This week our Erotic Author Spotlight falls upon Peter Birch, also known as Aishling Morgan. With many years of experience in the erotic writing world, as well as in the fetish and BDSM scene, Peter Birch is well qualified to write some of the hottest erotica the world has seen.
Enjoy reading more about Peter and his very sexy stories. You can find the Peter Birch author page on Amazon UK here.
– Cara Sutra
I am possibly the world’s most prolific writer of erotica, but this came about largely by accident. My first published story was “The Rake”, which appeared in Forum Magazine in the early ‘nineties, but it was only one of many, the product of years of reading and writing, purely for private entertainment. I’d also been writing articles on BDSM for Fetish Times, which led to a meeting with James Marriott of Virgin Books and a brief foray into detective fiction before being invited to expand The Rake into a novel. When asked for a pen name I chose Aishling Morgan. More precisely, I had a few minutes to make my choice and quickly came up with something that sounded vaguely Celtic, vaguely romantic and might be male or female.
As it turns out, Aishling is very rare indeed as a male name, but then at the time I had no idea that The Rake would be the first of many books, more than thirty in all. Aishling Morgan is not my only pseudonym by any means, and I’ve now had over 100 books published, mainly novels, but also short story collections and a little non-fiction. Aishling Morgan is the name I use for my most imaginative work, done for the love of writing and of erotica, which has been my metier since long before I’d considered it as a profession.
I’ve also been involved with the UK fetish scene since the early days, which has provided plenty of background knowledge and inspiration. The Aishling Morgan books are perse, with a wide variety of settings and characters, while I aim to provide sufficient plot to make each story worthwhile in its own right. Their erotic content is also highly perse but tends to focus on power play and exotic sex, sometimes very exotic, and always an integral part of the story.I use Peter Birch for more conventional, modern erotica, essays and other non-fiction work.
Aside from all that, I was educated at various schools in the country, then Magdalen College Oxford and Manchester University, after which I went into the wine trade before turning to writing as my full time profession. I am now in my fifties, which I believe entitles me to official status as a dirty old man as well as a pornographer. Life’s been fun.
From The Brat and her Master, my 100th novel and the one most closely drawn from my experiences in the London SM scene –
Down in the house called Foxdens a girl was being spanked.
There could be no other explanation for the sharp, feminine gasps, or the regular, fleshy smacks sounding from the conservatory, and if a girl was being spanked, it could only be the girl Adam had been watching just minutes before. She was beautiful, as slender and delicate as the flowers she’d been walking among, and picking. Her skin was like cream, her face a picture of delicate, elfin perfection, the hair that fell to the level of her thighs palest ash blonde. All she’d had on were sandals and a long, white summer dress that moved as she walked to hint at high, pointed breasts and a rounded little bottom, creating a vision which had held Adam entranced as she made a careful selection of the choicest blooms and gathered them into a bunch.
He’d wanted to call out to her, to somehow attract her attention and warn her about the owner of Foxdens, the old man he knew only as the Gardener, who did not take kindly to trespassers, least of all those who damaged his precious flowers. Yet she was plainly oblivious to the situation, so much so that he’d told himself she must have had every right to be there, and every right to pick flowers. When a voice had called out, not from Foxdens but from the neighbouring Gatehouse, she had paused long enough to pick one last bloom, then tripped happily away across the lawn. Whoever had called out had used the name Jasmine. Now Jasmine was being spanked, and the man doing the spanking could only be the Gardener himself.
Adam hesitated, torn between a desire to help her and a fear of the cantankerous old man that went back to early childhood. The Gardener was tall, angular, with a body that seemed to be made of coat hangers and a face the colour of old brick. High, bushy eyebrows and a bristling, white moustache added to his ferocious appearance. His bad temper was notorious, yet he was now old and frail, surely no match for a young man, or for a young woman for that matter, which suggested something very odd indeed, that the girl had accepted her ignominious punishment.
Puzzled, Adam found himself wondering exactly what was going on. It seemed likely that Jasmine had accepted her spanking, if not exactly meekly, to judge by her squeals. That implied she might also have accepted yet more intimate indignities, such as allowing her pretty white summer dress to be lifted, or even having her knickers pulled down. If her knickers had been pulled down, then her bottom would be bare, bare and on show through the glass of the conservatory.
