Tag Archives: kink

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.

Erotic Fiction: Spar

Originally, this story was called “Rough”. I wrote it years ago and always had a soft spot for it. I dug it out not long ago and realized how green I’d been when I wrote it, so I set it aside,  figuring its time had passed.

 Then I did a post about sex and intensity. As I wrote it, “Rough” kept coming to mind. When I pulled it out again, I realized that it contained pretty much everything I’d written about in Technicolor Sex, it just needed teasing out. So I decided to give it a tease.

 It’s still a young story, but now it’s closer to what it originally wanted to be.  Plus, I like the new title. Rough sex can take lots of different forms, but sparring is something specific. At its best, sparring is a dance; a meeting of equals; a give and take. For my money, there’s nothing quite as promising as an even field and room to play….

“Spar” by Malin James

A guy once asked if he could have “the honor” of licking chocolate off my breasts. He was fondling a strawberry at the time—an obvious hint at the pleasures to come. A lot of girls would have melted, but the thought of his tongue sliding over my skin made me want to bite it off. Literally. Off. I politely declined and went home.

I like rough sex. My perfect night would end with both of us bruised, bloody and possibly scarred for life. Candles and chocolate are not for me. I like a fight. Which is fine in theory, but finding someone you can scratch that itch with is harder than you’d think.

I don’t like thugs and I don’t like jerks. I want a nice guy who loves dogs and calls his mom once a week. I don’t want a guy out on bail for assault; but finding a nice, well-adjusted guy who’ll laugh at your jokes and choke you out is, to put it bluntly, pretty fucking hard.

That’s why I started kickboxing again. If I couldn’t find a nice guy who liked it rough, then at least I could beat the hell out of a bag. That’s when I met Mike. He was there every time I went to the gym. Turned out the gym was his.

After eight weeks of mild obsession interest, I signed up for a private lesson. I didn’t really need it, but by then I didn’t care. I don’t like pining (I’m awful at pining) and I needed him out of my system. Besides, I’d exhausted my supply of sparring partners by then, so at least I’d get a workout.

When I walked in that evening, the place was empty except for Mike, who was beating the shit out of a bag with the kind of single-minded intensity that makes my belly clench. He stopped when I came in. My belly stayed clenched.

“Hey,” he said, taking off his glove. “I’m Mike.”

He extended his hand, and I took it. I liked the way it felt—strong and solid, but not overbearing. This man was a man with nothing to prove. My belly clenched again.

“Hey,” I said. “Marie.”

Crooked smile. Lean muscle. Steady, calm gaze. He was very, very present. His eyes felt like the edge of a cliff and I took a running leap.

“So, I’ve booked an hour. What do you offer?”

He was still holding my hand when our eyes locked. It should have been awkward, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t awkward at all. It was the kind of blood-rushing, cunt-swelling turn on that sinks right under your skin. Cue music. Fade to black. Except this wasn’t a movie, so skip the fade to black.

“It depends,” he said. “What are you looking for?”

“A challenge,” I replied.

His hand tightened and relaxed, an instinctive, light pressure, like knees brushing under a table. We were having a conversation. I tried to keep my face calm. Do you want this? Yes. Do you want this? Yes. Are we doing this? Yes. I smiled and squeezed his hand. Negotiations were done.

“Sure,” he said. “A challenge. I can give you that. Need to warm up?”

“No. I’m plenty warm.”

We circled each other, testing. He threw a left hook and I dodged. It barely grazed me, but I caught enough to know that he hadn’t tried to pull it, and that, my friends, was hot.

We’d been at it for just a few minutes when I decided to move things along. Tucking my shoulders in, I drove him back against the wall, but I’d underestimated Good Guy Mike. He wasn’t above playing dirty. To my snarly, feral delight, he picked me up by the waist and pressed me into the wall.

(I don’t have to tell you that sweatpants won’t hide a hard-on. All I’m going to say is that by the time he pinned me, I knew everything I needed to know, thank fucking god).

“Now what,” he said, grinning at me. He looked like a wolf daring me to throw a stick.

“Now this.”

I grabbed a fistful of his hair and bit his bottom lip. He growled and bit me back. Then his tongue was in my mouth and he caught both of my wrists. Yes…yes, yes, yes….

But I still wanted more, so I (very, very sweetly) kneed him in the gut. He swung me down hard, just like I’d hoped. I landed on the mat, but before I could roll away he’d pinned me with his weight.

Now, I’m not tiny. I’m fit and strong and tall, but Mike was so quick and so big that the sheer, immovable weight of him made me relax. Fighting him was like running at something you know won’t budge, and that’s why you do it – for the sheer, crazy joy of not holding back. Mike was so strong, so reliably strong, that I didn’t have to hold back.

“Gotta get you out of these clothes….”

