Tag Archives: fantasy

Flash Fiction: A Letter

 

Dear You,

I want to go somewhere together. I want you to make me come – in a bathroom or a bookshop or in the middle of a film. I want you to make me come. Press against me hip, to hip. Touch me in a crowded room. Fuck me somewhere civilized, where people shouldn’t fuck.

I want to pull you into an alley and suck your cock. I want scuffs on my knees when I stand. Fuck me in a window where the neighbors will see, or high on a balcony in the warm evening air. I want someone to see us by chance.

I want to watch you with other people and I want you to watch me. Surrounded by other people I’ll still pick out your scent. I want mouths on our mouths and skin on our skin, tangled with other people and other people’s limbs.

I want you to fuck me, hard and fast, in the kitchen while we cook. Fuck me from behind just as company is due. Cup my breasts while I bend forward. Lift up my hem. Come inside me, fill me, make me wet. Then kneel and lick me clean.

I want to share a secret. I want to taste us when we kiss. I want to cross the room and feel your eyes, narrowed and hungry and sly. I know you with that look on your face. You’re waiting to gobble me up. Clever Fox. Big Bad Wolf. I promise I’ll gobble you too.

Me xxx

Erotic Fiction: The Gift

Black and white photograph of vintage decadence at a black tie party for The Gift post by Malin James

Photograph by Marco Sanges (2014)

On the evening of her birthday, Sabine’s husband gave her the gift of a slave.

So kind, you might be thinking. So generous to give his wife another man to fuck. Sabine’s husband was, after all, several decades her senior, and the possessor of certain appetites that did not suit his foreign wife. The gift was surely a generous act, especially at that time, when flesh cost more than gold.

Generous, so generous….

Generous. But not kind.

Sabine’s husband trafficked in humans, a practice she abhorred. The gift, presented with torturous ceremony before a roomful of guests, was an insult—one so subtle that her husband would look like a king while delivering a barb she couldn’t ignore.

Unhappy but silent, Sabine watched a handler lead the blindfolded slave to the center of the room, trailed by a clutch of cilevore—sentient bonds that resembled the vines of a thick, tenacious plant. Another cilevore bound his wrists, making itself both the manacle and the leash by which he was led.

Sabine eyed the creatures, which brought to mind a cluster of eels with their slithering, muscled strength. Swallowing her disgust, she turned her attention to the slave, who was tall and blond, like the men of her faraway home.

They had brought him in naked, of course. A leather cord—the sign of his station—encircled his scrotum and cock. It was a pretty picture he made. Against her wishes, Sabine’s body quickened. The slave was beautiful and masculine—the most masculine thing she had seen since she’d come to her husband’s house. Her husband liked boys and soft, young girls. This slave, with his hard, uncompromising frame, would never have been bought if not for her.

“Well, my darling,” Sabine’s husband said, pitching his voice to the room, “care to try your new toy?”

The guests tittered. A slave such as this was only meant for one thing. Who wouldn’t want to watch?

Sabine lifted her head, winter pale and calm, as the handler sat the slave down in a carved wooden chair. Then he signaled to the cilevore, which slithered up over the slave, coiling around his ankles and wrists and binding him in place. Unable to see through the blindfold he wore, the slave flexed against his bonds. The cilevore tightened in response. Noticing the shift in the bonds, the handler slapped his cock. Once. Twice. The slave’s jaw tightened. Satisfied, the handler stepped back.

The slave’s breathing was deep and even; his face calm beneath the mask. But to the watchful, (and Sabine was watchful), the man was in distress.

The cilevore flexed, addressing the strain his body could not hide—pulse, heart rate, nerves…. He vibrated, clearly longing to rip the creatures off. And yet he continued to sit, unchallenging and calm. Disciplined, she thought. Or experienced. He was either very skilled or used to biding his time.

“Come, my dear,” her husband continued. “He is fresh from the auction block.”

“Disciplined, then,” she murmured, as her husband’s voice echoed, bluff, indulgent and utterly false. Still she did not move. Her husband’s face took on a look of gently wounded pride. He is losing patience, she thought.

“Well,” he said, as if he were coaxing a cat with cream, “I suppose if you don’t like it we’ll have to send it back.”

The handler stepped forward, unsheathing a knife.

“No,” Sabine said, surprising herself.

The guests went silent as they watched the awkward tableau. She could almost hear the slave’s pulse. It would be stressful. Very stressful. The knife was very near. One needn’t see to know. That, at least, she understood.

“I accept your gift,” she said, denying her husband the reaction he’d paid the flesh-price for.

