Ultimate Decadence

What would be your ultimate decadence? How about kicking back with an anthology of sizzling erotica, knowing that with each page you turn, you're helping Macmillan Cancer Care help people with cancer?

You can do just that, by purchasing ULTIMATE DECADENCE, edited by Emily Dubberly and containing stories by some of erotica's hottest voices - including yours truly.

Click on the banner to the right, or right here and get ready to double your pleasure.

ERWA Reviews Sarah's Education

Oh my! Here I was thinking that 'launch day' for an erotica writer living in Canada is a bit of a non-event - and then I find Ashley Lister's review of Sarah's Education in the September edition of the Erotica Readers and Writers Association.

Oh boy! Ashley likes my book. He says Madeline Moore (that's me!) 'has a distinctive style of blending a compelling story with no-nonsense prose and writing ribald, raunchy romps.'

And - 'Sarah’s Education is one of those enjoyable reads that continues to excite, arouse amuse and titillate as the story progresses'

And, and,and - 'For any reader whose appetites favour intelligent erotica with a constant sense of enjoyment, Sarah’s Education is a must-have title for your collection.'

Oh, why not go over to the ERWA and read the whole thing? And remember, if you link to Amazon from the ERWA and buy the book, the website profits.

I love the ERWA, don't you?

Sarah's Education Now Available in North America

Today's the day! Sarah's Education is finally gonna come your way...
unless you live in the U.K., in which case you've had a few months to get to know the studious (by day) and lascivious (by night) Ms. Sarah Meadows.

How about a little snippet from the book to whet your appetite?

You talked me into it.

In this excerpt, Sarah has asked a john she particularly likes (and who will figure in her life much more prominently that either of them know at the moment) to give her a beating with his belt:

John ate a little awkwardly, with his belt still wrapped around his fist. As Sarah picked at her salad, every sway of the free-hanging end drew her eyes, like a rabbit following the movements of a cobra. But this rabbit couldn’t wait to feel the cobra’s bite. Or could she? It was going to hurt, really hurt. She could beg off. John would allow that, she knew. But if she did, she’d be showing cowardice, and she need his respect. Undecided, Sarah did what she always did when in a serious quandary, she made her mind go blank and let whatever was going to happen, happen.

Her mind still in a fog, she was led to the bed and spread-eagled once more. John secured her wrists to the brass scrolls. Seemingly without effort, he lifted her bottom off the bed, lifted it high, right over her head, and manacled her ankles, wide apart, to the top of the bed’s head. A pile of pillows under her shoulders made the awkward position more comfortable. Nice man. Sarah gazed up at her delta from only a foot beneath it. Pretty pussy.

John made a few adjustments to her bonds and her legs, so that her thighs were perfectly horizontal, parallel to the bed. ‘Ready?’ he asked.

'Hm?’

‘Are you ready?’

She couldn’t really nod, not folded like that, so Sarah was forced to vocalise her affirmative, though not in articulate words, even though she wasn’t sure what he was asking her. When you don’t quite understand what’s going on, ‘Yes’ is best, or at least, easiest.

John stroked the undersides of her thighs. Nice. That wasn’t why she was contorted like that, though, was it? He rested the loose end of his belt across her legs, halfway between her knees and her upturned bottom, then moved it a little higher.

‘This is above where the hem of your skirts usually come to, isn’t it?’

Why was that significant? Whatever, she made another ‘yes’ sound.

The leather strap lifted. That meant something, something frightening but thrilling, but she didn’t think about what. The belt came down, hard. Sarah yelped involuntarily. A line of fire burned across the backs of her thighs.

‘You still want it? You can still change your mind.’

‘Um, want, yes.’

Leather cracked down again, an inch higher. Sarah emerged from her fog. Oh fuck! It was really happening. What had she let herself in for? Was she crazy?

The third and fourth and fifth blows landed, each closer to her bottom. Pain seared into her. Tears were streaming from her eyes and she’d almost decided that she was ready to face the humiliation of begging him to stop when the sixth whacked down on the lower curves of her bum’s cheeks, and she was suddenly in absolute bliss.

The belt progressed from low on her bottom to halfway up it, where her cheeks were fullest, then made their way down towards her thighs again. Her flesh was glowing embers. Each blow reignited the skin it landed on. The pain was hellish and heavenly. It was as if she’d taken some powerful euphoric that had set her spirit free to soar through and to pure delight. Her thighs and her bottom had been transformed by ecstatic agony. Deep inside, she was starting to clench.

