Erotic Author Spotlight Series: Livilla Sanders
You will have heard of Livilla Sanders from the guest reviews of her erotica here at Cara Sutra, as well as her work on the fabulous free read, Gratis: Midwinter Tales which you can find out about here.
Enjoy finding out more about the woman behind the wanton words, as well as being treated to two free excerpts!
Livilla Sanders – Biography
First and foremost hi! My name is Livilla Sanders. My motto is ‘I don’t exist. We’ll never meet.” I stand by that every time. There are no images of me and there never will be.
So who is Livilla Sanders then? Well, she’s a forty something married woman with a predilection for writing down her naughty thoughts, eating chocolate and drinking wine. She also dotes on her pet cat.
I’ve been writing erotica since about mid 2013, so you could say I’m a new and up coming author! Or an obscure, barely read, small fish in a vast ocean wannabe, depending on your point of view.
I write hot steamy stories for your delectation. I write what I like to read and I try to make them intelligent, interesting and maybe you’ll have to look up a word or two. Hopefully I’ll grab your attention and keep it. If I don’t…it’s all gone horribly wrong.
Most of my work is F/F but there are stories I’m working on that will be F/M. Well I say F/F or F/M but there aren’t necessarily only two participants…if you catch my drift. 😉
You can contact me on the social media links below, where I’ll happily chat and flirt with anyone. But don’t expect pics or a meet. “I don’t exist. We’ll never meet.” Remember?
I have three published pieces, my first foray into the world of erotica was The Spanish Artist (reviewed on this site here). This was closely followed by Cassie’s Call (review here) and after a hiatus, Irrecusable, which is my contribution to the Gratis: Midwinter Tales anthology.
My collection of short stories, Casual Collisions, is due out very soon.
The Spanish Artist – Free Excerpt
Sarah McBride looked down through the cabin window at the patchwork of fields below as the aircraft came in to land. When her friend and confidante, Ellen, had suggested she come with her to enjoy a weeks break in Spain she had scoffed at the idea, but now as she saw the russet landscape, dotted with wide expanses of olive and almond trees and scattered with whitewashed buildings she began to agree that her friend was right. She needed a break. Her acrimonious divorce, which had taken her two years to untangle herself from, had finally been concluded. Steve had hurt her with his pettiness, his lies and a string of girlfriends whose names she refused to remember.
“I’ll have a talk with Colin when we land,” said Ellen.
“I really don’t want to go out tonight, Ellen,” said Sarah. “Maybe tomorrow?”
“Colin’s bar is on the beach. All you have to do is sit there, drink your wine and soak up the atmosphere. I’ll do the rest,” said Ellen with a mischievous glint in her eye. Colin was Ellen’s brother, a nice guy who had lived out in Spain for six years now, got married and settled into the idyllic relaxed tempo of Spanish life.
“What are you up to?”
“Nothing. I’m just planning our itinerary. You just have to see the Nerja caves and the Alhambra Palace.”
“I thought we were supposed to be relaxing? I don’t want our holiday to be a whistle stop tour of Spain.”
“It won’t, I promise. Maybe you’ll meet some tall, dark handsome Spaniard to whisk you off your feet and then you won’t need me?” said Ellen.
Sarah cringed inwardly. She did not want whisking away by anyone or anything at the moment. Only to bury her nose in a good book and acquire some sort of tan on her stubbornly pale porcelain skin.
Ellen drove them in the hired car the three quarter hour journey to the villa she had rented on the outskirts of Nerja. It lay just a stones throw from the rolling waves of the turquoise of the Mediterranean Sea. Her room was modern, spacious and well furnished with a plush en suite bathroom. After unpacking and freshening up with a warm shower she emerged with renewed energy but contemplated the coming evening with trepidation.
Her friend was always well meaning, but Sarah knew she would be abandoned as Ellen got chatting to whoever caught her interest, which in this case would be her brother and they had nearly a year to catch up on. It was fine with Sarah, as she was never a great conversationalist and she preferred to keep herself to herself anyway.
Wrapped in a towel Sarah stepped in front of the full length mirror undecided as to what to wear. Her shoulder length brunette hair trailed in long wet strands on her skin like damp teasing fingers. Peering into the reflective surface she scrutinized her sharp cheeked oval face with her deep set hazel eyes that exaggerated her prominent brow. She put a finger to the delicate lines that traced across the corners of her eyes and pulled them taut, as if trying to roll back the years. A long slightly bent nose and full bow lips gave her face a quirky sensual appeal. An appeal that Steve had largely ignored for the last three years of their marriage.
Dropping the towel she studied her body. She was thirty six years old and considered she had a good figure for her five feet six inches, with full rounded breasts, generous curvaceous hips and a trim, if not perfect, stomach. A forest of trimmed dark curls nestled between her legs, concealing her mound and the groove of her cunt. She felt wasted. Her large areolae puckered in the cool air and a chill shiver ran through her. Quickly toweling herself dry she sat on the seat by the dresser and wondered what to do with herself.
She heard the shower start from Ellen’s room on the other side of the wall. Ellen loved showers. She would be there for some time, reveling in the warm water and soapy suds. She smiled to herself. There was enough time. Slipping her hand between her legs she found the throbbing button of her clitoris and began to stroke herself, alternating between slow circular motions and short brushes of her fingers . Exerting just the exact pressure she needed to bring that quick release she suddenly craved. She felt herself go slick. It was so easy. Thighs spread wide apart she ran her fingers around herself, teasing with long slow strokes, then dipped her fingers deep into her velvet warmth. She let her head tilt back and immersed herself in the sensations as she frigged herself with familiar gusto. She turned her mind to those erotic thoughts she always drew upon when she fantasized.
