Wednesday, August 23, 2017

The Boss of Me

 by Daddy X

Even as a child I had a sense of being both top and bottom. Of course, back then it was more a matter of “I’m the boss of Clifford, and Joey’s the boss of me.” I could discern the laddered status we assume within a group. At the time I thought of it as a developing awareness of adult concepts, and how those concepts structure the building blocks of our lives, though at the time I probably wouldn’t have worded it like that.

Years later, a heightened gender awareness… ahem… reconstructed and rearranged those assumptions. Life got more complicated. Now any girl was usually the boss of me, as long as I had goo-goo eyes for her. My attraction to girls who had a crush on me, however, seemed to operate in a state of flux. Maybe we weren’t on the same intellectual level. Would she or wouldn’t she let me touch her in private places? Private places like the dead-end road where we ‘parked’. The private places of her body.


There was one girl who had the biggest crush on me. Let’s call her Wendy. Chased me from 7th grade through 11th . She’d invite me to the class dance months in advance, not leaving an opportunity for me to ask someone else. I could have called the shots, but never could say no to Wendy.

I knew how bad it felt just having a girl refuse to slow dance at a Saturday night record hop. I’d feel so rejected I might not ask another girl all night. How could I refuse to go to an event with Wendy? She really liked me, and I appreciated that. And though I adopted the attitude of a tough guy, I never achieved the accepted idea of an alpha, at least not enough to make her feel bad.

Of course, I still don’t think a man should knowingly make a girl feel bad. (God knows we do it enough by accident.) Again, even at such tender age, I realized the irony of those dynamics. Why couldn’t a crush of mine coincide with a girl who felt the same about me?

And, Wendy wouldn’t put out.

The nature of relationships can shift when our assumptions take on challenges we hadn’t considered beforehand. What if someone gets sick? Or loses a job? Which partner will call the shots in the sex department? What if, after the honeymoon fuckfest has worn off, one has a larger, broader libido then the other?  Who will have to go wanting? Who will have it up to here?  

Ideally a pragmatic (and loving) couple can suss out each other’s strengths and weaknesses, finding a place on the ladder most comfortable for each. Trick is to take on or relinquish control within a given area:

Momma X, having worked in book production, is eminently qualified to structure our social life and to keep detailed track of bills and finances. I, on the other hand, take control in the kitchen, the car, and generating cash flow through “farming” and art and antiques. She’s much neater than I, and keeps the house presentable. We offer supporting roles, no matter if I’m pointing the way or she is.

Our respective duties tend to balance each other out. Sometimes I’m the boss of her. More often, she’s the boss of me.

Tuesday, August 22, 2017

There’s a time and a place

I’ve given this a lot of thought over the last week or so, in preparation for writing this post, and I can’t honestly come up with any examples of male characters who weren’t alpha, at least some of the time. Maybe this is a reflection of my taste in reading matter, but there you have it.

But an alpha male doesn’t need to be ‘on duty’ the entire time.  I prefer a hero who can be vulnerable, or wrong, or just plain incompetent at something. I’ve written loads of those, and they seem like real men to me. I meet men like that all the time.

In First Impressions my alpha male is something of a nerd, a whizz kid who makes a good living out of IT software design but can’t tell one end of a screwdriver from the other. He has to rely on the single mother, a local plumber who answers his cry for help, to fix his boiler and generally make his house habitable.

Another of my titles, Tell Me, features a very successful businessman who still needs to bring in an ultras-efficient head of finance to unravel a fraud in his accounts department.

In another of my books, a novella this time, Carrot and Coriander, the hero is a petty crook, new out of prison who is trying to go straight. He needs work so he’s prepared to do laboring jobs, tidying up gardens, whatever. He finds himself working for a self-employed accountant, and then his true, dominant, colours start to show.

My point is, there’s a time and a place. An alpha who never puts a foot wrong, who knows everything, can handle every situation with aplomb and ruthless efficiency is too one-dimensional for my taste. And not believable. I’m not convinced he’s even that likeable, and readers do need to like the main characters, I find.

A part-time alpha allows an opportunity for others to shine too – the sassy, intelligent heroine, the charismatic partner, the less confident characters who can flourish in the right environment. A true alpha doesn’t need to put others down to be dominant. He (or she) can bring out the best on those around them, the Pygmalion effect. That’s often hinted at in BDSM stories, the experienced Dom who sees in the new submissive qualities which even she (it’s invariably a she) was previously unaware of, under whose firm but sensitive coaching she is able to recognize and claim her true nature. It’s something of a fantasized arc, but it works beautifully. 

