Tag Archives: D/s

Erotic Fiction Redux: Open Me

About three years ago, I had a story called “Open Me” published at a now defunct site called The Erotic Woman. Recently, a lovely reader let me know that the link to “Open Me” no longer exists (neither does The Erotic Woman). He then asked if I might have a copy of it somewhere and,as luck would have it, I did.

“Open Me” is a pretty old story about an exhausted tax auditor and the woman whose suitcase he grabs by mistake. Hijinks ensue (as they always do) involving a pair of expensive lace panties and our hero’s camera phone.

I wrote “Open Me” when I was still cutting my teeth on erotica, so it’s a bit rough around the edges. Still, it’s a fun romp and one of the first pieces I ever wrote featuring a female dominant. I’m reposting it without any edits or improvements so forgive its (many) flaws. If nothing else, I hope it’s good for a laugh.

“Open Me” by Malin James

Vintage pinup wearing black lingerie and talking on the phone for erotic fiction Open Me by Malin JamesThe day Will flew home to New York, (which was, incidentally, two days before he was supposed to fly back out), he felt more than gritty. He felt more than tired. He felt existentially exhausted. His life, his career and his prospects were not where he’d hoped they would be. Even his sex life was stale. He was in and out of town too routinely to engage anyone but a call girl. Even that had become it’s own under-whelming routine.

Will stood listlessly at the baggage carousel, barely paying attention as bag after bag lumbered past. Black with wheels…blue with wheels…fucking ugly tapestry…golf clubs…battered gray. Will’s hand shot out. That was his—battered gray with wheels. He hauled it off the conveyor belt and rolled it out the door, right into a wall of rain.

“Fuck.”

Feeling put upon and victimized, Will hauled his luggage away back into the terminal. He kept a small umbrella inside his suitcase. He’d have to dig it out. Sitting down on a flimsy chair in a bank of flimsy chairs, Will flipped open the lid. That’s when he realized that he’d snagged the wrong bag.

Rather than a pile of stale shirts and boxers, the case was full of silk and wool…all of which smelled amazing. The case’s owner must smell fucking amazing. Resting on top of that amazing smelling stuff sat a broad, flat box. Hanging off the side from a silver bow was a tag that read, “Open Me.”

For reasons unknown even to himself, Will’s cock stirred with the first hints of real, spontaneous sexual interest that he’d felt in weeks. He wanted to follow the box’s instructions. He wanted to open it. Without even realizing he was doing it, Will pulled at the silver bow.

“So, not only did you take the wrong suitcase, but you opened it and prowled through my things….”

Will snatched his hand back before looking up. Then he looked up some more. The owner of the voice, which was female and sexy in a Marlboro kind of way, was tall. Really tall. And extremely comfortable cocking her hip in a pair of stack-heeled boots. Will’s eyes traveled up her extravagant length of leg, which was covered by a pair of snug black jeans. Craning his neck like a supplicant, Will tried to see her face. It was pretty but not remarkable. He’d seen prettier faces, but none with so much natural self-possession. That’s what flustered him. The woman was a force.

Feeling like an idiot, Will stood up. The woman raised her brow. Uncomfortably, he stood his ground.

“I’m, uh. I’m sorry. I was distracted,” he said, adjusting his suit jacket to hide his sudden erection. The woman grinned.

“Don’t bother, cowboy. I can see what you’re packing.”

“Uh. Right. Okay. So…you want your suitcase back.”

“Of course. But first, you owe me for poking around.”

She crossed her arms over chest. Will looked at her. She was serious. Really serious. But her eyes crinkled around the edges, as if she were laughing…at him. Will straightened his back.

“Uh, I don’t think—”

“Open it,” she said, indicating the box with the silver bow.

Will hesitated.

“Open it. Now.”

“Yeah. Okay, sure.”

Will pulled at the ribbon, feeling like a Neanderthal as he tugged the delicate bow. Holding the box in one hand, he set aside the top. Then he parted a layer of tissue, revealing a wardrobe of delicate lace panties. Will flushed, unable to look at the woman.

“Take the first pair off the top. Then put everything back the way you found it,” she said.

“Without thinking to question her, Will did was told. When he was done, she plucked the box out of his hand and tucked it back into her suitcase. Then she looked at Will.

“Those were meant for my girlfriend,” she said, indicating the scrap of ivory lace Will held in his hand. “But you get to have them instead.”

Will flushed harder. “I couldn’t, I mean—”

“Stop. You’re going to take those very expensive lace panties home, and when you get there, you’re going to check your email. Now, give me your card.”

“I don’t have a card.”

The woman gave him the most skeptical look Will had ever seen. Any more skeptical and she’d have been a cartoon.

“Yes, you do. Look at you,” she said, waving her hand at his rumpled suit. “Of course you have a card.”

Will handed her his card. He had no idea why he was doing what she said, but he felt compelled. And he was curious…or rather, his cock was curious. His cock could sense an adventure a mile away and it was ready to go, like a dog cooped up in the house too long.

The woman took his card, glanced at it and then put it in her pocket.

“Okay, Will O’Neil. Check your email. Since this is New York and I don’t know where you live, I’ll give you two hours.”

The woman threw him a wicked grin. Then she picked up her suitcase and rolled away.

 

By the time Will got home, the panties were burning a hole in his pocket. All through the drive he’d felt them—soft and gauzy, made from the kind of lace you’re almost afraid to touch. Briefly, Will considered jerking off, but the fact that he was so insanely turned on, (and that it had nothing to do with what a call girl was charging him to do), felt too good to cut short, so he pulled out his laptop instead. Five minutes to go. Will’s cock strained a bit in his pants. Fuck it, he thought. Ignoring his nervousness, Will logged in.

At the top of depressingly thick stack of work related nonsense was an email whose subject was Open Me. Clearing his throat for no one but himself, Will did as the email said.

Welcome home, Will O’Neil. Take the panties I gave you and put them on. Yes, on you. Then take a picture of yourself masturbating. No face—I’m not trying to ruin your life. When you’re done, send me the picture from a non-work account. You’ve got thirty minutes. –K

Will read through the message twice more. Then he slowly shut the lid. It was bullshit, really. There were no consequences. After all, the worst thing she could do was email him again…and yet. He was tempted. Really tempted. By now, his dick was straining miserably against the zipper of his pants. He was clearly going to jerk off, and if he was going to jerk off, he might as well do as K asked. Or said. Or commanded. Or…whatever. At any rate, he was going to do it. A thrill of arousal ran through his body as he pulled the panties out. Goddamn, he thought. They were small.

