The State of your Author

I wrote a novel about Frank Harris, Oscar Wilde, Lewis Carroll and the young Aleister Crowley about four years ago. It had too many characters and the plot was far too complicated. Also the strongest sequence came in the middle. It should either be the beginning or the end.

It’s called Harris’s Adventures Underground, after the original title of Alice in Wonderland. Anyway, there were major structural issues, and there was a problem with Frank Harris’s voice, as the narrator.

Frank Harris is, in  sense, the opposite of Harry Flashman, George MacDonald Frazer’s anti-hero. Flashman was a coward, and various other sorts of bad man, but he was utterly honest and reliable in his “Flashman” memoirs.

Harris was a brave man, and mostly decent, but he could never resist improving any story he was involved in. As a result, you can never quite believe that what he writes is what really happened. 

Harris wrote a lot, though few people have read anything more than his autobiography, My Life and Loves. But his style is very unfashionable now, and it was hard to write in his voice while still being readable and immediate. 

I put it aside to work on other things. Now I’ve finished those other things, and I’m back to it. 

It needs a lot of editing, and some new scenes. And I think I have a solution to the “voice” problem, though I’ll find out as I write it. But I think there’s something very strong there. So that’s my new project.

A side-effect is that until it’s done, my blog and my writing will have no cross-over. I think I’ll find that strange. What, no bdsm? What, writing in someone else’s voice? 

But I’ll keep writing this blog at the same rate as now. I may do more shorter stories, since I’ve nearly got enough for a volume of bdsm-related, but also person-related, short stories. With interlocking characters. Maybe it’s the bdsm equivalent of “Slaves of New York”. Or some such.

And some things, like the Maddie saga, will go on forever, probably, unless I think of an ending.

(“Well,” gasped Maddie on her deathbed, “getting run over was unexpected, but it’s all been tremendous fun.”) 

For now, I have three books to sell. Two novels and a non-fiction book on bdsm.

I’ve recently finished proof-reading them, and I found that it’s nice when you read something you wrote, and it’s well polished, and it feels real. The people act and speak credibly, each according to their own motivations , and they’re neither better nor worse than real people. Also, all three books are often sexy, sometimes sad and often funny. I feel good about them: they are good enough to be proud of.

On the other hand, I know that I’m shit at selling myself, commercially speaking, and… Well, frankly, the marketing issue scares the hell out of me. 

I’m coming to Eroticon in London in March of this year, and I’m looking forward to meeting a lot of lovely people.  I also hope I can get published and make a non-insulting amount of money out of that visit and those meetings that may arise from it. 

I don’t write abou 

Wicked Wednesday: A servant of two…

My hand rested on Lucy’s cunt. [Said Maddie.] Then I did what Sir did to me; I slipped my finger inside her. She was so wet. And so slippery and tight; I’d never felt a girl’s cunt before, except for my own. Lucy’s head jerked back when I entered her, like she’d had an electric shock. 

She said, “Ohhh, god. Are you going to do me? Please do me.” She squirmed up against me.

I took a handful of her hair and pulled her head back, so she had to look at me. And slipped two more fingers inside her. She was looking down, but when she realised I wasn’t going to take my hand away till she came, she looked up into my eyes. She was begging: she wanted this as much as I did.

I said, “Yes, Lucy, I’m going to do you. But you have to be quiet when you come. Is that understood?”

“Oh! Yes, of course.” She looked at the door behind me. We didn’t know if anyone had walked into the library since we’d come into the storeroom. “I’ll be quiet.” 

“You’re not going to do me, today. I belong to Sir today. Only he gets to do me.” 

“Mmm.” 

“But afterwards, you’re going to do me whenever I tell you to, aren’t you?” Lucy blushed, and she looked down again. I could see she was smiling a little. I pushed all of my fingers into her, and drew them out slowly, while she shuddered, leaning against me. I said, “Aren’t you?” 

“Please. Please.”

I didn’t know what she meant. But I kissed her. I said, “Yes. You belong to me, now, Lucy.”

“Oh god.” She’d arched her ass out, and her breasts pressed against me, as I stroked her cunt. From the inside. Faster and faster.

“So, will you do me whenever I say?”

Lucy body shook. Her pretty face flamed red. “Yes, god yes, I will. Whenever.”

I felt so happy. Sir must feel the same way when I obey him. I stroked her cunt, faster still. Lucy couldn’t speak any more. I told her, “You belong to me. I own you. Like Sir owns me.”