He yanked down my pants and I tore at his sweats. The gym was a fishbowl and the doors were unlocked, but you couldn’t have paid me enough to care, not with his mouth on my tits, sucking and teasing with his rough, hungry tongue. I groaned and spread my legs.

He slid into me, deep and hard. I pushed my hips up, slick and open, wanting more. The way we fucked wasn’t tender. It was raw and rough and real, but under the bites, we were watching, gauging, asserting, retreating…. The give and take made me high.

We were wet and slippery with sweat. I tasted blood, but I didn’t know whose. Red welts. Dripping salt. Fists in hair. Hands on necks. Teeth and nails and blooming bites. When I came it was almost too much. My nerves felt like hooks in my skin, my lungs, my swollen cunt. I came and kept coming. I couldn’t stop coming. I sank into my body and pulled him in deep.

I felt his mouth on my neck, his teeth on skin, light pressure, harder pressure…. It started all over again. I came as I watched. I watched him and I waited. You can do that if you breathe. You can come and watch. Focus. Breathe. I watched his face and breathed.

He wrapped his fist in my hair, and I let him. He marked me, and I let him. He saw me, and I let him. And when he came, I saw him too.

We were quiet for a long time after. Gradually, I looked down at our bodies as we lay back on the mats, sweaty, panting, bruised. I hurt everywhere a person could hurt and it felt glorious. Like a brand new, shiny day.

“So,” he said, touching my jaw. I could feel a bruise forming. It’s a beautiful feeling, when you like how you got the bruise. “Can I take you to dinner sometime?”

I gave him a satisfied grin.

“It depends. How do you feel about dogs?”

“I love ‘em,” he said. “Lost my Sadie last year. I haven’t had the heart to get another. Someday. Maybe soon.”

He looked away, embarrassed. The man had clearly loved his dog.

“In that case, dinner would be great.”

Flash Fiction: Statue

White marble classical statue of a woman's torso and thighs covered by a sheer veil

Marble statue. Courtesy of Getty Images

“So. Henry has this fetish….”

Marjory swirled her martini around with a naked swizzle stick. She’d already eaten the olives.

“Okay,” Jackie replied, waiting for the ellipses to run out. They didn’t.

“So, is he into feet or something?”

Marjory shook her head.

“Spanking?”

“No.”

“Breast milk? Teddy bears? Tell me it’s not corpses.”

“No, no. It’s none of that. Besides, Henry’s too squeamish for dead people.”

“Thank Christ.”

Jackie downed the last of her cosmo and signaled for another.

“So, what’s he into then?”

Marjory blushed and looked away.

“Statues.”

“Statues?”

“Yeah. You know… Greek statues.”

“Like…the kind in museums. With boobs and missing bits?”

“Yeah. Like those.”

“Huh. That’s interesting.”

“Yeah….”

Marjory had always played it kind of straight. Jackie was the one who’d gotten around. She waited for her sister to say more, but wasn’t surprised when she didn’t.

“So what’s the problem? It could be worse. It could be corpses.”

“Stop with the corpses. This is serious.”

“Okay, okay….”

The bartender set down Jackie’s cosmo. She tossed him a wink for the extra twist.

“So,” she said, toying with the little curl of lemon. “Tell me why it’s serious. Can’t he get it up? Can he only fuck in the Met? Museum fucking is hot….”

“No! I mean, yes. He can get it up. But he really, really wants me to do this thing and I’ve never done anything like it before and I don’t know if it’s normal or not.”

“Sweetie,” Jackie said, “there is not such thing as normal. There’s just stuff you’ve done and stuff you haven’t. So what does he want you to do?”

“He wants me to…you know. Dress up.”

“Like what? A statue?”

“Yeah,” Marjory said, chewing her lip. “Like a statue. He even bought me an urn.”

“Aw! He bought you an urn? That’s super sweet!”

“Yeah, but is it? Sweet, I mean? Isn’t it kind of weird?”

“I don’t know. What does he want you to do with it?”

“Hold it.”

“While he fucks it?”

“No. Just hold it. While I watch.”

“Yeah?” Jackie smiled. It was a smile she knew Marjory hated, but only because she’d never smiled that way herself. “Watch what?”

Marjory leaned in and dropped her voice.

“He wants me to watch him…masturbate.”

Jackie slapped the bar and laughed.

“That’s it? He wants you to hold a vase while he wanks? That’s great! Oh! You know what you should do? You should wear, like, a sheer toga thing and expose one breast. That would be lovely! He’d be so surprised!”

“Jackie, I’m serious!”

“Marjory, so am I! Of all the fetishes in the world, this one is pretty sweet. Random, but sweet. It’s not like he’s asking you to cut off your arms for authenticity. Besides, haven’t you ever watched a guy get off? It’s fucking hot!”

The bartender glanced over and pretended to straighten the cocktail napkins. Jackie pounced.

“Hey! Sexy guy! Am I right? Isn’t being watched by a woman you’re into hot?”

