What connects Motorhead’s singer and bassist, the celebrated painter Jack Vettriano, and B.R Lee’s erotica writing endeavours? Nothing much, you’d think. But read on to get to the (pert) bottom of it all.

Ladies and gentlemen – mostly ladies I’d expect – I’d like to present two extremely talented individuals, who are sadly no longer with us, but remembered, and revered all the same. The first is Lemmy Kilmister, the great bassist and singer of iconic heavy rock band Motorhead, who proudly boasted (and warned?) that “If you moved in next door, your lawn would die.” The band’s most well known song is Ace of Spades and if you want to listen to them on stage giving it welly, their album No Sleep ‘Til Hammersmith is your first port of call. And make sure you listen to (We Are) The Roadcrew – a wry ditty dedicated to life on the road and the guys keeping the proverbial sh*t together while the band tours.

And the second is the equally late and great artist (one of Scotland’s most loved in recent memory) Jack Vettriano, whose penchant for evocative and provocative paintings have endeared himself to a great many people in this country and around the world. His paintings are seen on prints, dish cloths, coasters, cards, books, you name it. Jack’s paintings fall into two camps: either the ‘nice’ ones that you’ll see on your parents’ lounge walls or on greetings cards. And then there’s ‘naughty’ Jack: the paintings which are sexually provocative, edgy, or at the very least offer a hint of this. Many feature alluring brunettes in little or no clothing.

Straight off the bat I’ll admit to being a big fan of both. As a rock and metal lover (which you more than know if you follow me on social media) I’ve got a lot of time for Motorhead’s no-nonsense rock n’ roll, both their music and their approach. I actually saw Lemmy from a few yards away as he walked around a rock club in a city he’d just performed in. Class.

As for Jack Vettriano, I’ve long had a genuine and deep appreciation for his work. I’ve bought various desk planners and (more recently), calendars over the years. I’ve got a framed print of one of his most famous paintings (Dance Me To The End Of Love), one of his books, and to top it all off, in 2002 I attended his exhibition in the Fife town of Kirkcaldy, which focused on his earlier years.

So how the heck do Lemmy and Jack Vettriano relate to erotica writing? Or let me be a tad more specific. How do they relate to my erotica writing?

It’s simple. It’s about their attitudes and knowing who matters.

ALL HAIL THE PUNTERS.

Bit of a giveaway, that line above, isn’t it? But it’s an immutable fact all the same. We all have our ‘audiences’ that we engage with at one point or another. And some are far more important than others.  

Ask a marketer or business person what the key reason for commercial failure is and they’ll tell you: lack of sales. What does that equate to? A lack of people getting their wallets out of their pockets or purses from handbags and parting with their cash.  It’s the same whether it’s records or concert tickets, prints or paintings, or in my case, erotic fiction sold on Amazon.

Customers matter.

And it’s these people who have always mattered the most to Lemmy and to Mr Vettriano. Don’t take my word for it though. In their own words:

“I never cared about charts. I care about the guy who works all week and spends his money to see us play loud. That’s who I play for.” Lemmy Kilmister.

“Other artists thought I had sold out when I first agreed to sell posters, and that was for about £2,000 a year. Ask them now whether they’d like to be in my position and I wonder what they’d say. I am in a position to give a huge number of people a huge amount of pleasure, and some artists are filling their garrets with their work which no one will ever see.” Jack Vettriano, 2007 interview.

Let’s face it: Lemmy, bless his soul, wouldn’t give a flying fu…dge about what some music reviewer, or faceless record company bean counter, thought about his band and the music they created and performed. Integrity and their relationship with their fans were far more important.

Integrity definitely mattered to Jack Vetrriano as well. He was quoted in a 2022 interview as follows:

“Well, I don’t much give a f*** and you can quote me on that. Any artist worth the name has to be true to himself. People have called my work misogynistic, but I can tell you that women are the biggest fans of my work and that I find very interesting. I don’t apologise for what I have done and what I have painted.”  Interview with Stephen McGinty for the Sunday Times in 2022.

As an erotica writer, I have to agree. Having self-belief and a real sense of purpose are invaluable, especially when the money isn’t yet rolling in, but also when it is. Otherwise, one becomes a sell out. By the way, this will be a point brought up again from a different aspect in a future blog post and once again involving a musician. 

SCREW THE SNOBS!

Giving a damn about one’s customers is key. So is having a healthy disdain for the snobs in one’s area of expertise, which often comes as a result of being treated poorly and derisively by them. In Vettriano’s case, his most famous work, The Singing Butler, sold at auction in 2004 for £744,800: at the time a record for a Scottish painting. Yet the National Galleries of Scotland have never seen fit to buy one of his paintings, and he’d been the object of criticism and for decades from the arty-farty brigade throughout his painting life. Despite being given the accolade of “the people’s painter” in respect to the sheer popularity of his work, he was never given the respect he deserved from within the art world.

Going further back, Vettriano was rejected by the Edinburgh College of Art (part of the University of Edinburgh). In what may have felt like a resounding two fingers stuck up to the art wankers as well as one hell of a motivational tool for everyone to recognise, at the Kirkcaldy exhibition, this was prominently displayed next to his other paintings.

And thank the stars he was rejected. The budding painter who didn’t have any formal artistic training persevered and became a nationwide, and global, favourite. And at the end of the day, who is the more important audience: a small bunch of stuck-up twats or an appreciative and frankly adoring public who happily pay for his prints, cards and other gifts. You know the answer. Vettriano and his accountant certainly would have too.