In this excerpt from Carrot and Coriander, Callum is experiencing that moment of recognition.

“I’ve got soup.”
The quiet, feminine voice startled him. He hadn’t heard her approach, so she must have come out of the back door this time. Watching him when she thought he couldn’t see her, and now sneaking up behind him. She made him uneasy, edgy even. Truth was, he was itching to get his hands on her. His grubby, rough hands all over her smooth perfection. Not that he would. Well, not unless she asked very nicely.
She shifted, dropped her gaze again as she started to back away. Callum realised he’d been glaring at her. Shit—no good came of scaring his customers. But there was something about her manner, her shyness, that appealed. That seemed familiar. Surely she wasn’t…? Wouldn’t…? Would she?
“I’m sorry. I was miles away. What did you say?” He pushed his lips into a grin of sorts. The friendliest he could conjure up at short notice. But he was trying.
“Soup. Carrot and coriander. I made it. Lots of it. Too much just for me and Jacob. I wondered if you’d like some. For lunch or maybe you could take some with you…”
Her voice trailed away, and he pulled himself up short as he caught himself glaring again. Bad habit. But soup! Did he look like the carrot and coriander sort? He was about to refuse, as politely as he could manage, but something stopped him. Maybe her obvious nervousness around him—was she actually shaking? And he did like carrots at least. Occasionally.
“Thank you. Soup would be…nice.” Had he actually just said that?
Apparently he had because she smiled, her face lighting up before she dropped her gaze again. But not before he noticed she had green eyes, reminding him of a rather nice BMW he’d once nicked. Her hair was a definite red now he saw it up close, with chestnut highlights. He smiled back. A real smile this time, his pleasure genuine because she was sweet, nice, and he was beginning to think she might be so much more.
“Would you like to join me? Unless you’ve got other plans, of course…”
‘Other plans’ would have extended only as far as the fish and chip shop two streets away. He found himself accepting her invitation to lunch, and it was not until  afterwards that he remembered he was filthy, hadn’t showered in days, and probably smelt like mouldy cheese. Still, it was done now. And he could always have his soup outside.
Except she had other ideas. “Great. Lovely. Just come on inside then, when you’re ready. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Monday, August 21, 2017

The Curse of the Unwilling Beta

Sacchi Green

Warning! I’m jumping the shark here, going off in a direction that doesn’t fit the intent of our theme at all, but this has been so much on my mind lately that I need to vent.

I totally agree that men we might consider betas rather than alphas can be very appealing, but usually, I’m guessing, only when they‘re secure in who they are and not obsessed with ranking systems like alpha and beta.

It’s occurred to me before, and has become even more apparent with the alt-right/white supremacist/nazi demonstrations lately, that men who are drawn to these political groups are struggling to climb from an unwilling beta status to alphas, however they may define the terms. They feel victimized, unrespected, somehow oppressed even if they have to make up straw-man oppressors, and are easily convinced that their “white” status should qualify them as alphas. If they had any other source of pride, like skills, intelligence, good jobs, they wouldn’t have as much need to try for respect—including self-respect—on the basis of their color and ethnicity. The problem is compounded by the almost universal concern with hyper-masculinity, with what they think defines a “real man.”

This also applies to those few immigrants, almost entirely males, who are attracted to extremist groups and terrorism when they can’t manage to get the respect they crave in their new country and culture. I thought of this in connection with the Boston Marathon bombers. The younger brother was getting along fairly well, in college, with friends, but he was till under the influence of the older brother who hadn’t managed to get jobs that would provide respect.

There are plenty of other factors involved in these situations, like upbringing, cultural differences, psychological tendencies, and unfortunate experiences, but if there’s one uniting force it’s an internalized feeling of being unjustly deprived of respect. And to make things worse, they feel unjustly deprived of sex, which leads to misogyny and harassment and sometimes violence against women.

I don’t know whether it’s true or not, but I read that one of the enticements offered to get participants to join the goulish demonstration in Virginia last week was the promise that “chicks” would be attracted to men standing up for their “white” rights. In short, that the men would be alphas, no longer betas. One of the main organizers, the one who’s been most interviewed and quoted, was full of swagger and what he clearly thought was manly appeal, but later did the odd thing of filming himself whining and almost crying over the fact that he might be arrested, and nobody would give him a job. Then someone dug up his profile on a major dating website. Apparently he didn’t have a girlfriend, and strutting around preaching white supremacy didn’t seem to be helping his sex life at all.