Lucy’s raised her head, though I was sure she couldn’t see anything. Her whole body shook, as if she was having spasms. I thought she was going to scream, but she managed to remember my order to be silent. She bit the lapel of my blazer, and made a soft, crying noise through her nose. Her cunt squeezed on my fingers. Hard, then she relaxed and squeezed again. Then she sighed, my lapel falling, soppy, out of her mouth. I had to hold her up. My floppy dolly.

She lifted her face, to be kissed. That was going to be how it was, between us. I kissed my girl. My property. She put her arms around me. I put my hands, one still wet with her fluids, on her bare ass. Lucy looked at me. She whispered, “So. I belong to you. Are you mine?” 

I smiled at her. “No. You’re my property. I’m not yours. I tell you what to do. If you tried that on me, I’d…” I looked around the room, to see if there was something I could show her, that I could punish her with. “I’d spank you with that ruler, Lucy. Till you couldn’t sit down. Understood?” 

She smiled. That was the answer she’d hoped for. “Of course. Of course you would. I mean, you can.”

There was one more thing. I guessed she’d like this thought too. “I belong to Sir. You know that.”

“Of course.”

“Everything I own belongs to Sir.”

“Oh!” 

“Yes. That includes you. Sir will take you for his anyway. But if he doesn’t, then I’m going to give you to him.” 

“Maddie!” She was shocked. Not by being owned by Sir. It was that she thought I was rejecting her. Silly girl. I wanted to spank her then and there, for being so silly. But it would be too loud.  

“Oh, you’ll still be mine. You’ll just be his as well. I like having him own me. But you, you’re going to be the lucky girl. With two owners.” 

Lucy was silent. It was a lot to take in. Some of it I’d only worked out for myself in the last minute. She was thinking, imagining how this would be. But that secret smile, on her pretty pink face: that was still there. 

Serving and servicing 1

John swung the stick, making an audible impact and leaving a vertical fire-line down her left buttock. Lena shook for a second, though she felt it as heat rather than pain, and arched her back. He was right: she felt very beggy. The rod struck again, leaving a streak of fire where it landed, which slowly calmed to warmth and a kind of mental and bodily peace.    

“You know, you have no idea how beautiful you look. And hot.” This wasn’t quite true. She knew she’d made him hard, and that he liked her current posture, prostrated on her knees, with her head touching the carpet between his feet, beyond reason. She waited for the next stroke, but he grasped her hair and pulled her up so her open mouth was level with his cock. Lena rubbed her forehead against that hardness, through his pants, like a cat claiming a human’s hand. He put his hand against the back of her head and held her to him. She waited, and the rod landed again, then again. Lena hissed in breath, then turned to kiss his inner thigh. 

With that kiss, some things became urgent. John unbuckled and unzipped. His cock, finally free, pronged the air in the direction of Lena’s nose. She felt his grip tighten on her hair, and he guided her onto his cock. Her lips kissed a soft ring around the head, and he pressed forward. They said, “Hahh,” at more or less the same instant.

Her buttocks and hips burned from the stripes he’d given her. The rod he’d used to inflict them brushed her right shoulder when she took him deep, brushing her nipples against the wool of his pants. She knew that he was happy, and so was she: his cock was velvet stretched over steel, and though it tasted only of skin, it was his skin.

She was sure, though, that she could feel some of the sugared, shaky excitement of his pleasure, through a kind of body reading that comes close to mindreading. She could feel the pleasure that he felt, as well as the heat and joy that came with serving.

She knew she was providing a soft paradise for his cock. He was moving faster in her mouth, loosening his grip on her hair so she had room to move. Her knees hurt a little, and that was good too. She loved serving him, but there was another Lena in her mind, who watched her and considered her, and was excited by the abjectness of her submission. She wished he would bring that rod down again. He was distracted.

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I’m a writer. For money I mostly write about things like water distribution rights, health policy, social housing and other things for organisations who pay me for the research and writing work.

This is what happens to starving writers. Thomas Chatterton, dying in his garret. The model, oddly enough, is George Meredith, who was also a starving poet when he posed for this.
You don’t want me to die in a garret, in my snazzy blue pants, do you?

But I’d like to complete the shift to being a purely creative writer, who makes a living by selling stories I want to tell.

I’ve written a non-fiction book on bdsm, and two novels. I’ve put off the actual selling part of the writer’s job, because although I’ve sold many other products for paying customers, self-promotion doesn’t come naturally to me.

But you can help me, and it won’t cost you a cent. Please subscribe to this blog!

There’s a subscription note at the top of my right-hand sidebar. If you can’t see the sidebar, just click the Jerusalem Mortimer banner above, and it’ll appear, along with the other posts on my front page at the moment.