“Uh…yeah. Actually, it is.”

The bartender smiled. Jackie grinned.

“See? It’s hot! And the only other thing he’s asking for is that you hold a thing and stand super still while he does it. My vote is that you go for it. Expand your horizons. Embrace the new.”

“I don’t know….”

“Of course, you don’t. You’ve never tried it. Go on. Be a statue. Live a little.”

“Okay…if that’s what you think.”

“That’s exactly what I think,” Jackie said, scrawling her number on a napkin and sliding it to the bartender. He took it and tucked it into his pocket. “You’ve already got the urn. Now all you need is something sheer.”

“I don’t have something sheer.”

“We’ll go shopping for curtains tomorrow.”

Technicolor Sex

Marilyn Monroe in a read dress against a green floral background for Technicolor Sex by Malin James

Marilyn Monroe, circa 1952. Image courtesy Getty Images.

You know how sometimes, every now and then, sex can light you up? It’s the kind of sex that squeezes your heart and gobbles it whole. Sublime, intense, shattering sex that leaves you wrecked and soaked and scratched and bruised and so happy you could cry?

Yeah. I love sex like that.

I used to associate catastrophically good, mind-altering sex with kink because, when I was younger, the only time I experienced it was in kinky situations. The impact it made on me drove me to experiment with all sorts of sexual deviance, which was great and profound in its own way, but it also kept me from understanding my natural sexual wiring until much later.

Recently, I’ve come around to realizing that, while I am definitely a kinky person, kink isn’t actually what drives my sexuality. Intensity does, and kink is one possible way for me to get a hit of that drug.

Note: When I say “kink”, I’m referring to all of the kinks I enjoy, plus the million other kinks that fall under the term’s umbrella. Unless I specify a particular kink by name, just figure I mean it as a placeholder for anything that falls outside the sexual mainstream, whatever that is….

Some people have a central kink around which other kinks play out, like the sub who loves spanking but isn’t into service. I don’t have a central, identifying kink. I have a spectrum of equally weighted, kinky options. That’s because, for me, the turn-on isn’t the kink itself, but the intensity that comes from engaging it.

I’ve written before about how I don’t identify as a Domme because it comes with a set of expectations that don’t consistently apply. While I enjoy playing that role, I slide in and out of sexual dominance depending on what I’m doing and who I’m with. For me, sexual dominance is an impulse—awesome when it’s instinctive with a partner, but not necessarily something I pursue for its own sake.

Unlike someone whose sexual identity is fairly set, my sexuality is fundamentally intuitive. I’m kind of like a tuning fork—I ring at different frequencies with different lovers because different people tap different aspects of my sexuality. This isn’t to say that I don’t have my own preferences and boundaries. It’s no secret that submission isn’t my thing. Masochism, however, is. I like pain – both dishing it out and taking it – but only if it’s part of my natural dynamic with a partner.

And that’s really the thing for me—my dynamic with my partner. It doesn’t matter if it’s a one-time thing or a long-term relationship, more than anything, I respond to connection – that humming recognition that you both want to fuck. While I really enjoy a lot of different kinks, the intensity I crave has more to do with a feedback loop than with the kink itself, and what creates that delicious feedback loop changes from partner to partner and moment to moment.

So, when I say that my sexuality is intuitive rather than definitive, I really mean that my sexual response cues off a feedback loop. Kink can, and often does, form the basis of that connection, but sometimes it just happens out of the blue. It’s a lot like dancing – you move with each other’s impulses and improvise, so dancing with one partner is nothing like dancing with someone else. I’m hyperaware of my partners’ impulses, and that awareness shapes my response. It creates a sort of bespoke sexual experience, but what fits one partner in one moment, won’t necessarily fit another.

That’s why, while I love rough sex, I’m only going to want it with certain people because it’s not about rough sex, per se. It’s about rough sex with someone I want to have rough sex with. So, as much as I enjoy restraint and watching and being watched and group sex and fucking in places you shouldn’t be fucking, I love vanilla too. For me, it’s not about what we’re doing; it’s about how it feels while we’re doing it.

If I get that intensity through missionary with unbroken eye contact, fine. If I get it through edge play, voyeurism, or trusting a partner enough to push my own boundaries, fine. In the end, it’s all just a gateway to the kind of intensity that makes for the kind of sex that dismantles your brain and turns you into a cock or a cunt and the basic need to fuck.

That isn’t to say that I can’t enjoy kink or have amazing sex without that brain-dismantling intensity because I can and have and will. In the end, I love sex—kinky sex, or sex that’s as vanilla as it gets. The kind of sex that I’m talking about here is just one variation in a million. I just happen to love it because it’s as context dependent as I am.

For me, at its best, sex is a function of impulses and variables and kink is just one of those variables. While I genuinely enjoy kinky, filthy filth, the intensity I want is a product of dynamic and connection, informed by, but not dependent on kink. It’s just as likely to happen with eye contact as it is with anything else.