THE EROTIC WRITING COMPARISON.

I’d love to offer myself as the erotica writing equivalent of Lemmy or Jack Vettriano. But I can’t – at least not yet. Patience, Dear Readers, patience.

So let’s consider someone who has reached the giddy heights of smut writing stardom – E.L. James, of Fifty Shades fame (and fortune). She’s made some serious money, and when the Fifty Shades trilogy were released and filling up column inches here, there, and everywhere, it seemed like everybody in the country had at least heard of her, if not read her books. Women were now openly reading her novels on public transport and talking about it with their friends. It brought the area of erotica to a much wider audience and one which couldn’t be ignored. But that hasn’t spared her from criticism and derision. She herself has been roundly set upon by sex educators and the BDSM fraternity alike for aspects pertaining to her main protagonists, inaccuracies pertaining to BDSM and consent, writing style, and…well, you get the picture.

But, once again, considering the wealth she has accrued from book royalties, film rights and sex toy licensing, do you honestly think she has sleepless nights because she isn’t getting the nod from arty farty book critics? You know that answer too. Screw the out-of-touch snobs: they are NOT the market.

THE B.R. LEE POSITION ON ALL THIS.

So, considering all this, you can well understand my respect for Lemmy and JV: both in general for their output over the decades coupled with their abilities to proverbially stick it to those who probably thought they were ‘better’ than them, but in reality were probably not even in the same league as them, and perhaps consumed by jealousy and bitterness beyond measure.

Focusing on Vettriano for a moment, I have loved his work for decades, and he thoroughly deserved his financial rewards, as well as his place in the hearts of many people who equally adore his work. And if I could achieve the same in the saucy writing world, I’d be a happy bunny indeed. I’ll be brutally honest and state that I want the riches that come with selling an outrageous amount of stories around the world to readers who genuinely love my stories and have accompanied me on the journey. That’s called ambition, and there’s nowt wrong with it. If I’m making money, and in time, serious money, it’s because I’m doing something right, and most importantly, my readers think so too: to the point that they become loyal advocates.

As you can deduce, when it comes to my erotica writing, I don’t give a damn about literary awards. Nor do I care about the opinions of the arty farty book brigade or publishing world. As an aside, I don’t give a damn about Oxford bloody commas either. Am I an articulate, erudite chap with a rich vocabulary? Absolutely. Is this required or wanted in a saucy story? Not necessarily. My stories should have readers reaching for something with a spare hand – and it’s most definitely not a dictionary or thesaurus. So just as JV was rejected by art school and probably not ‘pure’ enough for the likes of the arty farties, or appropriately educated, I don’t see myself enrolling for an MA in Creative Writing anytime soon. I’ve got enough letters after my name already. I think I’ve got enough savvy, nous, and acumen to propel me in the right direction. Oh, and a wonderfully dirty mind.

I’ve often fantasised about my story characters, scenes and locations being painted in a style reminiscent of Jack’s paintings. Ah well, maybe someday, when I’m rich and revered – by you, Dear Reader.

A FINAL WORD ABOUT THE IMAGERY – OR LACK OF.

The truth is that while the main featured image is okay, it wasn’t the image originally envisaged. If you were hoping that the images in this post would have included some of Mr Vettriano’s work, that was my hope too. And this was way things were going, to the point that an image was produced and duly saved. And then image reproduction and copyright issues suddenly came into my head: with some force, it should be said. I had a plan to show my current and recent Jack Vettriano calendars, a book about him, the programme from his 2022 exhibition in Kirkcaldy from the last four, and photos I’d taken at the exhibition. The prospect of potential take downs, strongly worded correspondence from publishing legal departments, or even worse, got into my head. And let’s face it: I’d much rather be focusing on writing and engaging with readers, and not devoting time and money to a legal nightmare, not to mention a lot of stress and bad vibes. I hope you understand.

With that being said, feel free to marvel in the magic that both featured individuals produced:
Motorhead’s official website
Jack Vettriano website

Titillation in the tub certainly has its place when it comes to pleasure. So here’s the B.R. Lee guide to reading erotica in the bath.

BATHTIME EROTICA READING – SETTING THE SCENE

You’ve had a hard day at work. Or the hubby and kids have gone out for the afternoon leaving you with some precious time to yourself – and to make the most of. So, turn those bath taps and get the water flowing into the tub. You’ve earned it.

There’s some music playing. Perhaps from the hallway or on a carefully set up rig with the phone and some miniature speakers that sit on a wooden tray that’s draping over the bathtub. On this occasion it’s probably not pounding rock or metal, but who knows: cheesier variations could include 1970s porn soundtracks or some saxophone. Whatever floats your boat – or yellow rubber duck – is fine and dandy.

There’s some splashing of water as it is displaced in the tub from some gentle movement. Well, it’s gentle to begin with. Things will get more frenetic – but rhythmically so – as time goes by.

The lighting suits the occasion. There’s candles around the bathtub, replacing the harsh bathroom overhead light with far gentler, more intimate and wonderfully atmospheric illumination. That’s a whole lot better now, isn’t it?

You breathe in deeply and catch a warm waft of whatever bath gel you added or the scent stick slowly burning nearby. Perhaps it’s vanilla, sandalwood, musk, jasmine, ylang ylang, or patchouli. Any of those would do the trick to help get yourself in the mood for more than just mind wandering.