Fill in your email, click subscribe, and, well, that’s it. That’s all you need to do. 

I know that about 2,300 people visit my blog each week. The value of subscribing, for you, is that you get notified by email of my posts as they come out. I post four times a week, and the posts tend to tell stories, sometimes sexy, sometimes funny, sometimes both. I also write occasional information and opinion pieces, though mostly I’m a story-teller.

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Books should not be free, or there won’t be any new books that people have put hard work into.
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Your subscription helps me because it shows potential publishers that I do have an audience, and so it might be worth giving me money and sticking my writing between covers.

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Don’t do that again! 2

NOTE

This is Episode 2 of a short story. Well, it’s short by my standards: I expect it to take only three or four episodes. Episode 1 is here. Read it if you haven’t and you feel like it, then come back. 

Don’t Do That! 2

Gavain groaned. He had, indeed, spanked Cassie without her permission. He said, “I’m an idiot. I’m sorry. I mean, truly: I apologize.”

“God, you’re fish in a barrel. I was teasing you. You’re easy. Truth?”

“Ok.”

“It was mildly pleasant. It’s not one of my turn-ons, particularly, but I didn’t hate it. How, um, I suppose I should ask, how was it for you?”

“I’m not sure. I mean, your ass always feels good to me.” She looked irritated, so he corrected course.

“I don’t know,” he said. “When I had the thought about my, uh, client, I mean, when it occurred to me to spank her, I had a kind of flash, like a vision of what it’d be like. It was hot as fuck. I went, full on, this-is-awkward, unwanted erection. In about five seconds. Took ages to get it down again.”

“Did she notice?”

“Oh yeah. She laughed at me. A lot.”

“Oh, poor you.”

“God no. I was relieved. Could have been much worse.”

“I suppose. Anyway, what’s that got to do with how hot it was to spank me? Or not?”

“Because when I imagined it she was really into it. That’s what made it so hot.”

“So my reaction was… disappointing?” Cassie didn’t look sorry.

“I wasn’t sure if you hadn’t noticed, or you were putting up with it, or it was sort of okay but nothing special. So that wasn’t so hot.”

“On behalf of all womanhood, I apologize for not being a porn star. You’ll just have to put up with real girls.”

“You got a porn star’s ass. Very superior ass.”

“Huh.” But she waggled her ass, just the same.

Protocols and the experience of time

Watch and chain

A protocol is, essentially, a standing order that a dom gives to his or her sub. The sub must always carry out those protocols, even if not reminded or instructed in the moment.

An example of a protocol (not one I’d impose, because I like eye contact too much) is: “The submissive will not make eye contact with the dominant, but will look straight ahead or down when they are speaking.”

The thing about protocols is that they increase awareness for both the dom and the sub, but especially the sub, of their relationship. They extend the emotional and sexual pleasures that come from simply being dom and sub, together. 

“Caution: bdsm time will end in 18 minutes”

In practice a dom/sub couple only do very active dominant and submissive things – flogging and tying and commanding and obeying – for a small proportion of their time together.

They also have to rest, and eat, and choose entertainments, and go to work, and worry about their parents or their children and so on. Life goes on, and a lot of it is mundane. 

So, if you look at it in one way, their experience of time is that there are short intense bdsm experiences followed by long stretches of vanilla time. 

Eternity, mother of many acts and hours

Protocols act to extend bdsm consciousness into more of that dom’s and sub’s consciousness and experience of time. They give a kind of immersion experience.

Bdsm, dominance and submission, isn’t a place you occasionally go, it’s where you live. Protocols help to keep the roles alive and active even when the couple is doing mundane things. 

So, the dom may be doing the dishes, but the sub will still address him or her by their title: Sir, Ma’am, Master or Mistress. 

The submissive may have to ask for permission to enter or leave the room, if the dom is in that room. Something like that takes only a couple of seconds, and yet it suddenly makes real and palpable the reality of their relationship, and what they’ve given each other, even in an otherwise unsexy moment. It’s a miniature flash of lightning, a reminder of the connection and the tension between dom and sub.

I’ve listed some protocols I’m thinking of imposing on someone who’s new to bdsm, and is in a fairly light regime, below.

Introductory protocols

The submissive will address the dom as “sir”. 

The submissive will wear the collar given him or her by the dom, plus any other given adornment.

The submissive will wear what the dom instructs. 

The submissive will kiss the dom in greeting if they’ve been apart for longer than, oh, five minutes.

The submissive will ask permission to enter or leave the room the dominant is in. 

