Monthly Archives: September 2019

Masturbation Monday: Another one just like it

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Teresa sprawled over Roland’s knee. He’d promised her a spanking when they arrived at his home, and they’d been there for all of quarter of an hour. He was delivering. His hand landed on her bottom and sometimes, more painfully, on the backs of her thighs.

Teresa held on tight to his right leg for balance and sometimes kicked her legs, though that was mostly for his benefit. She knew he was roused by this, only partly because of the hard mass pressed against her right thigh.    

Her long velvet skirt was pulled up and piled at her waist. His hand held her firmly, keeping the skirt out of the way, and her ass in harm’s way.

This hadn’t quite what she’d intended when she’d saved him the bother of removing her panties, by not wearing any.

She’d decided to wear nothing under her skirt several hours earlier, because she’d hoped they might go out after the Real Vampire social. She’d planned to walk him to a taxi stand through the nearby cemetery afterwards and suddenly demand to be fucked. That’d be splendidly goth, and it’d disconcert him a little, she was sure. And he’s still rise to the occasion. But there’d happened to be a taxi outside the pub and he’d hailed it.

Anyway, now she was getting that promised spanking, it made no difference; it would have taken him at most a few seconds to pull them down and off.

He took his time, his land landing every ten seconds, not too hard. The heat and the soreness were cumulative things. Both had built up slowly but surely as her spanking continued. She knew that she was colouring for him; he’d said more than once how very prettily red her arse and legs were turning.

He’d have to do this a lot in the future, he’d claimed.  

TTeresa had said nothing, but she thought he was probably right. Not all fantasies turn out well, when realized, but this one was. She yelped suddenly, not because he’d smacked her but because he’d stopped and slid his hand into the damp valley between her buttocks and his fingers into her cunt

Roland wasn’t gentle, but she made a quiet moaning sound, riding his lap as he pleasured her. She made a deeper, louder, moan a few minutes later when the movements of her hips were becoming emphatic and he stopped stroking her and resumed her spanking, a little harder.

This happened twice more, and eventually she knew, objectively, that she was being spanked hard now, but there was not the slightest sense of pain. Only arousal, and the desire that each smack should be followed by another one just like it.

Sinful Sunday: Untidy

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Arethusa would smile at her marks when she saw them in the bedroom mirror, ruled straight and neat across her bottom. 

This was a punishment for untidiness, that had meant she’d lost all her university assignment materials, so that she was already late with an essay before she’d started it. So we searched her bedroom, and finally found the papers among stacks of paper concerning other things.

So she did the essay first, with me helping on the appendices. Then she tidied her room, with her Master watching her, cane in hand.

Then, and only then, she could bend over and receive the punishment that had been hanging over her for about a day and a half. 

It was one of her more severe lessons. I’d worked up a steam of righteous masterly wrath. But the harshest thing, in a way, was my making the marks deliberately messy. No tidy collection of lines. When she looked at them in the mirror, they reminded her of the consequences of messiness. 

(But when you have a Master, loving but with a taste for giving her stripes and tears, and a masochistic slavegirl, can you stop her caning from being sexy? No, it turned out we couldn’t. Worthy experiment, though.)

Wicked Wednesday: House of Pleasure 2

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When I was scrubbed pink and clean, and patted dry, Nana led me to the bed, her hand holding me by my manhood.

The previous time I’d been with two women at once they had desired each other as well as men and, I suspect, they had hunted together before, choosing a man they both wanted. So in bed they had entertained each other with cunnilingus at times I was recovering my powers.

But Ruxana and Nana seemed to have no interest in each other, though they made each other laugh and were on sisterly terms despite their slightly competitive approach to me a little earlier. So I took Nana first. She was an energetic and comfortable ride, once we got to grips with each other.

Ruxana kissed me while I rode Nana. And unavoidably, though I was trying to save myself, I came in her, and that was sweeter than sugar. Nana kissed me like a lover, and then pressed my head down, gently encouraging, and trying to suffocate me, pleasurably, between her breasts. 