Will stripped down to his boxers, and then kicked them off so that he was standing, naked, in the middle of the room. Then he slid the panties on, stretching the lace as he drew them up over his thighs. They barely covered his dick. In fact, there was so little to them that his cockhead jutted up out of the waistband, which was, granted, cut pretty low. He knew he looked ridiculous. He knew he should feel humiliated. But all he felt was aroused.

Walking gingerly, so as not to fall out, Will headed to the couch. He set up the timer on his cellphone’s camera and sat down, spreading his legs wide. If he was going to do this thing he might as well do it right. Angling towards the camera, he tried to ensure the best view. Then he began touching himself through the lace. He began gently—he didn’t want to rip the panties or mess them up somehow. But the more he stroked, the better it felt, and the better it felt, the rougher he got. Finally, hungry and frustrated, he pushed the panties aside, so that, while he was still wearing them, his dick was free. Then Will laid back, enjoying full access to his shaft while feeling the rub of the lace against the base of his cock. Cupping his balls and fingering the panties with one hand, Will pumped harder, pausing only to spit into his palm before picking the rhythm back up. Distantly, he saw the flash go off as his phone took a picture of him, and it pushed him over the edge. With a final thrust, Will lifted his hips and came, milking himself as he shot all over his belly and chest.

For a second, Will just lay there, panting and smiling, fighting back laugh. He was a grown man wearing panties, and he was fucking satisfied. Somewhat reluctantly, Will stripped them off. Despite the rough treatment, they were in surprisingly good shape. Immensely pleased with himself, Will got up to check the photo on his phone.

There he was – back arched, hips thrust, legs open wide. The ivory lace looked delicate and sweet next to the meaty length of his cock. Will’s dick stirred. He smiled. Then he titled the email Open Me, attached the picture, and hit send.

Flash Fiction: Cut

Black and white nude of a woman with a long braid down her back by Jeanloup Sieff for Flash Fiction: Cut by Malin James

Photograph by Jeanloup Sieff

They’ve played with knives before – sliced through rope and tape. Her second favorite bra. Blade on her clit. Blade on his cock. Pressure. Testing. Implication. Never a cut though. Never quite a cut….

But they’ve talked about it. They’ve talked a lot.

“Would you really let me cut you?”

She asks again one night. They’ve fucked each other senseless and she’s tucked in his arms, lulled by the scent of his skin.

He’s quiet. She waitsthe answer in his pulse.

“Yes,” he finally says. She feels it land, like a penny in her palm. Yes,” he says again. “But don’t fuck around.”

She nods, keen and bright as a fox.

“Of course. You know I won’t.”

The knife they usually play with is in a drawer by the bed, but she doesn’t get that knife. Instead, she goes to the bathroom. The straight razor is old, perfect and old, made when things were meant to last. It unfolds in her hand like a memory…gnarled hands, lather, a boar bristle brush…. This razor has a history. It’s touched a lot of skin. Now, it’s going to touch more.

He props himself up on his elbows when she comes back in. The razor is folded, snug and safe, like a slender bird sleeping in her palm.

“Tape,” he asks.

“No.”

She knows he won’t like it – he’d rather be restrained. It’s so much easier when you pretend there’s no choice. But she likes him unbound and he knows it. He knows and he’ll do it for her.

He nods. Her eyes soften. She straddles him and pins his arms wide. Her own Vitruvian Man.

“Thank you,” she murmurs. “Keep your arms here. Now, be very still.”

His hands look relaxed but they’re not. She can tell. But he’ll keep them where they are. It’s a matter of principle. She’s done the same for him. She’s done it before, and she’ll do it again. But not tonight. Tonight is for her, and the razor waits in the pocket of her palm.

He stretches out beneath her, all angles and shadows, like a poster for a film. Beautiful, she thinks. Her belly is tight as she moves down his body dropping a kiss on every rib.

One. Two. Three. Four… 

She stops and nuzzles his skin. This is where, she thinks. She traces his ribs with her fingertips before pressing her tongue between two. Then, she slowly opens the blade. It settles in her hand. A fine, familiar weight.

Ripples under his skin though his body barely moves. There is no playfulness, no showmanship, no levity in her now. Afterwards she’ll smile and laugh with him, but for now, she’s blank and calm. For now, she’s holding a razor like a natural part of her hand.

On either side of his body, his fingers tremble.

Fuck. Get on with it.

She ignores his impatience and touches the blade to the tender place she’d kissed, waiting for it to breach his skin. And then it does and his skin isn’t skin anymore. It’s the silk and thread and rope.

He flinches and stills, palms flat against the sheets while her steady hand guides the edge along his rib. Once inch…two…and then it’s time to stop. She blinks as her focus widens back out. Then she sits up, resting her cunt against his cock while she folds and locks the blade.

Nothing at first. His skin looks untouched. But then blood wells up, almost black in the darkness, darker than red should be. She looks at him. He looks at her. They’ve talked about this too. He nods. She smiles and presses her tongue to the wound.

It tastes like salted metal, like blood should taste, but better because it’s his. But the cut is shallow and there isn’t much, so she worries it with her tongue, lapping and pressing and sucking up what his body naturally gives. She’s soaked and sliding over him when she sinks down on his cock.

Her hands clamp over his as he starts to thrust, pinning him with her weight. Then she kisses the wound. When she comes, her mouth is red, red and full of him.

They rest afterward, his hand in her hair. Her lips are red as berries but her teeth are shining white. She smiles against his skin.

“Next time, it’s your turn.”

 

 

On Submission, Strong Women & The High Alpha Male

Black and white of a woman wearing black boots and ball and chain by Ellen von Unswerth for On Submission, Strong Women and The High Alpha by Malin James

Ellen von Unwerth, from Revenge

I had a brief conversation the other day that got me thinking. I’m going to paraphrase chunks of the exchange rather than quote directly (because consent), but I’ll stick as close to the original as I ethically can.

So, here’s the opener:

Hi Malin. As a high-alpha male, I appreciate strong women. Dominant women are a rare challenge. I love your work – it gives me a lot of insight into how strong women tick. 