And for the cherry on top of all this? Perhaps you’re decadently biting onto a square or two of dark chocolate (at least 70% cocoa, so you’re benefitting from all its antioxidants and minerals). Mmm…indeed.

In short, all your senses are being taken somewhere far away from the mundaneness of everyday life – even if just for an hour or so. And as for what you’re seeing…well, that’s obvious isn’t it? It’s my delicious hot smut. Oh what a time you’ll have in the tub.

Mix all these delicious ingredients together and you have one heck of a sensory – and physical – pleasure fest just waiting to be enjoyed. I’m assuming that you know what to do next in order to leave a smile on your face for a good while afterwards.

THE ADVANTAGES OF EROTICA READING IN THE BATH

Whether you’re an enthusiastic afficionado of bawdy bathtub behaviour (or should that be misbehaviour?), or you’re contemplating it for the first time, you’re not alone. While data on solo self-pleasure in the bathroom isn’t plentiful, consider this: why do waterproof sex toys exist? There’s obviously a demand for it.

Then there’s the privacy advantages of getting up to no good in the bathtub with an erotic story. It’s the one place in a house – especially if shared – where some privacy is not only assured (assuming there’s a door lock) but generally accepted. If you’ve got flatmates, family members, or even worse, roommates, the bathroom becomes an invaluable sexual sanctuary. Nobody bats an eyelid if you’re taking a bath and you’re gone for a while.

So whether you’re all alone or with a lover, your bathroom can be the setting for all sorts of fun. (Confession time: the bathtub was where I first popped my cunnilingual cherry). Add an incendiary erotic story to the proceedings and you’re good to go.

WHAT’S NEEDED FOR YOUR BATHTIME EROTICA READING SESSION?

So, you fancy having a raunchy read in the tub? If it was up to me, you’d be getting your mitts on the following things to make those suds sexier than ever. Notepad at the ready? Good.

• The smut: well of course I’m going to recommend my own. Click here to take you to my stories on Amazon.
• Bath tray: you’ll want one of these draped over your tub so you can optimally position your other bits and bobs, especially your Kindle or tablet. Check this one out, for instance.
• Remote control: having to reach forward to tap your tablet or Kindle screen every time you want to turn the page, while you’re ‘in the zone’ isn’t fun. Talk about tech-us interruptus. So, get your hands on a remote control that will turn your digital pages with a click and let you remain relaxed, reclined… and rhythmic. Just don’t drop it into the tub.
• Bath scents: of course you know who I’m going to talk about, especially if you follow me on X. Who else but Molton Brown. Given the amount of times I mention them on X or show their wares (sometimes accompanied by one or both of my thighs in the shower – as one does) I really should be on commission from them, but I digress. For any chaps reading, I’d recommend Tobacco Absolute or Dark Leather without hesitation. For a more sensual aroma, and one that I think works for whoever is in the tub, I’d opt for the Relaxing Ylang-Ylang but with a plethora of scents to choose from, others may tickle your fancy more. Flora Luminare and Heavenly Gingerlily are two others I can definitely recommend for dunking oneself into. MB provide not only shower/bath gels but scented candles and reed diffusers. Feel free to go crazy.
• Waterproof sex toys: there’s plenty of options for you to consider, so will let you do your own due diligence to work out what floats your boat (or satisfies your submarine?) in this department.
• And something for the real bathtub hedonist: in my cum-prehensive (cough) research on this topic, I discovered another gadget that might just make waves in your own tub where it counts. It’s Lovability’s Waterslyde, a bath faucet attachment made from medical grade high pressure polystyrene that requires you to do very little aside from manoeuvring yourself into the appropriate position then lying back and…well, you can imagine…as the water hits the spot in all the right ways. I can’t vouch for it, but worth a look.
• Other handy accessories: Along with the above, don’t forget the likes of a facecloth to quickly dry off any spillages (or to effectively blindfold yourself), a bunch of tealights or other candles around your tub and window ledge, and a large glass of grapes (in liquid form) for good measure: Chilean or Argentinian Malbec would be my first choice. And don’t forget the bar of dark chocolate.

READY TO GRAB YOUR TABLET AND START RUNNING THE BATH? JUST HOLD ON A MINUTE.

I applaud your enthusiasm to grab your tablet, Kindle or phone and head to the bathroom to get the taps running. But it would be remiss of me to just let you head off without a few cautionary words. Normally, I’d just assume that you’ve got enough common sense between your ears and to wish you the best of bad behaviour and let you go on your way.

But we need to talk safe sex. And not in the usual context.

I’m assuming that your choice of sexual partners and condom use are already taken care of. What I’m referring to is situational. Wet feet, wet surfaces and sexual athleticism are not the threesome you want. A 2023 survey by a bathroom company revealed that over 80% of respondents had experienced a slip in the shower. And I’m betting that the majority weren’t involved in some x-rated antics either. So you can appreciate why I’m advocating indulging while lying in the bath than standing up in the shower.

But be careful when getting in and out of your bathtub. You’re also wet of foot which makes it all too easy to come a cropper by slipping on the floor and smacking your head against all sorts of hard surfaces (think bathtubs or flooring) and edges. This perhaps pertains more to joint sexcapades with another person than solo fun but just beware all the same. Move at the speed of a geriatric – and with the same amount of caution.

THAT COVERS THE GETTING IN AND GETTING OUT OF THE BATH – WHAT ABOUT THE GETTING OFF?