Then, with only a little encouragement from Nana’s tongue and mouth to get hard again I did the same, mutatis mutandum, for Ruxana. But when I was spent for the second time, and both girls were also happy, I knew that I didn’t want to quit them, and they showed a flattering disinclination to let me go.

So I pushed Nana down and put my hands under her splendid bottom and applied my tongue to her.

She seemed astonished at first, but she was soon happy to lie back, holding my head and writhing under me, to be pleasured. I wondered at that, because it seemed unlikely that a woman in her profession would not have encountered cunnilingus before.

But then, I expect that not a lot of women got their private parts kissed and licked in Kentucky, where I came of age. I had not been taught the skill till I first reached Paris a few years later.

Perhaps Nana had not yet encountered it, or she hadn’t expected it from a man. When Nana had raised her legs in the air and squealed triumphantly, I kissed her, my face still wet with her, and rolled over, pulling Ruxana into her place.

I kissed Ruxana’s breasts while Nana stroked me, keeping her breasts pressed firmly against my side and in my awareness. Ruxana looked at me, eyebrows raised. She wanted to say something, but neither of us knew a word of the other’s language. Still, the happy sound she made when I kissed her navel, and lowered my head further confirmed that I had read her right. 

 

Masturbation Monday: What we both want

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“We definitely did. Draw things out in each other. Right from the moment you pushed my skirt up.”

That was a good memory for Roland, obviously, His cock thickened in Teresa’s hand, not quite to hardness, but a sign of renewed interest just the same. 

He took her hand then, and kissed it, then bit it. Teresa said, “Yes… I was hoping you’d bite me.” 

He took each of her fingers then, kissed each sensitive fingertip, then squeezed it between his teeth, in turn. “Pleasure,” he said.

He pushed her down onto the bed, on her back, and repeated that treatment, kissing her labia, then her clitoris, and then biting. Teresa said, “Ah, but… Ahhhh…” And under the ministrations of his mouth she forgot what she was talking about. She lay back, and accepted his tongue, and the warm feelings of comfort and a kind of wary love, an emotion that warned of bigger emotions on their way, and let her hands drop to the bed, at her sides, and her thighs open for him. 

At some point she roused herself, mentally, while he tongued her, and said, “But…” 

He lifted her left thigh and smacked the underside. Not softly or playfully; the smack of someone who she had given her consent. She considered that, while waiting for the second smack she was sure would be coming, and nodded: so be it. He gave her that second smack, as close to her bottom as he could reach.

Then lifted his head just long enough to say, “There are no buts, Teresa.”

There’s my butt, she thought rebelliously, and you like to hurt it. She grinned, imagining herself saying, You pervert! But she didn’t say that. Because he’d lowered his head again, and this time took as much squishy Teresa-flesh as he could into his mouth and closed his teeth a little, and shook his head as if he were a dog tearing flesh. A polite, gentle, careful dog. Then he resumed tonguing her, focussed on her clitoris while he slipped three fingers into her. 

Teresa could feel her toes curl, and then curl tight, and her fingers made fists. She grunted, hard, and then moaned, like the wail of a cat being fucked.

Roland only sped up, and the other familiar sensation, tight in her thighs and her belly, rose in her. She moaned, but then when orgasm took over her body she could only gurgle: “k… k… k…”

And then time was floaty, and nothing meant anything or had to have meaning. But at last she felt his cock, hard now, touch her left calf muscle.

She knew she wanted that. In her mouth, she decided. She’d like to swallow him And his come.

But first she said, remembering the thing she’d thought before, “But I meant, would you, bite me to draw blood?”  

“No. No, sorry, I wouldn’t want to do that. No.” 

“You’re really no fun.” She was joking, but she was disappointed and a little sad. She knew they’d both have to think and talk about this some more. There had to be some way they could both have all of what they wanted, without having to take on too much of what they didn’t want.