His smile faltered but did not fail. Sabine approached the slave while the guests clapped politely, like the spectators they were. Sensing the change in the room, the slave’s fingers twitched though he did not challenge his bonds. The cilevore tightened regardless, rustling organically as Sabine came near. She ignored them. She wanted to see his face.

His white-gold hair curled softly, like feathers. Silky. Like her own. Suddenly, almost violently, she wanted the blindfold gone. Reaching out with a cool, steady hand, Sabine removed the mask, revealing an angular face with a scar along the jaw. Then the slave opened his eyes. No blinking. No panic. Just a pool of angry blue.

I am sorry, she wished to tell him. You were not meant for this.

The slave narrowed his eyes and nodded, as if he’d heard her thought. All the while, his cock rose thick above the leather thong.

To her shock, Sabine’s nipples peaked and she grew instantly wet. Without removing her gaze from his, Sabine acknowledged his nod. Then, lifting the heavy silk of her dress, she mounted him, gracefully, without revealing her arousal to anyone but the slave.

Sabine’s body flushed as she slid her swollen cunt along the length of his shaft. Her breath caught. His jaw tightened. She struggled for control as the scent of him went to her head. Then, thighs trembling, Sabine sank down, taking him into her body as her fingers knotted in his hair.

The slave’s body tensed and the cilevore shifted, sensing his impulse to touch her. She could feel his need to touch her vibrate through his skin.

“Release his arms,” she whispered.

She’d assumed the bonds would ignore her, but they dropped away, only to wrap around his waist. Wrists or no wrists, he would not be permitted to move.

Sabine grimaced. Even the manacles in her husband’s house were perfectly trained. But then slave’s hands gripped her through her dress and she fell into her body, light as snow. A sigh escaped her and gentle laughter filled the room—teasing laughter at her husband’s expense. Her thighs grew slicker at the sound.

Sabine began to move, slowly at first, then more quickly, working his shaft as she rose and fell, loosening her limbs and warming the body her marriage had turned cold.

Her focus narrowed. The room, the guests, the handler disappeared. Only her husband’s image remained sharp in her mind, and even that wavered when she looked at the slave. He was silent, watching her, hands just beneath her breasts as his thumbs rubbed her nipples through the bodice of her gown.

He is not a slave, she thought. That was not something that slaves did. Slaves followed instructions. They did what they were told. But this slave was watching—watching and responding. He did not need to be told.

Sabine rocked her hips, taking pleasure in her body as she took pleasure in him. And all the while he watched, muscles working in his jaw as his hands cupped her neck and steadied her waist. He was taking his pleasure in her. Her lips parted, lush and hungry, as her head tilted back. He was taking his pleasure in her.

Sabine moaned as he strained against his bonds, seeking her mouth with his. Had they left him his tongue, she wondered. Please, let him have his tongue. They muted slaves so often…she had not kissed him yet to know.

But she wanted his mouth. She wanted his kiss even though she feared the hollow she might find. It was defiance – of her husband and his culture and her own shameful fear – that drove her to his mouth. But all that fell away as he touched her tongue with his.

She lifted herself, rising up above his body until the tip of his cock rested at the opening of her sex. Her cunt clutched and ached, desperate for his girth, but she held herself suspended as the slave bared his teeth, squeezing her waist so hard she feared she would break.

He could crack her in two with those strong, scarred hands. He could snap her like a stick. Thoughts of her husband filled Sabine’s head. His cruel tastes. His lie of a smile. Her husband who trafficked in flesh. What might he do if confronted with such large, disciplined hands?

It was that thought, as much as the strength in his hands, that pushed her over the edge. Her legs buckled and Sabine sank back down. For the first time in her life, she gave her body free rein and she writhed like a whore, but Sabine was well beyond caring. She writhed and savored as the slave beneath her moaned. It was a sibilant sound, low and sweet—a sound for her alone. It shuddered over her skin.

Sabine arched her back and came, filling the room with a shriek so rich and obscene the slave’s handler flushed. It’s me, she thought. I am making that sound. Her cunt clutched harder and she came again, imagining herself soaked in his seed.

“Come,” she whispered into his ear. But the slave shook his head.

It was only then that she remembered he was not allowed release. She could fuck him all she liked, but he could never come. Slaves didn’t. Not male ones. It was taboo. She looked into his eyes, into his anger and need. Then she reached down between them and unknotted the thong that constricted the base of his cock.

“Come now,” she said. Her voice filled the room. “Come now for me.”

There were gasps of genuine shock. Ignoring the guests, Sabine began to move, splaying her body as he bucked and thrust against the cilevore at his waist.

Sabine’s husband said something. The handler shifted. They were running out of time.