Given my initial response, the smart thing to do would’ve been to ignore it and move on. Unfortunately, those three sentences annoyed the fuck out of me so I responded with this:

A rare challenge…interesting. Care to unpack that?

Here’s his response:

Sure! For alpha males there’s nothing as exciting as an alpha female. Alpha females handle themselves, which is great (and rare with women in my experience, IMHO), but even more exciting is the challenge I mentioned. When a strong woman breaks and submits to you, that’s the biggest high you can get as a Dom. All women, alpha or not, want to submit to a strong man and being the only man that an alpha female submits to is a fucking high.

So…setting my visceral response aside, what he’s essentially talking about is a fetish for strong women. That, in and of itself, isn’t a bad thing. Strong women rock in all kinds of ways because there are all kinds of ways in which women are strong. Where it goes wrong for me is in why he appears to fetishize a particular kind of female strength.

He doesn’t love strong women because he thinks strong women are interesting. He doesn’t love strong women because he wants to submit to a worthy Domme. He doesn’t even love strong women because he thinks an alpha female is the only kind of woman who can match his “high alpha” self. He loves strong women because they’re a challenge.

Let me rephrase that. He loves strong women because making a strong woman “break and submit” to him is a challenge.

The attraction isn’t in the woman. It’s in a narcissistic fetish for a certain kind of power. He wants to be the very special, uber-alpha male who breaks an unbreakable woman and makes her submit. He’s not fetishizing her strength, he’s fetishizing the idea of being the only one who can strip her of it.

Needless to say, I’ve got a few issues with this. The first is that it devalues the actual submission of actual female subs (many of whom are fucking bad-asses). The second is that it makes the “strong woman” in question a challenge (ie: a thing to surmount) rather than a person, and any view that reflexively turns a person into something other than a person is pretty much a no-go for me. The third is that this appreciation for strong women is entirely ego driven. Here’s what I mean….

If you work from the stated assumption that “all women, alpha or not, want to submit to a strong man” (*eye roll*), you get the implication underlying the attraction –  that any guy can make a submissive woman submit because women are, by nature, submissive. It takes a “high alpha male” to break the “rare” dominant woman.

That particular appreciation for female strength has nothing to do with respect or actual, you know, appreciation. It’s a purely reflective thing – the value of her strength is in how brightly it highlights his.

Full disclosure: I have a button here. Though I’m not a Domme, I am naturally dominant with a wide streak of  don’t-tell-me-what-to-fucking-do. I’ve written about how my natural dominance attracted an ex who was, to put it bluntly, a diagnosed sociopath who loved me best when I was needy (“but only for him”) and who wanted to “crush me and break me and make me his”. (Direct quote. Fuck it).

That’s not to say that this gentleman is a sociopath. To be honest, I don’t think he really understood what he was saying. It just rubbed my fur backwards and, once I got over my initial annoyance, I didn’t like how it unpacked.

Essentially, this kind of attraction turns a very specific form of female strength into fetishized commodity while dismissing all the other ways in which women are strong. In other words, it turns female dominance into a kind of drug that makes a certain kind of man feel special. It has nothing to do with the woman or her dynamic with that man. It has to do with the ego boost that comes from fucking her in a particular way.

It also turns the “rare” alpha-female one of two things:

  1. a disposable experience, or
  2. a possession to groom and keep.

Either way, it’s no good. Every woman does not crave submission, and those that do should have autonomy within their submission. Anything else falls back on a cultural mode that normalized a husband’s right to spank his wife for failing to make the perfect pot roast.

In the end, there’s a fundamental difference between spanking Lara Croft and spanking Lara Croft’s alpha female glory to the breaking point. The spanking isn’t the issue – it’s the motives behind it that makes the difference between awesome and toxic. If a dominant woman (or man) trusts you enough to submit to you, even if only for a night, that should speak to the connection and trust between you, not to your prowess as an alpha.

Fetishize power in a partner. Revel in it. Love strong women. Love strong men. Just don’t turn whatever happens into proof of your Domminess. Don’t fetishize the ego boost that comes with “breaking” someone you perceive to be strong. Sex and submission aren’t about how alpha you are. They’re about feeding off each other’s strengths – that’s the real fucking high.

NB: I realized after I posted this that I should clarify some terminology as usage in that conversation got fairly muddy.

“Alpha male” and “alpha female” don’t equate to Dom and Domme (or sadist or top). All alpha means it that someone has what might be called a dominant personality. Some alphas have personalities that are more dominant than others, as do some betas, etc. All dominant people are not alpha, nor are all alphas dominant.

Alpha, dominant and Dom are often equated in casual conversation, which is fine insofar as it goes. It’s just important to acknowledge that a person’s alignment in social hierarchies may differ than their (natural or chosen) position in sexual power dynamics.

As for the term “strong women”, it most definitely does not apply exclusively to dominant women or alpha females. Some of the strongest women I know are subs. Sexual wiring has little, if any, bearing on a woman’s integrity, resilience or strength.

Erotic Fiction: Bel, Cal & A Girl Named Claire

Black and white photograph of two women standing while a man sits and watches them for Bel and Cal by Malin James

Photograph by Marco Sanges

“Do we have a plan?”

“No. Let’s see what we draw.”

Bel and Cal saunter away from the bar, loosely holding hands. They are easy together, and comfortable. Very well matched.

Cal sees her first, the adorable girl with librarian specs and a pretty mouse face. They’ve seen her before and exchanged the odd smile, but he can’t remember her name. Still, he likes the look of her dark, deliberate frames. They punctuate her face.

Cal squeezes Bel’s hand. She squeezes his back and waves.

“You’re Claire, right? Good to see you!”

“Isobel? Yeah, you too!”

Claire. The girl’s name is Claire. Cal comes up behind Isobel, itching to slide his hand beneath her dress. He loves that Bel remembers names…. He also loves that her thighs are probably soaked. Cal pulls her close but avoids her hemline. Then he smiles at Claire.

“How are you, gorgeous? Here with anyone?”

Claire laughs and shakes her head.

“I’m on my own tonight.”

Bel leans back against his chest.

“Really? Well, then, let us buy you a drink.”

Bel and Claire drift to a quiet spot. Cal follows carrying drinks. Bel throws him a look over her shoulder. Cal’s pulse thumps. He knows what that look means.