But she half rose and leaned down to kiss his belly, and there was no question in that moment, or in the next several minutes, what they both wanted. 

Sinful Sunday: Comfort and joy

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Afterwards is such a good time. For both dom and sub. It’s a time of sweetness, and stillness. If the dom has given the submissive pain, there’s only one thing to do, as they both re-enter consciousness and know where they are in the world, and to each other.

Pain can lead to joy, of course. But so can comfort. 

 

E[lust] 122: A month of Sundays

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Photo courtesy of Modesty Ablaze

Welcome to Elust 122–

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #123? Start with the rules, come back October 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ THIS MONTH’S TOP THREE POSTS ~

Contraception- Snip, snip, snip

I’m Depressed and Now My Vagina’s Against Me?

Pool Boy

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Rotten to the Core

Two Songs For Emily

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

How to Have Sex in a Body You Hate

Blogging

To blog or not to blog

Erotic Fiction

Reflection
Authentic Surrender
Sin and Sugar
Touch
A Forest
Into the Shower

Erotic Non-Fiction

Polyam Public Play
Prague
Taboo – Golden & illegal
Pleasure is Mine
My 2020 Vision
Begging for it
The Masturbation Ritual

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Taboo, or not taboo, that is the question
How to find a finsub: Part 1

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

My Thoughts on the Topic of Taboos

Body Talk and Sexual Health

What Frightens Me The Most
Be true to yourself!

Wicked Wednesday: She squealed sweetly

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You don’t introduce Claire to butt-plugs by saying “Claire, meet butt-plug.” The introduction is done more physically.,

Claire learns a new kind of vulnerability, and finds it hot.

It’s a hot scene, in fact, but it’s had to leave my blog because it’s published now, and publishers don’t like their stuff to be available for free. I’ll put up a link to where you can buy this very hot text, shortly.

 

Masturbation Monday: You seemed to react well

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Teresa felt sorry at last. This wasn’t the world Roland came from. And biting him till he bled was an odd thing to do to a lover. She said, “I got carried away. I mean really, I did. I actually don’t even remember doing it. You should take that as a compliment. I mean, as a lover.”

“Maybe. But you still can’t bite me, Teresa. Not like that.”

Teresa was on her knees facing him on the bed, naked, and bouncing a little. Her breasts bounced a lot, she knew. She pouted at him. She knew the effect she was having. Sure enough, his cock, detumesced though he hadn’t yet taken the condom off, seemed to move. Very slightly. A little. Perhaps more.

She said, “So… what would you have done, if I’d asked you to untie me?” 

“I’d have untied you.”

“Goodie! Then I should have thought of it.” She was still being playful, though she knew this was not play. This was a moment that could make or break them.

Roland shook his head, in wonder, not negation. “But if you tried to bite me again I’d have got dressed and gone home.” He took the condom off then, and looked around the room. There was a bin beside the bed. He tossed it. He missed.

She paused, considering what he’d said, and reached out and stroked the underside of his cock. “Um. No, that wouldn’t be good. No, I wouldn’t have wanted that.” 

“You have a lot of lovers who don’t mind you biting them?”

“Actually, I don’t usually let strangers push my skirt up to my waist and then take me home in a taxi. I don’t have a lot of lovers.”

“Oh? Really? Oh. That’s quite flattering.” 

“God, you’re clueless. But, yes, I’ve never known anyone make as much fuss as you.” 

“It’s not fuss. I don’t let people bite me.” 

“Oh, I see. I’m a freaky vampire. And you, you’re never the one who gets done to. You’re the dominant one. You do all the doing.”

“I like you, including you being a vampire. Because I like anything that’s you. I will do damn near anything for you. But I’m afraid that what you said about me, that’s pretty much true. I’m a dom, at least in bed. You know the word?”

“Of course I do.”

“For me, it’s almost impossible not to take charge, at least in sexual contexts. I mean, I like all sex, and I can not-dom. But you seemed to react, um, well when I let some of the dom out. We brought some things out in each other.”

