Saturday, February 23, 2019

Sex, Fitness and Reality TV

In TrainingBeing cajoled, browbeaten, and bullied into getting fit has always been one of the unusual story themes that keeps recurring somewhere deep in my unconscious. In fact, my very first trunk novel from the days when I was fresh out of uni working a dead-end job, and fantasising about doing a marathon was just such a tale. It's a Pygmalion story of sorts. Lots of my stories come back to mythology. Strangely enough, or maybe not, the title of that novel was also In Training. In it the hero did, indeed, bet a colleague that he can train anyone, no matter how unfit, to finish a triathlon. Not very original, I know. That's why it's a trunk novel. But add a little reality TV and a challenging fell run in the English Lake District, along with lots of angry sex and sweaty rendezvous, and oh what fun it was to tackle that archetype afresh. 

In Training was originally a part of a series of novellas called British Bad Boys, now re-released it as a stand-alone.


In Training Blurb
Getting fit on reality TV is PR guru, Lauren Michaels’, brainchild for gym equipment and fitness company Physicality, Inc. The brilliant PR stunt involves one brave volunteer who wants to be fit badly enough to submit to the not so tender training techniques of personal trainer, Wolf Jennings, whose successful, but non-conventional, methods would make a drill sergeant look like a fluff ball. But when CEO and owner of Physicality, Inc., Claire Amos, decides her PR ace in the hole needs to walk the walk, Lauren finds herself between a kettle bell and a hard place… er, a hard trainer. That’s nightmare enough, but for six weeks, 24/7, the explosive chemistry between the two will be sweated out live on camera for the whole world to see. What could possibly go wrong?
In Training Excerpt
Claire’s phone blared out Flight of the Valkyries over Jennings’ barked instructions to his tortured clients. “Speaking of the devil,” she said, nodding to Jennings’ arse on the screen as she answered her device. “Wolf, darling! Lauren and I were just talking about you. Watching your lovely video, actually. On our way over.” She winked at Lauren, whose stomach suddenly felt like it was in freefall. “Here, sweetie, let me put you on speaker so I can introduce you two,” she said just as the Wolf Jennings on the screen yelled for his people to clench those glutes and zip those abs.
And suddenly it was like that slow-motion scene in a horror film, just before the pretty young innocent is shredded by Freddy Krueger or pursued by the monster from the fetid swamp. Wolf Jennings turned to gaze at the camera from beneath hooded eyelids that revealed familiar blue eyes. He offered a smile that was damn near erotic. Then he said in a very northern accent, “If you do your part, I guarantee I’ll get you there.”
As the clip ended and Misty and Del were once again on camera, Lauren sat frozen to the spot, just like all those poor women in the films. She didn’t scream, though she felt like it. Instead she managed in a shaky voice, “I can’t work with him.”
“I can’t work with her.” The response on the other end of the phone was simultaneous. The familiar voice was honey and heat and frustration. Then he continued, sounding at least as breathless as he had on his video, as he had when he got up close and personal with her in the garden behind the pub. “There’s been some mistake, Claire. I can’t work with her. We can’t work together.”
The smile on her boss’s face slipped just a fraction. “Why ever not, Wolf? You two are perfect together. Not only is Lauren comfortable on camera, but she’s horribly unfit.” Before either of them could respond, she continued, “I need my PR ace in the hole fighting fit, and right now I doubt if she could fight her way out of a paper bag.”
“Oh, yes, I could.” Fuck, Lauren sounded like a kid at the Christmas pantomime.
“Didn’t look like you could on the stairs,” Claire responded. She turned her attention back to Jennings. “Obese couch potatoes or under-muscled, out-of-shape career women, unfit is unfit, Wolf.”
“I’m not really that unfit.” Lauren barely got the words out before they both said in unison,
“Yes you are.”
A part of her wanted to crawl under the seat in her embarrassment while the other part wanted to punch Wolf Jennings right in his smug gob. Instead she snarled between her teeth, “You lied to me, Jennings.”
“I lied to you?” His voice became a hushed growl. “How do you figure that? If anything, you lied to me.”
“As I recall you’re the one who sat down right next to me and wheedled your way in. I didn’t ask for your company.” She leaned closer to Claire’s iPhone, which the woman obligingly held up for her, with a bemused shrug. “I didn’t even know who the hell you were, or you’d have been wearing your Sneck Lifter.”
“Did you two have sex?” Claire Amos seldom pulled punches.
“We didn’t,” Lauren said.
“We would have,” Wolf said.
“Would not,” she responded.
“Oh, and that’s why you grabbed for the condom, was it? You couldn’t even wait to get to a room.”
“You had me pushed up against the garden wall. I wouldn’t have come near you if I’d known that you were Wolf fucking Jennings.” She grabbed Claire’s phone away and all but yelled into it. “Look, I don’t want to be here anymore than you want me to. I’m not one of your fucking gym bunnies.”
“Clearly,” he spat back.
Lauren felt the chill of doom crawl up her spine as Claire took the phone from her hand. The smile on her face was back, this time with a good dose of scheming behind it. “Let me get this straight, the two of you ran into each other in a pub?”
“Yes.”
“And one thing led to another and you got touchy-feely.”
“Yes.”
“Mind telling me why you didn’t do the deed?”
“You sent me the fucking file with Lauren Michaels’ image front and centre,” Jennings managed. Even on the phone, Lauren could tell he was struggling as much for control as she was. “I don’t sleep with my clients.”
“Well you must not have been too into each other if you let a little text file stop the action.”
“I didn’t check it intentionally.” He sounded offended. “The phone fell out of my jacket and the message popped up with Lauren’s name and photo.”
Claire actually giggled. “I won’t even ask which of your explosive cardio moves you were trying on Lauren that made your phone fall out of your pocket.”