Sensing the handler’s approach, the slave crushed Sabine to his chest, pressing her down and securing her with every single thrust. For a moment, all she heard the rush of her pulse. Then the slave’s breath hitched and he groaned as he soaked her with his cum.

Slowly, their breathing evened and their bodies calmed, and Sabine became aware of a buzzing, like wasps, in the room. No, not wasps. Nothing so dangerous. Just her husband’s guests.

Swallowing her apprehension, Sabine brought her mouth to the slave’s. She lingered a moment, drinking in the taste of ice and snow and home. Then she rose and straightened her skirts as the cilevore slivered back to his wrists.

“No,” she told the handler, who stood awkwardly near.

The handler looked to her husband, eyes weak and small as a pig’s. Her husband did not respond. Her husband, she thought with his grim, angry face, lined hard like the cracks in a bowl. Before either could respond, Sabine cut them both off.

“I will not have him bound.”

The cilevore receded, curling up on the floor as docilely as cats. The slave watched them settle and then looked at her. She nodded. He rose and crossed the room until he stood just behind Sabine.

Sabine thought of the slave’s deceptive calm and the crush of his hands on her waist. She’d have bruises the following day. A smile curved her lips. Gifts have power. By the rules of her husband’s culture, the giver cedes control of an object the moment it is given. The slave, one of her countrymen—was just such a gift, one that was part of a larger game. For the first time since marrying, Sabine felt that she might win.

“Thank you, dearest,” she said to her husband, who appeared to shrink and age. “Thank you for your generous gift.”

Guys & the Girls Who Want to Watch: On Homoeroticism

A black and white photograph of two men embracing for Two Guys and the Girl Who Wants to Watch: On Homoeroticism by Malin James

Erotic postcard by Jim French

Roughly two years ago, I wrote a post asking this question:

What is it about two men having sex that turns so many women on?

That post got a lot of generous responses from men and women all over the sexual spectrum, including Exhibit A (though I had no idea at the time it would begin much more than a correspondence). His response, in particular, stood out because it underscored something I’d been suspecting – that the appeal of homoeroticism is, perhaps, even more common (and complicated) than I’d originally assumed. So I set the question aside to think about it.

Two years later….

I’m finally writing the follow-up thanks, once again, to Exhibit A, who retweeted the original post last month. While I’m usually a bit sheepish about letting a topic drop, I’m glad of it in this case. After two years, my thoughts on this issue have matured in ways that I couldn’t have anticipated when I first posed the question.

The biggest adjustment in my thinking was my realization that, while m/m sex clearly appeals to a lot of women, it also appeals to a lot of men who identify as flexibly straight (as opposed to bi). This realization made me curious about how it appeals across gender divides and sexual identities. But first, I want to address the question I originally posted two years ago. Why do women think m/m sex is hot?

As with so many things, the appeal of homoeroticism is intensely subjective, so there is no one answer, but I was able to slot the responses I got into three general categories:

  • Homoeroticism appeals because I like good looking men, so the more the better. 
    • Pretty self-explanatory.
  • Homoeroticism appeals because it gives me access to something I otherwise don’t have access to.
    • Not surprising given our cultural attraction to voyeurism, taboo or potentially transgressive sex; and our obsession with the mutual incomprehensibility of the opposite sex.
  • Homoeroticism appeals because it subverts a dominant paradigm.
    • Also pretty self-explanatory, but worth breaking down a bit.

That third category refers to the fact that, in mainstream porn and media, the traditional understanding is that there’s a power imbalance between men and women when it comes to sex. While this paradigm is shifting thanks to shows like Jessica Jones, Masters if Sex and American Horror Story: Coven, it’s been a standard for so long that this power imbalance is a cultural assumption for a lot of people. This leads to the common perception that men are sexually dominant (ie: guarded or inaccessible) while women are open, emotional and vulnerable.

The m/m fantasy subverts this expectation thanks to a different cultural assumption—one that presumes that two guys will avoid this paradigm more naturally than a straight pairing. Of course, this is ridiculous because sexual dominance and submission are about interpersonal dynamics and not about gender, (which is why M/m pairings are so hot). Regardless, a lot of women admit to being turned on by m/m sex because they assume the men involved to be enjoying a level playing field – both actors are sexually assertive while remaining emotional vulnerability.

This idealization of male sexual agency tends to lead to romanticized readings of m/m dynamics. I’ve read more than one study in which women thought m/m sex was because the guys were “equal” “open” “real” and “vulnerable” in a way that they hadn’t witnessed before.

Of course, we’re talking about fiction in most of these cases—specifically porn. The popularity of m/m pairings in slash, porn and erotica reflects a certain kind of female fantasy—one that subverts dominant paradigms and gives the illusion of emotional access to men in sexual contexts. And it does all this by appropriating a somewhat romanticized version of what people imagine happening when two guys fuck.

