Wicked Wednesday: Resetting the calendar

Now we were fucking, cock to mouth, and I could feel tension and pleasure surging in me, wanting to overflow. I said, “Do you have an objection to swallowing?”

She took a second to understand the question, and she looked at me as if I was mad. Why would she object to swallowing? Why would it be up to her anyway? It seemed I was being too careful.

So I pulled her hair harder and held her face tight against me.

I came at last. She made an odd sound, something like “Lloorb”, when I flooded her mouth with salty fluid, and she swallowed, taking every drop into herself.

I slowed, breathing hard, and Claire continued to lick and suck, while I pumped her mouth, savoring those last moments of pleasure. She continued to work me, staring up into my eyes. I smiled down at her. “Good girl, Claire. You did very well. Thank you.” Then I withdrew from her mouth. “Put my cock back in my underpants, and zip me up, Claire.”

She was surprised. Most men in her life, so far, had done that for themselves. She’d experienced brutality, I felt, and abandonment, but never servitude. Servitude was, it seemed to me, something she was wired to enjoy very much. She said, “Yes, sir”, because she’d heard Maddie say that when given an order, and obeyed.

I grinned down at her and held out my hand, helping her up as if from an unusually deep curtsy. Her breasts, and the chain between the nipple clamps, bobbed appealingly. When she was standing I put my arms round her. I beckoned to Maddie, and she came and joined the hug.

We swayed together, the three of us. I sensed that Claire was happy, and her attention was somewhere inside herself at that moment. I looked at her until she returned and smiled back at me. “When did you last suck a cock, Claire?”

She smiled a little sadly. “My husband’s friend. About a year ago.” Then she smiled without sadness.

“Then we’ve re-set the calendar: Days since Claire sucked cock: O.”

She laughed a little. “Days since I’ve been fucked; I hope that re-sets too.”

Masturbation Monday: Baby bird

Teresa put her arms around his shoulders while they kissed, then dropped her hands to hold his arse. She paid him no compliments, though she felt them, but she expressed those by kissing him. He pushed the robe off her shoulder and she shrugged, to let it fall.

He put his hands below her corset, to hold her bottom. He said, “Did I mention that your arse is perfect, generous like your breasts, but muscled: exactly the right mix of firmness and softness?”

“No, not in those words. Which you put way too much thought into. But I’m glad you like my arse. Oh!” His cock pressed against her belly, constricted by jeans. She let the kiss continue, but at last she said, “You’re still dressed.”

She meant it as an accusation. He took his jacket off and tossed it onto one of her chairs, but let his shirt drop to the floor after he’d pulled it over his shoulders and off. He undid his jeans and looked at his belt, considering. Again, Teresa wondered if he’d looked at her one-handed reading matter. But he left it in its loops and dropped and stepped out of his pants.

Teresa was a goth, so she kept her corset on during sex. Roland was a civilian; he could simply be naked, and he was. His cock pointed straight at her, and she took it in her hands, holding it like a baby bird, stroking lightly.  His voice was not honeyed, like Julian the billionaire’s, though it was a little impatient when he said, “Bed, girl.”

She turned to close her curtains, allowing him to admire her bottom – she wondered if he’d noted the squash racket in one corner – then sat on the bed. She beckoned him. As though he were a pet and she had a treat. But he came closer, to stand in front of her.

He stood over her, holding her shoulders, cock pointing in the general direction of her mouth. Teresa kissed the head approvingly, and opened to take him in. He was hard, with soft skin, and she gave him a warm, wet harbour, devoted to his pleasure. His hands tightened on her shoulders.

But at last she drew her head back and released his cock. Still sitting on the bed she put her hands on his arse, pulling him forward. “Darling, I like everything about sucking cock. Really, I do. Especially your cock, I promise you that. And I’m looking forward to swallowing your come. Also seriously. But right now, if it’s ok with you, I just want you to fuck me.”

Sinful Sunday: Pretty! Poetry!

Poetry is what happens is when you’ve had an emotional, moving experience, and then you are able to return to that state in memory, while you’ve not moved by the experience because it isn’t happening any more. That’s what Wordsworth said, anyway: “Poetry is emotion reflected in tranquillity.”

 This is that blissful state. The peace that comes after the storm, and a lovely, calm poet. 

Share Our Shit Saturday: I’ve Seen All Good People

Twitter shadowbans people who write about sex. They want to shut us up, and shut us down. One reaction to this is for people to share their shit: to sing out and give links to other erotic writers, usually on a Saturday.