Adam was climbing the wall even as his train of thought reached its glorious but guilty conclusion. As he crossed the lawn he was telling himself that he was going to rescue her, and that the possibility of getting a peep at her bare bottom was purely incidental, but he knew it was a lie. When he reached the bed of delphiniums that ran around the curve of the conservatory he had ducked low and slowed his pace, to peer in between the tall, blue flower spikes.
The spanking was still in progress, Jasmine’s cries and the sound of the old man’s hand being applied to her bottom now clear. Adam raised his head, cautiously, peering through the delphiniums and into the conservatory. Inside, a bank of the Gardener’s precious dark roses formed the backdrop to Jasmine’s spanking. The old man was seated on a chair of wrought iron, his eyes popping from his puce coloured face, his long, bony legs extended to accommodate her body. Her face was turned away, but her dainty little bottom was on full show, wriggling beneath plain white cotton panties pulled so tight they seemed to have been painted on, the material following every contour of her softly bulging cheeks, the gentle groove of her slit and even the lips of her cunt, each and every exquisite curve displayed as if in deliberate, loving detail. Bare flesh bulged out from either leg hole, pink from spanking and still quivering faintly from the last smack before the Gardener paused to take a firm grip on the waistband of her panties, his gruff voice blending with Jasmine’s gasp as she realised she was to be stripped behind.
‘Oh, the hell with decency, let’s have you bare bottom, Miss Jasmine Brown.’
Guilt and arousal welled up in Adam’s chest at the prospect of watching the beautiful girl get her panties pulled down, painfully strong as he imagined her agonised feelings; helpless fury and biting shame, bitter consternation and raging self-pity as her modesty was stripped away by some irate old fart who didn’t even have the intelligence or humanity to realise how utterly inappropriate it was to give a girl a spanking, let alone a bare bottom spanking, whatever her sin. Yet to his amazement Jasmine didn’t put up a fight at all, but meekly lifted her hips to allow the little white panties to be peeled down off her bottom. As it all came on show his feelings of guilt redoubled, yet he found himself unable to look away, let alone act to put a stop to the appalling indignity being inflicted on the young girl. She was just too beautiful, the situation just too compelling, with her pale, cheeky bottom now completely naked, and so trim and firm that not only was her sweetly made little cunt on full show but also the tight pink dimple of her anus.
The Gardener clearly agreed, peering close to inspect the slit of Jasmine’s bottom and the rear of her cunt, his expression no longer angry but full of dirty lust, lewd and invasive, his gooseberry eyes popping and his moustache trembling to his breath. Still Adam hesitated, and only when the Gardener began to spank once more did his guilt finally overcome his desire. At the very first smack Jasmine gave a low, pained cry, so full of humiliation and distress for what was being done to her that Adam was moving on the instant. Ducked low, he quickly skirted the end of the conservatory towards the door, telling himself he would confront the pervert, physically if need be, only to stop once more, not because his courage had failed, but because he could now see Jasmine’s face beyond the roses, which was not screwed up in tear-stained misery as he’d expected, but set in bliss.
*** *** *** ***
From The Girl Thieves, my latest…
An hour passed and a second, with Bear Squeeze still busy when the time came to close. Matt busied himself trying to get the customers to leave, all the while with a sense of urgency growing as his last chance to speak to Clementine drew closer. She was among those lingering at the bar, but went into the Ladies. Determined to at least make an effort, Matt quickly went over to her companions, hustling them outside to leave only a handful of stragglers. When Clementine appeared once more she glanced from side to side, her nose wrinkling in annoyance as she realised she’d been deserted, at which Matt took his chance. Certain he would be rejected but keen to at the very least have something to report to Richard and Julia, he walked over to her, doing his best to sound considerate rather than predatory as he spoke up.
‘Hi, I er… couldn’t help but notice that you’re alone. I don’t suppose you’d like me to walk you home?’
To his astonishment she nodded, a quick, nervous motion of her head that seemed very much out of character. The boss was cashing up at the back and with two other staff still there, Matt had no compunction about leaving immediately, his heart hammering as he escorted Clementine outside into the cool night air. She was clearly a little drunk, but held herself well, walking with fast, precise steps that made her heels click on the pavement and repeatedly shooting him her sidelong little glances but saying nothing. Matt tried to strike up a conversation, but she answered in odd little giggles or with quick faltering sentences, stumbling over her words and only giving her name after a moment’s hesitation. She seemed to have chosen an odd route as well, not following the brightly lit width of Cannon Street towards where Trenchard lived, but turning down a narrow alley towards the river.