Thursday, February 21, 2019

Banned Books #AgePlay #Taboo #Erotica, a post by @GiselleRenarde

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/369821?ref=GiselleRenardeErotica
Quality erotica can be hard to find—especially now that many booksellers are banning adult fiction they deem obscene. The Banned Books Box Set showcases three censored stories in which consenting adults explore ageplay and taboo sex.

I wrote that book blurb in 2013, when I released the Banned Books Box Set. It was true then. It's even truer now.

When I released that book at Amazon, I decided not to take any chances. Rather than calling it Banned Books Box Set, I called it Pushing Boundaries--which is what brought it to mind today.

Before setting out to write this post, I opened the document where I keep all my metadata and buy links for the book. When I pulled up the Amazon link, guess what?

My Banned Books Box Set had been... banned.

I'm not exactly surprised. I guess I'm more surprised I didn't know. This has been the trend with other retailers, but Amazon usually tells you when you've been naughty. A lot of other ebook stores just quietly remove your evil erotica and hope you never notice.

What's in this book that's so ban-worthy? Three things I'd written that had been banned when they were first released. The first is a lesbian sleep sex story called "Stripping My Son’s Sleeping Girlfriend." Banned for its name, its content, and the nudity on its cover.

The second is a taboo novella by Lexi Wood called "Dance for Daddy, Salome!" It's gone by other names, too. "Dance, Salome, Dance!" is one, I think. I've lost track, but it's a book set in the 70s, about a dirty-dancing girl who first sleeps with her stepbrother, and then with her stepfather. I'm pretty sure I stole the plot from the Bible, but who remembers?

Number three is the book I can't forget. It's "Nanny State," one of my absolute favourites. Lesbian landlady/college girl(s) D/s, ageplay, ABDL, all sorts. That is one DIRTY book, but, to me, its contents never seemed terribly taboo. Maybe I'm just massively fucked up--in fact, I know I am--but any sex that happens between consenting adults doesn't seem all that awful. Even if one of them's dressed up in diapers. Even if they spank each other in schoolgirl uniforms.

A couple weeks ago, I reached out to a new distributor to ask them about their limitations around adult content. I'd rather know their rules from the outset than accidentally break them and get dinged for it after the upload.

Anyway, I was surprised to see ageplay and ABDL on their list of topics your work can't contain if you're distributing books through them. I guess my Banned Books Box Set won't be heading their way.

I just found it kind of sad, because Nanny State is kind of my masterpiece of nastiness. Poor little Nanny State. Poor little banned books. So much dirty smut the reading public of the future may never get to see.

Wednesday, February 20, 2019

Seduced By My Best Friend's Dad -- A Dirty Excerpt (#taboogaysex #gayerotica)



Given this month's theme of "pushing limits", I thought it appropriate to dig up my most limit-pushing novella -- and, perhaps unsurprisingly, one of my most popular. Readers love seeing those limits get pushed.

Seduced By My Best Friend's Dad

Jay has a crush on Richard, his best friend's dad. Richard is older, very masculine, cares about Jay, and is extremely sexy. There are just the problems of Richard being straight, married, and the father of Jay’s life-long best friend.

When Richard takes his son and Jay on a camping trip to celebrate turning eighteen, becoming men, and taking their first steps into the adult world, Jay struggles to contain his lust. Hitting on Richard would ruin the camping trip and destroy his friendship.

But when his friend takes ill and Jay and Richard enjoy some bonding time alone, it becomes clear that Jay isn't the only one in the thrall of forbidden desires. A relaxing camping trip soon turns into a series of sweaty, erotic encounters, as Jay and Richard stoke this fire burning between them.

Excerpt

In this scene, about a third of the way into the book, Jay is hiking up a forested hill with Richard -- they're alone, as Jay's friend has taken ill and is sleeping it off in the tent. At the crest of the hill, they sit for some water and sunshine, but soon Richard's leg muscles start cramping from the hike. The erotic tension between the two men has been crackling between them like bolts of lightning -- and it only gets more intense when Richard asks Jay to massage his legs. When Jay gets on his knees in front of his best friend's dad, he discovers that the older man isn't wearing any underwear under those shorts.