I don’t see a cure for any of this. It doesn’t help to point out that the lack of good jobs these days is due more to automation than to immigrants getting the jobs. People who feel victimized need to identify victimizers, however wrongly. And young men who cant get laid—at least not by the blonde Hollywood types of girls they’ve been conditioned to think are the only ones desirable—need to claim some reasons apart from the fact that they themselves haven’t managed to be desirable to girls. Their desperate need for self-respect may be even more powerful than their need for respect from others. Doing away with our cultural ranking of men according to how well they meet strict masculinity requirements, among them alpha-ness as opposed to beta-ness, might help, but that’s not going to happen. I guess we should be glad that it doesn’t seem to have occurred to anyone to go farther down the Greek alphabet in ranking men.

That’s enough wild speculation. I know we meant some entirely different definition of beta for this week’s theme, and I apologize for going so far afield. Chalk it up to news overload and far too “interesting” times, okay?

Friday, August 18, 2017

The Betas' Lament

by Jean Roberta

[Scene: twelve white guys sitting on folding chairs in a circle, looking uncomfortable.]

First Guy: I’ll start. My name is John Green, and I’m a beta male.

Second Guy: No you’re not, man! You’ve just been beaten down when you were too young to know how to fight back. If your girlfriend in high school dumped you to go out with some hotshot football player, is that your fault? I bet you could show her a better time than he could. Am I right?

[All the guys grunt their agreement after glancing very quickly at First Guy’s crotch.]

Second Guy [realizing the dangerous path he is on]: I mean, I’m not gay or anything. I’m just saying.

Third Guy: I can’t get a job because of all these refugees who’ll work for two cents per hour.
[All the guys grunt sympathetically.]

Fourth Guy: It’s not just refugees. Let’s call it what it is. Niggers and spicks and chinks and fuckin Indians are taking our jobs.

First Guy: Whoa! Watch your language, man.

Third Guy: Yeah. I mean, I know what you’re saying, but you can’t call people degrading names nowadays.

Fourth Guy: Why not, if they taking our jobs? And I didn’t even mention the women. They’re all hiring nannies to raise their kids so they can have “careers.”

Fifth Guy: We can’t even get laid any more because if we make a move it’s called “rape.”
[Several guys nod their heads vigorously, while some look more uncomfortable than before.]

First Guy: It’s not really rape if she wants you.

Fifth Guy: But they call it that! Some of them even say we have a “rape culture.”

First Guy: Women who want sex don’t call it rape.

[All the other guys stare at First Guy.]

While the Angry Men’s Group ponders First Guy’s comments, let me introduce you to two characters in an early story of mine, “When Less Is More.” (This story is still available in my collection, Obsession, from Renaissance Publishing.)

Alighieri, who preferred to be known by his family name because of its long history, was awakened by the late-afternoon sunlight that carelessly penetrated the olive-green burlap curtains of his bedroom. Like melted butter, the light poured itself over Spondee’s blonde elf-locks as she stretched a white arm across Alighieri’s darker back. She preferred to be known as Dee, and preferred not to be known as the child of two much-published members of the English Department in the local university. “You awake?” her man growled tenderly.

“Mmm,” she smiled, admiring the discreet muscles in his chest as he rose on his elbows. The couple had spent the whole weekend eating, fucking and sleeping, and they were now as mellow as old wine.

“I want to watch the BBC version of Twelfth Night on the TV in the front room,” the host informed his guest, “and I want you to lie across me.” Dee sat up as gracefully as a dancer. “Don’t put your clothes on,” he added.

Dee was pleased because she loved being naked in the daytime.

She didn’t, however, like complacent men. “I must really enjoy your company,” she teased him. “I’m missing the women’s floor hockey.” The young man couldn’t think of a witty comeback for that so soon after waking up, so he wisely held his tongue.

Soon Alighieri, who had the dark beard and chest hair of a werewolf, was seated on his cool leather sofa with Dee stretched across his lap. His hands rested promisingly on the two firm globes of her bottom as her nipples brushed the leather upholstery while she adjusted her head and arms into a comfortable viewing position.

“Now you see,” he explained, continuing their previous discussion, “a position like this isn’t hard to arrange, and it contains so many possibilities. There’s so much I could do to you.”