Sidebar

This form of appropriation is important but it’s also complicated enough that it requires its own post, so I’m going to leave it there for now and come back to it later. (Hopefully in less than two years).

End Sidebar

While the fictional portrayal of m/m sexual dynamics appeals on one level, the reality of gay sex appeals on another. So, while some women (and men) fantasize about general aspects m/m sex, others engage it more specifically. In otherwords, some women want to watch their man fuck and / or get fucked by another guy; and some guys want the same thing.

I can only speak for myself when I say this, but my desire to watch my partner with another man has nothing to do with the romanticization of m/m sexual dynamics, and everything to do with our relationship and all of the complicated, nuanced reasons that make it something we both think is super hot.

Which brings me to the selective appeal of homoeroticism across genders.

Awhile ago, I wrote a story called “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” about a woman who gives her boyfriend an m/m encounter for Christmas. It plays to a lot of my own kinks—voyeurism, dominance and, yes, homoeroticism—so I was really happy when women and men seemed to like it though they seemed to like it for different reasons.

Women liked it because the idea of watching their man with another guy is goddamn hot (because it is). Men seemed to like the wish-fulfillment aspect or it. The male protagonist wants to suck cock and get fucked, and his girlfriend makes it happen. It’s a portrait of the gray area between gay and straight, set against the backdrop of a loving, if unconventional, relationship.

That gray area is where homoeroticism appeals to me.

Don’t get me wrong – homoeroticism is hot for a lot of reasons, and it can subvert dominant paradigms. But that’s not why I love it. I love it because it breaks a barrier—one that often sits between a man and a woman, as well as between two men.

Unless you bury the needle at either 0 (exclusively straight) or 6 (exclusively gay) on the Kinsey scale, sexuality is more fluid than we tend to realize. The sexual behaviors sanctioned by mainstream society don’t always allow for safe experimentation within the gray areas. Homoeroticism, whether engaged as fantasy or more directly, is one way of experiencing a fuller range of sexual possibilities than might otherwise be available to strictly heterosexual pairings. What’s more, it makes those possibilities available in a relatively unthreatening way.

Homoeroticism is a way of romancing “the other”, whether “the other” is a partner of the same (or opposite) sex, or some unexplored facet of yourself. Ultimately, humans crave understanding and connection. We’re curious. We want to know and touch. A fascination with homoeroticism is one way we can taste things we don’t normally find on our plates.

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. 

On the Value of Fantasies

Japanese shunga erotica painting being eaten out by an octopus

The Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife by Hokusai (1814)

Recently, Emmanuelle de Maupassant posted a link to an article called “The Art of Dreams”. The art in that post contains two prominent themes – mortality and sexuality, which makes sense since sex and death have been cultural obsessions for centuries.

As I was looking through the pieces, two of them stood out. The first was the one above – “The Dreams of the Fisherman’s Wife” by Hokusai. The other is of a girl dreaming that she’s being carried into the woods by a bear. Both have obvious sexual overtones and, given the nature of my own dreams, my mind wandered from dreams into fantasies.

I have always had extremely vivid sex dreams, even as a girl. In fact, I knew I was bisexual before I understood what that meant after dreaming that I was kissing Sleeping Beauty and her prince. I woke up wanting more of both, a feeling I internalized as normal but never talked about. That dream led to my first sexual fantasies, and their influence on my sexuality as it developed can’t be overstated.

Years later, a friend and I were talking about fantasies in college. Her opinion was that if you’re in a relationship, (she was and I wasn’t), having fantasies about someone other than your boyfriend is cheating. I understand now, on an intellectual level, what she was saying, but fantasies were so integral to my sexual development that hearing them spoken of as a form of infidelity left me feeling vaguely bereft, as if what was natural to me was somehow immoral to normal, relationship-having people.

Side Note: I should state that there is a difference between fantasizing to explore your sexuality, and fantasizing to escape an unpleasant or unsatisfying relationship. If you’d rather be in your head than with your partner, that’s a sign that something could be off in the relationship. While I still don’t consider this cheating, it probably isn’t something you should ignore either.

Even though I lost my virginity relatively late, I had a massively active fantasy life, so much so that, by the time I finally did have sex, I jumped into new experiences with an enthusiasm that I may not have otherwise had. I fantasized about threesomes well before I had one. Same thing with group sex, oral, anal, strap-ons, D/s, sex in public and pretty much everything else I’ve ever done.