“Get on your knees.”

Claire jumps and starts to kneel. Isobel stops her, gently.

“Not you. Cal.”

Claire straightens. Cal shakes his head and kneels. Isobel grins.

“Let’s get comfortable, Claire.”

Claire and Isobel sit on a low, velvet couch right in front of Cal.

“Take out your cock and get hard for us.”

Cal’s already hard, and he knows that Bel knows it. He makes a teasing little show of unzipping his fly. Then he spreads his legs wider and pulls his cock out.

“Oh, my god.”

He smirks even as Claire’s reaction makes him blush. Isobel smiles like a wicked fairy queen. She loves it when he blushes. He looks from one to the other. Then he licks his palm, and wraps his hand around his cock. Isobel watches and reaches for Claire.

“Keep going. Don’t stop. And babe? Don’t come.”

He meets Bel’s eyes, honestly annoyed, but she winks at him and he nods. Then she kisses Claire.

Cal loves watching her. He can see what she’s thinking in the angle of her head. He can tell by the way they’re kissing that Claire is milky sweet, like strawberries and cream…. Cal grips his cock with both hands. Isobel thinks of women in terms of desserts—custards, chocolates, soft, ripe fruit. Men bring out her carnivorous side—red meat, red wine, salty, rich. Bel devours men. She drinks women in delicate sips.

Bel fingers Claire deep and slow. Claire angles so she can do the same to Bel. They’re pretty like that, fair and dark, coiled like a shell. Cal knows how plump and wet Bel is. He knows exactly what Claire is feeling with her hand up Bel’s skirt. He wishes his hands were Claire’s hands. He wishes his hands were Bel’s.

When Bel looks at him, her eyes are bright and glazed. Cal thrusts into his fist. He imagines Isobel sucking Claire’s tits. He imagines Claire sucking his cock. He imagines limbs and mouths and sweaty skin. And he knows if he doesn’t stop, he’s going to come.

Isobel pushes Claire back onto the couch and yanks aside her dress. Their hands bump and their hips grind. Bel fills her mouth with Claire’s milky sweet tits, and sucks until the girl comes. Claire is shaking beneath her, gasping and mewling like a rabbit in a trap. Bel tips her head back and rides out Claire’s climax almost as much as her own.

Cal watches their movements slow like melting glass. Isobel opens her eyes.

“How close are you, love?”

“Really, really close.”

“Then stop. There’s a lot of evening left. Let’s see what we draw.”

 

To read more Wicked Wednesday, click below.

Screen Shot 2015-03-18 at 10.36.51 AM

 

 

 

And for more Kink of the Week, click those pretty lips.

Erotic Fiction: Slow Burn

“Come closer.”

I lie back on your bed, curled up in the nest of your rumpled, blue duvet.

I’m naked. I love being naked with you, in your bed, where my body feels soft and silky, like a celluloid princess in a silent film. But I’m not a princess. Nor am I silent…not that I can’t be quiet as a mouse. I just don’t want to be. Silent. There is too much joy in your weight between my legs; and in the way my body feels fitted into yours.

You come closer to the edge of the bed. There isn’t much room, but now you’re squarely in front of the window, which is where I want you to be.

“Strip for me.”

You flush. You’re still cold from your run to the store. I imagine dark heat spreading through your cells, and seeping into your skin. We’ve done this before—the stripping. But your sloping shoulders seem bashful. So does the curl of your hand, as if you’re surprised that I want this from you…. But you do strip, meeting my eyes the whole time once your shirt is off.

“Slower,” I say.

I’m teasing you now and you know it. You’re already going slow. But you comply and go slower as your lips pull up to one side. You’re going to tease me back. You slow down even more. But I love it. I love the frustration and the time it gives me to watch your body move. And all the while, your eyes stay on mine, focused, very precisely, on me, and on us, and on the game we’re playing now.

You’re already hard when you take your pants off. I knew you would be—we’ve been playing all day and you’ve already fucked me twice. Once, slow and sweet, like spoons in a drawer with your arms wrapped around me and my hands clutched in yours. The second was  hard and fast, up against the counter after breakfast and tea. I was still soaking wet after the first time. I’m soaking wet right now.

Being around you makes me wet—your quick solidity; how small and strong you make me feel; your scent; our skin. I love the way we fuck. I love the noises you make when you come. I love the noises you make when you don’t. Since we woke up, I’ve come, in great, hazy waves, more times than I can count. You have not. You haven’t come at all because we’re playing a game and you won’t until I say.

I open my legs, half snuggled into your bed. My cunt feels soft and warm when I slip my fingers in. You watch me. You know what we’re doing. I don’t have to say. But you wait for me anyway.

“Lick your palm and stroke your cock.”

You do, eyes still on mine. My fingers slide over my cunt without my having to try. My body wants to be filled. It’s sucking at my fingers as I drag them out and push them slowly in.

My legs drop open even more. You pause and take a step.

“No,” I say. “Don’t touch me. Slide your hand up and down your beautiful, fucking cock and think about how good it would feel to be fucking me instead.”

I think about us when I get myself off. I think about us so often that it’s natural, even now, despite the fact that you’re less than a foot away. And all the while, your eyes are on mine. Your eyes bring me closer in ways that my hand alone never does….

I lie back and arch my hips, bringing my cunt up to your cock, as close as I can without blocking our hands. I want to keep the hard, thick pull of wanting you this bad. But I come, and I cry out as I do, a guttural, not-beautiful sound. And then I come again.

You’re sweating and your face is flushed, not cold anymore; I smile up at you and you smiled down at me. We are co-conspirators. You know what we’re doing. I don’t have to say. But you wait for me all the same.

“Don’t you fucking come.”

It’s a slow, slow burn.

Thank you to Exhibit A for the use of the words-fail-me, (very) inspirational image.

And if you haven’t read Exhibit A’s work, you should. The man is much more than just a pretty…em…face. He’s brilliant and his erotic fiction and sex writing are some of the best I know. Find more of him here.

Trigger

The Tightrope Walker. Portrait in The Haunted Mansion.

The Tightrope Walker. Portrait in The Haunted Mansion.

Being triggered doesn’t happen to me often anymore. When it does, I often feel like this girl, standing on a frayed tightrope over an alligator that I’d forgotten was there.