Two final – but obvious – points to consider are worth repeating. First of all, cleanliness. Make sure all your taps, faucets, plugholes, bathtub surfaces, and the like are all spick and span, hygiene-wise. If any of these places are going anywhere near your nether regions, then you owe it to yourself to have them in spotless condition.

Finally, and I’m really, really hoping that you’ve already remembered this. Tablets, Kindles, and phones are not to be connected to any electrical current while they’re anywhere near a bath or shower. Basic science lesson: water and electricity aren’t conducive to longevity of life. And if you need told this, you probably shouldn’t be in charge of any household device without supervision. Make sure your device is adequately charged before bringing it into the bathroom. And yes, don’t drop it in the tub either.

OKAY, NOW YOU CAN INDULGE.

So, there you go. When you’ve had a bitch of a day or want to take advantage of some rare alone time, head to the bath with some quality erotica (yep, that’s where I come in, remember) and enjoy yourself in the best ways. You probably deserve it, right?

British erotica writer B.R. Lee compares the purchasing of coffee with carnal reading (yes, smut) and highlights some interesting points in the process. So, how do you take yours?

Life’s full of choices. But what if that included having to choose between coffee and sexy stories? Now, for anyone reading this whose initial thought is questioning why this is even being discussed, I’ll quickly explain. For a good few years now, when it comes to the pricing of erotica, there’s been the notion of comparing an erotic story to that of buying a cup of coffee – at least in relation to price. So, that’s the justification for employing some brain cells on the matter.

LET’S TALK NUMBERS

For some background and context, let’s consider some quick numbers. According to market research giants Mintel, the UK café and coffee shops market was valued at over £9 billion in 2023, and experiencing a 4% year-on-year increase in 2024. Coffee shops alone are reckoned to be generating £6.1 billion turnover in 2024/25 in the UK.

In terms of physical presence, Costa Coffee has somewhere in the region of 2,800 coffee shops in the UK and Ireland, plus more than 12,500 Express machines situated in convenience stores, petrol stations and elsewhere. Let’s not forget Starbucks too: according to ChatGPT, they have around 1,000 UK stores.

In short, there’s a lot of coffee being consumed here in Dear Old Blighty.

But there’s also a lot of smut being consumed.

Numbers are much less concrete to collate (for some fairly obvious reasons that you can either quickly identify or take an informed guess on), but in a June 2025 podcast episode of the Book Club Review, one of the guests mentioned that “in the UK apparently sales of romance fiction rose 110% between 2023 and 2024 and are now worth 53 million pounds annually.” Obviously we can’t be more specific as to how much of this can be classed as erotic fiction, so there’s an obvious caveat to be aware of.

Meanwhile, ChatGPT states that “Some reports suggest that the UK erotic fiction market could be worth around £200 million to £300 million annually”. There’s an obvious disparity between these numbers and the ones mentioned in the previous paragraph. The lack of clear demarcation lines between erotica and romance is undoubtedly a factor. Plus, there’s the usual sniggering and tittering that surrounds the issues. In marked contrast, nobody has to be coy or sensitive about what constitutes coffee, and how many beverages are sold. But I digress.

From a strict numerical standpoint, the two are not equal. But that’s not the issue. We all get that while coffee can be consumed at all times of the day and regardless of mood, the same isn’t true for smut. But they’re both products that took time and effort to produce and bring to market and (free erotica aside) command a price.

COFFEE’S QUICK – AND ONLY – FIX

While your cup of steaming black caffeine juice gives you a hit, there’s just a few hundred millilitres to be enjoyed for what you paid for. That’s it. And when it’s gone, it’s gone. In contrast, when you download a saucy story you can read it again and again and let your thoughts (and hands) go to such wonderful and wild places…again and again.

Don’t worry though. I’d never ask you to sacrifice your coffee for hot stories. Firstly, I’m not God Almighty. Secondly, I’m all too aware of the sheer number of people who enjoy their caffeine fix first thing in the day or during that post-lunch slump.

GETTING WHAT YOU PAID FOR?

But there’s another interesting comparison to be made between saucy stories and coffee (it could equally apply to wine, whisky or a host of other things, but you get the idea). And that’s quality. Do you get what you pay for? When you pay a decent amount, you can experience an exotic, intense, refined blend or single origin bean that’s worth every penny. And when you pay next to nothing, you may very well feel that dishwater has more flavour.

And it’s the same with saucy stories. When you get your purse out to buy the latest hot story or three (I know you raunchy readers have voracious appetites) you should have an expectation that when you’ve paid a decent amount – say the same as a decent coffee handed to you from your local barista – you get well conceived, and equally well written, stories to make your mind go places, and leave you with a wicked smile on your face.

Conversely, when you pay next to nothing, or nothing at all, you can find yourself trying to read tosh that’s riddled with typos, poor punctuation, and a bunch of other issues that leave you unsatisfied – in all senses. I like to think of myself as an erotic artisan, taking time and care to cultivate, create and refine one’s offerings to you and fellow spicy readers. Hand written sauciness with no AI generated smut in sight. And long may it continue: just like your enjoyment of quality red hot reads.

IS THE PRICE RIGHT?

When I first pondered this issue (and then subsequently posted it on Instagram), I’d originally considered it when a downloaded Kindle story AND a cup of coffee were similarly priced. But let’s look at the current state of affairs as post this on the Steamy website here. Since my first two stories were published in the spring of 2024, they’ve been priced at £3.99 each and I reckoned that was a comparable price to cups of coffee bought from cafes and coffee shops – at least back in September 2024. Fast forward to the last few days of 2025, and depending on the size and type of beverage, and whether it’s for consuming in-store or to go, the price can be edging closer to £6.00. That’s a lot of money for something that’s consumed once, and may give pleasure – physical and experiential (ambience of location etc.) – for that time and that time only.

