Masturbation Monday: What we both want

Posted on September 24, 2019 by jaime

“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

Posted on September 22, 2019 by jaime

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

Posted on September 21, 2019 by jaime

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

Wicked Wednesday: She squealed sweetly

Posted on September 19, 2019 by jaime

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

Posted on September 17, 2019 by jaime

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

Posted on September 15, 2019 by jaime

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

Posted on September 15, 2019 by jaime

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.

Wicked Wednesday: House of Pleasure

Posted on September 12, 2019 by jaime

Note

We’re taking a short break from the story in which Claire, with enthusiastic support from Maddie, is getting the cane in the office of our headmaster, in a novel approach to parent-teacher relations. But this is from some thing else I’ve been working on, and I thought you might like it. Continued next week!

House of Pleasure

While Kerem and I were talking something strange happened. A group of six women emerged from the stairs that led to the two stories above the terrace we sat at. They looked at us. A short, plump girl with a cheerful face and a snub nose stared quite openly at me. For the first time since my wife had died I found myself responding to a woman. It wasn’t that she was pretty, though she was. It was something about her attitude. Then the women bowed at us, gravely as men would, but mocking us, and left. There was laughter from the stairs, as they departed.

I stared after them in wonder, then looked at him. Kerem said, “Bran, that girl liked you. You’re exotic. And perhaps she recognised a rogue.”

“When I said I’d only been to a brothel in San Francisco, that wasn’t true, was it? It seems I’ve also come to one in Baku.”

Kerem smiled. We finished the champagne. “You’ve had a long journey. You’ll have no opportunities to exchange civilities with women where you’re going. So, when I go upstairs in a moment, I’d encourage you to come with me. You’d disappoint the snub-nosed girl if you chose someone else, but I’m sure she’d not grieve overmuch. Imran does not charge my family, or their guests.”

“If I do go up those stairs, what do I say, in the local tongue, to tell a girl she’s pretty?”

He shook his head and laughed, staring at the table. “I’m sure you’ll think of ways. There’s a universal language, and I expect you know it well enough.” He stood up. “Come.”

So I followed Kerem, climbing to a room with six beauties, not naked but wearing considerably less than on the terrace. It was a pretty place, not just because of them. There were paintings and tapestries of beautiful places and women, flowers growing and even a small fountain, though we were well above the ground. The air was cool and smelled of jasmine.

Kerem departed discreetly with a beautiful girl, who I guessed was Russian. They seemed to know and like each other well. The girl who had eyed me let her shawl fall away, partly, from her breasts. She smiled, complacently. So I pointed at myself, looking at another girl, paler, more slender, probably more beautiful. I said “Bran,” then looked interrogatively at her.

“Ruxana,” she said, smiling. My complacent girl scowled.

Then I took my complacent girl’s wrist. She stood immediately, and squirmed against me. I kissed her and she kissed me back. I’d heard that the whores of Europe don’t allow paying men to kiss them, but that rule seemed to hold no sway here. We broke the kiss, and stepped back. She put her forefinger between her breasts and said, “Nana.” Then she looked up at me, laughter glinting in her eyes. “Bran.”

So we left together. At the last second before we left that room I caught Ruxana’s eye. Whether she was playacting or not, her regret seemed real. So I said, “Ruxana,” and she joined us. Nana rolled her eyes but led the way.

The room Nana took us to was large, with an enormous bed, am armchair and a padded table with a hole in it, whose use escapes me to this day. Even if we’d had a common language I wouldn’t have wasted time by asking.

Nana and Ruxana undressed and stood facing me, striking an elegant pose, then both turned around and bowed slightly, so I could admire their bottoms. I admired all of them very much.

They approached and undressed me then, and both knelt and kissed the visible sign of my admiration.

Nana stayed on her knees, occasionally taking me into her mouth while Ruxana took a basin of scented, oiled water, a brush and many towels, and began to wash me. I thanked the gods that I had washed myself vigorously in the hamman the previous evening, but Ruxana was even more thorough.

Masturbation Monday: That’s what you’re into

Posted on September 9, 2019 by jaime

Roland said, “Ah, the creatures of the night, such music they make.” He meant the vocal, enthusiastic racket she’d made while being fucked by a bastard.

“All right. You’re not a bastard, then. You’re a wanker.” But Teresa meant that with affection, and anyway he seemed to agree with her.

When he’d untied her and they could sit facing each other, she said, “You spanked me.”

She tried to make it sound as if she were making a terrible accusation.

She wondered if she’d managed to keep all trace of appreciation out of her voice.

He said, “You were teasing me. And it moved things along.”

“No. You enjoyed it. Your cock got hard – harder! – when you smacked my arse. You like to spank girls. That’s what you’re into. And you tied me up.”

“I tied your wrists. And I did ask you if you wanted it, first. You wanted. And you’ve got a lovely arse. So, yes, absolutely I enjoyed spanking you. Unless you tell me not to, I’m pretty sure I will again.”

He stopped and waited for her to speak. Teresa said nothing.

She was being asked to give an important kind of consent. It should be a solemn moment. Those smacks on her bottom had felt good. They brought a kind of satisfaction, reaching a part of her that she’d almost given up on. But she wasn’t going to explicitly ask him to spank her. Pride ruled that out. Nor was she going to tell him not to. As the silence stretched on he looked more serious, and then slightly worried. It was important to him, too. At last she laughed at him, but still said nothing.

He said, “Noted. I’m taking that as consent, unless you tell me otherwise?” He left another pause. Teresa poked him in the stomach. “All right. Consent taken, and you’ll pay for that. But it wasn’t getting spanked that upset you. It was not being able to bite me.”

“Yeah. I like your blood.”

“I’m sure my blood’s very nice. But I like it inside my skin. It’s tidier.”

“It’s a brilliant colour. Like passion. And it’s full of life.”

“Yeah, I can see all that. But you like it … a little more than most. More than you said when you said you weren’t like those other Real Vampires.”

Sinful Sunday: Palimpsest

Posted on September 8, 2019 by jaime

A palimpsest is a scroll or page, anyway a writing surface, on which older writing has been covered over by new writing placed over it.

Or, if you’re a slavegirl and you’ve misbehaved seriously, three times in one week, you finish up with your ass and thighs looking like this.

And though it might look like damage to someone who doesn’t know how good that feels, the lust and the love behind it, it’s a sight that makes you smile, whenever you happen to catch sight of your ass in a mirror.