‘Where does this go?’ Matt asked, simply for something to say.
Clementine threw him another of her odd, sidelong glances, her eyes now seemingly huge and full of strong emotion.
‘Sailmaker’s Garden,’ she said, ‘just the sort of place a man like you might take advantage of me, and I have the key.’
Matt didn’t bother to ask what sort of man she supposed he was, or to speak at all. The implications of her words were obvious, if perhaps also insulting, and he lost no time in pressing her to the wall and pushing his mouth to hers in a fierce, open kiss. For just a moment she resisted, only to let her lips come open with a sob, and for one instant he felt his passion returned before she broke away.
‘I thought that’s what you wanted,’ she breathed. ‘I suppose you’d better have me now.’
Plenty of the women Matt had met on the fetish scene across the years had played similar games, often in far safer situations than the one Clementine had engineered for herself, and he didn’t hesitate to play his role. Taking her firmly by the hand, he led her to the end of the alley, where a tall, iron gate barred access to a tiny garden. She fumbled the key from her bag and pushed the gate open, allowing Matt through before closing it behind them and turning the key once more. Matt pulled the key from the lock and very deliberately dropped it into his pocket, then took hold of her once more, kissing her passionately as he put his hands to one small, firm breast and one fleshy little bottom cheek.
She gave in on the instant, barely responsive to his touch but making no effort to resist. Her jacket was peeled back, trapping her arms, and her blouse unbuttoned, her bra lifted to free her high, upturned breasts to the weak yellow glow of the streetlights. Matt took one stiff little nipple in his mouth, sucking and biting until she’d thrown her head back in pained arousal and begun to moan softly, but still she made no effort to return his caresses. Her skirt came up and her panties were levered down her long, slender legs, baring her cunt to his eager mouth and her groans had become deeper and more urgent still as she settled herself back against the trunk of the single, massive plane tree that dominated the garden.
Now thoroughly enjoying himself, with his sense of cruelty rising to her meek, almost limp response, Matt took his time over her cunt, licking well and easing two fingers up into her soaking hole. Only when she’d begun to push herself into his face in helpless reaction did he pull back, to ease her to her knees and stand in turn, speaking as he tugged down his zip.
‘Open your mouth, Clementine.’
She obeyed, deliberately slowly, her eyes raised to his in what he would have sworn was real fear and even disgust, yet she kept her beautiful painted lips wide in obvious expectation of having his cock put in her mouth. He obliged, scooping the full mass of his genitals free from his underpants in a deliberately lewd gesture and holding them out as he spoke once more.
‘Kiss my balls, Clementine, then take me in your mouth. You’re going to suck my cock.’
Clementine swallowed hard and the expression on her face grew stronger still, with her eyes full of horror and pleading as they flicked between his face and the bulging mass of his scrotum, only to suddenly close as she leant forward to plant a single, gentle kiss on the wrinkled skin.
‘In your mouth, Clementine,’ he ordered. ‘Suck my cock.’
Her response was a weak, despairing whimper, and then her pretty mouth had come wide once more and she’d done it, taking in his already half stiff penis and sucking with every evidence of experience. Matt sighed with pleasure for the sensation of her tongue as she worked on the fleshy underside of his foreskin, but found himself grinning as he looked down to admire the view. He’d had plenty of pretty girls suck his cock, but never one who looked so cool and aloof, making the contrast between her delicate, expensively made up face and the thick, veiny cock shaft sticking out from between her lips all the more obscene.
*** *** *** ***
From One Bad Apple, which is something of a departure for me, as it’s erotic romance rather than pure erotica, but it’s still filthy!
Taking her half full wine glass to her favourite seat by the garden window, Charlotte settled down to read the novel from her tablet, starting where she had left off, with Lydia kneeling to suck Ted Emerson’s cock –
“…her bare, hot bottom sticking out behind as she pleasured the man who had punished her with a good, hard spanking.