I like it when sex is the unpredictable product of impulse and instinct. I like it when sex surprises me. Within the boundary of certain hard limits, my sexuality is fluid enough that it doesn’t hold a definitive shape, which means that sex is always something of an adventure. Even if I’ve been with someone for years, something – an emotional quirk, a request, whatever – can hit me in a way I didn’t expect. That sudden change in frequency is the shot of sexual adrenaline that starts the rest of the feedback loop.

It’s like alchemy and it’s different with everyone. It doesn’t happen all the time, but when it does, it reminds me what having a body is all about. That’s when you get sex that’s shattering and cathartic; sex that’s so intense and so fucking good you have to check for a heartbeat after. That’s sex in blazing Technicolor. Kink or no kink, I love Technicolor sex.

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: Big Handed Sam

Black and white partial portrait of Alexander Skarsgard's hand for Big Handed Sam by Malin James

Portrait of Alexander Skarsgard (and his sexy fucking hands)

I wrote this story a couple of years ago and submitted it to an anthology. I was especially happy when it was accepted because someone had challenged me to make fisting romantic, and I feel like I got pretty close. Unfortunately, that anthology was scrapped and the story came back to me.

I sent it out again, (like you do), and wasn’t totally surprised when it wasn’t right for the call. But hey, you have to try. Still, at this point it’s been knocking around for awhile and, more than anything, I want it out there to be read so I’m posting it here.

And now, without further ado, I give you “Big Handed Sam”, a story of fisting and romance. I hope you enjoy it!

 

Big Handed Sam

“I want you to fist me.”

“What?”

I propped myself up on my elbows and looked at Sam. My sweet, handsome Sam looked horrified. I love that man. We’d been dating long distance for close to six months…. Long distance is hard. There’s never enough time no matter how long the visit. I was heading back to Boston the next day, and I wanted to do something special before I left. Apparently, Sam’s definition of special did not include fisting.

“You’ve seen my hands right?” he said, holding one up. It was long fingered and wide knuckled. So damn sexy. Sam did not agree. “I have monster paws. They’re huge.”

I snuggled into his arms.

“You do not have monster paws. And of course they’re huge—you’re a big guy.”

Sam is 6’3 and a solid 200 pounds. He’s hot and muscled and, unlike me, (a cog in a corporate machine), Sam works with his hands. He’s a sculptor and he’s good. He works with preservationists on statues and altars and other beautiful things. His hands make works of art, and I wanted them wrist deep inside me. Sam was not convinced.

“Blair,” he said, grasping at straws, “there is no way my hand is going to fit. Women’s bodies aren’t meant to do that. It’s physically impossible.”

I smiled. “You’re right. It’s impossible. Just tell that to every woman who’s ever given birth.”

He looked at me helplessly, and shrugged. I loved him so much that I could have gobbled him up, but I had a point to make.

“I’m not asking for the impossible,” I said, slowly bringing his fingers to my mouth. “I’m asking you to trust that I know my own mind.”

He looked at me warily as I proceeded to nibble his fingertips like a cat. I love the way Sam tastes—like soap and stone, no matter what. Always soap and stone.

“Babe,” I said, between licks, “trust me. I know what I’m asking for.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Oh you do, huh?”

“Yes, I do,” I said. “I’ve done this before….”

Sam’s smile faded. His whole expression faded into the grain of his skin and the doubt in his eyes.

“Yeah, well. I haven’t. No woman in her right mind would want that from me.”

I want that from you.”

“Blair,” he said, drawing his fingers away from my mouth. “Look. I really don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” I said. “I promise. I promise you won’t hurt me. Please. Would you do this for me?”

Sam shook his head, as if he were thinking something through. I loved his protective instinct, but if our relationship was going to get to the next level, he had to understand that I knew my own mind. And suddenly, he did.

“You aren’t like anyone I’ve ever met,” he murmured. Then he gave me a long, sweet kiss. I knew what that kiss meant, and it made my cunt ache.

“Okay, darlin’,” he said. “But you need to tell me what to do.”

I grinned. “You got it! Step One: Get the lube!”

Sam rolled off the bed looking earnest and serious, like a boy scout collecting supplies. He dug a small, half finished bottle out of a bedside table drawer.

“Is that going to be enough?” he asked, doubtfully.

“Nope. Not by half,” I said. “Don’t worry. I came prepared.”

I jumped up off the bed and bounced to my suitcase. Buried under a pile of unworn clothes were a king sized bottle of my favorite lube, latex gloves and my bullet vibe.

“Would you mind grabbing some towels,” I asked, dropping the supplies on the bed. Sam eyed the stuff, looking nervous.

“Yeah. Sure.”

I hopped back up on the bed and listened to him rummage while I idly fingered myself. I was plenty wet, but a weekend of marathon sex had left me a little tender. I was going to need a warm-up before the main event.