Dee snorted. “If that scared me,” she asked him logically, “would I lie here?”

“Mighty woman warrior,” he acknowledged, almost sounding respectful. “But you know I would never really hurt you.”

“You know I’d get back at you if you did,” she countered.

Like several of the other beta males discussed here lately, Alighieri is a nerd, and he feels as if this is the logical consequence of being the distant descendant of a famous writer in the Italian Renaissance. Dee, on the other hand, is a proud rebel against academic parents.

Alighieri keeps making moves that he hopes will give him a dominant position in the relationship, and Dee keeps making counter-moves. He can’t complain about a lack of sex, but she always keeps him off-guard.

By the end of the story, he has reached an epiphany: he cares more about her than she does about him, and that is a problem with no solution.

While writing this story, I really felt for Alighieri. I wished I could give him a happier ending, but that would have felt artificial. He’s creative, he’s intellectual, he’s attractive, and I probably would have been glad to meet him in my youth, but he doesn’t fit Dee’s concept of a “real man,” and therefore he is bound to lose her eventually.

If Alighieri existed off the page (and surely there is someone like him in the real world), I hope and pray that he will learn to be philosophical about the disappointments of life and the apparently irrational nature of taste: every person wants what s/he wants, even if this makes no sense to anyone else.

I hope Alighieri won’t join the Angry Men’s Group and complain that women in general have ruined his life, along with all the other members of “minority groups” who no longer know their place. I really hope Alighieri doesn’t start asserting White Pride (he’s barely white, but logic doesn’t seem to be highly visible in these groups) and proposing to bring back slavery, or genocide. I can only hope.

Question for Discussion: Which guy in the group do you think has the best sex life?

Thursday, August 17, 2017

Sadsack Blowback #Writing #AgeGap #Erotica

by Giselle Renarde

I don't tend to keep on top of things.

That's especially true when it comes to the daily drama of the romance world.

But I happened to notice everybody freaking out about a chart-topper on Amazon. Apparently this book featured father/daughter incest and underage sex. It's since been removed from sale because both of those things go against Amazon's terms of service. This book's also been banned by Smashwords, and Smashwords will sell you books about getting fucked by your mom, a bull, and the family dog. It takes some effort to get your book bounced from their system.

Bottom line is you can't publish erotic books featuring sex with minors. Ever. Anywhere. This is what we've all agreed to as authors.

So that whole thing happened.

But it didn't stop there.

Because after that incident, I started seeing authors hating on other books... books wherein the main characters were not related or underage.  Books about legal adults engaged in consensual sex.

Hoo boy.  Here we go.

Remember 10+ years ago, when authors supported each other?  Helped each other?  I do.  I was blown away by the kindness and generosity other writers showed me when I was starting out in this business.

Now what do we get?  Authors tearing each other down.  Authors scratching each other's eyes out.  Petty jealousies that turn into witch hunts.  That's what I've been seeing lately.

After the rapey child molester book was taken off the market, I saw authors calling for other books to be taken down too--pretty much any book featuring an older man and younger woman. Consenting adults with an age gap.  Everything must go.

Look, I'm kind of glad nobody in that romance world really knows or cares I exist (or they've hated me for so long that it's not even fun anymore), because I've written a ridiculous amount of age gap fiction and I'm not going to stop because a bunch of angry authors think it's "disgusting." 

Why do I so often write about older men and younger women?  Because I lived it.  You know this about me. You know I was involved with one of my high school teachers, a much older man, a very married man.  I've told this story so many times you're bored just thinking about it. So am I.

Through fiction writing, I'm able to process my experiences as a teen and young adult.  I'm able to think about that time in my life from every angle.  I'm sure that, in reading my fiction, readers who've shared similar experiences are able to process their shit too. I recently heard someone say there's no "junk food" when it comes to media consumption. Even if you think of some stupid TV show you watch as a guilty pleasure, it changes you.  Everything we consume (books, movies, TV, music) works inside our brains in ways we're not even aware of.

Okay, so one thing that attracted me to the older man I was involved with was that... this might sound a little strange... but he was just so sad.  Like, really really sad. Existential ennui, despair, suicidal thoughts. I was so drawn to that.  I just wanted to make him happy.  I wanted to use my body to make him happy.

I was drawn to other qualities, too.  He seemed so knowledgeable and wise. Nobody in my family had gone past high school, and he had a MASTER'S degree. Like, wow, so educated! *swoon* Smart and sad. Shut up and take my virginity!

