Masturbation Monday: Bed, I think

After Roland had stripped and Teresa had removed everything but her corset, he moved behind her to undo it. She said, “No, boy. I’m a vamp. The corset stays.”

To her surprise he simply smacked her bottom. The slap echoed in the room, and it also echoed faintly in her cunt, as sex. Teresa said, “Hey!”

But he smacked her bottom again. “I want you naked this time. Also, I want you.”

She relaxed. He’d already shown his enthusiasm for her corseted self, so it was reasonable. And on the one hand, she didn’t want him to smack her bottom again. And on the other hand, she didn’t want to tell him to stop smacking her bottom.

Which probably meant that in the meantime she should indulge him. So she turned her back and allowed him to undo and loosen the stays, and when the corset was loose enough she pulled it over her head and off.

She turned to face him, and his face when he was confronted with her naked self was rewarding enough. He said, “You are very, ridiculously, wonderfully beautiful.”

He took her left nipple in his mouth, kissing and tonguing it, and lightly grazing it with his teeth. Then he sucked, trying to get as much of her breast into his mouth as he could. Teresa let her mouth fall open. It felt comfortable and right and hot, and there was nothing to say about it.

Teresa put her hands on his arse and stepped close, so her thighs closed on his cock. It wasn’t going down, so it had to be somewhere. He repeated his kissing, tonguing and grazing ritual with her right nipple, and then looked at her, pushing a swatch of red-dyed hair out of her eyes. “Bed, I think.”

Teresa sat and lay back, and Roland lifted her thighs with his hands and kissed her cunt until she sighed. Then she felt him trail his tongue up to her right nipple, and then back to her cunt until she sighed again, and then up to her left nipple, and back to her cunt.

She squirmed under him while he focussed her attention close to but not quite touching her clitoris. He licked her, long and slow, and she put her hands on the back of his head.

Not to direct him but to show her approval. She enjoyed his attention to her cunt in silence. What corset? But at last he raised his head and stared up at her face. He said, “You should have your wrists tied to the bedheads. If I’m going to fuck you properly. That ok with you?”

 

Masturbation Monday: The best dance

Roland had come only minutes before, and so he was in no danger of doing so again, or not unintentionally. They fucked for an hour, then two, sometimes speeding up so he could hear Teresa’s orgasm cries again, and sometimes lazily pleasing each other while getting their energy back. 

Later, in one of their calm periods, he kissed her ear and her nose, and looked down at her. “Those things you say when you’re coming. Tard-ah. Kit toll. Is that in some language I don’t know? What’s it mean?”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “I have no idea why I say that. Or if it means anything, except that I’m happy. Not just coming: happy.”

“Oh.”

“Do you hate it?”

“No! Absolutely not! I just haven’t heard that before. I suppose I’ll want to hear it all the time, now.”

Teresa grinned up at him. “Well, you know how.”

He laughed, cock still thick inside her, and began to move, slowly at first, digging deep and slowly withdrawing, then filling her again. Teresa sighed. It was a dance, the best dance, and they were speeding up.

When they were fucking hard and fast she raised her thighs again and put her feet on the small of his back. That had made him come, the last time.

He sped up, now desperate for her, and Teresa came, screaming her sounds, hearing his guttural groans of pleasure and release just a few seconds later.

They lay together, Roland above her, his heart pounding against hers.

Masturbation Monday: Her feet on his arse

Roland frowned, trying to read her. She was fighting, and inviting, all at once. So he pushed her shoulders down onto the sheet, and wrestled his way between her thighs with force and sometimes cunning. Teresa wriggled, which she believed she did deliciously. It seemed that this was a game he’d never played before, but she was giving him every encouragement to continue.

They wrestled until at last he had her held down on her back, his body above her, held tightly between her thighs, which she’d raised and pressed against his sides, his cock pressing against her cunt.

Teresa grinned fiercely up at him again, as though it was she who’d won, and let her head fall back. She was exposing her throat.

The gesture meant more to her than it seemed it did to him, but it was clear enough. She’d surrendered.  

He kissed her more tenderly than they’d been for the past several minutes, and she was loving in response. So he pressed forward, in possession of her as if she were conquered territory. He moved his cock forward, into her so that the glans was just inside her wet inner skin. He felt so good, so welcome. Teresa closed her eyes, moaned piteously and opened her thighs a little wider. He’d be a ninny if he didn’t know he was wanted.

He pressed forward so that his cock slid deeper into her, filling her sweetly and tightly, and their pubic bones pressed together.

They began to rock, slowly at first, in each others’ arms. Teresa parted her thighs still wider, so he was in complete possession.

Then she raised her knees, almost folding her body in half, and pressed her feet on his arse. His face suddenly seemed anguished. He came in her, she suspected not quite intentionally, about thirty seconds later.