As said earlier, making forensic comparisons between smutty stories and hot beverages isn’t a terribly good use of one’s time and/or brain cells. Although if I had to be pushed to give an opinion on things, I’d be questioning the pricing of the beverages rather than the hot stories. Who hasn’t felt these days that big food producers are taking consumers for fools, whether it’s due to shrinkflation, or simply the significant profit increases reported in recent years?

CONCLUSION

When all is said and done, I think the price of my stories is reasonable, considering production time and effort and market worth, not to mention giving the reader the opportunity to enjoy the stories – and themselves – many times over. Coffee can’t compete with that, nor in its pricing either. But to anyone questioning the price of hot short stories or naughty novellas while also indulging in buying coffee several times a week (whether you’re on your lunch or your morning commute into work for example), then you definitely can’t turn your nose up at erotica writers trying to earn an honest (if dirty) crust from selling their wicked wares at fairly sensible prices. What do you think? Hit me up on X or Instagram to give me your own thoughts on the matter.

Just why are Steamy Train Tales’ brand colours so different from the vast majority of other erotic fiction writers or erotic brands? Author B.R. Lee explains the rationale for these particular colours of smut.

So here’s the thing. Go onto your social media app of choice and check out some naughty writers or erotic retailers. Invariably, there’s going to be lots of reds, blacks, and greys being sported. Not only in the images that they’re posting but also in their brand identity (such as their logo). There’s no denying that the colours used are clichés (good ones though) as they’ve been intrinsically associated with love, lust, mystery and mischief throughout time, and especially in the digital age, colours of smut too.

However, when it comes to human cognition (yep, here’s the science bit) after shape, comes colour, and then bringing up the rear, text. With all those very similar looking red, blacks and greys, there’s not much in the way of differentiation. And that’s no good when standing out is crucial to have a chance of being noticed in the first place.

Blue and yellow are my chosen colours of smut for Steamy Train Tales. But why choose blue and yellow when conceiving all this back in 2021? They’re certainly different from the usual ‘sexy’ colours, so it ticks the ‘differentiation’ box for sure. But there’s method in the madness. And now it’s time to tell you why, so that you in turn can ponder whether the line between genius and stupidity is a very, very fine one indeed.

Before anyone can follow me on social media (and then, in the not too distant future, buy my saucy stories) they actually need to be aware of me and come across me in the first place. That’s not only a key marketing principle, it’s common sense. Leaving hashtags aside for a moment, how can I visually succeed in making a potential follower or book buyer aware of me when there are so many others competing in the same sphere?

Simple. When everyone else is zigging, I’m zagging.

When it comes to the colours of smut or erotica, kink and sexy sophistication in general, Instagram and elsewhere is festooned with reds, blacks, and greys (Christian or otherwise). Look on the hashtags or even individual accounts. It’s just all the same. And consequently really, really hard to make an initial visual impression that stands out if using the same visual elements as everyone else and their dog.

So when everyone else is using the same colours as everyone else, I’m doing the opposite. Blue and yellow are not at the top of anyone’s list of colours associated with naughty frolics. But when you put one of my posts into a 3 x 3 grid of nine images, and the other eight are consistently blacks, greys, and reds, who do you think stands out the most? My relatively gaudy imagery still offers no cast-iron guarantee that the post will be read. But it nonetheless offers me the best chance that it will be visually noticed in the first place. And that’s all I can hope for at the initial stage.

But just in case I’ve now got you thinking that I chose blue and yellow all those months ago purely to create the most visually contrasting imagery amongst a sea of blacks, greys and reds, you’d be mistaken.

As you know, my series of sexy stories will be set all over the UK, involving trains, train journeys or stations to varying degrees: some perhaps only fleetingly while others more prominently. It was a nice way of finding a common thread for all these upcoming sexy stories. So, with tongue firmly in cheek, I chose the two colours associated with Britain’s railways for decades. Blue and yellow adorned British Rail’s locomotives from the 1960s to the 1980s. The colour scheme has a place in my heart as I fondly remember many family rail trips around Scotland and further south.

But as well as sentiment, there’s also the question of longevity. This livery lasted decades. It had staying power, a constant point of reference. And now? It feels as if the train operators seem to change on a yearly basis. Operators throw in the towel or they’ve been told to get lost for making such a balls up of running one of the franchises: hardly a source of inspiration or something to cling to.

Oh yes, and while these stories are associated with trains to varying degrees, the colour scheme doesn’t resemble that of a current operator. It’s a parody (not even a perfect colour match) comparable to an identity from decades ago and therefore not likely to irk anyone (and parody is accepted anyway).

So there you have it! You can decide for yourself just how smart or silly this decision has been. Time will tell. But I like to think I’m on the right track. What do you think?

Steamy Train Tales smut scribbler B.R. Lee ventures down to London. But what was going through his mind during it all?

Earlier in July, after a considerable (I’m frankly embarrassed to reveal the exact amount) time not being on a train, your silver fox scribbler finally rectified this. Not to be satisfied with a little local jaunt, Yours Truly had to make the trip to the ‘throbbing metrolopis’. London was indeed calling.

Is there a train line to hell that’s paved with good intentions?