A Few Notes:

  1. This post has a trigger warning. I don’t usually use them, but I felt that I should as what I’m writing about is a trigger – my trigger – which got pulled not long ago. I’m going to touch on sexual, psychological and emotional abuse, shame and the lasting damage they cause, so if you feel like it would be better to skip this one, please do and consider yourself hugged.
  2. I neither advocate for trigger warnings nor do I oppose them. It’s a complicated issue that deserves objective consideration. This essay  is not that.
  3. It’s important that I explicitly state that consensual D/s play is not abuse. Unfortunately, my trigger overlaps this territory, which means that I have to take certain things into consideration when I play with power dynamics.
  4. Everything in this post is specific to my experience. Nothing I say is intended as prescriptive. I’m not even sure there’s any general wisdom to be had. I’m just feeling my way through.

On to the post….

A few months ago I had a panic attack. I haven’t had one in nearly eight years. It’s been so long that I didn’t quite realize what was happening until an hour later when I still wanted to throw up. When I realized I’d been triggered, the shame was immediate and intense. There is always shame, but even more so in this case.

There are a few reasons for that. The first has to do with ego—this damage was done so long ago that I should be over it by now…right? Well, while I know, intellectually, that that expectation isn’t fair, my feelings feel differently. Shame and egos aren’t interested in fair.

The second reason is a little more basic—the act of falling apart feels shameful because I never want to be an emotional burden again, and panic attacks level me to such a degree that I fear I’ll become one. And then, there’s the serious, primal reason for the shame—the fact that I have a trigger to begin with. But I’ll get to that.

Shame is not something I enjoy feeling, but I’ve accepted it because I know that, for me, it’s part of the triggering mechanism. Complicating this episode, however, was something I’ve never felt before—a deep, panicked resistance.

I didn’t want to be negatively affected by what I’d read. I don’t mean this in a wow-wish-that-movie-hadn’t-made-me-cry kind of way. What I mean is that I didn’t want this piece, very specifically, to affect me negatively. I didn’t want my history to shadow something that would usually turn me on, particularly given my relationship to, and feelings for, the author.

But that’s the thing with triggers. They are intensely specific. The piece that triggered me could have had warnings all over it, but it wouldn’t have made a difference. I’d have read it anyway because, regardless of the warning, I wouldn’t have seen it coming. Change any number of external factors and I’d probably have been fine. In fact, six months ago, I may not have triggered at all. Six months ago, I hadn’t received an email that I never wanted to get. I was getting more sleep. I hadn’t just finished a difficult piece…. There was just no way to prepare for the very specific, collective effect that all of those factors had on me right then. There’s never any way to prepare. At least, not for me. And it’s for that reason that I stand by the piece that triggered me, because it’s really good and in no way at fault for affecting me in that way. It’s just one of those things….

This is going to seem like a random transition, but bear with me.

I’ve written before about the fact that, while I’m not a Domme, I am sexually dominant, and that my dominance formed, (in part, at least), in response to several traumatic things in my history. That’s where triggers (warning!) come in.

When I was very young, I was sexually abused. As a result, I learned that my will could be supplanted. I learned that I couldn’t rely on my parents and that love doesn’t keep you safe. I learned that I had to protect myself. And I also learned that I couldn’t. In other words, at four years old, I internalized that I was powerless.

This led to all sorts of borderline abusive situations as I grew up. Eventually, I graduated to a genuinely abusive relationship. My ex was charming and intelligent. He made me feel strong. He loved my anger and my hunger and my insatiable sexuality. He wanted me to own the world. And he wanted to own me. He taught me about power and how to use it, and then he flipped the tables and showed me how powerless I was.

That’s my trigger. Powerlessness. Helplessness. That’s where the shame comes from—the uneasy knowledge of what I allowed to happen after a lifetime of trying (and failing) to protect myself. And no, I’m not blaming the victim (although the word doesn’t sit easily with me). What I am doing is acknowledging that I made choices. I chose to stay for longer than I should have, and that decision installed a trigger that was pulled because I read something beautiful, written by someone brilliant, that was too much like something my ex had done to me.

My trigger unmoors me from the strong foundation I’ve built. It reminds me that I can be leveled by things that are out of my control. It makes me feel like I can’t protect myself. It makes me feel like I have to, and it’s that last part that’s especially hard. It’s my vigilance that saddens me most. I feel most like the self I might have been in those rare moments when the vigilance drops…when I am soft and relaxed. Those are the sweetest moments. And to that end, my trigger is also a gift.

What made this episode different, and especially disturbing, is that it didn’t stop. I remained unsettled for weeks, so much so that I finally went to a therapist for what has always been diagnosed as depression. This time, I came away with an additional diagnosis. PTSD. And now, thanks to the awful discomfort of being triggered, I’m doing the work that I wish I’d done years ago.

The only way I know to recover is to get stronger. That used to mean making myself invulnerable. Now, it means the opposite. It means bending. I need to learn to accept the abuses and my vulnerability, and I need to learn to trust my strength. I can’t tell you how sweet it would be to feel that acceptance and trust. To drop the resistance and shame. Vulnerability can be such a beautiful thing. One day, I would like to experience it as such.

Erotic Fiction: God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen

Purple watercolor canvas of a woman in a black backless dress standing between two men and holding a drink

Woman in Backless Dress with Drink by Harry Weisburd

“Hey, babe? Would you get that?”

“Yeah. Did you order room service?”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

Jilly heard Mark open the door as she zipped up her slim, backless dress. Then she stepped into a pair of peek-a-boo heels and clipped across the room, enjoying the fact that she was bare beneath the silk. Everything just felt more when she skipped the lingerie, which is why she often did.

“Sam!”

Jilly smiled. She sounded much calmer than she actually felt, which was encouraging. Mark’s Christmas present was a bit of a gamble and it was up to her to pull it off. Luckily, she had enlisted help. Sam, her ex from a lifetime ago, whistled and gave her a slow, achy kiss. Ignoring Mark’s confusion, Jilly kissed him back.

“Jill, you look fucking amazing,” he said. Then he turned to Mark. “Hey, handsome. You look fucking amazing too.”

Mark gave Sam a shy, crinkly grin.

“Hey, Sam. C’mon in. I didn’t know you were coming by. Let me get you a drink.”

“No,” Jilly said.