But it wasn’t just the exploratory quality of my fantasies that formed my sexuality. As I experienced new things, more and more of those experiences were incorporated into my fantasies, so that I began to understand what worked for me in greater depth. Everything, from my love of prowess to shaving (and being shaved by) a lover, was nurtured by an increasingly varied collection of fantasies.

Even impossible or transgressive fantasies are valuable. Some may get explored in real life, while others can’t (or won’t), but the fact that they can be played out safely is important. I want to understand what makes me click because I can bring that understanding to my partners. 

Fantasies are also a surprisingly accurate way to gauge how your sexual focus may have changed. Early on, my fantasies, much like my erotica, were highly situational – getting off on a Maytag dryer, being watched, making someone do something that makes them uncomfortable (but that they also undeniably want). These fantasies explored different situations and helped me understand my various kinks and predilections.

In the past few years, however, my fantasies have changed. As someone close to me noted, I’m after connection more than experience now. That isn’t to say that I’ve done everything I want to do (because I doubt I ever will). What it does mean is that my sexual focus now prioritizes intensity and connection rather than situational novelty, a shift that is also reflected in my work.

If sex is the lens through which I view life, then fantasies are how I keep that lens polished. The notion that fantasizing about someone other than my partners would take something away from the depth of my commitment to them rings as false now as it did when I was eighteen. 

If anything, your fantasies give you access to more of yourself, knowledge that you can then bring to your partners. Whether it’s fucking against a wall because you can’t keep your hands off each other, or ravaging and being ravaged by some sort of subhuman beast, fantasies, dreams and memories help ground you in your sexuality, and it’s your sexuality that you bring to real life.

Jade & Malin Talk 50 Shades

Jade & Malin, minutes from embarking on the FSoG experience.

Jade & Malin, minutes from embarking on the FSoG experience.

Hello everyone! I’ve got a bit of a departure for you today. Over the week-end my lovely partner in crime and platonic valentine, Jade A. Waters, and I saw The Movie. We got to talking about it over lunch, (of course), and decided that, in the face of so many proper reviews and opinions, we’d skip writing anything truly critical and record an off-the-cuff conversation instead. We meandered, we drifted, we laughed a lot, (we might have even snorted). Most of all, we had a lot of fun making this recording. A few notes before you press play:

1. We went into this with a particular context in mind – that FSoG is a formula romance, and the kink / BDSM elements were going to be geared for a primarily vanilla, mainstream audience. Also, R rating.

2. We tried to consider it through the lens of the audience it’s intended for, (rather than our own erotica writer / kinky person perspective)

3. The most pornographic moment in this film was the opening credits with Christian Grey’s wardrobe. See #1 on context and rating.

4. We get kind of loud at points so apologies if we laugh you out of your earbuds.

5. There are outtakes at the end! Listen on through if you can!

And now, without further ado, Jade and I talk 50 Shades. Thanks for joining us – we hope you enjoy the conversation at least half as much as we did.

xx.M

Pillow Talk Secrets: She’s a One Man Woman – But Does She Have to Be?

Hello everyone! It’s time another installment of Pillow Talk Secrets in which Jade A. Waters, Tamsin Flowers and I chat about erotica, writing and sex. This time around, Tamsin is our host for a discussion on why, in mainstream erotica, a heroine must often be justified in sleeping with multiple partners or risk be considered unsympathetic. It’s a knotty question, and it was a great deal of fun to tackle with these ladies. Here’s an excerpt of the conversation below. I hope you enjoy… xx.M

Pillow Talk Secrets

 

Tamsin: Hello, girls. Nice to see you!

Jade: You as well! How are you?

T: Great!

Malin: Hi ladies! I’m here!

T: Hello, gorgeous!

M: Ah, now this is how I want to start a day – chatting with the two of you. Nothing tops it.

J: So true! Now, who’s leading us today?

M: Our lovely, Tamsin, I believe! And I think she’s got something really interesting in mind.

J: Bring it, T!

T: Okay, I’m going to launch us straight in to today’s topic: Is it all right for the heroine of your book to sleep with more than one partner? This is a question that’s been batting around my brain for quite some time now. As you two know, I’ve just finished the first draft of my sexy spy thriller, Honeytrap, and my heroine certainly gets called upon to cosy up with the villains as well as the good guys. But I remembered reading somewhere that it’s a big no-no to readers if the heroine sleeps with multiple partners. How would you two handle this dilemma?

M: So, I have a couple of thoughts right off the top of my head. The first is that context is probably critical – how and why is she sleeping with multiple partners seems to make quite a difference in how readers respond… What do you think, Jade?

J: I agree. There are so many variations here – is she a free bird, is she cheating, is she in a negotiated polyamorous situation? Maybe we should focus on one at a time.