I had hoped to spend the journeys writing smut and filling my mind with all sorts of delightfully dirty debauched thoughts. That didn’t quite happen. The previous evening I discovered that I’d not brought my laptop power cord home with me. So first thing in the morning I had to go and pick it up, rather than get an extra hour’s kip. At least I’d packed my bags the night before so there wasn’t too much to do before getting the taxi to the station.

I’d so hoped to write some smut on the train. I’d bought a laptop screen privacy filter just days before so that nobody sitting beside me could be outraged as descriptions of torrid bedroom gymnastics were being typed. I’d reserved the seat closest to the luggage racks at the end of the carriage, to minimise the risk of being seen from above and behind. But alas there was a big elephant in the carriage that had to be addressed. You see, my mind was preoccupied with apprehension and worry over my proficiency and subsequent performance for a paying client who’d paid a serious amount of money for my expertise.

As I headed south, I was both scribbling and typing, trying to prepare for the following day. In the end I gave up when approaching York and for the rest of the journey happily settled instead for just enjoying watching the world go by and realise that London was indeed calling. And then on the journey back north, I was absolutely knackered: exhausted from three hours of face-to-face client time running on only about two and a half hours of sleep and a frantic race against time to get to King’s Cross and onto my northbound train. Was I in any fit shape to start bashing away on my laptop? Not a hope. I was spent, physically and mentally.

Straight to work…at King’s Cross

Although I was too preoccupied and knackered to write smut on the train, there was an important mission to be accomplished within minutes of my arrival into King’s Cross. In contrast to my usual modus operandi of strutting towards the main concourse then heading down the escalators to the underground station, on this occasion I stayed put. No, it wasn’t just to catch another look at the cute, big-haired redhead who got on the train at Newcastle, although that was nice. I needed to capture some decent images for this here website: well composed, images of the hot Azumas standing at the platforms that would look mighty fine as featured images for blog posts, webpages and the like.

Mission accomplished.

While nobody would deny that railway track hardly oozes sex appeal, the composition of the photos is important. You’ll have already seen the images at the top of this post and the other webpages. Plenty of space is needed for the accompanying page/post description towards the bottom of the image. Hence, lots of track and platform.

The descent

Before heading to my overnight residence however, there was more to be done: firstly, a whistle-stop bout of retail therapy. It wasn’t lost on me that this was the first time I’d been back to London – my previous home for several years – since 2019. How was I going to feel when having lived like a relative monk for the past couple of years (okay, there had been some well known circumstances preventing the same amount of carefree travelling as before 2020), and here I was now getting back onto the tube and just simply reacclimatizing oneself to the sights, sounds, and smells of London?

As I descended to the ticket area of the underground station and went about adding some money to my Oyster card (finding out that I still had £4.30 on it from my last visit: bonus!) it became apparent that everything was fine. In one sense it felt weird that this was the first time I’d been back in two and a half years, compared to 2019 and before, when I’d been travelling down to London and back up like the proverbial jack in the box. But then on another visceral level, it just felt…well, it just felt…normal. I was back.
Yeah, dammit, I was back, Baby!

I smiled as I smelled yes, that, smell of the London Underground as I reached the platform of the southbound Victoria Line. By crikey, it smelled great.

Welcome to the jungle

During my previous – and very regular – visits over the years I’d invariably cue up ‘Welcome to the Jungle‘ by Guns n’ Roses on my phone to listen to as I emerged from the first tube station since arriving into London. Tradition naturally dictated that I upheld this practice. But was it more relevant now than before?

Getting off at Oxford Circus I then quickly headed westwards to pop into a jeweller’s to see if they had a watch that I had my eye on. They didn’t. Darn. Ach well: it was opportunistic and something I only decided upon as I got nearer to London. I’ve since bought another one similar to it, so no harm done.

My next stop however had long been thought about in the preceding days and weeks before my journey. Enroute I walked down Bond Street, where Ralph Lauren’s large emporium was in full-on, ‘anyone for tennis?’ mode due to their involvement as clothing supplier for all the on-court officials at the Wimbledon tennis tournament that was being held at the time. Very swish. Very….Ralph. I marvelled at how good it was to once more strut past the opulent shop windows belong to the most desirable luxury brands on the planet. Asprey, Boodles, Breitling, Chanel, Gucci, you name it, they’re all there on Bond Street.

Let’s smell…really (and I mean, really) delicious.

Crossing Piccadilly I proceeded to walk down St. James’s Street then turn onto Jermyn Street. For those not au fait with London’s famous shopping streets, Jermyn Street is the man’s street, running parallel with Piccadilly, and is home to a whole host of famous names selling their wares to the dapper chaps in town. And before too long, I had reached my next destinaton. I tried to freshen up and look presentable (let’s just say that carrying my laptop bag and a smaller rucksack as I walked from Oxford Circus all the way down to Jermyn Street in about 22 degree heat, left me a little hot and sticky) before entering the esteemed purveyor of fine fragrances, Floris.

How do I begin writing about Floris, the British perfumer that’s existed since 1730 (you read right: nearly 300 years old), has a Royal Warrant, and has supplied its gorgeous products to the likes of Florence Nightingale, Winston Churchill, Ian Fleming, Cary Grant, and Marilyn Monroe? In short, I’m going to leave it to the company themselves, with this lovely insight into their Jermyn Street store.

I’d promised myself that when I was next down in London I was going to visit their shop and buy something that smelled amazing. I also know that it would be one of three fragrances that I already knew and occasionally wore (thank you Oxford Street department stores for all those times in previous years when I’d pop in and spray myself with Floris from your perfume sections!).

