Tag Archives: Kink of the Week

A Few Thoughts on Bellies

Shot of woman's bare torso with glimpse of red heart panties for Sinful Sunday: Girly Thing by Malin James

Photograph by Malin James

This post isn’t really about naval fetishism, but it is the written, real time version of my realization that my relationship to my belly is far less ambivalent than I previously thought. 

I don’t really have a thing with bellies…actually, that’s a lie. I didn’t think I had a thing for bellies until I wrote this post. Hands? Yes. Nape of the neck? Obviously. Collarbones and shoulder? Fizzy, little sigh.

But tummies are different. Unlike napes and collarbones, I don’t sexualize them…at least, not beyond the fact that they’re a lovely expanse of sexy, touchy potential. Round, flat, muscled, soft – if my partner has a tummy, I’m going to want to touch it because it’s part of that person’s body. Odds are that if I’m having sex with someone I want to touch their body, belly included.

My apparently long-standing but newly discovered thing with bellies has less to do with other people’s and more to do with my own. When I was young, I trained at the SF Ballet. Even as a little person, emphasis was placed on how fit and strong and flexible our bodies were, and I was taught that my stomach muscles had a great deal to do with that. When I was dancing, I developed an intuitive awareness of my core muscles and how they engaged. They were my tools and I took care of them. They made me feel strong and capable, but that had nothing to do with sex.

When I got older and more aware and, as a result, more consciously guarded, I became protective of my belly in a largely symbolic way. Traditionally speaking, it’s a vulnerable place and “showing your belly” has never come naturally to me (massive understatement). The fact that getting people to “show their bellies” was one of my ex’s favorite pastimes probably didn’t help. In fact, my hyperawareness of it as an emotionally vulnerable place (and the protectiveness that came with it) may be why I’ve never thought of my belly as an especially sexual part of my body until I actually sat down to think about it.

Much to my surprise, it is.

After years of habitual maintenance, my core muscles are literally and figuratively the center of my strength. I engage those muscles when I run, when I pick up my daughter, and oh, damn do I engage them during sex. A really good kiss is enough to make them tighten up for go-time. I bend and flex and stretch from my belly. I use it for leverage. I sit and stay grounded from there too. Without getting too sentimental or spiritual about it, my belly has become my seat of strength in both body and mind.

While I might be naturally attracted to certain body types, a person’s belly doesn’t register when you compare it to any number of other things, but my relationship to my own belly is surprisingly less generic. My belly is strong, and that makes me feel strong, and yeah, that actually is sexy.

Stretching out long, like a cat, in bed; curling up beneath someone, anchoring myself on top of them, bending this way and that. My belly lets me do all of those things. Even better, it helps me feel present with my partner when I do them. I had no conscious awareness of that before now. It’s kind of lovely that writing this helped me figure that out.

For more thoughts on bellies and naval fetishism, check out Kink of the Week or click the lips. 

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.

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

Erotic Fiction: A Good Love

Scarlet Ribbons by Jack Vettriano. Painting of a man and a woman with a woman in a chair between them.

Scarlet Ribbons by Jack Vettriano

“Kiss him.”

The blonde opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Her face is painted with so much care…it makes her easy to read.

The woman cocks her head.

“Don’t you want to kiss him?”

The girl collects herself. Sits up straighter.

“Yes. Of course I do.”

The woman smiles, all red meat and wine. The girl wants to be taken seriously, but it’s impossible. She looks like a confection, with her candy floss hair and peppermint lips.

The man shifts as the woman bends, brushing her cheek against the girl’s. She inhales. The little blonde smells like vanilla. Of course. Of course, she would.

“Then,” the woman says, tipping her voice so it surrounds the girl like honey, “kiss him.”

The girl’s caramel scent surrounds the woman as her cheeks grow flushed and warm. Then she nips across the room and tips her face up to the man’s.

“Not there,” the woman says, laughing.

The girl turns and looks at her questioningly. The woman laughs again. The blonde understands. At least, part of her does. No one is as innocent as that girl is pretending to be….

The woman’s eyes drifted over the man, drawing a picture for their guest. Torso. Waist. Hips. Thighs. The thing she’s meant to kiss. The girl’s eyes widen but it’s part of the act. A tiny smirk mars her spun sugar face.

The woman looks at the man and the man looks at her, as something more subtle than a wink passes over the girl’s head. Then he ambles towards the couch.

“C’mon,” he says, sitting down and spreading his legs.

The girl jumps. He hasn’t spoken before, and she responds instinctively, moving across the room as if someone’s flipped a switch. Then she kneels between his legs and waits, looking from him to the woman.

“Good girl,” the woman says, settling in beside the man. He wraps an arm around her and pulls her close. His other hand stays on his knee, deceptively still.

“Unzip his fly and take out his cock.”

The girl does as she’s told, all hints of sugar and innocence gone. She’s practically panting by the time she pulls it out of his pants. The woman’s lips quirk in a half-second smile. She understands the girl’s interest. He has a beautiful cock.

“Kiss it,” she says. “And then suck him off as sweetly as you can. Let’s see how much of that lipstick survives.”

The girl nods, licking her lips like the caricature of a whore. For the first time that night, she looks beautiful to the woman. Her predictability is beautiful…. The woman touches the man’s hand as he strokes her neck, just enough to wake her spine.