“Shadowban” is a Twitter thing. It means that people can still post, so they think they’re still in the conversation. But other people can’t see their tweets, so they’re banned without knowing it.

A Quick Personal Note:

I have the honour to be Shadowbanned myself, though my stuff is pretty humanist and harmless. But if you’re interested in following me, and finding some bad jokes, reverse sledging (where you say nice things about people), occasional political rants, plus the tolerable erotica, I’m @jaimemortimer . Follow me!

Ok, that’s enough about me. Here are some other great erotic bloggers!

Something sexy from Sex Bog of Sorts (in Australia, a “sort” is a person you’d really want to fuck, so it’s a well named blog, antipodeally speaking):

Here

An embellished reminiscence of posing for men’s mags, by Posy Churchgate:

Here

And from Marie Rebelle, one of the best people on the internet, who does so much to  make us erotic writers a community, a sexy story:

Here

A nice loving, sexy story from Asrai Devin

Here

From the wonderful May More, who gives you more, here’s evidence that Jesus is coming:

Here

A story from Cousin Pons, about the healing power of good people having sex:

Here

Wicked Wednesday: The shoplifter’s mother clamped

Maddie knelt and applied the clamp to Claire’s left nipple, then put the other clip to her right.

A fine gold chain connected the two. Maddie tugged lightly on the chain, causing Claire to open her mouth further and let me push deeper. Claire made a noise around my cock. It can’t be transcribed, but it meant pleasure.

Something dark and powerful was stirring deep within her. Her lips closed on the base of my cock. I let her hear my pleasure.

Maddie stepped back. “Anything else, sir?”

I said, “Yes, Maddie, bring me the strap. Claire, if you let my cock slip out of my mouth before I come, I’m going to wallop your ass till my arm is tired. Understood?” She said nothing, but her head bobbed: assent.

I took the strap from Maddie, and let it trail down Claire’s back, as a warning and incentive.

“May I watch, sir?”

“Claire, do you mind if Maddie watches you suck my cock?”

Claire made another vocal noise, partly muffled by my cock, but I don’t think it had words in it anyway. It wasn’t indignation. It was sex. The idea of being watched pleased her very much.

I raised the strap and brought it down, not fast, so that the end of the strap wrapped under her right buttock and slapped her smartly but not too painfully.

Claire closed her eyes and sucked harder. I swung the strap again, a little faster, so its smack on the underside of her left buttock was harder. Her eyes shut tighter.

I could see pain in her face. “Keep your eyes open, Claire. Look up into mine.”

Guido Reni’s Magdalene practicing her fellatio face

She obeyed, her eyes helpless, pleading, pious, like a saint in a Guido Reni painting. I smiled down at her. “Good girl, Claire. You’re a little rusty, I know, but you get top marks for enthusiasm.” She made an acknowledging noise, in her throat.

I began to pump her, thrusting slowly into her mouth, taking it slowly so she could adjust to my rhythm. She choked once, as I thrust deeper, but a woman who asks you to cane her presumably won’t mind that.

I put my free hand in her hair, and pulled lightly. Not to hurt, just to let her know I was taking control. I thrust harder and faster, and she gamely followed me, keeping my pace.

Masturbation Monday: The Adventures of Amanda

Teresa led Roland by his hand to her bedroom, but excused herself, took a robe from behind the door and went into the bathroom, leaving him, she knew, to potter about her bedroom seeking clues.

One thing he’d learn was that she wasn’t a tidy woman. There were piles of clothes, similar to the outfit she was wearing, on chairs and a dresser. He could make what he liked of the old-fashioned, framed, drawing of a witch, nearly naked, resting after riding on a broomstick, and another picture, drawn by her, of a kitten with a knife between its teeth.

Sudden thought

She was freshening up the concealer on a spot above her left eyebrow when she remembered the books on the chest of drawers by her bed: two were the kind of novels that get considered for major literary prizes and the other three were steamy romances. Masturbation aids.

If he looked at those, he’d find they were by a woman who wrote as Cerise Nates, and concerned dominant men and virginal girls, far more innocent than Teresa.

Often their sexual education began after they’d lost an important file, been rude to a client, or faked the boss’s email. If he took Amanda’s Duties, for example, and swung it gently by the front cover he’d find that the pages naturally opened on:

“No,” Alexander said, implacably. “You’ve asked for this, Amanda. Now do as you’re told.”