The submissive will respectfully remind the dom of any matters needed to ensure the sub’s continued good health and well-being.

The submission will address the dom respectfully, no matter how egregiously he or she may have just fucked up.

 

Those are my suggestions, as starting points. Any thoughts or suggestions?

Wicked Wednesday: Jennifer over the desk

Jennifer let her upper body rest on my desk, her arms reaching for the edge. She looked at me, helpless, fearful. The cane frightened her. I nodded at her. “Good girl.” 

So I got up, walked round my desk. I stood behind her, and put my hand on the desk, almost touching her hip. The school skirt had risen almost all the way to her coccyx. It barely covered the upper hem of her panties. “Feet apart, girl.”

Jennifer said, “Yes, sir.” So one part of her training had been achieved. I smiled and watched her shuffle till her thighs were open for me, feet about half a metre apart.

She knew what she was giving me. It was more than obedience. She wanted me to like what I saw. It was incoherent, but it was desire. For the first time, probably, she wanted to be make a man unable to resist her, and to be taken. 

I put my hand on her hip. Her head raised momentarily from the desk, then she subsided.

“This is the position you’ll be in where I cane you for the first time.” 

She coughed. It was hard for her to speak. She managed, “Yes, sir.” 

“So, how do you know you aren’t going to be caned now?” 

Her head shook. She hadn’t known that at all. Then she stared at my chair, thinking of what I’d said to her. “Because I’m not naked, sir?” 

“Good girl. That’s right. You’ll need to undress, before I cane you. Think of it as a formal occasion. Now, keep your head down, Jennifer. And keep still, if you don’t want to find out just how that feels.” 

Her face rested on the wooden tabletop, as fast as she could. “Yes, sir!” 

“I’m told the worst part is putting your clothes back on after you’ve been caned.”

“Ooh.” I let her think about that for a moment or two.  

“Now.” I traced my finger along upper slopes of her bottom, through her panties. “That’s where you skirt reaches, if you bend over, girl. Did you realise that?”

Her face moved, though she didn’t dare lose contact with the tabletop. Of course she’d known that. She was torn between acknowledging just how provocative she’d been. Or lying. She said, “No, I didn’t know. Sir?”

I smiled and put my hand on her pantied bottom. “You didn’t sound very certain, Jennifer. I’m going to ask you again, and you’ve got one chance to answer truthfully.”

“Sir, I’m sorry, sir! I just – I was ashamed. I didn’t want to lie. I’m sorry. I did know. I did. You can punish me if you like.”

“That’s very generous of you, girl, but you’ll find that that’s up to me. And I said you had one chance, Jennifer. In fact I’m glad to hear you’re a bad liar. But don’t do it again. Ever.”

“Oh, sir, I’m sorry. Thank you, thank you, sir.”

“Well, if you do, you know you’ll get a very sore bottom.” I flipped the skirt up, out of the way. “By the way, how’s your bottom now?”

“Oooh, sir! It’s so sore!”

I smiled. I wasn’t sure that would pass the lie test either, though I hoped there was still pink, and she could still feel it. But it didn’t matter just then. I could teach her truthfulness later.

“Hmmm. Poor girl. Would you like me to make it feel better?”

 

The threesome aftermath: standing to lose

I wrote about my first threesome here

It was one of the highlights of my life, and ever since I’ve been drawn to threesomes. But they can cost you. I know several relationships that broke up shortly after the threesome. 

When I told the story, I mentioned two clues I’d missed at the time, about what was going to happen next. The first was that Amanda had somehow developed impressive cunnilingus skills, and enthusiasm, though she was in a relationship with me, and we were supposed to be being faithful.

I’d held up my end of the deal. That doesn’t make me morally superior, by the way. It was just how it was. It’s maybe also a reason why I’ve since been less interested in sexual exclusivity. Though I’ll do that when it’s important to the girl I’m with and she’s important to me. 

The other clue I should have spotted was when Amanda kissed Miranda. I kissed Miranda like I was fond of her, and pleased she was there. Amanda kissed her as though she desperately in love with her. Which she was. 

So I organised the next night for the three of us. I’m not going to write about it, or not now, but it was every bit as hot as the first night. Hotter.

But the next time, after that second threesome, that I took Miranda to bed she was on her own, and she’d sneaked over to my place while Amanda was at a meeting.

She mentioned that she and Amanda had been fucking a lot, at Miranda’s place. She thought I knew. That hurt, not because they’d been fucking but because Amanda had been secretive. 

Anyway, we struggled along for another couple of weeks, and then Amanda moved out, into an all-women, no boys allowed, house. And Miranda slept with her most nights. 