Sinful Sunday: The calm after the storm

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There’s the storm, and there’s the calm afterwards. My slave was tired, with that lovely deep soreness, and blissed out, and she kind of passed out. 

I took this while I was on the way getting us a cup of tea, nature’s other great restorative.  And I had to wonder which was sexier: her ass or her stripey socks. Obviously her ass came in far ahead on points, but sexiness was the winner on the day. 

Thoughts about writing rules

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At the moment I’m mostly not writing erotica. I’m writing a mainstream historical novel. It’s meant as a literary novel, but it probably leans close to the thriller genre in places. It’s probably the best-paced thing I’ve written so far. To me that’s not the most important virtue a piece of writing can have – I’d rather read writing that told me something new, that I never knew I wanted to know – but it’s still a virtue. It’s a sign I’m getting better. 

So, for what it’s worth, this is advice on writing rules from a writer who thinks he’s getting better. 

The first thing to know is that every one of these commonly cited writing rules is bullshit. 

1. Write what you know

Generally, this means ‘write from your own experience’.

Actually, you can write what you know, but you can also can make stuff up. Last year I was writing about London in 1893. I’ve been to London, but not in 1893. No one now alive has.

But when you’re making stuff up, you should do your research, and – when you know things like what children are likely to be doing on the streets, and what the place is likely to have smelled like – then you’re ready to write. 

Even if you’re writing fantasy or science fiction, you should have have the feeling that your world is lived in before you start writing. But that’s not knowledge. It’s research plus thought and imagination. 

I’ve never seen an oil lamp through pea soup smog. But I got a pretty good idea about what one looks like, and I wrote it in. 

2 The important thing is to express yourself.

You especially get this with people who write poetry. Especially the flabby, adolescent sort that talks about how lonely/sincere/in love the author is, and you know it’s a poem because it’s in short lines going down the page. But people also say it about prose. 

No. The important thing is to communicate.

To communicate you have to make sure what you write is clear (if you’re writing erotica you should be able to draw a diagram showing how the bodies are aligned, and it should be possible for the reader to do that, too).

And you have to make sure people want to read it, if you want to communicate. So don’t bore them.

3 Be in love with words.

No. Words are tools to express meaning. Be in love with your meaning.

Then use the right tools. I like a high information-to-word-count ratio, so I try to use words sparingly. 

Charles Dickens, who got paid by the word, has probably the lowest information-to-word count ratio of any writer I know, and is the writer I hate above all others.The man is always wittering on, and I simply can’t be reading him.

Similarly, some words are nicer than others. “Glabrous” is a terrific word, in its place. It means “hairless”. But if you want to say that your heroine has shaved closely or depilated, and you write, “her glabrous cunt”, most readers will have nothing conveyed by that word, and those who do, like me, will want to throw your book, or Kindle page, across the room. “Glabrous” is not an emotionally warm word, to put it mildly.

Dylan Thomas thought the most beautiful word in the English language is “aerodrome”. Not for its meaning but for its sound. I suggest that you only use words for their sound, or to prove that you know them, if you’re an acknowledged great poet. 

4 Use plain Anglo-Saxon origin words over Latinate words any day: “see”, not “perceive”. 

This is one of George Orwell’s rules. He’s got a point, about writing that should be simple but sounds like a bureaucratic report. “I was perambulating politely when 
I perceived a pugnaciously patriotic politician, and he provoked me incandescently,” could be better said as, ” When I was out walking I saw a right-wing nutcase and he pissed me off.” 

Other times, you can’t beat a bit of Latinate diction. “Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world” is a terrific phrase. (It’s also true, but that’s another issue.) Part of its power is that every noun and adjective is Latinate in origin until the last word: “world”.

Use the right tools. Don’t try to show off: just serve the meaning. 

Rules that try to force you into only using certain kinds of tools are stupid. Ignore them.

5 Avoid using adverbs.

“Oh, fuck off,” he said tiredly.