Her voice dropped an octave on that single syllable. Both men turned and looked at her. It was adorable. She smiled.

“Sorry?” Mark said, giving her a look.

It was the extremely polite, what-the-fuck look he usually reserved for corporate events and, (apparently), the unexpected arrival of hot, male guests. Jilly kissed his cheek in a vaguely dismissive way and sauntered to the mini bar to pour herself a scotch.

“I said, no. No drinks – not for either of you, anyway. Not til after.”

Sam cleared his throat and drifted toward the window. Mark watched him go – or rather, he watched Sam’s fine ass carry him across the room. Then he looked at Jilly, who was sipping her drink.

“Not til after what, Jill?”

“Not til after you’ve sucked Sam’s cock and gotten fucked into next year.”

“What?”

She smiled sweetly and held his gaze as he blushed. It was wonderful. She loved it when he blushed. Relenting, she leaned in and nuzzled his neck.

“You know that fantasy we always talk about,” she whispered.  “That’s your present. Merry Christmas, babe.”

Mark stared at her in a way she couldn’t quite decode. Even after being together for nearly two years, there were still things about him that were quietly opaque. It made her nervous, but it excited her too. And it was only fair – she wasn’t exactly easy to read either.

They stood there, staring at each other in a way that made Jilly’s thighs slick. Suddenly, the stalemate broke and Mark grinned.

“So, what you’re saying is that Sam is my Christmas present?”

“Well, technically, your Christmas present is an ass fucking and the opportunity to suck Sam’s cock while I watch. But yes. I suppose you could say that Sam is your present.”

Mark picked her up and kissed her in the way she loved best – like she was something to be savored and slowly consumed. She curled her fingers through his soft hair and gently pulled, loving the bite of his fingertips on her hips. By the time he put her down, her body was humming beneath the silk. Mark glanced at the window but kept his hand on her.

“And Sam’s okay with this?”

Jilly arched a brow and gave him a lopsided grin.

“Golly, I don’t know. Are you okay with this, Sam?”

Sam turned and stopped pretending to look out the window.

“Fuck yeah. I’ve wanted Mark’s ass for ages.”

His grin was open and playful but, when he edged towards Mark, the playfulness drained away. Suddenly, he was nothing but hard-on and hips.

“Slow down, cowboy,” Jilly said. “We’re playing by my rules tonight.”

“Right,” he said, stopping just short of touching Mark.

Jilly took in Mark’s nervy breathing and Sam’s restlessness. They reminded her of thoroughbreds before a race – big, muscled animals straining at the gate.

“You’re both wearing too much. Strip.”

Jill sat in the leather chair in the center of the room, relishing the pleasure of crossing her legs. She knew Mark’s fantasy so well it had become her own, and it played out in her mind, sharpening her focus, as she calmly sipped her drink.

Sam grinned and turned to Mark. “You heard the lady.”

Mark glanced at Jill. He was trying to get his footing in the dynamic. Jilly held his gaze and sipped her scotch. She didn’t need to say anything. That slice of silence was enough.

Mark nodded, not docilely because Mark was not a docile man, but in a way that communicated a level of acceptance that was undeniably hot. Then he began to strip. Charcoal jacket. Cufflinks. Shirt. He hesitated at his belt, but then continued on, obviously determined to make the most of his present. When he was down to his briefs he stopped again. Jilly smiled. He was already hard.

“Go on,” she said, keeping her voice flat.

Mark nodded again. Then he stripped off the briefs and stood before his girlfriend and her fully clothed ex. Sam cocked his head.

“Hey, Jill? Would you have him turn around?”

Mark flexed his big, strong hands like a nervous boy. It made her heart hurt in a wonderful, happy way, but she kept her face blank to the point of disinterest.

“Sure.” Jill shrugged. “Turn around for Sam.”

Mark’s blush spread halfway down his chest, but he turned.

“Stop there,” she said when his back was to Sam. “Bend over, babe. Show Sam what he’s getting.”

Mark closed his eyes. She could see it in his reflection in the window. Every cell in her body focused on him – every twitching muscle and every change in his face – gauging how far she could push. She knew he wanted to be pushed.

Finally, he bent at the waist and voluntarily parted his cheeks with his hands so that Sam could see his ass. The heart-hurt Jilly had felt earlier swelled and filled her chest.

“That’s good, babe,” she said, softly. “Go ahead and stand up.”

Then she turned to Sam.

“Your turn, hot stuff.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Sam threw off his clothes like a puppy let off the leash.

“Slow down,” she said, suppressing a smile. Sam was acting like a horny, cartoon wolf.

Soon both of them were naked in front of her – tall, strong, Mark and dark, stocky Sam, with the dick of a man twice his size.

Jilly glanced at Mark. She could practically see his mouth watering.

“Okay, babe. Suck his cock.”

Jilly knew Mark had gone down on a few other guys, but she doubted any of them had been as big as Sam. But Mark more than willingly knelt before his challenge. Suddenly, her big, complicated man was nothing but keen and eager. It was a part of Mark she rarely saw and it deeply turned her on.

Sam canted his hips towards Mark’s lips, but otherwise stood still while Mark angled his head and glanced at Jill. She nodded.

“Take your time. Work all of him in.”

Sam was more than a mouthful. It took Mark a while to work his way down Sam’s pornographic length, but even as he struggled, Mark got harder. Clearly, having him edge for three days had been the right call. Jilly crossed and uncrossed her legs. Her body knew exactly what he felt like when he was that hard, and knowing made her wetter.

She watched him choke and sputter as he struggled to take all of Sam in; and the more he struggled, the harder he got. Jilly pressed herself into the soft, leather chair, rocking her hips in tight, controlled circles that mimicked Sam’s own. Slowly, Mark found his rhythm, but he kept taking his time, sucking and tonguing the whole way down, until Sam’s knees buckled when Mark’s lips touched the base of his cock.

“Stay there, baby,” Jilly whispered, pulling out her phone. “Just keep sucking him.”

She set her drink aside and stood up. Her cunt was throbbing, but she ignored it as she got close enough to frame the details of Mark’s face. His clenched eyes and distended mouth were beautiful to her. The look on Sam’s face was too. She angled the phone and caught the two of them…Sam’s hands clutching Mark’s rumpled hair, Mark’s hands grasping Sam’s pretty ass…. Then she sank back down and raised her hem.

