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Dancing with Myself: Stories of Self-Love Erotica Edited by Jillian Boyd (@JillyBoyd) #DancingWithMyselfAntho

Dancing with MyselfNine sizzling, sexy stories of self-love and self-discovery, edited by (and with a story from) Jillian Boyd, featuring Dena Hankins, T.C. Mill, Jordan Monroe, Leandra Vane, LN Bey, Jones, Hollis Queens and Rachel Woe.

In this sensually spellbinding collection, nine authors explore just a couple of the ways one can get themselves off – stories that don’t just hone in on the how, but explore the why, and the “oh… oh my” Dancing with Myself delves into the heads and between the sheets of a long-distance submissive and her dominant, a cam girl reminiscing, an artist entranced with her unusual subjects and many more.

Price: £2.99/$4.04

Release date: Out now

Publisher: Sexy Little Pages

Pages: 124

Table of contents

Obey – Dena Hankins

The Solution – TC Mill

Investigation – Jordan Monroe

5A – Jillian Boyd

Half the Story – Leandra Vane

Girl B – LN Bey

Fawna – Jones

Reconnection – Hollis Queens

Unconventional Methods – Rachel Woe

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/37854540-dancing-with-myself

BUY LINK: https://books2read.com/dancing



5A – Jillian Boyd

Hey 6B,

Maybe next time I could watch you?

X 5A

It took me a moment to adjust to the sudden flash of brightness in the lobby, the motion lights having switched themselves on after I opened the main doorway to my block of flats. But after I’d blinked my eyes back to normal, I became very, very aware of the little pink sticky note stuck to my mailbox. Pink note, red ink, message that left me with a red-hot, full body blush in a matter of seconds.


My body was fine. I had good breasts, good hips, a nice tummy, and a decent ass. I just really didn’t want to bare any of it. Single, not really looking, a few too many rejections and moments which made me question myself, it had all led me to keep nudity between me and my shower. But this guy, this towering specimen of man, had no such qualms. And as the days turned into two weeks, I couldn’t keep myself from keeping watch over him. He fascinated me, so much so that he had, almost unconsciously, crowbarred his way into my thoughts. I didn’t even know his name, but I knew his body. 5A, with a rose vine tattoo snaking across his right thigh. 5A, pierced left nipple, auburn curls feathering his chest, ass you could probably bounce a quarter off, if you so wished.

Maybe, just maybe, I was a little bit in lust with him. Or maybe, just maybe, the image of him fuzzed over throughout the day, and part of the excitement of it all was seeing him all anew in the evenings. And then I did see him all anew.


It was about eleven o’clock when the noise from the apartment above mine startled me awake from a sleep I hadn’t even realized I’d drifted into. My foot bashed against my netbook, perched precariously in front of the sofa, and I swore to no one but my own echo when I noticed not only a familiar light but a familiar figure at the window opposite mine.

5A. Seemingly freshly showered, hair scruffy, in a bathrobe, holding up a little sign. Hiya! Didn’t mean to scare you the other day!


I think I want you to watch me. But I need time. Just a bit of time. I want to watch me first.

I watched myself the next night, post-shower, muscles relaxed and the weight of the world washed off my shoulders. I watched my fingers slide down from the nape of my neck, to the span of my shoulders, down to the tops of the valley of my breasts. They lingered there, like they were waiting for permission to reach out and touch. When I did touch, tentatively at first, softly second, cupping and exploring and pinching my little pink nipples to erect buds, a hot shiver ran down my spine.