Now that he’d got his way, Ted Emerson relaxed, his long, powerful legs set apart and his body at ease, one hand limp at his side, the other placed gentle on Lydia’s head to stroke her hair, but perhaps also to ensure that she completed her task. He need not have worried, as she had given in to her own traitorous needs, abandoned to the joys of having his erection in her mouth and of pleasing him, for all his indecorous treatment of her bottom. Nor could she restrain her own need, for all that her sense of shame was every bit as strong as her arousal.
Just minutes before she would have greeted the suggestion that she would enjoy taking a man’s cock in her mouth with an angry denial, let alone do it for a man who had punished her in such a simple but effective manner, stripping her of her clothes and of her modesty before applying a firm hand to her naked rear cheeks. Yet now she was doing it, eagerly, wantonly, trying her best to please and determined to see it through despite knowing what would surely happen at any moment.
It did. She swallowed, and with that her resistance gave way completely. Sobbing with shame, Lydia began to stroke herself, scarcely able to take in what she was doing as her fingers delved into the warm, intimate creases between her thighs, to find the secret, guilty spot and rub, still holding him in her mouth as she brought herself to a peak of pleasure far beyond anything she had experienced before.”
‘Dirty little tart,’ Charlotte said to herself, reaching for her glass.
She took a sip of wine, then drew her breath in, determined to maintain her detachment but, just like Lydia, her body had begun to react without reference to her mind. Her nipples were stiff in the silky cups of her bra, while the warm, urgent sensation between her thighs had built to a point at which it took an active effort to stop herself slipping a hand to where it would do the most good.
With her arousal so strong that her hands had begun to shake, making it difficult to read from the tablet, she decided that she would have to give herself an orgasm, if only to help her calm down. Giving in to her need, she stood to remove her jacket and skirt before sitting down once more, now with her eyes lightly close as she tweaked open the first three buttons of her blouse.
She wasn’t going to need the vibrator, her responses already so sharp and so sensitive that it would only take a few, deft touches to tip herself over the edge. With one hand inside her blouse and the other between her thighs, she began to stroke herself through the smooth silk of her underwear, deliberately teasing the aching bud of a nipple and the softly bulging mound at the front of her knickers. She had learned to seek release in masturbation long before, enjoying the sensations of her body in an act of pure, unabashed pleasure, but she seldom allowed thoughts of men to intrude on her fantasies, save in the abstract, as models of virility and power, all hard muscles and straining cocks.
Even as little, exquisite shivers began to run through her body she knew that would not be possible. The memory of Lydia’s spanking and subsequent fate was too strong in her head, and too closely involved with real people, for all that she was determined not to come over the thought of having her bottom smacked across a man’s knee. Taking him in her mouth was better, but she found it impossible to concentrate on the thought without imagining herself on her knees with her hot bottom stuck out behind, bare, red and smarting, while she used her mouth to pleasure the man who’d spanked her. Worse still, the image in her head of the handsome, athletic American tennis coach wouldn’t hold, but kept slipping to the older and sterner C. E. Haynes, the massive, taciturn John Ryan, or worst of all, Mark Dean. A whimper escaped her throat as her lips parted in ecstasy, then words.
‘Not them, not Haynes, not Ryan,’ she sighed even as her fingers began to press more firmly into her knickers, ‘and definitely not Mark.’
Her back arched and her mouth came wider still as she held herself on the brink of orgasm, yet to come over Haynes or Ryan was too shameful to endure, and Mark Dean worse still, for all that it was very easy indeed to imagine any one of them spanking her and demanding their cocks sucked once she was hot and ready. Again she tried to think about Ted Emerson, tall and strong in his smart tennis whites, but it was only going to work one way. With a final, despairing sob she gave in, imagining him taking her down across his knee, gentle but firm and far, far too strong to resist. Her climax kicked in on the instant and held the image in her head, gasping and sobbing out her ecstasy as she imagined herself put through the same awful punishment routine as Lydia.
‘Yes, please,’ she sighed, ‘take me, turn me over your legs, lift up my skirt and pull down my knickers. Spank me, spank me so hard I cry and then stick your lovely big cock right in my mouth!’
Her words gave way to a scream as she hit her climax, with her body locked in ecstasy for a long, perfect moment as the image of her on her knees burned in her mind. A second peak followed, and a third, before she finally slumped down into the chair, her eyes still closed but with a wry smile on her face. It was a nice fantasy, however shameful, but there was no man on Earth capable of making it reality.
– Peter Birch