Sam moaned and began to thrust into Mark’s throat. She left them to it for another minute, half curious to see how long Sam could hold out against Mark’s relentless mouth. And all the while, she stroked herself, keeping time with Sam’s hips and Mark’s bobbing head without letting herself go. Finally, when Sam’s body began to tense, she stopped them.

“That’s enough. Sam’s getting close.”

Reluctantly, Sam eased himself out of Mark’s mouth. They both looked dazed and big-eyed. She wasn’t even sure if they were fully aware of her presence anymore. The energy between them was hard and needy and strong, and she didn’t want to interfere. But she also wasn’t going to let go of the reins.

“Get on your hands and knees, babe. Sam’s going to fuck you, and I’m going to watch. Let’s see how much of that big cock you can take.”

Mark looked at her. His pupils were so dilated that his eyes were nearly black. Then a smile pulled at the corner of his red, swollen mouth.

“Yes, ma’am.

Jilly got up and kissed him. She couldn’t help it. Then she stood and turned to their guest.

“Remember what I said. Slow and easy to start. Then have at it. And use a fucking lot of lube.

Sam nodded. Any trace of the puppy dog was gone, replaced by something much more carnivorous. He reached  over and grabbed the condom she handed him. Then he picked up the bottle of  lube and knelt between Mark’s spread legs. Sam nudged them even wider and poured a ton of the stuff between Mark’s spread cheeks. Then Sam put a hand on the small of Mark’s back. The second he did, Mark visibly relaxed, and so did Jill. Then Sam began to work his way in.

He moved faster than Jilly would have expected given the sheer size of his dick, but Mark didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he spread his knees wider and thrust back into Sam, groaning like porn star. She loved it when Mark acted like a slut. Finally, when Sam was balls deep in her boyfriend, he and Mark both turned and looked at her. It was adorable. She smiled.

“No rest for the wicked, gentlemen. Save something for round two.”

This piece was influenced by two things. The first was Girl on the Net’s fantastically hot post, Threesome Director. It touched on more than one of my own fantasies, so it was impossible not to let it creep into this little bit of joyful, holiday porn. 

The second influence was one of the prompts in Exhibit A‘s Awesome Christmas Erotica Meme. Admittedly, “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” plays less of a role in the story than I’d originally intended, but I’m keeping the title because it makes me happy.

A new song title goes up every day between now and Christmas so click here to catch the prompts and participate (you should!). And click here to see who else is making merry this December.

PS – Exhibit A is doing his own variation on Girl on the Net’s fantastically hot post. The first part just went up. Check out his site to catch the rest. 

Woman in Repose

Woman with arched back lying on a dark bed

Woman in Repose by Steve Harris

The past few months have been challenging. A series of difficult things destabilized what had been a very stable foundation. It was a bit like playing Jenga. Each thing that happened removed a pin from my tower, until I was leaning and listing everywhere – nowhere near falling, but structurally unsound.

As a result, it’s  fair to say that I haven’t been myself. The people in my life have had to deal with me being unusually emotional and term bound while I struggled with a limited sense of perspective. I’ve been anxious, reactionary and far more taxed (and taxing) than I ever want to be. It’s a state of mind that made me want to unzip my skin and divorce my body from my brain until I got a handle on things. And that’s essentially, what I did. The result was a general disinterest in sex and, to a greater degree, D/s.

There are labels I use for myself, and others that I don’t even though they could superficially apply. The primary example of this is “Domme”. I never refer to myself as a Domme even though I am sexually dominant. (To be honest, I’m dominant in general though I try to keep that checked. I’d rather be accessible than in control…unless there’s a reason to be in control).

I make the distinction between dominant and Domme because, while I enjoy playing with power, I can just as easily not and be very satisfied. The label “Domme” comes with implications that I feel don’t quite apply because my dominance isn’t formalized, nor do I want it to be. My recent situational reticence with D/s underscored that distinction for me in a very concrete way.

Side note: Drawing this distinction deserves its own post, so forgive the broad brush I’m using now.

While I love playing games, I’m equally happy to meet my partners without a power dynamic in play. What keeps me from being even remotely switchy is the fact that I won’t submit sexually to anyone. Ever. My aversion to sexual submission is serious enough that I couldn’t do it for love or money. There are reasons for this, but I’m going to save those for a separate post.

I’d be lying if I said that I don’t enjoy gentle cruelties or imposing my will on consenting partners. I’d be lying if I said that there isn’t a carnivorous part of me that gets off on taking control. But I’d also be lying if I said that that particular kind of assertion is an integral part of who I am. It’s something that I do, not something that I am (unlike my resistance to submission, which is a fundamental part of my personality). That’s why I love sex with an equally dominant partner just as much (and often even more) as D/s play. 

The result of dealing with what I’ve been dealing with is that I haven’t really wanted to play in a D/s sense. I haven’t wanted to control, create or weave scenarios. So much of my energy was going to keeping myself under control, that the idea of taking external control in a play context was exhausting. Unfortunately, I didn’t consciously realize any of this at the time, though I wish I had. I was pushing myself in ways that I shouldn’t have.

In hindsight, I can see that what I needed was something else – good sex, balanced dynamics and, perhaps most lowering, a sense of safety so that I could get out of my head and back into my body. I’ve been sexually reticent and, though not passive (because I’m almost never passive), I’ve definitely been more cautious and reserved – what a friend of mine would call a woman in repose.

While I was in London, Exhibit A and I went for a short run. Afterwards we talked about how, after you’ve been injured, you tend to go more carefully and not push yourself as hard. It’s an understandable thing but, at a certain point, that self-protective instinct can get in your way. Then again, sometimes it’s what you need, even if only for a short time…the hope is always that you’ll return to running at speed.

To circle back to where I started, certain facets of my sexuality and personality have been feeling fairly injured of late – facets that are tied to my relationship with sexual dominance. In a sense, I needed to rest those muscles – the ones I use in D/s – because D/s is not my home base. Sex is. I needed to get re-grounded in sex while those other parts of me rested. I needed to feel, not think or plan. I needed to be spontaneous and basic, so I didn’t go out on available limbs or explore interesting possibilities. I played it safe because, as with running after an injury, I needed to respect my boundaries and get the lay of my land again.