T: Ooh! Free bird is a new expression for me. I like that!

Why should she choose between them?

Why should she choose between them?

J: I just made that up. 🙂

M: I love it! Interestingly, I think the free bird scenario is the trickiest for writers. There’s still  surprising amount stigma attached to a female character who sleeps with multiple partners for no other reason than she wants to. Her own desire might be perfectly valid justification, but that doesn’t seem to settle well with readers in general. It’s a real shame, actually. There’s a lot in that restriction that doesn’t sit well with me.

J: I think that’s still, sadly, largely due to the real life cultural view on women having multiple partners – and it translates directly into people’s reading.

T: And this is where the question is interesting. Obviously, if someone buys a menage story, they’re expecting multiple partners. But there seems to be a real move in the market towards erotic romance rather than plain erotica at the moment – and with it comes a demand for the heroine to be, how shall I put it, better behaved or in lurve!

To read the rest, click here!

Deviant Acts

Hieronymus Bosch's The Garden of Earthly Delights. c1500

Hieronymus Bosch’s The Garden of Earthly Delights. c1500

Recently, I’ve begun to wonder what, exactly, qualifies as a deviant sexual act. What does “deviant” really mean? Does it mean any act that deviates from the sexual norm? And if so, what, precisely defines that definitive norm? Should we ask Kinsey, or is it more complicated than that?

Are we talking heterosexual missionary sex? (For the record, I love missionary and am in no way knocking it). Or is it enough that the sex be between one man and one woman and involve vaginal penetration? And going from there, I have to ask, vaginal penetration with what? A cock? A dildo? A tongue? Is oral sex okay? What about blind folds–or are we tripping into deviance there? What about non-heterosexual couples? Is loving, connected sex between two married men deviant? Is a woman fucking her female partner with a strap on deviant? Where does deviance lie?

The short answer is, I have no idea. To me, it’s a highly subjective thing. In my head, spanking can be as wholesome and profound as feeling a partner come inside you. There is no deviance for me in either act, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t other things that press my “whoa” button. Some aspects of edge play make me pause. Casting? Emotionally speaking, that feels pretty deviant to me, but if I look at a photo of a woman happily wrapped in cellophane while her lover blasts her with a Hitatchi I don’t feel like I can judge–nor do I want to. Who am I to prescribe a norm?

All of this came up because I finished a story yesterday. It’s about a couple who gives fisting a try for the first time. I wrote it to be romantic and sweet, with fisting as a gateway to the next level of their relationship. For the record, (not that it matters), the couple is straight, and the guy’s hands are big. But this doesn’t stop her from wanting them.

Why did I write a story about a heterosexual couple engaging in what many consider to be a deviant sexual act? And why did I do so in manner that qualifies as schooby-sweet romantic? Because kink is coming into the mainstream and I wanted to address how wholesome deviance can be. I’ve read a lot of articles and message boards full of questions like, “if I want to peg my boyfriend, does that mean I secretly want to be a man?” “Does pegging make me gay?” “Can anyone fist, or is that just a lesbian thing?”

These questions are asked in earnest and, while some of them make me sad, (particularly when asked in conjunction with concern over being defined as gay), they’re important because they aren’t really addressing the act in question. Rather, they’re addressing an underlying concern. If I do this, am I still me, or do I have to reevaluate my sexuality and my self image to accommodate this desire? Or, translated into normal person speak  – am I a freak for wanting this?

The answer is no. You are not a freak, any more than I’m a freak for being bisexual, kinky and non-monogamous. Those things have all been considered deviant in the past, and they are still considered deviant by a great many people today, (though thankfully less so than before). Which brings me full circle to my original question. What do we mean by “deviant”?

The bottom line is that we all mean different things. For a super conservative person, oral might be at the top of the list of deviant-things-that-send-you-to-hell, while for others, it takes a bit more. I think the important thing is to keep subjectivity in mind. There’s no reason that pegging can’t be good, clean fun or that even the edgiest edge-play can’t nurture a deep and meaningful connection. And even if it doesn’t, who’s to say it’s wrong? Because really, that’s what “deviant act” implies – an act that is somehow immoral or wrong. As long as everyone consents is it really for any one group to judge what deviates from the norm?

My answer to that question, unsurprisingly, is no. Today, there are too many different normals for traditional notions of deviance to work. While it is true that we live in culture largely defined by Judeo-Christian hegemony, even those are adapting and expanding within their accepted tenets. Very slowly, but surely, “normal” is changing and becoming less defined.