The woman kisses him then, a light touch of their lips as the girl takes him into her lollipop mouth. The understanding at the foundation of their relationship wraps itself around them. They have a good love. She kisses him again, absorbing his heavy pulse as he slides his cock down the blonde’s open throat.

They kiss as the girl sucks him off like the professional she is. They kiss, round and wet, as he grips the blonde’s hair and brutally steers her head. They kiss when the woman’s fingers join his in manipulating the girl. They kiss as he gets closer, thrusts harder and hungrier. They kiss as he bares his teeth. They kiss, eyes open, when he finally comes all over the girl’s ruined face. The lipstick doesn’t survive.

The woman reaches down and runs her thumb down the girl’s sticky cheek. His cum is still warm when she licks her fingers clean.

The woman smiles at the deliciously ruined blonde.

“My turn for dessert.”

To see who else is kissing and telling, click pretty lips.

On Corsets

Vogue 1939. Corset by Detolle for Mainbocher

Vogue 1939. Corset by Detolle for Mainbocher

It’s no secret that I love corsets, both for their aesthetic value and for the sheer pleasure of wearing them. I’ve worn cinchers, under-busts, Sweethearts and Victorians but none of them have felt so right or so comfortable as the custom corset I had made last year by the brilliant modistes at Dark Garden in San Francisco. It took three fittings to get my black brocade beauty to fit like a glove, but it does. It’s perfect and I would wear it every day if I could.

Someone once asked me why I love corsets so much – they’re commonly thought of as anti-feminist and uncomfortable (they really aren’t, if you’re wearing the right one). Plus, lets be serious here, I don’t exactly have full, swelling breasts to showcase. In fact, if anything, my figure is quite spare, or “minimalistic” as one lover once put it. What could a modern woman who wears yoga pants and workout gear most of the time possibly get out of something so lush and apparently torturous as a corset? Well, I’ll tell you. Power.

I didn’t wear my first corset until I was in a stage production of The Seagull in my early twenties. I’d done quite a lot of Shakespeare, but it wasn’t until I landed a role with an deeply funded, very established company in San Francisco that I got to wear proper period costumes. At the first fitting for a dress that would involve layers of petticoats and skirts, I was laced into a corset for the first time. The other actresses made a show of complaining about how hard it was to breathe, but I didn’t. I was quiet, because I’d never been so relaxed wearing anything in my life.

That corset was a plain, steel-boned muslin thing – there was nothing sexy or elegant about it, but I felt beautiful. My tightly compressed body felt  efficient and spare – strong, for lack of a better word. I walked more gracefully, laughed more spontaneously and held my own in conversations that would have intimidated me had I not been wearing that old-fashioned, arcane thing.

Custom corset by Dark Garden

Custom corset by Dark Garden

A different part of me emerged. Suddenly, I was confident and socially nimble because, for some reason, wearing the corset made me feel like I could get away with it. I hadn’t yet realized that being myself was not something to get away with, but my natural right. For the first time in my life, I felt comfortable in my own skin.

After the production ended, I saved my money to buy my own corset. I didn’t want a one of the pretty fashion corsets I saw in clubs. I wanted the real thing, which would cost me more than $300 at a time when I could barely pay my rent. The scrimping was worth it though. After six months of austere living, I bought a rose and gold pinstriped silk over-bust that I wore with everything from slacks and suit jackets to white oxford shirts and pencil skirts.

The thing I’d been taught to think of as a torture tool of the patriarchy had, very ironically, given me access to the social autonomy that my young, insecure self so desperately craved. If I could find strength in something that had, historically, been seen as an oppression, maybe my love of red lipstick and high heels wasn’t such a cop-out either. Maybe real power came from pleasing myself, rather than worrying about the male gaze and what my fellow feminists thought.

A woman’s relationships with make-up, lingerie, high heels – all those things we think of as commercially “feminine” – are intensely personal; it’s too easy to dismiss them as simple bids for sex appeal. While it’s true, corsets have been fetishized, there’s nothing inherently wrong with that, so long as the woman wearing it feels genuinely happy. Corsets are sexy, and I feel sexy when I wear them, but the reason I feel sexy is very specific to me.

Note: This isn’t meant to imply that not liking corsets (or make-up or heels or any of the rest of it) is a feminine failure. It just means that every woman should feel free to pursue the things that make her feel goodwhether it’s Nike’s or FMP’s.

To me, corsets feel good, like very comfortable armor. When I’m wearing one, I relax and when I relax I am fully myself. My energy concentrates and drops into my hips and my dominant, predatory impulses rapid fire. I feel sharp an subtle. Far from being restrictive, corsets unlock me. I breathe more easily when I wear them. I stand taller. I let myself occupy all the space I want, which is generally quite a lot. For me, corsets have less to do with their effect on other people, and everything to do with their effect on me. They are a kind of second skin, one I no longer need to wear to feel like myself, but which I value and always will.

Though I love reading them, I don’t often have a chance to participate in any of the wonderful memes this writing community has to offer. This week, I’ve accidentally written a post that fits two different prompts – the Kink of the Week is corsets (which inspired this post) and Wicked Wednesday is all about trying new things. Given that my first time wearing a corset was so pivotal, I thought it would fit. Click the badges below to read more entries in both! 

 

 

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