Did I think our relationship was fucked up while it was happening? Of course not!  I'd have gone to the ends of the earth to defend the choices we made.  Looking back, do I think it was fucked up?  Hell yes. But does that mean I regret my life choices? No, not at all. And does that mean I shouldn't fictionalize my personal experiences? No. It's my life. I'm gonna use it in my books.

"Fine, write your life--but depressing litfic only. It shouldn't be presented in a positive light."

Haha. That was the hottest sex of my life. You think I'm not going to present it that way? My libido's waning by the minute and I very often wish there was some way to recapture those delicious years.  I can't recapture them in life.  I can in fiction.

Pretty much everything I write is massively fucked up.  I'd be bored if it wasn't.  If a bunch of other authors hate me because I write taboo erotica or student/teacher sex or adultery or age play, let them hate. I stopped caring a long time ago.

Except I guess I do still get riled up, or why would I be writing these words?

And why would I have decided to post my new adult novella CHERRY for free at Wattpad?

CHERRY is one super-smutty book.

It's about an 18-year-old girl who falls for her father's best friend on vacation. It's pretty much exactly the kind of book a lot of authors seem to want to burn these days. What I keep thinking is: if a book doesn't appeal to you, DON'T READ IT.  It's obviously not for you. It's probably for the person who's been through this--who's going through it now or who went through it when they were younger.  Or maybe it's just for the reader who wants to peep some hot sex between an older man and a young woman. Why so much judgement? Sheesh.

Anyway, today I posted the first chapter from CHERRY at Wattpad so people can read it for free. I'm going to post a new chapter every day until I'm out of chapters. More info here.

People who find this kind of book offensive can skip it. Or hate-read it. I really don't care.  I'm making CHERRY available FOR FREE for the people who want to read it--to process their experiences... or just to get off.