Cassie’s Call – Free Excerpt
The air is humid and the relentless heat of the hot summer sun blazes down outside. I look out of the tinted office windows onto a landscaped car park with a profound longing to be elsewhere. Sweat beads on my forehead and trickles uncomfortably down my back in small rivulets.
My headset, with its saturated foam ear piece, buzzes into life.
“Good afternoon, my name is Cassie, can I take your account number, please?” I say.
My day is endlessly dominated by this trite phrase. I’ve worked in this overbearing call centre for six months now and I’m bored with it. It was supposed to be temporary. It was supposed to be until something came along that I could use my degree for. Something…interesting.
You would have thought that, as I was approaching twenty eight, I would have found something like that by now. Got myself a proper job. Got myself a career. Got myself sorted, like my parents are always saying. But it seems that my life has turned down a dull cul-de-sac.
It was not supposed to be like this.
I keep telling myself, ‘Cassie Bowden, get yourself in gear.’ But it’s easier said than done.
Still it has its positive side…
I can’t think of anything at the moment, but I’m sure there is one.
They allow me to eke out a frugal living on a paltry salary with bonus incentives if I meet unrealistic targets. Incentives like doughnuts, for Christ’s sake.
It’s a bank holiday weekend and instead of being out and about enjoying the sun and looking for love, I’m stuck at this ergonomically designed desk in a huge open plan office taking inbound calls from strangers who’ve messed up their bank accounts.
Maxine, my anally retentive manager, is watching me again. She’s like a hawk and can spot a daydreaming operator at five miles. We get along like a house on fire. But not in the conventional good way. I mean like a fire that burns all your things and leaves you homeless. That kind of fire. We’re always arguing over something inconsequential. Like targets. Or dress code. Or being late. Or breathing. Okay, not breathing. But you get the idea. And she’s always going on about her wonderful boyfriend. Stevie does this. Stevie does that. Stevie’s so fucking perfect he makes me want to vomit.
She makes me miss my ex. Well, certain parts of him anyway. But my love life has of late been, shall we say, as dry as the Gobi Desert. And poor old me has to rely on herself, if you catch my drift.
A muffled quiet sounds in my ear. “Hello?…Hello?…” I say. A child begins to cry somewhere in the background on the other end of the line. I glance at my screen and read the preloaded details.
“Hello.” It’s a woman’s voice. She has one of those sultry French accents I can listen to all day. “Oh, for God’s sake, you clean it up,” she yells to some poor anonymous person with her. Instinctively I cringe. The woman’s attention is obviously elsewhere and I sit patiently waiting for her to continue. I turn the volume on my phone down a little. Just in case. I’ve had a perforated ear drum before and it’s not pleasant.
An exchange of muffled but sternly hissed voices accompany a reverberating clatter of crockery and cutlery in the background.
“Sorry about that,” says the woman with her alluring French accent. I have her details in front of me and I scan them to get a picture of her life. She sounds older than her thirty two years. Her voice is both husky and sensual, like she smokes too many cigarettes. She reminds me of Catherine Deneuve. Her name is Séverine Rogers. And she lives not five miles from my flat. Interesting. In fact, I can picture the street she lives on. Beautiful and expensive houses with large inaccessible gardens lined up alongside a wide avenue planted with well established oaks and chestnuts. The kind of place that if you have fewer than three cars and a SUV on your gravel drive, you can’t afford to live there. Or you live alone with stacks of cash. Or you’re the maid. Or the nanny. What else? She’s thirty two, runs her own translating business and her account is usually well managed. Except at the moment it is deep, deep in the red.
I run through the security routine. As far as I can tell, she is who she says she is.
“How can I help you Mrs Rogers?”
“There’s a problem with my statement.” I immediately pick up an undertone of stress in her voice and I flip to her current statement screen on my monitor to take a look.
“What is the problem?” I keep my tone professional. I don’t like being taken advantage of. You would not believe the sob stories some callers concoct.
Out of the corner of my eye I spot Maxine as she sashays past me in the walkway to my left. I hear the creak of her seat as she sits down at the far end of our line of desks. I know it’s her by the click of her heels on the carpet, the sound of her skirt as it rides across her silk hosiery and the waft of honeysuckle perfume that fills and teases my nostrils. I wish I could afford perfume like that. Fragrant. Subtle. Sexy. I so hate her. I’m always on the look out for when she’s around. I’ve caught her several times today watching me with those hawk like eyes and a foul glower on her face. Maybe Stevie is not giving her enough loving? Perhaps he’s not so ‘Mister Perfect’ after all?
There is more clattering and a huge crash in the background and the distinct cry of a man.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” shrieks the woman. “I’m on the phone!” She sighs a pained and irritated sigh. “I’m going upstairs.” The exasperation in her voice is palpable. I hear her move through her house, her breath playing down the line in my ear. God this woman is sexy even when she’s quiet. I hear the creak of stairs and a door being closed. “That’s better. Sorry about that. I’m in the bedroom now. We won’t be disturbed again,” she says in a relieved voice. I clear my throat and take a sip of water from my bottle. The air conditioning in here desiccates my mouth and makes my eyes prickle. Water is an essential tool if your voice isn’t going to crack after delivering a shift of corporate verbal diarrhoea. “There’s been no disturbance in here for months.” She gives a short bitter laugh.
– Livilla Sanders