“Hand towels or big towels,” he called, voice muffled. His head was probably in the cabinet. God, I love Sam.

“Doesn’t matter,” I said, closing my eyes.

My clit was at that magically sensitive place between not enough and too much—I was barely touching it, and I could feel my pulse in my cunt. I love it when that happens. I sank back into the pillows and sighed.

“Hey, darlin’? Do you want the super soft ones or….”

Sam’s voice trailed off. I opened my eyes and gave him a lazy grin. I had two fingers in my pussy, and you could hear how wet I was.

“Doesn’t matter, babe. Honest.”

“Sure,” he said, without taking his eyes off my hand. He cleared his throat.

“So. What comes next?”

“What comes next,” I replied, taking my fingers out of my soaking sex, “is that you come up here with me.”

Sam dropped the towels next to the other supplies and settled in looking horny and vaguely terrified.

“Touch me,” I said, shifting my hips.

“Like this?”

His fingertips grazed my folds.

“Perfect,” I murmured. “Just like that. Get me all warmed up….”

I sighed as he found my clit. Then he took one of my nipples into his mouth and sucked, soft and slow, just the way I like it. I moaned and instinctively arched my back, but he didn’t take it too far. With a final suck he released my tit and gently nuzzled my cheek.

“Where are those gloves?”

“Down there,” I said, waving at the foot of the bed. “Bring the lube too.”

The brass bed creaked as he knelt beside me. I looked up at his face. He was frowning at the glove, as if he were cutting it a deal—you get on my hand and make this work and I won’t hate you for the rest of my life, the crinkle in his forehead seemed to say. My heart nearly broke. I was full of anticipation, but I had to stay focused. I was the one who had gotten him into this. I had to see him through.

“That’s great, babe,” I said, once he’d gotten the gloves on. “Now, grab the lube and coat your fingers. We’ll go nice and slow.”

“Do you want the vibe first,” he asked. “I’m gonna be covered in lube….”

“No,” I said, reaching up to stroke his face. How was I supposed to keep leaving this man? A weekend a month wasn’t enough. “No, it’s okay. I’ll take care of that myself.”

Sam nodded and flipped the cap on the lube. Then he coated his fingers and warmed up a generous amount in his hand. I held his gaze the whole time. My heart ached for him. It ached so much I could barely breathe. He must’ve seen it in my face because he stopped what he was doing and leaned in close.

“Hey, darlin’” he said, brushing the hair back from my face with the un-gooey back of his hand. “You sure you want this?”

“Yes. I’m sure. I want this so much. I just….” Tears prickled the corners of my eyes. “I don’t want to leave tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” he said, nuzzling the side of my neck. “I know. I don’t want you to go.”

His mouth covered mine in a way I’d recognized the first time we kissed. We’ll figure it out, his lips told me. We’ll figure something out…. He smiled against my mouth.

“Okay,” he said. “What’s the next step?”

“The next step,” I said, clearing my throat,” is to slick a bunch of that nice, warm lube onto my cunt.”

“That I can do.”

Very gently, Sam reached down between my legs. My hips thrust reflexively, meeting his hand as he massaged it into my pussy.

“You’re a natural, babe,” I sighed.

Sam winked, clearly enjoying himself as he stroked from the apex of my sex down my tender length of my engorged labia. I whimpered.

“That feels so good…. I want your fingers inside me.”

Sam nodded and, very slowly, slipped his middle and index fingers into me. The muscles shuddered and clutched, hungry for more.

“How’s that darlin’?”

“Good,” I breathed. “Good. Just thrust a bit right there…I’ll tell you when I’m ready for a third.”

Half dizzy, I reached down and fingered my clit. It was a good thing I’d said no to the vibe. I was so sensitized at that point that it would have made me come before he’d gotten a third finger into me. With the lightest, gentlest touch I could manage, I circled my clit. A wave of pleasure washed over me as Sam’s fingertips brushed up against my g-spot. I moaned as my legs went limp and dropped open. We had to get the show on the road.

“Okay, babe,” I whispered, panting. “I’m getting awfully close and we’re not even halfway there. How would you feel about slipping two more fingers in after a little more lube?”

“At the same time?”

Sam looked at me, concern creasing his brow.

“One at a time. One after the other. It’ll be fine. More than fine. I promise.”

Sam nodded. Then he used his unoccupied hand to coat his ring and pinky fingers before slowly inserting them into me, one after the other. I moaned. Sam froze.

“Blair? Are you okay?”

I nodded. Every nerve in my body had switched on. I’d never felt so open. Never in my life. I wanted him in me. Now.

“I’m good, babe. I promise. Ready for more?”

Sam nodded as a look of deep concentration settled over his face. I’d seen that look before, when he was carving something delicate, when one wrong move could ruin a whole piece. Love for him threatened to drown me.