The bottom line is that whether or not something is deviant depends entirely on where you’re sitting and how “normal” is defined by you and your community. This means that, to a certain degree, we’re all deviants in some way. We all experience sexuality differently–both publicly and in the quietest corners of our souls. As a result, when you drill down through cultural mores a bit, there is very little normal in the norm. Adjusting for consent and responsible action, we all deserve compassion and respect…. Unless you get off on kicking puppies. Then you’re on your own.

The KMQ: Bound / Unbound

KMQ Bound-Unbound I’ve been listening to The Kiss Me Quick’s erotica podcast for roughly five months, and in that time, I’ve heard Rose Caraway read everything from the dark and unsettling to the most joyfully pornographic smut you could ever hope to come across. It’s a wonderful podcast, both in content and execution, which is why I was honored when Ms. Caraway asked me if I wanted to write a piece for an episode. The answer was an immediate hell yes.

The piece I ended up writing, a dark bondage fantasy called Bound / Unbound surprised me. I’d been toying with the idea for about 9 years but it never went anywhere. I even had an extremely shitty, ancient first draft, but I gave it up shortly after writing it because I felt unequal to the task, (I was a newbie then and in desperate need of skill and confidence). Even as a concept, it was unruly and stubborn, but when the KMQ came up, something made me dig it out.

Writing a piece to be read is different than writing a piece to be performed – it has to be a little tighter, a little leaner. It has to have a certain efficiency and punch because the ear can only process so much at one time. These limitations ended up imposing an additional structure on the work – one based on practical concerns like pacing, (there’s kick-ass interstitial music), and tension. Those limitations, plus having a specific audience, (KMQ’s Lurid Listeners), were the key.

You can listen to Rose Caraway’s reading of Bound / Unbound here. There’s even a fabulous short, “The Massage” by Lady Cheeky” from The Big Book of Orgasms to sweeten the deal, so check it out.

And finally, on a personal note, I just want to say thank you to Rose Caraway and the KMQ. I would never have guessed that 9 years later, my first rough, unformed little bit of erotica would be performed as an episode of one of the classiest productions there is. And if you aren’t already heard the KMQ, get on over there and have a listen. You’ll be happy you did.

Erotic Fiction: Packing Light

Image courtesy of favim.com

Image courtesy of favim.com

So much of what I gravitate towards is dark or taboo or intense, that it’s easy to forget that sex can be funny and ridiculous and completely unexpected. Because of that, I don’t write stories that make me laugh nearly often enough.

This story, “Packing Light” is one of those fun bits of silliness that I wrote completely by accident. The notion of a small man in a suitcase would never have occurred to me if it hadn’t been for Exhibit A‘s excellent prompt last week, and though I wrote a very different story for that impromptu competition, this one kept tugging at my sleeve. So here it is – “Packing Light.” A bit of silliness for a Monday morning. Enjoy..

 

“PACKING LIGHT by Malin James

“You’re not Bob.”

Leonora blinked. There was a very small man in her suitcase, and she was fairly certain he wasn’t hers.

“Sorry lady, but who the hell are you?”

Leonora cleared her throat.

“I’m Leonora. Who the hell are you?”

“Rumpelstiltskin,” he replied.

The very small man stuck out his hand. Leonora shook it, reflexively.

“Wait. Bullshit,” she said. Then she covered her mouth with her hands.

Leonora didn’t like to swear. The very small man grinned and climbed out of the suitcase, landing lightly on her hardwood floor.

“Okay, you got me. My name’s Nate. Where’s Bob?”

Leonora shook her head.

“I don’t know a Bob.”

Nate looked at her. His eyes were sharp and appraising. Suddenly, Leonora knew that she couldn’t lie to him if she tried.

“We are in L.A. though, right,” Nate asked, still holding her gaze.

Leonora shook her head. For the first time since she’d opened the suitcase, he began to look concerned.

“Where the hell are we, then?”

“Denver, Colorado.”

“Denver, Colorado? What the fuck am I doing in Denver, Colorado?”

“How should I know?” Leonora shrugged. “Why were you in my suitcase? I wasn’t going to L.A.”

Nate gave her a look and began to pace. “I wasn’t in your suitcase. I was in my suitcase.”

Leonora sat down. She was getting a headache. She must’ve picked up the wrong bag.

“Okay, fine” she said. “Why were you in your suitcase?”

Nate stopped pacing, and looked at her as if she were simple.

“If you were three and a half feet tall, would you pay full price for a seat on the plane, or would you take a shitload of sedatives, pack yourself in a suitcase and have your buddy check you in at the airport?”

Leonora rubbed her temples absently.

“I would buy a seat in the cabin.”

Nate gave her a look.

“Sure, babe. Pretend you’re a little person and then we’ll talk.”

