Claire is on her knees with Will’s cock in her mouth, very focused on her task. Then Maddie enters the room. Claire’s never been watched, in that position, before. After a second’s shock, she begins to find something deliciously humbling in that service and its audience.
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.
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.
The end of the caning. I’m quite proud of those closely spaced marks, and the story they tell.
But I like the combination of those hot stripes and the warmer blush surrounding them, and the warmth of the light. Which was more luck, for me as photographer, than good management. But warmth, in every sense, is right.
Photo courtesy of Floss Does Life
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Sensual Indulgence, Familiar and New
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Teaching (from) the bottom (part 1)
An Intro to Ethical Cum Tributes
What is Dominance?
Reader Q&A: Femdom Podcast 105 [w transcript]
Unmentionable Lifestyle
In the wild
Laughter, The Best Aphrodisiac
I Hate Bullies!
Devilish Threesome Fun
Cumming Awake
Flying Chaste
How Taking Nudes Taught Me To Love Myself
Guest post: Trans access to abortion
Milky Way
More Than Friends Prologue
Desperate
Twisted ~ Into The Woods ~ Lana’s Story
A Gift to the Gods
A New Fetish
Coitus Interruptus Vampyr
Making herself available
Smut Marathon – Round 4 Thoughts
A True Friend
Trust your landmark and run through the smoke
I’m not interested.
I’ve written two novels, and one day will write the third in the trilogy, about a probation officer who spanks and then fucks one of his clients. In the novel he is fired, and decides he should never again work with clients. Other complicated things happen.
I’ve been a probation officer. But I’ve never fucked, or spanked, one of my clients. Though I did meet one client after she’d finished doing probation and I wasn’t a probation officer any more. We had sex, as we’d wanted to do since we first met, and the conversation we had in the morning about our mutual attraction is part of why that series of novels exists.
This is the other source. I had a client, a girl of eighteen (I was a boy of 21) who kept getting arrested for absurdly trivial offences. She was a Pacific Islander, and impossibly pretty, with huge eyes and a beautiful mouth and – when she wasn’t in a probation office – enough vivacity to power the planet.
It was obvious that the cops were gunning for her. A bit of investigation established that one cop in particular wanted her in jail, where he could rape her. That’s how the system worked.
So I was preparing a case against him. She didn’t trust a white guy involved in what she saw as law enforcement, so it was always hard getting information out of her, and she never really listened to the things I said to her.
Anyway, I was a probation officer as part of my degree in social work. It was a practical part of the course, called a “placement.” And my supervisor went round visiting all the students doing placements.
He was as abrupt and challenging as he knew how to be, and said I should be doing more to make a difference.
I later learned that this was how he was approaching everyone, to see how they’d react, but I didn’t know it at the time. I was quite badly shaken. Then he took us out to lunch, where wine was served.
My first client interview after that lunch was this girl. As usual, she sat, mostly looking at the floor, while I tried to tell her how to avoid getting arrested, and to report police harassment. We were getting nowhere.
Finally – my shaken state of mind, and the wine drove this attempt – I told her how frustrating this was. I said I wasn’t part of the law enforcement system; I was doing my best to keep it off her. I said we should know more about each other, and then we should actually talk. She glanced at me briefly and went back to staring at the carpet.
I had the urge, very strongly, to use a particular tone of voice and tell her to Come here! And I’d make her pay attention to what I wanted her know about how to handle cops without getting arrested, and why she shouldn’t let her arrest record get any longer. And of course she was very pretty, and I’d learned that, though I couldn’t see it myself, I was a pretty boy; it wasn’t hard to imagine what would quite probably happen after that attention-getting spanking.
I realised I was being, from her point of view, as bad as the cops. If I did what I’d just imagined I’d be far, far worse than them.
So I finished, kind of lamely, “But that’s up to you, of course.”
And so I stood at the door of some very bad things. And I shut that fucking door.
I’m not sure how near a miss it was. The urge was very powerful. My brain knew me well enough to couch it in terms of being real and doing good. But I knew I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I actually did anything of the sort. Even in a more than slightly fucked-up state of mind that was stronger. Thank fuck for that.
PS:
I got the Probation Service to warn the cops, which knocked the harassment on the head. For her, at least.
I should say I don’t want or expect any applause for resisting an obviously nasty and destructive impulse. Nor do I think I deserve much condemnation for having an evil impulse. No one has a spotless mind. It’s what you do about its worst impulses that counts.
Claire reflects on loneliness, and the joy of being found. Then she sinks to her knees and opens her mouth.
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.
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.
In the last two posts, here and here, Arethusa has been waiting for punishment, for skipping two doctor’s appointments.
In this photo the punishment has finally begun. There are many strokes to go, but the commencement of a promised caning, especially when it’s deserved, is a relief.
Of course there is pain, and more to come. But pain also wipes the slate clean. The fault is paid for, and she can forgive herself, and know that she is forgiven.
Life begins afresh.
PS: I love those cane marks. They look like kisses in her flesh, which in a sense is what they were.
When I was seventeen I was a psychiatric nurse. The psychiatric hospital, Queens Throne, was in the countryside, far from anywhere. But that afternoon my face was about three inches from Ellen Quantum’s cunt, so I knew where I was.
She was teaching me cunnilingus. We’d fucked twice in the last hour, so I was finally calm enough to consider other pleasures, and I was extremely willing to learn. At her instruction I slipped my hands under her ass, and lowered my lips and tongue to her cunt, nose more or less pressed against her clitoris.
She put her hand in my hair, and made sweet noises that told me I was on the right track.
But even with her thighs pressed against my ears I heard the sharp rap at the door. “Inspection!” Someone had run along the corridor to warn the nurses.
Ellen said, “Oh shit! Bastards!” My tongue was busy. She pulled me off her.
It was against the rules for a woman to have a man in her room, in the Womens Block of the Nurse’s Residence. We’d be expelled from the residence. I had a motorbike and could live somewhere else. But Ellen had no transport, and there was no accommodation near the hospital. She’d have to give up her career.
So I pulled on my jeans and tshirt, and shoved my socks and underpants in my pocket while she hid my shoes. But when I reached her door I heard a man’s voice, officious, shouty. He and his entourage were already in the corridor, opening every door.
So I went to the window and threw it open. There was a drainpipe about a metre away. We were three floors up. Ellen said, “That’s crazy! You’ll be killed!”
But nobody says that to a seventeen-year old boy, not if they want him not to do something. I swung myself out, stood on her ledge, and jumped the last metre to the drainpipe. I caught it, and it supported me. I climbed down.
An inspector realised someone had made an unorthodox exit, ran down and shouted, “Stop!” But I was gone.
I saved Ellen’s career, but though I liked her, that wasn’t love.
But word of the Great Leap Downward got around, and the younger nurses approved. Female approval, especially sexual approval, was still fairly new for me, and it taught me what I did love. I loved women, and fucking, and cunts.
Claire takes off her shirt and bra, and holds her hands out to be strapped. She hopes he likes her breasts. And her obedience. But Will raises the strap, and lets her wait, unsmiling.
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.