“Okay,” I breathed. “Here’s what we do. Take your whole hand out, just for a second. Lube it up really well. Use more than you think you’ll need. Then, slowly, put those four fingers back into me. I’ll take care of the rest while you slide in your thumb.”

Sam shook his head. “I can’t imagine how this is going to work….”

“It does,” I murmured. “Trust me.”

“I trust you, Blair,” he said.

Then he pulled his hand back and, suddenly, I was horribly empty. The contrast was so dramatic that it made me want to cry. Not wanting to worry him, I blinked the back the tears.

“Hurry, Sam. Please.”

“I am, darlin’. I am.”
He coated his entire hand with what had to be half a bottle of lube, and I wondered briefly if I should have told him to use the big towels after all. Oh well, I thought, as a glob of silicon hit the sheets. Too late now….

Before I knew it, his fingers were inside me again. Index. Middle. Ring. Pinky. I sighed in relief, anticipating the rest, but he hesitated with his thumb.

“Are you’re sure?”

“Yes. I’m sure.”

I may have sounded a little abrupt there…okay, I kind of snarled. But really. I was sure.

“Okay, okay…. Here we go.”

My fingers went back to my clit as Sam gently maneuvered his thumb into me. I was soaked from the lube and my own juices, but even I was shocked by how hot I was. My body was radiating heat and my clit, when I touched it, felt like a little coal. I rubbed it, panting, as I bore down on Sam’s hand.

“You’re so gorgeous, Blair.”

“Please, Sam. Don’t stop.”

He had the hang of things now, which is good because my brain had checked out. I felt him slow and I mewled, sinking into the fill of his hand.

“We’re at the widest part now. Tell me if you need me to stop.”

I nodded distractedly, knowing there was no way in hell I was going to tell this man to stop. I felt like a live wire—I couldn’t have stopped if I’d tried….

“Breathe, Blair. Lift your hips.”

I did what Sam said, opening my hips and arching my back as he slowly, slowly slide his hand in, past his knuckles, then the bridge. The heat kicked up a notch. I was pouring sweat and my chest was tight, but the rest of me was loose, loose and open, inviting him in. Suddenly, the pressure in my passage relaxed and my cunt closed over his wrist. My fingers left my clit and rested on my belly, as tears spilled down my cheeks. I had never felt so close to anyone before, never in my life.

“Hey, darlin’? Are you all right?

I nodded, unable to speak.

“Am I hurting you,” he asked, starting to panic. I smiled and blinked back tears.

“No, baby. You’re no hurting me. It just…it feels really good. It feels….” I shook my head. Full. Brimming. They weren’t good enough. But I didn’t need to say more. Sam looked at me and nodded. He understood.

“Will it hurt you if I move?”

“No. I’d love it. Nice and slow…rub my clit with your other hand.”

He nodded and brought his fingers to my nub. Then, very gently he began to move his hand. Almost immediately, the orgasm I’d been shoring up began to crest. I laid back and closed my eyes. I knew Sam would get me there.

What little discomfort I’d felt at the start had long since passed. Now all I felt was the greedy, clutching need to get him as deep as I could. I raised my hips up off the bed, giving my body free rein as the orgasm filled my lungs and my toes and traveled up my legs in fiery licking swells.

“Blair, you’re so fucking hot.”

But I barely heard him. My fingers plucked at the ruined sheets as my eyes rolled into my head. I must have looked possessed, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything but Sam’s hand deep inside me. The sensation was nearly too much. Wanting to make it last, I shoved his fingers off my clit, but my body was ready. I came.

Guttural wails filled my ears, but I didn’t realize they were coming from me. I was too wracked by sexy, sexy greed. I never wanted that orgasm to end. I was gone, lost in my body and totally out of my head.

Slowly, slowly Sam brought me back down. When I opened my eyes, I noticed that he was a lubey, cum-streaked mess.

“Damn,” I said, looking at the dripping tip of his recently spent cock. “When did that happen?”

“Well,” Sam said, with a really sheepish grin. He was still wrist deep inside me. “I hope you don’t mind. You were just so gorgeous and so deep in it…when you pushed my hand off your clit I figured why not. Watching you made me come in record time.”

“I love you,” I said. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Blair.”

“Would you kiss me? Can you reach?”

“Yeah. I can reach.”

That pretty much sealed the deal. That’s why I moved to Georgia—to be with Sam. Sam and his gorgeous hands.

Erotic Fiction: Drinks with Friends

Black and white photograph of a woman kissing two men for Drinks with Old Friends by Malin James

Photograph by Anders Petersen

They said nothing in the cab, but the awareness Mia had felt at the bar expanded to fill the space. By the time they arrived at her place, she was drowsy and wet, just from holding their hands.

For a moment, they stood in the entry hall, three old friends on the black and white tiles. Then Mia turned and walked up the staircase, unzipping her dress as she did.