And… after the spanking? The anal sex!

Amanda tossed her golden locks defiantly, but she knew she would always want to obey that honeyed, impatient voice. Her pussy moistened as she turned to face his desk.

When she had bent over as he demanded, and her nose touched the leather top, she felt a thrill, a surge of pleasure in her pussy. She arched her derriere, knowing she was presenting all of herself for him.

Amanda worked for Alexander, a handsome young billionaire with an authoritative presence, and she was about to be spanked and – to her shock and then pleasure – taken anally, still with her nose touching that desktop.

All Roland had to do was pick that book up and he’d know too much about Teresa’s sexual dreams. Any one of the other two Cerise Nates books would tell him a similar story. “Shit,” said Teresa, as a girl like Amanda never would. But she took a preemptive piss, took off her clothes and put the corset back on, and the robe over that. Then she flushed the toilet and hurried back.

Amanda just can’t catch a break. But a witch can always take a break.

Roland was studying the picture of the witch when Teresa returned. Of course, he’d have heard the toilet flush. She glanced quickly, not too closely at the pile of books. Had it been disarrayed? But she met Roland’s eyes. He was gazing openly, the male gaze, letting her know he was admiring and desiring her.

He indicated the picture. “Lovely tits, that witch. But nothing like as wonderful as yours.” He stepped towards her, and pulled the robe away from her body, crouching a little to kiss each of her nipples as they balanced just above the upper edge of the corset, licking, sucking and biting them thoroughly and in turn, and only then kissing her mouth.

Sinful Sunday: hotel spanking out-take and intake

This is my girl, over my knee in a hotel in a strange city, getting spanked. Oh, because she was late home, and more importantly because she hadn’t been spanked for a whole ten hours.

But – stop me if you already know this – it’s actually pretty tricky, delivering a spanking with one hand while taking action shots with the other. This sort of thing is the result. 

Oh, the good photo of the same scene, same spanking? It looks more like this: 

Defining BDSM: What is it?

Bdsm is an unusual acronym, because it combines six words into just four letters. It’s short for bondage and discipline, dominance and submission, and sadism and masochism.  Bdsm is a group of three related sets of sexual desires and practices:

  • giving or accepting sexualised pain, which can involve beating, or the application of heat or cold, electricity or piercing;
  • imposing or accepting restraints and other things likely to produce feelings of helplessness;
  • demanding or giving submission, service and sexualised obedience to commands.

Any one of those things is bdsm, though most people involved in bdsm seem to like at least two out of three, or all three. 

Strictly speaking (and in bdsm someone has to speak strictly), you don’t need a single one of these items for bdsm. You just need hands, a tongue and genitals

Another way to describe bdsm is to say that it’s a kind of sensibility. Bdsm includes many experiences and feelings shared by people who don’t consider themselves to be involved in bdsm.

Anyone can have moments of sexual surrender when they lie back, close their eyes and let their lover do whatever they want with them. Many people enjoy the fiercer experience of pushing a lover beyond their control so they are no longer capable of reticence or caution.

Not everyone who sometimes feels that way during sex would say they were into bdsm. What’s specific to bdsm is the way it takes these common desires and sensations and seeks to extend, prolong and intensify them.

Another defining feature of bdsm is the way it gives sexual significance to things that don’t usually carry much sexual weight. Someone who kneels before their lover, forehead pressed to the floor, is aware of the posture they’re in and its meaning. That awareness is sexual.

There’s nothing sexy about kneeling. Until it acquires sexual meaning. Bdsm is very much about assigning and enjoying sexual significance to actions and words

In other contexts there’s not much sexual charge to be had from kneeling. Bdsm involves physical intimacy and physical sensations, sometimes intensely, but it focuses not only on how actions feel but also on what they mean.

To an unusual degree, bdsm pleasure involves something almost abstract: the partners’ awareness of their relationship, and the symbols, gestures and words by which that relationship is expressed.

The practices – I suspect – aren’t as important as that awareness between the partners. Which is why it’s true to say that bdsm is both a form of sex and a form of love. 

Wicked Wednesday: Clamping down

Claire shook her head, panicked, mouth still full of hard male essence. I said, “Maddie has heard you get the strap. She knows you’re going to get the cane soon. She’s knows that afterward I’m going to fuck you with all my heart and soul, not to mention my cock. So is it a problem if Maddie knows you suck my cock?”