I didn’t realize it until I wrote this, but sex was, and is, the key to that for me. Good, connected, uninhibited, back-to-basics sex with someone I trust.  And now, on the tail end of what turned out to be a pretty difficult patch, I’m happy to say that I’m in better shape than I thought I was. The muscles that needed resting are stretching and waking up. I’m feeling like myself again, and it feels awfully good. I really am happiest on my feet.

Guest Post: An Evening with Alex & Em

Back in February, I had a birthday. As a present, Exhibit A wrote me a guest post called “Strong Foundations”, one of the sexiest birthday presents anyone could wish for. He tailored it to my kinks and tastes, so what I ended up with was a piece of erotica specifically designed to turn me on. I am happy to report that it did (and continues to do) its job very well.

In fact, it was such a fantastic birthday present, that when Exhibit A turned 34 a few weeks ago, I decided to return the favor. The story I wrote for him is called “An Evening with Alex and Em” and it’s a saucy little mash-up of a few of his many and varied sexual interests – Femdom and CFNM, with a little voyeurism and exhibitionism thrown in for good measure.

When he asked me if I’d mind if he put it up on his blog, I very demurely acceded (meaning I said yes without even pretending to hesitate). In fact, it’s up on his site as a guest post right now. You can read it by clicking here.

And if you haven’t already, check out “Strong Foundations” too. It’s a hell of a hot story, and it inspired “An Evening with Alex and Em”, a story that was a hell of a lot of fun to write.

Kinky People Sex

Art by Franz von Bayros

Art by Franz von Bayros

I’ve been thinking about labels recently. It started with the resurgence of the erotica vs. porn debate (which Tabitha Rayne addressed beautifully in this post) but quickly spun out to include people, sexuality, kink and the labels we use to describe ourselves.

I’ve written about my own system of genre classification and many others have addressed the question from different angles since. But when the issue was brought up again, I was struck by just how subjective labels like “erotica” and “porn” are. Yes, there are standards most people agree on – erotica has a narrative focus while porn is primarily concerned with sex – but beyond that there’s a lot of grey area defined mostly by an individual’s impression of a work.

I’m not saying that literature and genre defy definition (I may be a lot of things, but I’m not a post-modernist). What I am saying is that regardless of what label we place on a thing, that thing’s identity (or classification) will likely retain some level of fluidity. Anais Nin called a great chunk of her work pornography, while today we consider her catalog one of the foundations of modern literary erotica. A group of Christian moms considered this fondant teddy bear’s seam to be an overly sexual image. I can’t say I agree. The point is that a thing can shift labels depending on who is viewing it.

Which brings me to my actual topic. Labels and people. People use labels as a short-hand for larger, more nuanced identities – are you one of us, or are you “other”? In this way, labels can be incredibly useful. But if you become unquestioningly wedded to your label it can box you in, because labels can’t always keep up with the fluidity of a person’s experiences.

If you’re primarily straight but have slept with someone of the same sex, does that make you bi? If you’re primarily dominant but sometimes like to sub, are you a switch? If your experiences or beliefs are non-binary, then labels may fit accurately, but if you inhabit an ideological or sexual grey area, it often becomes a curiosity when you deviate from the behaviors your label dictates.

Kink is a great example of this. Kinky people are generally thought to be those whose interests fall outside the sexual norm (whatever the “norm” is). I’ve identified as kinky since my early twenties when I realized that threesomes (and foursomes) were a thing. Adopting that label was liberating at the time. As a result, for much of my twenties, I allowed the “kinky” label to direct my sexual interests. I played in ways that I might not have otherwise done and, for the most part, I loved it. I also enjoyed a ton of sex that I probably wouldn’t have enjoyed if I hadn’t also adopted the label of slut. But I also remember feeling that my occasional desire for straightforward, vanilla sex didn’t adhere to my label(s), so I often went without the no-frills missionary I also craved.

At that point in my life, I thought that kinky people were supposed to have kinky sex all the time, which isn’t necessarily true. For many people, kink defines their sexualities in a very whole and satisfying way. But for others, like me, identifying as any one thing excludes five other labels that I could just as easily adopt. It wasn’t until I was in my early thirties that I made up my own label – sexually omnivorous. I want a helping of everything and always have. Or, to put it another way, I have a very fluid relationship to my sexuality and kinks.

Now, just so you know where I’m coming from, I’ll toss out a few of the labels that I do feel comfortable claiming:

Bisexual

Non-monogamous

Voyeuristic (with an exhibitionist streak)

Dominant (though not a Domme. I’m more of an alpha who likes D/s. Domme implies things I don’t want to claim.)

I also like rough sex and boundary pushing. I like feeling vaguely uncomfortable and I like it when my partner feels vaguely uncomfortable too (within the bounds of consent). More than anything, I love intensity. If a sexual experience serves up intensity, odds are I’ll be interested. It doesn’t matter if the intensity is emotional or physical. Even better if it’s both.

That said, I also love vanilla sex (which can also be emotionally and physically intense). I love missionary. I love waking up, having slow, drowsy sex and then going back to sleep. I love catching a quickie before running out for drinks. I love oral – both giving and getting. I love Sunday mornings in bed. I love entire week-ends spent doing nothing but straight up fucking – no games, no trappings, just hungry-for-more fucking. I even love making love with the right person.

So, do my more conventional tastes cancel out the kinks? I don’t feel they do – I think my sexuality covers a lot of ground and that exercising all aspects of it gives me pleasure. I’m hardly going to lock down the snuggly-missionary-loving part of me in the name of kink, any more than I’d give up D/s play because it doesn’t fit conventional sexual tastes. What I want has everything to do with who I’m with and what we need at the time. Sometimes, it’s rough. Sometimes it’s sweet. Unlike my young self, I’m not interested in missing out on either.

So, to bring it back around. If a person dedicates themselves to writing “porn” that’s great. If they claim the label of “erotica” (or “erotic romance” or “smut”) for their work, that’s great too. The danger is in becoming overly committed to a label – whether it’s porn, romance, kinky, straight, feminist, Christian, atheist or anything else. My concern is that, when a label becomes an ideology, it can curtail the intellectual, creative and sexual fluidity that makes you an individual, rather than a component of a larger, homogenous group (kinky people sex aside); or, in the case of erotic fiction, it can needlessly limit your work in a falsely simplified genre.