of adult material online. It’s been a huge clusterfuck, frankly, and I’ll spare you the insider details. However. I’ve learned recently that an amendment to the law has been approved, which exempts audio only erotic material from the enormous headache that is ATVOD and the Digital Economy Bill. You know what that means, don’t you? 😀

Yes, that’s right! All of my previously free mp3s have been liberated once again! And you can download and listen to them as you please, by clicky-clicking over to the ‘free’ section of this website. And by GOD I sincerely hope to never have to piss about with them again, because ffs.

Enjoy, sweetness!

Purple Prose

It’s supposed to be a criticism, isn’t it? That is dreadfully purple prose, how distracting and unnecessary, totally ruins the story! It’s a valid criticism when it comes to fiction, I suppose. Most fiction, anyway; I’ll defend Poppy Z. Brite’s ‘Swamp Foetus’ to the death, in ALL its lurid glory.

The one place I think purple prose fits, is in erotica. Specifically, in erotic hypnosis. Why? Because your mind is so open to suggestion, that it soaks up all those over-wrought details like a sponge, and feels them. There is emotion infused in those gleefully descriptive phrases, and intensity of sensation. To describe them is to bring them to life, to have you experience them as reality. There is more power in “Your dick flushes deep red and swells almost painfully hard in your cupped hand. You feel the sweat break out on your forehead, tingles creeping down your spine like sharp fingernails as you contemplate the order you’ve been given and the vicious intent behind it” than in “Your dick gets hard when she tells you what to do“.

There is an art to erotic description. A fine line between ‘what is this flowery bullshit?’ and ‘goddamn that was hot!’ It’s not always an easy line to locate, and it’s not an easy line to walk. But when it works? Good God, it works! I like to think I have a pretty decent grasp of when and how to employ this particular strategy, though I’ve been guilty a time or two of pushing it too far just for my own amusement. (Unrepentant, deal with it.)

I wonder though, is this something that only I care about? Is lurid and aggressively descriptive language a turn on for you, or too much when you’d prefer to let your imagination fill in the blanks? I am genuinely curious, so speak up. Comment, DM me @LaceLibertine, drop me an email. I want to know your thoughts on the best way to write erotica. Or why not share some of your own? If you’re brave enough. 😉

A biography of now

What does it mean to really know a person? Is it that you can reel off a handful of facts about their lives? You know their age, their hobbies, their kinks? To truly know someone, do you have to instinctively know how they would feel or react about or to a particular situation? I think perhaps not. I think people change and grow and evolve day by day, moment by moment sometimes, and those static facts can’t really capture the essence of a unique soul.

So take a moment to know me, as I am, sitting here, right now, talking to you. This is my biography of sixteen minutes past nine, on November 13th, 2018. In mere moments, it will be passed and gone, and perhaps it might seem pointless, but think of it this way. There is literally no way to be closer to me right now, than to live within my mind, my experience and my skin for just a moment. A life isn’t a grand thing, it’s a million tiny moments, a billion minute experiences. Here is mine:

My fingernails are just a shade too long, so I’m conscious of the way the corners of my middle fingers are slipping off the P and I keys while I type. It gives my typing a tiny stutter that’s barely noticeable. A half-breath mid-word. A half hour ago I washed my hair, and it’s curling damply on the back of my neck. I never dry my hair, because it gives me a giant fuzzy afro. Curse of the natural curls. I feel the edge of the wooden dining room chair pressed very slightly into my right thigh, where I’m sitting with my ankles crossed under the seat. This chair is so extremely old. I keep replacing it with fancy ‘comfortably ergonomic’ office chairs, but I can’t seem to find one I like as much as this old, rigid wooden thing. My right toes are bent, bearing the weight of my left foot as they rest against the heel. I do this subconsciously, for hours sometimes while I work, and only notice later once pins and needles kick in.

On my desk in front of me is a red wool hat. I have no idea where it came from. It appeared one day on the coat rack, possibly left behind by a friend or sister. Maybe it just appeared from the ether, who knows? I stop typing to briefly consider how cool it would be if things could just be beamed into existence this way. But what if you had no control over what appeared, and it was just anything that popped into your mind? A world of ‘don’t think of an alligator’ could be pretty dangerous. And frighteningly crammed with alligators. I wonder how dangerous alligators actually are? I don’t know. I’m in England, the most dangerous wildlife we have are squirrels and spice-heads.

It’s bizarre, the things that come into your head, isn’t it? Like when you’re drifting off and just sort of half-dreaming, and you inevitably get some stupid line of dialogue from an old Friends re-run stuck in your head, and it just plays on a loop forever. Could that be any more annoying? Stop. Correct a spelling error. Mouse button is sticky. Why is the mouse button sticky? Possibly because it’s also ancient, 22nd birthday gift from my little sister, studded with black plastic ‘gems’ that used to be sparkly. I’ll be sad when I have to replace it, I get unnaturally attached (or is it really that unnatural? Do we all get stupidly attached to little possessions?) to silly things like this.

Back beginning to ache just a little bit. Sit up straighter. That’s better. Must remember to keep good posture. I always forget and slump and am reminded by the dull ache in my mid-back that I’m no longer a sprightly teenager. Now I have to actually put in effort, horror of horrors. This afternoon I finished editing my Charity Drive session, and sent it along to Ember to be added to this year’s offerings. There’s a lingering sense of satisfaction in knowing that it’s done. The same satisfaction I always feel after finishing up a session, but this one has lingered a little longer. Not sure why. Possibly because I went the extra mile with creating an ambience for the background, rather than just using standard music. Took longer, sounds better. I like it, in any case.