She was waiting for them in the bedroom. She kept her back to the door, watching their reflections in an antique oval mirror above her bed. Her dress was a dark, silky pool on the floor at her feet.

Michael and was first across the room. She’d known he would be, just as she’d known he wouldn’t rush. Edward stayed in the doorway. She’d known he would too, just as she’d known that he would watch…but only at first.

Michael moved slowly, pulled along by their history. Most men would have said something breathless and trite. Most men would have talked. Michael didn’t. Michael kissed her, like she’d known he would, and she arched into his kiss, relieved and glad.

Mia felt Edward watching them, felt his fingers flex, felt the weight of his gaze on her skin and on Michael’s big hands. She felt his shadow stretch across the room and cover them like a warm, dark pool. For the second time that night, Michael and Mia turned towards Edward, who stood like a man on a precipice.

“Edward?”

Mia held out her hand.

“Edward,” she said again.

She poured years of loving him into her voice until the weight of their history sank into her chest. The weight of it touched him, and the mask he wore, his smooth mask, slipped. Then he crossed the room and kissed her with a hard, deliberate edge.

Mia sank her fingers into Edward’s hair, aware of Michael’s chest against her back and his mouth on her neck. Then the angle changed and it was Michael’s mouth on hers as Edward slid behind her. Mia stretched and rubbed the curve of her ass against the uncivilized bulge in Edward’s civilized suit. She was blind and greedy and obscenely wet as he reached around and cupped her cunt.

She rubbed against his hand and kissed Michael’s neck as Michael reached around and slid Edward’s jacket off. Suddenly, Edward’s hand stilled and Mia watched, fascinated, as Michael lowered his mouth to their best friend’s.

Michael gave Edward time adjust as Mia dropped small, deliberate kisses into Edward’s palm. Little by little, Edward relaxed and as he did, he kissed Michael back, hesitantly at first, and then rougher, hungrier, until one of them moaned and Mia bit her lip. She wanted to gobble them both.

Michael murmured something against Edward’s mouth and one of them undid the clasp of her bra. She turned her body, angling towards Edward. He sucked her tits with his sweet, slow mouth while Michael knelt behind her and pulled her panties down. Fingers stroked her clit, her belly, her soaking thighs…. She was a breath away from coming.

“Stop,” she said

Mia’s cunt was so heavy she wanted to scream. She smirked instead.

“Strip. I want to see you both.”

Michael grinned and got to his feet. It was a predatory grin, like a lion scenting gazelle, and the look she gave him mirrored it. She’d felt their hands as they’d explored her body and her skin still throbbed. Now she stepped back to watch.

Michael gave Edward a curious look and slowly unbuckled his belt. Edward narrowed his eyes but didn’t look away. Michael dropped the belt and unbuttoned his cuffs, smiling at Edward the whole time.

“Better get moving. She wants to see you too.”

Edward blushed, but he smiled for the first time as he yanked off his tie. Shoes, shirts, pants, briefs. Finally, Michael and Edward stood with Mia, naked in the middle of the room.

“Oh,” she murmured, more of a breath than a sound. She stroked Michael’s chest and skimmed Edward’s with the flat of her hand.

Michael made a sound deep in his throat and backed her up into Edward. Then he dropped to his knees in front of them. Mia rose up on tiptoe and pressed her ass into Edwards’s hips, wriggling until his cock slid between her legs. God, she was so wet. Mia tipped her head back and rubbed her cunt against him like adolescent’s dream. Then she felt the tip of Michael’s tongue on her clit. He licked and sucked and her lungs grew full, almost too full to breathe. For a moment, she moved against both of them. Then Michael’s mouth left her and she felt Edward freeze.

Mia looked down, about to complain. But Michael was sucking Edward’s cock between her legs. She forgot what she was going to say. Michael smiled up at her.

“You taste amazing together.”

Mia closed her eyes as Edward’s arms tightened around her. They both began to rock and she rubbed her clit with her hand as she slid back and forth between them. Michael’s tongue flicked over her fingers and she knew, now, she was going to let herself come. It had been building for hours, a long, slow tide, and she bit her lip bloody when it finally pulled her under.

Mia’s hips jerked as she arched back against Edward’s chest. She knew they were watching her and it made her come deeper and harder as if it would never stop.

“Fuck me. Both of you. Now.”

Edward got on the bed. Mia could barely see straight as she straddled him, shoving her rump in the air like a cat in heat. Michael got up behind her and held her hips as he slid his cock next to Edward’s between her legs.

“M, are you sure you want this,” Michael asked.

Rather than answer, Mia reached for a bottle of lube and tossed it on the bed.

“Yeah. I’m fucking sure.”

Michael cupped her breasts and kissed her shoulders as if he were afraid that she would break. It was Edward who picked up the bottle.

“Better get a move on. She wants you too,” he said, handing it to Michael.