Claire was still, digesting this. After a few moments her head moved again, from side to side, my cock still firmly in place. No, it didn’t matter. I put my hand on her head. “Continue, Claire. Or I’ll strap your hands some more. You can get the strap while you suck cock, you know.”

There was a pause, probably as long as three seconds, though it felt longer. Then Claire took me deeper in her mouth, sucking hard. Her blush had spread to her breasts and shoulders. She’d accepted that sometimes she sucked cock in front of an audience. Maddie said, “Sir?”

“Nipple clamps. Fetch. Claire needs them.”

The nipple clamps were Maddie’s. They weren’t for use on schoolgirls. Or boys, I supposed. She went, leaving the door open, and fetched them from her drawer. “Sir.”

“Don’t stop sucking, Claire, if you know what’s good for you. And Maddie, Both Claire and I have our hands full just now. You can put the clamps on Claire’s nipples.”

There was a small dissenting sound, and a shake of her head from Claire. I put my hand on the back of her head.

“Claire, you know you can stop this at any time. But if you don’t want to stop, then you’re going to be wearing little clips on your nipples until I’ve come in your mouth. I noticed your reaction when I squeezed your nipples before.”

Claire said, “Ummmm, bbdddd…” A little line of drool escaped from the left side of her mouth. Then she moved forward, taking the whole of my cock into her mouth and throat.

 

Masturbation Monday: Why I don’t write eroticised rape scenarios – but can anyone?

This is a sequel to an older post I wrote, about what erotic writers who consider themselves to be generally on the side of the angels should and shouldn’t write. 

TC (Teresa) Dale wrote, on Twitter, that my rejection of forced sex scenarios was a bit hard-line, and inconsistent with my general principle that writers should be free to write fantasies that wouldn’t really be acceptable in practice. Readers, after all, can tell fantasy from reality, and can scratch itches in fantasy that they can’t in the real world. 

It’s a valid point, and it got me thinking more about forced and non-consensual scenes. 

 

I used the words “on the side of the angels” purely so I could use this image again. It’s by an artist drawing as “Schpog”, and I think it’s gorgeous.

Firstly, there are many stories about non-consenting sex written from the “victim’s” point of view. Those tend to be stories where the aggressor is incredibly hot, and the woman (could be a guy or transgendered person, but usually it’s a a woman) dutifully says no, but finds that the hot aggressive one overrides their objections and forces them into sexual acts anyway. And the “victim” shocks herself by being into it.  

And I have no objection to writing that at all. 

It’s writing from the other side, the “aggressor’s” side, that troubles me. If someone wrote a story that went, “she let me in after our date, but she didn’t want to fuck me, so I forced her, and she was, like, totally into it”, I’d find that kind of creepy. 

I don’t think reading that story would make it more likely that someone will actually commit rape. That’s far too simplistic.

But I’m not going to write that story, partly for personal reasons: I don’t want to spend any time in that headspace.

But also, I hate those “rapist’s POV camera, stalking the woman” scenes on tv and in movies. I don’t want to write the prose equivalent. I guess it’s the idea that rape culture is pervasive enough already, and writers shouldn’t contribute to it.

So it’s writing about non-consent from the aggressor’s point of view that I have reservations about.  

If you have a scenario like, “the auctioneer has to test every slave girl before the auction”, it’s rapey, but somehow less appalling because it’s so obviously fantasy

There’s another issue: realism. It’s one thing to write about a James Bond villain with an underground lair and a desert island, or an alien with a spaceship, kidnapping some woman (or man or trans-gendered person) and forcing her into various sexual scenarios. Somehow that seems like it could be written from the aggressor’s point of view and not trigger my concerns, because it is so obviously fantasy. 

Realistic stories seem much creepier. “I raped my girlfriend because she didn’t feel like having sex with me, and then she loved it.” Or: “I stalked her through the park, attacked her, and fucked her on the grass where no one could see us.”

The principle is the same – it’s all forced sex – but it’s “realistic stories of non-consenting sex, from the aggressor’s POV” that make me most uncomfortable. A writer who really was celebrating the way rape happens in the real world would strike me as an asshole.

Finally, this is personal. Part of my discomfort is simply that my persona, and my reality, is very clearly male dom.

I’m subject to some prejudice, based on the ignorant idea that bdsm is about cruelty, not consent. As a dom, particularly a male dom, I don’t want to do anything to encourage the idea that doms get off on non-consent.