Wednesday, August 16, 2017

"Hound Dog Says Hello" A non-alpha male story

You should be getting this letter by airmail about two days before you leave Rome.  It’s Monday over here.  Send me a text when you get this so I know you have it and you’ve read it.  I did get your email, you’re coming back on United 3455, at Hart Jackson field 6:35pm.  I’ll be there.  I lost a couple of pounds while you were over there.
I’m writing this to you on expensive paper, with a good pen, because I want you to have this in your hand and read it to me Thursday night when you’re back with me.  I want you to read it when you’ve almost, not quite, taken off all your clothes.  When you’re almost not quite down to your panties.  Leave those on for me.  I’m sitting at that little wooden table in the back patio and I’m imagining you with those silly Betty Boop panties, with the ridiculous little ribbon bow on the top, as if they should be untied like the ribbon embracing a precious gift which of course they are.   And promise me, sweet woman; promise me you won’t let any of those idiot Italians talk you into waxing your cave woman black bush off.  I’m a bush guy, you know that.  God and the Virgin Mary put that bush on earth just for me to nuzzle my face into and thank God I’m your Hound Dog.  Leave it where it is, oh please.
I’m sitting at the table with a beer.  Thinking about the shadow of your bush behind your Betty Boop panties is giving me a hungry hard on.  I miss you so much I want to take out my dick and look at it standing up in the morning air. I have the celibate patience of a monk.  You’ll be here soon.
I’ll want you to be holding this letter as you’re coming out of the shower with your bathrobe on.  What is it about pink you like so much?  Maybe you should have curlers in your hair, yes, there is something so sincerely, gorgeously trashy about a beautiful woman, her face naked and vulnerable without make up, with plastic curlers in her hair, something Freudian and wrong, like fucking your stepmother.  And you’ll come out of the shower with this letter and I’ll come to you with a little fear in my eyes, a little hesitation and gently trap you and push you against the hallway wall and hold you there. I’ll press my face into the damp space between your neck and your shoulder and breathe your scent.
And you’ll hold up this letter and read out loud –
“  ---- Oh wait, my hair is a mess.  Get off me.  Did you know I fucked the big Italian grocer I met in the hotel?  He made me come twice. He fucked me so long I couldn’t walk. He had this big uncircumcised dick that felt so good when he put it in me.
And –
“Wait wait.  My hair is a mess.  Do you still want to go to the bed?  Can you wait?  Oh, I’m not in the mood right now, do you want to talk?  Do you want to have a big fight first to get the blood going?  Wait, wait.  Oh don’t ---- “
I’ll breathe the scent of you and lick your skin until you stop talking and go quiet.  Until you feel the dream.  I’ll rock you back and forth, as though we were dancing and then reach between us and feel for the knot of your rope belt and pull it open.  Your robe will fall open and I’ll see just the hint, just the sides of the globes of your breasts, but not yet revealed, the stars of your nipples still hidden behind a cloud, and I’ll ask you – how was your trip?
By this time my cock will fill and rise up hard and I’ll push it up against your belly so you can feel what I want.  So you’ll know how things stand.  I’ll press my lips under your chin and you’ll turn your head like you do and I’ll kiss you behind your ear because we know what that does to you.  That’s when I’ll reach inside your robe and move my hands over the top of your skin, just barely enough to feel the heat and I’ll find your breasts and move my hands light over the curves of your breasts, lift them like warm soft birds, palm the tops of your breasts, but I’ll make your nipples wait.  I want them hard. I need to see them hard.
This is where you take off your robe and let it fall.  This is where you’re under my spell.  This is the part where you’re not thinking about the bed anymore, the bed is too far away.  The walk is too long and filled with danger and distraction. No, you’re thinking about the floor because you need it now.  This is the part where you read out loud from the top of page three -
“ --- Get on your knees.  Get down on your fucking knees right now.  DO IT!”
I’ll kneel down like I’m praying to you, which I am, and my face will be level with the little Betty Boops in front of my eyes.  You can step your feet apart, making a little room there, a little thoughtful accommodation for me.  A silent come on.
I’ll press my face between the tops of your thighs, warm, thick, damp from the shower and now from something I can smell behind the thin cotton Betty Boop cloth.  I want that smell.  The hound dog in me nuzzles close, hard deep, pushing your legs apart more.  I want that smell, that damp.  Little curly hairs peeking above the cloth.  I breathe you.  I inhale you.  I kiss the cotton of you.  I feel the wiry wool of you against my nose and lips.  And here’s where you say -
“I own you, lover.  I own you.  I own your cock. I own your soul.”
Yes ma’am.  I’d say that’s about right.
While I’m in there, muffed tight between your thighs, breathing you in, sniffing for signs of guilt - have there been any visitors in there while you were gone?  And here’s where you say -
“ ---  I fucked everybody.  I loved everybody.  And now I’m home with you.  Hound dog. --- ”
I know.  I know.  We had that conversation.  Every man wants you, every man who sees you wants you - but I’m the one who gets to have you.
Now’s where I look up at you, faithful dog looking up at his owner, looking up past your belly to your half closed eyes, seeing your innocence, or a good imitation, seeing the hard bullets of your nipples blooming out past the wide moon-curve of your breasts.
Without taking my eyes off you, this is the part where I loop my fingertips into the band of your panties, tug them slow, and slow to your knees.  You’ll think I’m taking them off, but I’m not, you have to wait.  Just your knees.  Just to see the thick black delta of your big bush sparking wet from the shower and something else below.  Hello bush.  
Primitive and wild, it stops my will.  It stops my breath.  Every time.  Like a mountain range with a river canyon of pure pussy running down the middle.  You hypnotize me with your bush..  Enslave me, willingly.  In this hairy moment I would do anything you ask.  Buy you a house.  Kill.  Swear you my soul.  Please please please.  Let me.
I huff my face into the deep valley of you, lick the wet cleft and pray to you.
Here’s where you say -  
“Do me.”
Here’s where you stand bowlegged with your thighs apart, I dive in, and you bring them together, smothering me in woman flesh, gathering my hair in your fist, saying things my covered ears can’t hear as I move the tip of my tongue, finding the tip of your clit, taking it between my lips and giving it a little suck.  Then another little suck.  Setting up a rhythm, a back beat as you start squirming your hips and I know animal sounds are coming from you up above but I can’t hear and I’m not listening anyway, because there is only this.  All the world and all my being reduced to this.  This wet valley.  This damp forest.  This slick oyster flesh. This invisible little man in the little canoe I’m rubbing with my tongue tip, like that time you took my hard dick in your fist and squeezed the shaft while you sucked on the knob, and then rubbed the purple knob of my cock with your wet palm until I thought I was going to have a heart attack because the pleasure was blowing my brains out.  I want to do that to you.  I want to make you feel so good it hurts. I wantto hear you plead for more.  I want your knees to fall apart because you want to come so bad and I’m not letting you.  And that would be the moment when I press the flat of my tongue against your pussy lips like a big wet ice cream cone and stroke UP and then stroke UP and then stroke all the way UP and feel that lovely curly hair in my mouth.  Breathe.  Exhale.  Breathe warm air on your skin.  Pick up your clit and hold it between my lips.  The tongue goes in.  The tongue goes out.  The tongue goes in.  The tongue goes out.  A shudder against my lips.  Lightning in the dark.
That’s when I pull your panties down and off and fling them into eternity.
That’s when you let go of my head and say ---
“Bed.  Now, boy.”
And I say – “No.  No bed.  You don’t get to have a bed.  Beds are boring”
And you say -  “Mommy needs to fuck goddamn you!”
And I say – “Do it here.”
And that’s the part where you put your hands on my shoulders and shove me backwards and I land on the carpet on my back.  And that’s where you say -  “Mommy needs to fuck.  Take your dick out!  Mommy wants to come.  Now, stay there.”
And then, and then that would be the part where you step over me, stand right over me with your feet stepped way apart each side of my head, thighs clenched and straight as a ballerina, posing over me with your fists on your hips like I’m about to get raped by Wonder Woman.  I look up and the ceiling is blotted out by the towering hulk of you and the sky and heaven and the starry Universe are blotted out by the heaven shadow of your wet pussy right above my view.  Further up past the round of your belly, the hard bullets of your nipples blooming out a mile over the wide moon-curve of your breasts. 
You’ve got that wobble in your knees.  You got that dreamy look in your eyes way up there that says you need to lay.  My woman needs to lay.  Maybe across the bed, maybe the floor, but my woman is coming down, she needs to lay, she needs to lay her lips where she wants them to go, to finish what we started.  Your knees bending, your thighs thickening, hips coming down, heaven descending on me, your pussy licking Hound Dog.  Here.  Come here to your man.  I’m not going anywhere.  Now you’re really home. 
Lips on lips.  Rocking your bush against my nose.  Pulling back.  Forward hard again, rocking your bush against my nose, again, again.  Each time harder.  Each time a little more insistent.  Demanding all of it from me.  Each time more, the body taking over.  Stay there.  Because I want it – I'm your pussy licking Hound Dog and I want IT – give it all to me.  I want to know the hard rider in your loins. Because I’ve been waiting for you and I’m the man who wants everything you got.  Make it hurt if that’s what it takes to give it all to me.
And when you feel it, when you feel like you’re about to lose your shit, about to go faint and scream for God when you feel it radiating out from you and it’s going to happen – its got to happen – let fall this letter.  Let it fall your white flag of surrender and I’ll bring you over all the way, I’ll bring you home.  All the way home.  I’m waiting here for you.
Your Loving, Pussy Licking Hound Dog