About ten minutes later I left armed with a bag containing a bottle of this utterly gorgeous scent.

Shopping done, now it was time to do a bit of prep for the following day. This involved walking through the lovely streets of St. James’s, down to Pall Mall, over into Carlton Gardens and then down on The Mall, through the delightful St. James’s Park (probably my favourite park in London. And yes, they have pelicans. Pelicans? In London ? Oh yes.) before catching up with some people after such a long time apart. Lots of handshakes and bringing each other up to speed on what had been going on in life and general.

Now it was time to get to where I was staying for the evening. After walking from Oxford Circus down through Mayfair, St. James’s, across the park, and now in and around Westminster with two bags, I couldn’t face another walk or public transport for the relatively short onward journey.
“Taxi !”

Fast forward a couple of hours and I’m showered (bliss!) and ready for dinner – wearing my lovely new Floris fragrance of course. As I was staying close to Waterloo station I had optimistically envisaged having dinner close by and then entering the terminus to indulge in some more picture taking to add to the image library. But I was pooped. So I stayed in and dined in the downstairs restaurant. A succulent steak, lovely salad, fries, and washed down with a wonderful large glass of Malbec.

Afterwards, I headed back to my room and tried to relax, in anticipation of the following day.

What a performance: and now, the station!

As it turned out, all the previous stress and racing of one’s mind was needless: I turned in another consummate performance and left clients happy and suitably impressed. So much so that I now had to quickly, and I mean really quickly, get down to the tube and begin my race back to King’s Cross for the train back to Bonnie Scotland. Thank the stars that the Victoria Line trains always seem to go like the absolute clappers.

While I actually made it to King’s Cross with time to spare, thus allowing me to buy some drinks and snacks from the station shops, I was nonetheless hot, sweating buckets, and exhausted. I was drained from the race across town to get here and also starting to adrenaline crash as well. I’d got onto the train a good five or so minutes before anyone else so I could freshen up (as best as possible – thanks once again, Floris!) alone and uninterrupted. I always check out the trains on the platforms to ascertain which one is mine, well before it is announced on the huge departure boards in the main concourse. Destination details on the electronic displays on the side of the coaches are a good clue; better yet are onboard catering crew members who might be on the platform beside the buffet carriage: they always happily tell you which train it is. Remember that top tip, sexy train travellers.

“Is that all I am to you: a quick one night stand?!”

Not too long later, my Azuma started pulling out (ooer!) of the lengthy platform to begin its journey to Edinburgh, confirming my time in London had come to an end. Even though I’d stayed a night, it really felt like a whistle-stop stay with hardly any time for me to do much soul searching and retrospection on the impact of being back in London again and my thoughts about it, after a couple of years of exile.

On the train back, the mind began wandering but not in the provocative places one would have hoped for. Adrenaline crashes, physical exhaustion and lack of sleep do these things. Then at Newark, the researved seat next to me became occupied all the way up to Edinburgh by someone who within the first ten minutes of plonking herself down beside me, wasted no time in sticking wireless headphones into her lugs to watch tv dramas on her tablet. The problem was that the sound leakage from her headphones was annoying to say the least. So much for being in a quiet coach, eh? Two can play at that game, then. Going ‘scorched earth’ gave me a modicum of satisfaction as I warmed up Spotify on my phone and started the proceedings with ‘Painkiller’ by Judas Priest. The rambunctious and amplified nature of the music coming into my ears didn’t let up until approaching Edinburgh.

Ascending from Waverley Station into the bright summer Edinburgh evening was a lovely moment. My absence from ‘Auld Reekie’ also had been far too long. Not that I had too much time to savour it as I had a coach to catch for the final journey home. But I did manage to quickly take a snap of one of the city’s finest erections: one that doesn’t result in anyone being arrested and charged with gross indecency.

A couple of hours later and I was back home. I was knackered but alive and with not much time to spare before bedtime and returning to work the next morning.

Final thoughts…

Given that I was either pre-occupied or exhausted respectively on the trains down and back, it’s probably for the best that some time has passed before offering my thoughts on everything.

To begin with, it was my first time being on an LNER Azuma, and the experience was a positive one. The legroom was decent, which isn’t always the case for someone over six feet tall. Each seat has its own power socket so another thumbs up there. I didn’t indulge too much with the onboard catering, but will say that their Fruit Cake Slice is absolutely GORGEOUS. I bought one on the trip down and having loved it, decided to buy two (along with some shortbread biccies) on the return trip. As well as being gloriously fruity, there’s also a wonderful warm, spicy element to the proceedings. If you like a bit of spice, this absolutely hits the spot.

As for being in London itself, it was great to be back but I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t some trepidation ahead of it. Since 2019 media attention devoted to marauding moped robbers, pickpockets, knife crime and thieving mobs rushing into shops, has seemed to increase. Did Axl’s lyrics carry more weight this time around?

I’ll admit that I didn’t exactly break myself in gently when of all the places I could have exited from the tube in central London, I chose Oxford Circus! The sheer number of people walking around or taking selfies was, for a few seconds, a bit of a shock to the system compared to my relative exile in the middle of Scotland. If I hadn’t had such a tight schedule that afternoon and had more time to dwell on it, then yes, maybe it would have been a bigger consideration. But instead I just took a few seconds to absorb the number of people, and my present location, and then get to work on the task at hand. I was back, and I was dealing with it. And as I left Oxford Street and started heading into Mayfair, it was as if I hadn’t been away. No need for Google Maps: I was like a homing pigeon heading towards my destination.