Then he lay back on the bed as Mia and Michael knelt over him again. Michael held her, rubbing her clit as she sank down on Edward’s cock. She rose and fell in tight, little jerks while he grabbed the lube and greased himself up.

Michael met Edward’s dark, dark eyes as he pressed Mia’s second, tighter hole. It gave and he entered, inch by slow inch. She shuddered and started to moan until she had them both  up to the hilt.

A sheen of sweat covered her skin and she trembled. She had never felt so full, so gorgeously full in her life. She started to move, rocking her hips as she clutched them both in her slick, muscular heat.

Guttural sounds poured out of her as Edward grabbed Mia’s waist and began to thrust. Behind her, Michael matched Edward until a terrible, aching pleasure overwhelmed her. She stiffened, clawing at Edward’s hands and Michael’s thighs as she came and kept coming, one orgasm bleeding into another.

She felt Michael move against Edward, separated by nothing but the thin membrane of her body. She felt Edward struggling for control as Michael rode them both. She tasted Michael in her mouth and she tasted Edward too. She felt four hands tighten and two mouths on her skin as they poured themselves into her like they’d always wanted to.

“So,” Edward said, afterwards. He was rumpled and flushed and covered in cum. So were Mia and Michael. “Is that what you meant by drinks with friends?”

“No…not exactly,” Mia replied.

But the curve in her voice said otherwise. Michael snorted.

“Whatever. So long as we don’t wait ten years to do it again.”

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.”

 

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Unbearably Sexy

Black and white photograph of Michael Fassbender for Vogue issue April 2012 for Unbearably Sexy post by Malin James

Michael Fassbender & Natalia Vodianova for Vogue, April 2012

I should preface this by saying that this isn’t what I’d call a proper post. It’s more of a message from my id…. Carry on.

Yesterday, I stumbled over this photograph of Michael Fassbender and Natalia Vodianova from the April 2012 issue of Vogue. It’s gorgeous, dramatic and ambiguous – just the sort of thing I love. But “gorgeous, dramatic and ambiguous” makes it sound like my response to it was  dreamy and appreciative in a purely aesthetic way.

It wasn’t.

My response was an immediate shot of violent arousal. It’s the sort of feral jolt I don’t usually get unless the source of my arousal is either very personal or touchably in front of me.

In the wake of this fantastically primal response, I tweeted the photo with the caption “This is unbearably sexy” because that’s exactly how it felt – unbearably sexy. This image is so sexy that it was literally difficult for me to bear. For some reason, it taps into every dark, delicious, predatory instinct I have. Even as I type this, I feel sharp and edgy.

I ended up DM’ing a bit later with a couple of women who had similar reactions – similar, but not quite the same. While we all got that holy hell, FUCK ME shot of arousal, the women I chatted with were pretty open about the fact that it was because they identified with, or wanted to be, Natalia Vodianova.

This is very much in keeping with what I assume to be the intention of the image given that it’s part of that issue’s cover feature on Michael Fassbender. Of course, the female reader is meant to identify with Vodianova. Who wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of Fassbender’s sleek concentration?

That’s what underpins the image’s visible cues – his control and her softness, the way he’s holding her still, her pretty glove on his sleeve, the precision of his hand vs. the carelessness of his writing…. I see all of those things and feel the pull of the same response – the one I should be having:

Let it be my hand on his sleeve and my temple he’s writing on. 

But it’s not. I’m reacting to something else – something I’ve manufactured in response to the image. Yes, it’s fed by his apparent control but it’s not because I want to be the lovely, pliant recipient of that attention. I don’t want to be the woman he’s doing it to, I want to be the woman he’s doing it for. I want to watch him while he does it and know that I’m under his skin.

Despite how that probably sounds, that desire doesn’t come from a place of dominance. It comes from the fact that I love power and confidence and force of will. I love prowess, and I love watching my partners exercise their prowess. It’s intensely exciting to me because equality is exciting to me – there is nothing as intimately hot as knowing that I am with someone whose will is as strong as mine, someone who can meet me step for step wherever we happen to go, especially when he trusts me to take the lead.

This photograph is not an image of that equality – it’s of a magnetic man exercising his prowess. Fassbender’s control, his focus, intensity and aloofness, the way he makes an object of her…it’s beautiful in the way a painting is beautiful. And so is the softness of her compliance. They are the picture of a dynamic that I would love to watch unfold…and, more importantly, that I would love to control.

So, where would I be in this picture?

Under his skin and in the back of his mind. In the pressure of the quill and his furrowed brow. In the drop of his shoulder and his barely parted lips.

He would bring me the taste of her perfume, like a token or a gift. He would bring me smudges of India ink, and I would lick the ink from his fingers and the perfume from his skin. I don’t own him. I wouldn’t want to. I love that he can’t be owned. But I’m in him; and in the ink; and in his impulse to write – by choice as much as will. And were I in his place, he would be in me too.