“Isn’t “dwarf” the correct term? I thought “little person” was insulting.”

Nate rolled his eyes “What the fuck ever. I need to get to L.A. Do you have any

Klonopin?”

Leonora shook her head.

“Xanex?”

“No.”

“Valium? Seconal? Phenobarbital?”

“No. Nope. Sorry.”

“Well, shit,” Nate said, exasperated. “What the hell do you have?”

Leonora thought for a second.

“I think I have some Benedryl…it might have expired though. How long does it last?”

Nate shook his head. “Never mind. I’ll do without.” He started to climb back in the case.

“Wait,” Leonora said. “What are you doing?”

“I’m re-packing myself, so you can send me to L.A.”

Leonora looked at him. Suddenly, she was fed up.

“I just got off an eight hour flight that should only have lasted three. I’m tired. I’m cranky. And I don’t feel like going to work tomorrow because I just spent a week alone in Cancun without my boyfriend—who is now my ex, by the way—because he broke up with me the night before we were supposed to leave. I thought he was going to propose, so all my coworkers think there’s going to be a ring on this hand…”

Leonora shoved her ringless finger in Nate’s face.

“…but there ISN’T. And now you want me to haul you and your suitcase back to the airport in a blizzard so you can go to L.A.? No. I’m not going to. No. Not unless you can find my suitcase with my migraine medicine in it and make Ben stop being a jerk…Ben is my ex. And he’s a jerk.”

Leonora started to cry. Nate watched, mildly horrified, before pulling a handkerchief out of the side pocket of his suitcase. Then he jumped down and went to her side. Leonora took the handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. It smelled really good.

“Linda—“

“Leonora.”

“Leonora. Sorry. You’re right. It wasn’t fair of me. It’s not your fault that I ended up in Denver.”

“No. It’s not.”

Leonora blew her nose loudly. Nate winced, but carried on. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I doubt it…” she sniffed, pathetically.

“Well…” Nate said, studying her. Under the red face and rumpled misery, Leonora was a pretty sexy girl, in a sweet and wholesome kind of way. “There is one thing I can do.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

She bit her lip and looked at him. Something in his eyes, which were golden brown, make her stomach flip.

“Lie back, just a bit.”

Not quite believing what she was doing, Leonora did. Slowly, as if asking permission, Nate pulled down the ratty yoga pants that she’d traveled in. Then he parted her legs and, leaving her underwear on, licked gently up the inside of her thigh. Leonora jumped.

“Oh my god!”

Nate stopped, and looked at her.

“Is the okay?”

Leonora looked down at him. Her hazel eyes were drowsy and bright.

“Yes. Yes. Don’t stop.”

Smiling just a bit smugly, Nate went back to work, licking and nuzzling her thighs. When he drew down her cotton panties, they were damp. Surprising herself, Leonora raised her hips to make it easier for him to get them off. Ben had never liked going down on her, so this was a new experience—one she had a feeling she was going to like.

Headache forgotten, Leonora settled back, flushing and gasping as Pete ran the tip of his tongue up and down the length of her slit….

“Oh, my god….”

This time, Nate didn’t ask if he should stop.

It was right about then that Leonora lost track of time. Nate suckled and tongued her, teased her clit and the sweet, sensitive lips of her cunt, (and even the rim of her other hole, much to her shock and pleasure), for close to an hour before he brought her slowly up through layers of pleasure to the very edge of an orgasm. When she finally did come, Leonora shrieked and shuddered through a climax that out-climaxed every pale, starving little orgasm she’d ever had with Ben.

Hoarse and exhausted, Leonora’s legs flopped open as a very smug Nate finally surfaced from between her lovely, sun-kissed thighs.

“Better?”

Leonora watched Nate happily rub his jaw. He was smiling. In fact, he looked almost as satisfied as she felt.

“Yes, actually. I feel much better….”

They looked at each other for a moment. It was an awkward look. Awkward, but also shy and kind of warm.

“So,” Leonora said, not moving. Her bones felt soft and sleepy—she didn’t want to wake them up.

“When do you have to be in L.A?”

Nate ran a hand through his mussed up hair. It was kind of a sexy blonde, Leonora thought. Sort of gold and brown, like his eyes, which were also very nice.

“Yeah, uh, you know…. Not for a couple days, really.”

Leonora nodded.

“Would you, um. Would you like to spend the night here? I could send you express tomorrow. If you like…?”

Leonora held her breath, amazed at the butterflies trying to flutter past her throat. But then Nate smiled, and the butterflies disappeared.

“Yeah. I could do that,” he said.

“Okay,” said Leonora.

“Okay,” said Nate.

Then he climbed up onto the couch with her, ignoring the open case.