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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
I was working as a psychiatric nurse, in some place out in the country. The job had an alarming side, or two sides.
On the one hand, some of the patients would kill you if you gave them a chance. They were always looking for that chance, in a focussed way. You, the nurse, are thinking about other patients, about the hot nurse in the other ward, and so on. So you sometimes got close to getting killed, when they made their attempt.
There was a blind guy, for example, of immense strength, and he’d always know where you were. Unless you backtracked extremely quietly, to get out of range. Then he’d grab something like an armchair, raise it high and bring it down on the spot you’d just stepped silently back from. He could do that in one movement, terrifyingly fast, because he was, as I said, immensely strong.
On the other hand, Barbara, who was also a nurse, once spilled some of the medication she was issuing to patients onto her uniform, which was mostly polyester. And the polyester started to dissolve! I was desperate for a chance to see through her uniform – hey, I was seventeen years old – but somehow that wasn’t sexy. Not even when I put her under a tap, in case any of it got on her skin.
She was twenty, which I thought was an utterly insurmountable age gap, so I’d never set my sights on her. But later she and I were hanging out in my room, and I put on Dark Side of the Moon. When we got the opening piano chords of “Great Gig on the Sky”, she said, “That girl sounds like I do, when I’m fucking.”
I was seventeen, as I said, and my sexual history was just four girls long at that time. It should have been longer because I was a pretty boy, not that I knew that. But I had a real fear of making an Unwanted Advance, so I often held back until I was certain, when in reality I’d been signalled so hard that the girl would decide that I must not be interested. I’d missed a lot of offers.
Anyway, I decided that might be an offer, so I put an arm round her, and she leaned in to me. We sat together, listening to music and pretending that was what we were focussed on. From that moment in this story (except for about five minutes of it), I have an erection.
When Clare Torry comes in and sings, Barbs kissed me, and I kissed her back. Then we were writhing around on the floor. Barbs undid my pants, kissed my cock, and then took it in her mouth. She was the first girl who’d done that, and it was incandescently pleasurable, of course, but also an enormous relief to me.
That is, I’d been in the company of feminist friends who talked a lot about cocks as if they were nasty things, a kind of horror that men inflicted on women. And because it was obvious that sexism and patriarchy were utterly unfair and unpleasant things, I’d started to think maybe they were right about that too. So as well as the sexual pleasure, Barbs also moved me emotionally, because of the acceptance of it: she must actually really like my cock!
If I’d told her all that, she’d have thought I was nuts, I was sure, so instead I just babbled about how wonderful she was. Then, when Clare Torry was winding down, I came and she swallowed. That was amazing to me too, because my come was a body product that I tended to think of negatively.
If there wasn’t a girl, and usually there wasn’t, then I’d splat it into tissue paper, and then flush it down the toilet. So it can’t be good.
This was the first time a girl had swallowed my come, taken it into herself, and it was the first time it occurred to me that my come is a sort of essence of me, and if the girl is fond of me then she may like my come, too.
Anyway, that was at the end of Great Gig in the Sky. We got off the floor and onto my bed, where I took my clothes off and then Barbs’s. And we breathed each other’s breath, except when I was kissing her tits, and eventually I said, “That was… amazing. But you didn’t sound at all like Clare Torry.”
Barbs frowned. “Oh, she’s the girl – Wailing girl? Well, I was sort of fucking you, but you weren’t fucking me. You want those noises, you need to fuck me.”
So I put on Side 1 again. And learned that at seventeen my recovery time was: Speak to me (1′ 07″), Breathe in the air (2′ 50″), plus about a minute into “On the Run”.
But I managed to not come until she had, during “Great Gig”, and I can report that she told the truth.
“Knowledge is good.”
Claire’s husband, who was a scumbag for various reasons, had never shown much interest in her mouth or her ass. Her new lover, Will, who she hopes will want to become her Master, seems interested in all her orifices.
As he demonstrates.
It’s a hot scene 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. thinks about her ass as contemplates the
When they sped up, and were fucking hard and deep: that was the moment for Teresa, the emotional and sexual pitch she reached when she would have bitten her male.
But her face was in the pillow, and she couldn’t turn her head far enough, and the cunning bastard had tied her wrists. She shook her head wildly. She wanted to bite him, it was time to bite him, and she couldn’t reach. “Bastard!”
So Roland pulled out of her nearly all the way, the tip of his cock just outside but touching her lips, and held there. Teresa wailed, dismayed: empty. Then he smacked the side of her bottom. His own body was in the way, and he couldn’t make it as meaty a smack as he probably intended. He withdrew, ignoring the protests she made.
He gave her five more, alternating sides, so that she couldn’t ignore it: Teresa had just been spanked, like Tessa in the book he must have seen beside her bed.
That was interesting. But she needed his cock back. She arched her bottom up and shimmied, to invite him. Demand him. Being spanked might not be Teresa’s central perversity, but she couldn’t deny she’d enjoyed it. She was certain, now, that Roland had read about Tessa’s spanking and anal sex in Tessa’s Task and he knew it was her favourite one-handed read. It was something they’d have to talk about. But not now.
She arched her arse up, freshly spanked and no doubt blushing pink, demanding his attention. He took her invitation, and took her. His belly, as they slid together, felt cool against her heated skin. Bygones, she decided, were bygones.
They started the fuck again from the beginning, excruciatingly slow, slowly speeding up. This time, when they got back to the hard fast section, when Teresa was gasping and concentrating, she again started shaking her head from right to left, and she bit on the pillowcase below her face and ripped it. She made no more attempts to turn in her bonds to bite him.
And at last Teresa came, not with her words this time but like a banshee. A happy banshee on a train. When they got their breaths back she said, “Oooh, you bastard.”
But she knew that didn’t sound convincing. She was too happy.