He said, “Sorry. Shit, I’m sorry,” but Teresa ignored him. Fortunately he desired her ferociously, and Teresa was skilled at getting him hard again, with hands and mouth, and he needed little recovery time. They were soon lost in each other again, rocking and plunging. She cried out when she came, in nonsense syllables: “Tard! Tard a ben kit toll, tard ah! Tard ah!…” He frowned, surprised, but realised that it wasn’t a distressed sound, and kissed her.

Masturbation Monday: Vampires don’t fuck mundanes

Roland took his wallet from his pants, found a condom and put it on. He joined Teresa and pushed her shoulders back until she was lying full-length on the bed, on her back. He placed his toes towards the bottom end of the bed and took her hands, pushing them back to the mattress, above her head.

She sighed contentedly and lay back, raising her thighs to offer a comfortable place to ride, between pale, plump thighs. “I said fuck me, you.” She frowned. “What was your name again?”

He bit her right nipple. Not for her pleasure, though it felt good. “Roland. And at least I have the decency to know your name’s Teresa.”

She poked her tongue out at him again.

So, his hands holding hers down on the bed, he lowered himself onto her, his body straight like a man doing press-ups, until their faces were centimetres apart. He touched her forehead with his, while they stared into each other’s eyes. She tilted her face up and kissed him. He let his body sink onto hers.

But Teresa felt a perverse urge to make his life more complicated. She’d been too easy, and he seemed to be relying on scripts that had suited him with other women in these moments. She wanted to test him again. Suddenly she put her legs together and rolled out of his way.

She saw the shock in his eyes. Up to that moment she’d been sweetly inviting. He didn’t know what he’d done wrong, but he released her hands, and was ready to back away and get off the bed. She grinned at him, the fierce kind of grin, and said, “Vampires don’t fuck mundanes. Not… without a fight, anyway.”

So, Roland learned, the word for people who don’t really care about vampires except for desiring one girl who dressed as a vampire, is mundane. He was a mundane. She hoped he’d also learn that when sex was going well Teresa liked to fight and then lose. He probably wasn’t comfortable with games like that, because his life was easier when consent was clear.

He’d be uncomfortable with clouding it. But he had to deal with the woman he was with: Teresa wasn’t going to be generic.

But the struggle was what she wanted, so long as she lost it, and it seemed to her that what her cunt wanted is more important than what the political purist  might think and say.

She beat at his chest with her fists, like the heroine in some old black-and-white movie. But she was careful not to hit his face or bollocks or anywhere else that mattered. She didn’t want to discourage him.

 

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.”

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.

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.  

 

Lasshole fucker 5

Ngaire could feel Freddie’s hands on her hips, his body pressed against her while his cock moved, fat and no doubt happy, in her ass. She moved her body, rocking back and forward on his cock to respond to and drive its urgency. She could feel his body, half covering her, seeming to vibrate as if he was holding himself back as well as taking her.

She felt droplets on her shoulders and knew it was sweat shaken from his hair. Her hair hung over her face, wet with her sweat, though it wasn’t an especially warm night. She couldn’t see him, couldn’t see anything but her own arms and hands and the sheet below her face, but she knew exactly what his face looked like at that moment, intent and anguished.

His sex face: she’d come to know his sex face.

Their fuck was getting faster, and she was driving that. Freddie was letting her lead, reacting to her desire. She could feel that ball of tension somewhere below her stomach, in touch with her spine, building and tightening on itself and getting ready to burst, and she grunted, loud, though her nose. He growled in response, and she felt his body flatten on hers, his chest on her back, his hands on hers. And he was no longer holding himself back. He battered her, and her body answered him, exultant. 

His movements were harder, faster, deeper and Ngaire fell slowly forward under his assault until she lay flat on her stomach, legs apart, ass still tilted up for him.

Their bodies moved together, needing more and pushing for it. Until that ball of tension burst.

She tensed and tried to raised her imprisoned hands from the bed and cried, head down, “Woooo-ohhhh”. He recognised her orgasm, since he’d caused enough that morning, and held her tight with his arms and thighs and came in her. He said something unintelligible when he came. It seemed to be pro-Ngaire, whatever it was.  

She wanted to say something loving, though declarations of love were to be avoided. but nothing came to her, not in the form of words. He’d know anyway, she decided.

His cock was still in her. He hadn’t started to soften, and she could hear and feel his heart pounding. She turned her right hand to hold his. He took her hand; palms together. They intertwined fingers. She had no words but she hoped that said what she wanted to say.  

Lasshole fucker 4

Freddie’s cock pressed against Ngaire’s asshole. That was not a position any other man had been permitted before, let alone the privilege he was about to take. Ngaire had reached back to hold herself open for him, both to signal her acceptance and, she hoped, to make this first entry less painful. 

Freddie said, “You’re ok?” 

Ngaire shook her head into the pillow. That meant yes. She remembered she had to speak. “Go on. Freddie. Please. Fuck me.” Then she spoiled it a little by saying, “I think.”