Something dripped onto her chin. Of course! Her sex was weeping with joy. The internal convulsions accelerated and became stronger. She was so fucking close! Sarah knew she could take the belt forever, yet when it fell to the bad she moaned with relief.

Something - his fingers? - forced entrance to her sex and drove deeply into her pussy. The invader pistoned. Other fingers manipulated her clit.

Sarah heard herself shouting, ‘Love it! Love it!’ The fingers forced their way even further into her, into where she was clamping rhythmically, and triggered…‘Yip, yip, yip, yip,’ …erotic bliss.


What a kinky little slut Sarah is, wouldn't you agree?

Want more? Sure, no problem. Just follow this link in the USA and this one in Canada, and you can have the whole story. Buy the book!

xoxo Madeline

Man Candy Monday

I love a man who loves his work, and this handsome hard hat obviously enjoys physical labour day in day out. At night? I imagine (oh how I imagine) he enjoys the labour of love. In and out. In and out.

Death Socks

The Death Socks are a pair again. It always makes me happy when I have both. I've lost one often, in the eight years since she died, and sometimes the lost one stays lost for a great stretch of time.

I've even turned that lonely remaining sock into a sachet, filling it half full of potpourri, tying it off with a knot and placing it in my lingerie drawer. At such times I admonish myself for my unhappiness at having lost its mate. I have lots of her stuff, I remind myself. Jewellery and china. I even have her mink. It's silly to mourn the loss of a sock.

But they were her favourites. She wore them to the end, I think. But that would mean I took them off her feet after she died. I don't think that's what happened but I might be wrong.

She died at home, with dignity, surrounded by loved ones. We read that a lot, at least the part about dignity and loved ones. I wonder how often it's really true. In this case, it's really true.


I was her primary care giver in an anticipated death at home. She was my mom. We were symbiotic. When she was sad I was sad and when she cried I cried. She cried a couple of times. When she was brave I was brave, and she was usually brave. When she forgot she was dying and laughed, I forgot and laughed, too. And when she remembered, I remembered.

She ate as long as she could hold a spoon. I said, "Mom, tell me what you want and if I can do it, I will."

"I want you to make your vichyssoise," she said, so I did. Her last few meals were home made vichyssoise. I was true to my word.

Thanksgiving Dinner, her final scheduled appearance, was a triumph. She had seconds! That night, I cupped her elbow from time to time, to help the slow motion progress of her fork to her mouth. But I never fed her.

This anticipated death at home was one of the few times in my life when I knew I was doing the right thing. I knew it was a good thing to do. That absolute knowledge was powerful.

We were a team, she and I. She said "I love you," to me a thousand times. I have siblings who hoped for one such expression from her, and hoped in vain. I was the lucky one.

She died on a Sunday. The funeral was Wednesday. I flew back to Toronto on Thursday and on Friday I started packing up the family home. I'd signed the sale of our house by fax. My husband and I were separating and I only had a month to organize the move.

People think I endured two terrible events back to back, but that's not the case. The death was a beautiful thing. We were successful. She showed me her strength and her weakness. She asked me to take care of her and I said I would. And then I did.

The murder of the marriage and the ugliness that went along with it, that's the tragedy.

The first loss of a Death Sock occurred shortly after I'd returned home. My best friend, Ted, had some of my art and I had some of his and I'd decided we should trade back before the move. It'd been raining so I was wet as well as miserable when I arrived. Looking back, I think the scope of my problems overwhelmed him. Anyway, for whatever reason, he bailed on our friendship.

My socks were still soaked when I left. I cried all the way home, not as viscerally as I had when my Dad pronounced my Mother dead, but close. When I realized I only had one sock on, I cried harder. I wanted both socks. I didn't really want the mink coat but I wanted those socks. I was sure I'd left one at Ted's place, a place I knew I'd never visit again.

But apparently not. The second sock surfaced and joined the first. Since then one has gone missing, often. I don't worry about it any more. When Felix and I moved, I paired them up again. Two Death Socks in a drawer.

They are short, cotton socks, white with a blue pattern. Similar to the ones in this picture.



I'm happy when I wear them and I do wear them (unlike the mink.)

I'm wearing them now, remembering her and me and us. I remember resting beside her dead body. I'd been sleeping with her for a few weeks and the fact that she was dead didn't deter me from curling up beside her and fiercely promising her still warm corpse, "I will never let a man crush me, again."

I was happy, curled up beside her. We'd accomplished what we'd set out to do. The cancer was her tragedy, but her exit from this world was our triumph.