Tuesday, August 15, 2017

The Beta's Pleasure (#gayerotica #gaysex #gaybdsm)

My Alpha stands over me, towering, dominating. He’s all man — more than I’ll ever be — made of muscle and hair and tanned skin. A leather harness wraps across his broad chest, his bulky lower body is encased in a tight pair of leather pants.

I’m on my knees, naked, my cock in a chastity cage. I’m the beta to his Alpha.

He likes to think he chose me. The truth is, I chose him.

He unzips his fly, revealing a sweaty jockstrap, and then grabs my head, mashing my face into his crotch. He thinks he’s demeaning me, that he’s doing this for his pleasure and his pleasure alone.

I inhale, breathe him in, let his musk surge through my body. He’s not the only one getting pleasure. I would argue my pleasure is greater.

I nibble at the cotton, teasing the sensitive skin of his shaft. He lets out a loud breath that I know is a barely contained moan. He doesn’t want to show such weakness in front of his beta. I play along, submitting to him, giving him what he wants — what he thinks he wants — while I truly get what I want.

He eases down the front of his jockstrap, his length flopping out. I eagerly take it in my mouth. I moan. It’s not an act, it’s not a way to please my Alpha — no, I moan because I’m getting what I want, what I need.

We’ve been Alpha and beta for years. We met at Folsom Street Fair, I sucked him off in the middle of the party, and we’ve been with each other ever since. I give him blowjobs like no other beta has ever done — better than anyone will ever give him, I know. He knows that too.

I’m true to him. He’s my only Alpha. He demands my faithfulness, though he doesn’t need to — I freely give it to him. I don’t demand the same of him, but I know I’m his only beta, his only fucktoy … his only lover.