Miranda, I think, would have preferred to be in the threesome, because she fancied both of us, and she wanted something warm and open-ended more than she wanted an obsessional love. But obsessional love has its power. I was her relief from Amanda’s intensity. Also, I had a cock, and no demands on exclusivity with her. She liked both of those things. 

But Amanda didn’t like Miranda fucking anyone but her. At the end of the year, she went to a feminist event in London. And paid for Miranda to come. I never saw Miranda again. That wasn’t so sad, I liked Miranda a lot, and I loved having sex with her, but I wasn’t in love with her. What was sad was that I only saw Amanda one more time, two years later.

I’d been in love with her, my first love, and my heart was broken. I still loved her when I saw her two years later. I passed over the things she’d left behind when she’d moved out, and stored with me when she went to London. 

And that was that. No-one was to blame. Amanda was in new love, and that made her ruthless. But that’s a human need.

Amanda had, I’m pretty sure, loved me until she switched to Miranda. I’d been the best boyfriend-of-a-feminist I knew how to be. And Miranda was just a sexy woman exploring and having fun. 

So I was left alone, with just some memories. Well, “left alone” doesn’t last long, for a guy who’d been a virtuous boyfriend, mildly and locally famous, and unattainable for the four years I was with Amanda. I learnt a lot about female sexual enthusiasm afterwards. But I stayed in love with Amanda for years. 

There’s no moral. Just, nothing is safe. Enter it with your eyes open. 

Looking back on this blog in 2016

2016 ends in a few hours, at least for me.

This is the 1,072th post on this blog. Here’s what I know about you, my readers.

Growth in readership

The stats show that the blog has been growing at a great rate. In my first year, 2012, I doubt if I had any readers at all. Well, I got comments, but my guess is that I only got a couple of 100 views.

I didn’t get a Statistics app until 2014, when I got about 10,000 views. In 2015 I got 32,000, and in 2016 I’ve had about 59,000.

I hope that trend continues: thank you to all readers!

Oh, and if you want to say hello, I’m always pleased, and always reply. Click on Contact us (“us”? It’s just me) and have your say, ask any question, or whatever you feel like!

Who reads this blog?

All I know about my readers is that most of you are in the US, followed by the UK, then Canada, then Australia. That’s not surprising, as it’s an English-language blog. But I also get a lot of hits from Germany and France, followed by the Netherlands.

I’d had readers from almost every country in the world, except for some of the small states in the middle of Africa, who may be short on internet connections and time to worry about middle-class first world people pursuing their pleasures.

And then there’s Greenland. This blog has never once had a single view from Greenland. I vow that in 2017 I will shamelessly pander to Greenland perverts! Siissisoq! Simon Lynge! Handball!

What do my readers like to read?

No matter how she tried, she couldn’t shake that damn stuff off.

The most popular post I’ve ever put up was about toothpasting a girl’s clitoris and waiting to see if she can stand still. (She can’t, and it’s only right that unfair penalties should apply when she moves.)

There were two follow up posts, also popular, here and here.

That was posted way back in 2013, and it’s still going strong. I hope one day to get a cheque from toothpaste companies, for encouraging extra sales.

The most popular post I put up in 2016 is this one, about sexual tension in Raylene’s bedroom.

The next most popular post put up in 2016 is this thought piece about the emotional connections between dom and submissive.

What that tells me is that how-to information is popular, and so is sexual material about different situations I’ve been in, over the years.

The school skirt she bought mail order. But finding a desk that looked school-y, at about the right height: that took serious shopping

The other thing I know is that schoolgirl spanking stories are very popular. I’ve done two series, both times because it was suggested or requested by a woman I was with at the time. The comments make me think that the schoolgirl fantasy is more popular with women readers than with male readers.

Though that’s just a feeling, without enough evidence to make a reliable conclusion.

Men and women readers

I also suspect, without knowing it, that a higher proportion of this blog’s readers are women than men. It’s a truism that women like wordy erotica with a lot of focus on the character’s feelings, while men go for the pictorial. So this blog’s sheer wordiness, and focus on feelings, skews its audience female.

A girl who knows better than that. (Possibly my favourite image, of all I’ve posted.)

I run pictures that mostly seem to me to be hot, but they’re not usually the point of the post. They illustrate the words rather than replacing them. So maybe sex bloggers get more female readers, while sex tumblrs attract more male eyes.

Anyway, I’m grateful to everybody of whatever gender and orientation who has ever dropped by to read me.

I hope your 2017 is far, far better than your 2016!