He put his hands on her hips, to hold her steady, or to let her feel that he was in control. And pressed forward. Ngaire felt the pressure build then, then suddenly it was gone.Her little muscled ring suddenly opened for him, without the pain she’d expected. Then there was a slight twinge, nothing more, as he moved further forward, so all of the head of his cock was in her.

She took several deep breaths, willing herself to relax. 

For a time he did not move, except for a slight trembling. He was holding himself back, with just the head of his cock inside her. There, her muscles were stretched further than they ever had been before. But there was no hurt, now it was done and she allowed herself to get used to his intrusion. He said, “I’m going to fuck you now. Ngaire, you’re to tell me if it hurts, or you need me to stop, or to withdraw. Is that clear?”

Ngaire considered. Being fucked sounded like a good idea. Her face and breasts pressed against her mattress. And her knees and feet. Her ass was up, and now partly full of cock. She smiled at that thought. Then she felt a sharp impact, his hand on the side of her hip. The smack rang in the room, in her ears. “Ngaire.” There was warning in his voice. “I need you to speak. You tell me if it hurts. Clear?” 

You just smacked me! Now you say you don’t want to hurt me? Ngaire thought that, but didn’t say it. Anyway, the smack had got her attention, and it hadn’t actually hurt. She said, “Clear.”

“That’s better, Ngaire. Good girl. So don’t forget. If it doesn’t feel right, at any stage I can stop and I will.” He held her hips firmly again, and pressed forward. Ngaire breathed out while the cock entered her. It was strange, and new, and not sore. The magic of lube, she supposed.

The sensation changed when he had entered her fully, and her ass pressed back against his lower belly and thighs. She’d thought this would be good for him, and do nothing much for her.

But when he was deep in her asshole, it was as if she could feel it in her cunt. it felt dark and strong.

They stayed pressed against each other, and by the time he started to move, to withdraw and then drive his cock forward into her, she had been desperate for him to begin. After a time she began to respond, to move with him.   

They were still moving excruciatingly slowly, It was Ngaire who sped up. She found that each withdrawal needed a returning thrust, and she needed that to happen over and over, and always faster. She was roused now, and, impaled on his cock, she rode it and him. At some stage she lifted her head from the pillow and moaned. Freddie smacked her again, but lightly, encouragingly, and sped up some more. “Good girl,” he said. 

She hoped he’d smack her again, but harder. She couldn’t find or speak the words to ask for that. She was not, in any sophicated or elegant sense, herself. She just wanted this fuck to end in the climax she was struggling for, and for it to last forever. 

 

Lasshole fucker 3

Freddie handed Ngaire the bottle of lube. Ngaire took off the top, watching as he raised himself to his knees and straightened his back so she could reach his cock. He was hard again, the penis pointing at her. She was surprised. He wasn’t twenty and she’d lost count of the number of times they’d fucked that evening.

Steve, her ex-husband, would have been asleep after the first. She hadn’t liked the sexual enthusiasm of boys, when she was growing up. Maybe that was why she’d married Steve. It was hard, in retrospect, to think of reasons why. But there was Freddie’s hard cock in front of her, and he’d put a condom on it.

Ngaire blew it a kiss, and poured out a handful of lube, and took his cock in her hand, slowly stroking it up, from tip to base, then back again. Freddie grunted, and his cock moved in her hand. It was somehow harder, a little bigger in her hand. “Is that slippery enough for you? I suppose I should say, for me.”

“Bit more on the head. That’s the bit that’s going to open you. You can’t have too much lube there.” 

Ngaire got up to her knees too, and poured more lube onto her hand. She took his cock in her hand again, and pressed her body against his. She kissed him.

He responded, putting his hands on her arse and pulling her close. His cock, slippery as an eel, though firmer, pressed between her thighs.She gripped it tight, and he gasped. 

Eventually he whispered, “I’ll take you slow, and you’re to tell me if it hurts. Is that understood?”

That, Ngaire thought, would be the voice he gave orders to Daphne and Shar. “I’m all right. I’m not a princess.”

“Liar.”

“Heh. Then I mean I’m not made of glass.”

“You’ll tell me if it hurts. I need to know how you are.”

“What will you do if I don’t tell you it’s hurting? Spank me?”

“Heh. At least I’ll know that that’s hurting you, and how much. Also, I’d enjoy that, but in buttsex I’d hate to be hurting you. The goal is very much not to hurt you. But you, beautiful girl, should get back on your hands and knees, with that yummy ass up. Knees well apart.”

Ngaire felt the urge to say “yes, sir”. But she fought it down. Still, she did do as she was told. After all, they seemed like sensible instructions.  

She watched over her shoulder as he shuffled closer, until his knees were between hers. The head of his cock pressed against her perineum, and he put his hand on it to guide it to her little hole, about to have its first sexual experience.   

She remembered something she’d read somewhere, either in porn or some women’s magazine with twelve hot butt-fucking tips, and reached back with both hands. She held her own buttocks, and spread herself for him. 

He said, “Good girl.” She supposed those were the last words she would hear, as an anal virgin.