Glance at the clock, notice that it’s now 9.30. It took THAT long to type, really? How much did I write, it can’t have been all that much. Am I typing unusually slowly? And that, my sweet, is me. In fourteen minutes, you have known me as well as I know myself, been as close to me as anyone could be. Almost as though you were inside my skin, right here with me. Just as I am with you, every time you put on your headphones and allow me to create your world.

What a strange thing it is we share.



The Madness of Crowds

I have always been interested by human behaviour. By the inner workings of our minds, which we all feel to be so individual, and yet are so frighteningly alike. I have, since my early teens, been fascinated by the propaganda and art and stirring speeches of revolutionaries, tyrants and dictators, of artists and musicians and secret political groups.

When I was sixteen, I joined a local political group, the Socialist Worker Party. Not because I felt any particular affiliation to them, but because of their post-punk, anti-authoritarian ways. I went flyposting, sprayed graffiti under bridges, attended rowdy meetings in the back-rooms of dingy bars, and I watched. The cult-like behaviour of the group was utterly absorbing. From the posters and placards to the weekly newspaper, all of it was designed to appeal to a certain person, and I wanted to figure that person out.

Years later, I was walking home from my IT job, about nineteen, maybe twenty years old. In the middle of the city square, the Scientologists had set up a marquee. I took careful inventory of the bright colours, the clever design-work of the leaflets and posters, the way the terribly friendly and loving members would engage passers by and draw them in. I sat down in the tent and listened to a speech, watched the reactions of those around me, made mental notes of the subtle hypnotic techniques they employed. I wanted to figure them out.

There have been many such occasions. I’ve sat in on dozens of group meetings since then, everything from the local council to the reptile society, and watched and listened and taken things in. I’ve learned to recognize and understand the truly indescribable power of propaganda, and the desperation of humans to be a part of something. To feel understood. To feel heard. To feel that they alone are in possession of some secret wisdom that the masses fail to understand. It is genuinely fascinating, the lengths we go to as a species, to convince ourselves that we are special.

Here in hypno-land, things are somewhat different. Here, the overwhelming desire is to be rendered mindless. To become consumed by another, their will overtaking your own. The ultimate pleasure is to succumb to the hive mentality, to lose your identity, to be weak and empty and blank, I Love Leader, I Am Slave. It fascinates in an entirely different way, and yet… is it different really? If being weak makes you desirable to a woman, if losing your senses makes you feel pleasure, if joining her stable and losing your sense of self enthrals you… Is it that you are consumed by her propaganda, or is it that you are smart enough to recognize that this is the better option?

To willingly give up your control. Give up your power. Give up yourself. Not because you were tricked or drawn in against your wishes, or didn’t know what you’d gotten yourself into, but because you actively chose to do so, it’s better than the alternative. Better than falling prey to a hundred blaring messages from every organization in existence. Better to open your mind to one bright, beautiful, glowing message that brings you pleasure, than wallow in the muddy waters of social construct, advertising and false belief. Better to be nothing, to be nobody, if it is for her pleasure. It gives you a curious freedom in a world of constraints.

Vintage Vixen

I love the way satin feels against my skin. More than any other clothing, satin makes me feel sexy and powerful! Perhaps you’ve seen a few pictures of me, scattered hither and yon, dressed (or undressed) in that luxuriously decadent fabric. Perhaps you’ve noticed a particular gleam of wicked mischief in my eye whenever I’m wearing it. 😉

I’m going to be real with y’all for a minute here, so brace yourself. Years ago I had major body issues. I hated my body and punished it for not being ‘perfect’ with way over-the-top diet and fitness regimes. I didn’t eat a custard tart in ten years, and I love custard tarts with a deep and visceral passion! I tied up a lot of my self-worth in the slenderness of my thighs. This is not unique to me, a lot of women are (or have been) in similar states of never-ending battle with their bodies.  It took me a long goddamn time to reach a state of peace with my physical imperfections, and even longer to actually embrace all my wiggly, jiggly bits, and acknowledge the power that actual feminine curves have over men.

If it wasn’t obvious, I’ve loosened up considerably.

But what does that have to do with my love of satin? I’m so glad you asked! It occurred to me that I’d not really taken many body shots (ooh-er!) in the last couple of years, and that just won’t do, darlings. So to celebrate my twin loves of bouncy-soft curves and sexy satin, here’s a brand new picture just for you boys.

Now, where are the custard tarts? 😉


Hello darlings. I have a VERY special treat for you! Read on…

I have a lovely, sexy new mp3 in the works. One which is certain to become a firm favourite. This new session plants a special trigger in your brain, to turn you instantly into a helpless, befuddled, horny little mess when you hear it. I’ll be using a delicious fractionation induction to drop you deep into trance, where I can bypass all your critical and analytical functions, to fuck with your subconscious mind and your instinctive reactions.

What’s so special about this trigger, you ask? Well that’s the fun part, sweetness. The trigger is whatever you want it to be! When you pre-order this session, you get to choose the word or phrase that screws with your head. I will record a very special version of it just for you, including your name and trigger of choice!

This session is an open design, meaning that it does not demand submission to me or assume a submissive nature in general. It is pure eroticism, focusing solely on the mindless pleasure and intense arousal you feel when your trigger is spoken.

Once recording is complete, I will not be offering any further copies of this mp3, so order now to avoid disappointment!! Fill out the form below to order your personal copy of Bubble Brain, which will be ready for download by the end of this month.

You know you NEED it!

Fixed Price: $75

Pre-ordering works on a First Come First Served basis. I may end this promotion early if too many orders are received.

And we’re DONE.