Oh come on Lee: what about the women, and the naughty thoughts? This is what we want to know!

Sheesh, you’re a tough audience, hehe.

In a nutshell, though, I was actually surprised. And not pleasantly. London is normally a cornucopia of crumpet, a smorgasbord of sexiness and whatever other metaphors suggest the same.

But this time, it was different. Believe you me, I may have been in a hurry to get from A to B to C and D, but throughout my life that’s never stopped me from spotting fantastic fillies yards away or closer on the pavements. But the reality was that this time around, whatever the reason(s), I just wasn’t seeing ’em to anywhere near the same degree as my usual trips to the capital. What was going on? Most unusual indeed.

But there were *some* promising moments on my travels. The girl in the short white summer dress sitting on the platform bench at Haymarket. My mind sprung into action. Would she have welcomed a dapper chap saying hello to her and starting a conversation, or was she showing too much resting bitch face? The way her legs were crossed, exposing a delightful amount of tanned thigh underneath: was that *all* she was wearing? Hmm…definitely some food for thought – and a possible future character. And the redhead joining the train at Newcastle whose voluminous tresses couldn’t help but make one notice? Again, another possible character.

While the visual inspiration may have been lacking on this particular trip, it certainly didn’t dent my enthusiasm for Steamy Train Tales in the slightest. Far from it. It grew (and without any need for rubbing or lubrication for that matter). My thoughts and experiences reconfirmed that I’m on the right track (pun thoroughly intended) with all this. So farewell London: I’ll very possibly see you again in 2023. And as for you, Dear Smut-Lovin’ Reader, grab your tickets and sit in your allocated seat. I’m coming soon!

Some welcoming words – and flirty facts – from the Silver Fox Scribbler, B.R. Lee.

Hello all you lovers of hot travel tales who love sexy characters and the sauciest of situations! I’m the Silver Fox Scribbler, B.R. Lee. As well as being a shameless flirt, I’m the author of a whole host of erotic short stories set all around the UK. From little villages to bustling city centres, there’ll be a sexy story for anyone and everyone – well, if you’re aged 18 and over, that is. And the common theme for all this: our nation’s train network. As well as being a unique way of selecting locations, it’s also a great way of tying the stories together. And if you’re a lover of great character-driven erotica in locations you’ll have perhaps never heard of, let alone associated with hot encounters, you’re in for a treat!

And the man behind it all?

Nowadays it’s not enough for a writer’s stories and books to sell themselves. You want the inside scoop on the scribbler behind the story. And that’s fine – to a degree. As a smut scribbler, there’s a limit to what can be disclosed, especially when external factors (prudish elderly parents, an existing public profile, and the like) come into play, but that doesn’t mean to say it has to be completely boring.

For example, here’s five facts about your silver fox scribbler that might amuse and bemuse:

1. I’ve been lingerie shopping with a famous French porn star
2. I love hard rock and metal music the most, closely followed by orchestral soundtracks
3. My highest scores on the BDSM Test were for: Non-monogamist; Primal (Hunter); Dominant; Exhibitionist; and Voyeur
4. I’ve cheated death – twice
5. I once misbehaved at a very famous and long-running London fetish club (you know the one, hehe) with a nubile partner in naughtiness that resulted in an audience assembling and our own security guard!

If these are the sort of tidbits you like to learn about your smut scribbler, then I hope it helps you to build up more of a picture about Yours Truly. And if you like, I’ll disclose some more things. In other words, there’s more than enough mischief and merriment (and perhaps the odd bit of drama thrown in for good measure) in my mind and in my real life to come up with all the sauciness you’ll be sexpecting in my upcoming stories. And If there’s anything else that piques your interest, well, let me know. Perhaps it’ll get talked about soon.

Wait a minute: aren’t some of these witterings elsewhere too?

Oooh you’re an eagle-eyed smart cookie, ‘aintcha ?! And you’d be right. Before the Steamy Train Tales website arrived, I waxed lyrical on Instagram. But as you’ll know, there’s only so much wonderful flowing prose permitted to accompany each post. But more importantly, Instagram in my opinion isn’t the most reliable landlord when it comes to spicy content. Accounts have been deleted without warning, and not only does the content disappear in an instant, but your list of followers does too. This is something which sadly a lot of adult creators (whether writers, performers, retailers or manufacturers) overlook. The social media apps – and not you – own the relationships you have with your followers, whereas on an independent website such as this, direct relationships can be forged and maintained accordingly. Instagram is too unpredictable for those belonging on the naughtier side of the tracks (you might as well get used to the railway puns). And at the end of the day, I’m wanting my content to always have a home. So to this end, some of my Instagram posts are here, either in their original raw state, adapted, or used as a foundation for further wit and wisdom.

As the website and the story writing gathers steam, you’ll see that while there will still be a Twitter and Instagram presence (primarily to drive traffic here) the main content, including posts like these, will be situated here.

And what about comments on blog posts?

I’m all for some fruitful feedback (get used to the alliteration too) but some general rules: no abusive or defamatory comments! Justified criticism is fine as long as there’s a sense of decorum. To avoid the comments being abused by spammers, bots and what not, all comments will go through manual approval.

So, all that remains to be said is to welcome you onboard this service calling at all points of pleasure until your final happy destination. Tickets please!