I’m too good to him. In a moment of weakness last year — a rarity for my Alpha — he had confided that he’s always terrified of losing me, because he considers me irreplaceable. And so he treats me like a prince. Still a beta, still a submissive, still a lesser man than him, but a prince, nonetheless.

He lets out another loud breath, another barely contained moan, and I know he’s close to losing it, to filling me with his spunk. And I know he doesn’t want to do that — not yet. To do so would be to show weakness in front of his beta, an inability to control his urges around me.

Instead, he cups his hand under my chin and nudges me to his feet. I hate to abandon his cock, but my Alpha bids me to do so. With dominance in his eyes, but with a glimmer of affection, my Alpha guides me toward the sling, hanging from the ceiling, here in his dusty basement. He helps me into it and then ties up my wrists and ankles. Securing me. Restraining me. Owning me. Between my legs, my helpless cock, contained in a cage of plastic, decorated with a padlock, struggles to get hard, but it can’t. Beta males don’t deserve erections.

With my limbs secured, my Alpha says, “Let me know if it hurts. And don’t forget your safe word.”

Of course, I know these things. He says them every time. Yet, I’ve never been put in a position of harm and I’ve never used my safe word. For an Alpha, he’s very gentle and caring, very tender and compassionate. Those reminders, surely necessary among new partners, but less so between us, reinforce how much he cares for me.

The safe word gives me the option to end a scene at any time. For a beta, it puts me in a position of power. In a way, it makes me the Alpha, even if I shun that term, even if it doesn’t feel true. Alpha waits for me to nod, the sign that I’m okay and ready for the next step.

I nod, giving my Alpha permission to proceed.

He smiles, and for a moment I see relief, like he was scared I would put an end to this. I’ve never ended a scene early — not with him. I trust my Alpha and would let him do anything. I would give him permission to do whatever he wants to me and my body. Because I know his ultimate goal is pleasure — for him, but also for me.

He leans into me, pressing the head of his dick against my already-slick hole. I relax my muscles, unclench my body, and he slides easily into me. I moan loudly, to give my Alpha permission to silently moan along with me, my noise cancelling out his, letting him maintain his dominance and control over me.

Again, my dick struggles to get hard, to enjoy the moment, but it’s locked down and kept small. My Alpha hasn’t given me permission to have an erection. And I have given my Alpha permission to make that decision for me.

He drags his cock halfway out, igniting all my nerve endings, pleasure flaring through my core. Then he slams it home, the chains squeaking under the violent shudder. I moan again and it drags out into a steady rhythm of loud breathing and moaning as he starts swinging his hips back and forth, pounding me.

Every shove inside me has his dick stroking against my prostate, causing ecstasy to build and mount within me. He grabs my hips, to give him better leverage to fuck me. Our bodies collide and separate, collide and separate, over and over.

I can tell by Alpha’s breathing and the sweat on his forehead and the crease in his brow that he’s close to orgasming, close to filling me with his seed. I know he wants to maintain his superiority, so I give in to my own pleasure. Alpha has pushed me so close to orgasm, so close to that overwhelming joy, that it doesn’t much to push me over that inescapable edge.

One more stroke across my prostate has me whimpering and moaning as pleasure explodes within me. Even though my cock is contained in plastic, forced to stay flaccid, I have an incredible orgasm. Powerful. Overwhelming. My cum leaks from the plastic cage and flows down my taint.

And my asshole tightens, gripping Alpha’s thick girth. With a grunt — powerful, dominating, aggressive — Alpha shoves his dick in me one more time and presses his body hard against mine. He grunts again, long and low, and I know he’s filling me with his cum. My body is owned by him, inside and out, and this is him staking his claim on me one more time.

In the aftermath — sweaty and breathless — he looks into my eyes. That same dominance is there, but behind it, hiding, is a look of questioning. Did I enjoy it? I know he wants to ask me — I know he wants to make sure that I want him and only him — but he can’t ask me, not if he wants to maintain his Alpha dominance over me.

“That was incredible, Sir,” I say, between gulping down lungfuls of air.

And with that, the question disappears from his eyes, so that only dominance remains.

I let my eyes close and I sink into the sling, revelling in the moment, the feeling, the joy, the pleasure, the ecstasy. I’m where I belong.

Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is Forbidden Desires: The Complete Series. He is publisher at and co-founder of Deep Desires Press and a member of the Indie Erotica Collective. He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit