SWEAT – A Swift Encounter


The heat is oppressive, and we’re driven inside seeking the solace of shade.  In the stifling atmosphere of the kitchen you pour yourself a glass of water, sip the icy nectar to slake your thirst, but I have other plans.

My shadow casts on the wall as I approach; you are dwarfed, and have no time to prepare.   I press against you, the bare, moist musculature of my chest against your back, my arms enfolding you, guiding the tumbler away from your lips and angling it with care.  You anticipate the splash of mercurial water across your neck, your bikini-clad breasts, but it’s still a surprise when it comes.

You yelp.


You slip your finger into my open mouth and I close my plush lips around it, sucking, tasting the salt of your sweat, and your hands cup my breasts, tracing through the rivulets of water that washed away the natural gloss my pores provided.  The cleanse will not last, for nature has shown her fiery mood today, and my own body responds in kind to your touch.

I want to sweat for you, to slip against you like oil, skate against your skin.  I grind the cheeks of my buttocks against your shorts and feel you, all ready for me; you watched me bask in the glow of the sun and could not contain yourself.  I know it’s all for me, and it makes it all the more a delight to feel.

Your tongue trails my shoulder, leaving a wet wake through the beads of moisture on my flesh, and you end the trail on my neck with a sharp nip and a lingering kiss.

Take me.


The ropes of your hair drape between my fingers as I clench my hand and tilt your head back, savouring the gasp you release.  I empty the last of the glass across your chest and imagine the water hisses as it hits the sun-heated floor.  That is the last thing on my mind now; you are the fore, your taste and your scent, the wetness of your skin against mine.

My finger tips dive the plunge of your stomach to the cove below, seeking the hidden treasure nestled between your quivering thighs, peeling back the covering and cresting the moistening rise of your desire for me.  You let me in and I find your most intimate pearl already waiting for attention.  Your texture and your mewls strengthen the length that needs release.

I walk you to the couch and tip you across it, pinning you with my weight, the oily canvases of our bodies unified and one.


You are sensual, beautiful and caring so often, but I love when you are like this; animalistic and desperate.  This is raw and right.  I seethe as you arrive within my being, filling me so ably and thrusting to my core.

Your sweat splashes my spine and you steel yourself with my sodden locks.  My flesh weeps with heat and exertion and you lap the tangy tincture away in slaloms of sensation.  There’s silence but for the sound of wet flesh slapping and our primal, ragged breaths.

I tighten inexorably around you and I’m blinded by the heat of the moment when I howl my desire.


You shudder beneath me, every muscle twitching under your glistening bronze skin.  You bury your face to mute the sound of your abandon and I feel you explode as I have done so many times before; a spray of natural mist coats my thighs and I cannot contain my own fluid delight.

I spill within you; a floodgate unhinged, pouring every drop in a torrent of intimate intrusion.  We’re doused and drenched, saturated and stuck to one another by biology and lust.  I cling to you as the final clammy inches of skin seal together.  We’re a cocktail, mixed and blended, inseparable and complete.

The moisture cools but the heat remains, and I kiss the red welt I nipped on your neck, and forever refuse to peel myself away from you.


Cameron Lincoln. 2013.

Lessons Learned & Confirmed From An Author’s First Signing

The Peterborough Author Event organised by Hourglass Events and Orchard Book Club taught me many things.  It also confirmed a few things I already knew.  As part of the long come down after the event, I’m putting these thoughts in one place.  Of course, your mileage will most certainly vary, but I hope some of them ring true – as a writer, an attendee, a blogger, an organizer.  I’m using the ‘royal’ we and first person here – perhaps this is a disembodied wiser version of myself addressing the naive, green, scared individual that shuffled into a hotel ballroom in a pair of navy high-tops with a soul full of nerves.

  • Relax. You’ve got this.
  • A little humility goes a long way: you’re better than, and above, precisely nobody.
  • You deserve to be there. So does everybody else.
  • You can be you’re own mini rockstar for a day, but you’re back to being a pauper when you sit at that keyboard.
  • Mystery is good, but a mystery unsolved is no satisfaction to anyone.
  • You’ll still never be all things to all people.
  • If they’ve read your book, you’ve already won.  If they loved it, you won a little more.  If  they hated it, it doesn’t mean you lost.
  • Say. Hello. Properly.
  • There’s a fine line between looking cool and looking silly. Let it blur, until they’re both the same.
  • Everybody’s a little nervous.  Especially everybody.
  • Give credit where it’s due.
  • Give support where it’s needed, and extra where it isn’t.
  • Tell stories.  Hear stories.  Work out why you love them.
  • Write. Don’t talk about or think about, or talk about thinking about writing. Write.
  • An exception to the above: think and talk about writing. Talk about it with people who love reading it, and people who do it. Learn how they do it, the physical putting down of the words. They may do it differently; they may to it in a way you haven’t thought of trying.
  • You earned it, and they can’t take it away from you.
  • Relax. You’ve got this.

I hope I never stop learning. I’m already signed up for the next Hourglass event in Leeds, UK, March 2016.  Go and get your tickets by clicking the banner below… See you there!

frist leeds banner 20_4_15

Notification Hibernation Activation

What a difference six months makes.  Or indeed, doesn’t make.

I took another look at this piece I wrote for the splendid Voella.com today, and realised I’d been falling into bad habits again.  Between work pressures and my own scattershot mind I’ve lost focus and forgotten the joy of creation.  18k words on a new project was wonderful, when it came in one frenzied week, but that word count has barely risen since those many days ago.  I want it to, so I’m going into hibernation for as much as possible. I’m swell, I promise you, just wanting to counteract this guppy-like attention span.   I need to do some unplugging to find that sweet mojo again, to refill the reservoirs, and to finish the damn story.  I believe the brilliant Warren Ellis calls it ‘murdering a book’.

Sometimes, completing a book is that great expulsion of a strange pressure that we like to dignify with childbirth metaphors but which is much more like wrapping the head of a giant tapeworm around a stick and slowly pulling all sixty feet of the bastard out of your back passage.  Sometimes, like this one I just completed, it’s an act of perverse woodwork.  You can see the shape of it in your head, but it’s not like sculpture, where the image is trapped inside the raw stone and needs to be revealed.  It’s throwing up a whole weird rickety structure you only half-imagined, and then spending days and weeks screwing beading and architraves and batons and odd knobbly bits to the thing, banging pegs into slots you cut two weeks earlier knowing they needed something to fill them.  And, finally, you’ve fitted every joint and groove, and you look up at the thing, and all you can say is, “well, it ain’t art, but it ain’t falling over either.”

Sometimes, “it ain’t falling over” is victory condition.

So, it’s time to make something that ain’t falling over, and keep from falling over myself.  I’m happy, because I’m going to create something that wasn’t in the world before.  I won’t bore with automated posts, but I’ll pimp this, because I want to see you there.  My work’s there to find if you want it – on Twitter, on Facebook, Tumblr, Pinterest, and on my blog. Scroll down, dig deep, and look at what’s come before, and hopefully whet your appetite for some new stuff.  My books are there on Amazon if you’re so inclined to give them a try – and I thank each and every one of you who does, who shares or likes or leaves a review.

Later, skaters.


My Writer

My writer told me to come
so I did, to my core,
a gush of invisible ink.
Eyes, jade birds in flight;
hair, the shade of his favourite poem;
Body, shaped like his memories of
a girl he knew next door;
heart, at his mercy.
He controls my every beat;
as good as good girls get,
and bad at his behest.
He gives me the feelings
he makes me want.
I pour onto his pages amongst
melded moments with men
that resemble the perfect he.
His pen drips, thrusts and dips
until I’m not a
fiction, but infection,
the disease he gives to all
who think me.
I want to write my writer,
to give him the peace
he’s given me.

– Cameron Lincoln. 2015.

Author & Poet


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