Still not breaking eye contact with Richard, Jay willed his fingers back to life, massaging Richard’s upper thigh. With every squeeze of his fingers, he moved his hand half an inch closer to that patch of ball skin. With every passing moment, he felt the tension build in both of them, like he was waiting for Richard to call him a pervert or Richard was waiting for Jay to burst out laughing at the prank. But then his fingertips brushed against that warm, soft, wrinkled, hairy skin, and the tension deflated from both of them.

“Jay...” Richard said, his voice a mere whisper. It was filled with lust and need, happiness and contentment. He wanted this — needed this.

Jay brushed the skin, rubbing his fingers back and forth, then carefully worked his hand under Richard’s shorts and boxers. Soon he had one meaty ball rolling between his fingers. It was almost plum-sized, firm and round. He squeezed the ball lightly, tugged it gently, and Richard let out a low moan, falling back on his elbows on the rock, head cast back. Jay eased his other hand in the other pant leg and grabbed Richard’s other ball, giving it the same massage treatment. He rubbed both balls, smoothing out the skin, holding them firm in his grasp. The long bulge in the middle of the pile of fabric at Richard’s crotch twitched.

Shifting to grasp both balls in one hand, Jay slid his fingers reverently up the length of Richard’s cock, watching the man’s face for any reaction that this was going too far. But Richard was too far gone, too lost in the heat of the moment to ever say no — Jay knew he had Richard, that the man was putty in his hands, but that he had willingly and knowingly put himself there.

He still didn’t understand it — Richard was straight and married and the very fact that Jay was his son’s best friend should have put up some immediate boundaries, placed him off limits. But those boundaries were obviously being ignored. The almost father-son relationship they’d developed over the years also wasn’t a boundary that could stop them. If anything, that closeness only added to the intimacy of the moment. Jay was giving pleasure to the man he’d looked up to all these years.





Cameron D. James is a writer of gay smut. His most recent publication is New York Heat.

Monday, February 18, 2019

Do something every day that scares you (but not if you value your sanity)


Motivational coaches, always full of good advice, by definition, are fond of telling us to ‘do something every day that scares you.’

I used to do a bit of motivational stuff myself (more on that later), but I’m not especially keen on too much flirting with danger. We’re not all cut out to deal with stress in a positive way, and repeatedly shoving yourself out of your comfort zone for no better reason than to ‘be your better self’ - whatever that might be - seems foolhardy and a waste of good worry-power to me. There’s quite enough real stress out there. We don’t need to go inventing more.

But, there can be powerful learning in this. It was a part of my job., at one time, to offer training to professional managers whose roles involved getting their teams or clients to alter their behaviour in some way. In this particular instance the goal was to improve the efforts of job-seekers to go out and find work, and one particular manager was convinced that this was a perfectly reasonable thing to expect and she could see no reason why fit and able-bodied folk didn’t just go and  do it. They had no cause to be reticent, and no reason to lack confidence. Jobs were there to be had, she knew that. She had lists and lists of vacancies on her computer. People were just stubborn. Or lazy. Or not trying.

The thing is, though, if you don’t have paid work, and never have, and if no one in your family does, either - your parents, older siblings, neighbours, it is genuinely very difficult to imagine yourself in any other situation. Unemployment spans generations, whole families are workless and stay that way. It becomes normal, the culture. It’s their comfort zone whether they like it or not. Unemployment may  not be pleasant, and poverty lurks around every corner, but at least every day is much the same, and it’s the devil you know.

It’s ingrained into us not to long for that which we don’t believe we can have,  never to aspire to that which we do not in our heart of hearts believe we can ever achieve. The disappointment would be too cruel.

There are occasional exceptions, people who despite all the odds step outside their reality, overcome awesome barriers, and find greatness. I’m thinking of the likes of Rosa Parkes, Stephen Hawking, holocaust survivors – but such individuals are rare indeed.

It’s a sort of defence mechanism or we’d make ourselves too unhappy. We have to cope with our reality and dreaming big in a hopeless situation is not the way it’s done for most. If I don’t believe that people like me can find a decent job and keep it, then I don’t let myself get sucked into that world. It’s just too terrifying.

But my JobCentre manager client was having none of that. She just didn’t see it. So, we played a little game. I split the group into teams of four and gave each of them a card with the name of a famous singer on. Their task, to select a song by that singer, one of their own choosing,  a favourite that they all knew. They were asked to have a little practice over the coffee break, then return to the afternoon session ready and rehearsed to perform that song to the rest of us.

Pretty much everyone cringed and went pale. I wondered is someone might actually throw up.

Sing? To an audience? Me? I work in  a JobCentre, I’m not a performer. I can’t sing!

Still, these were hardy souls and they reassembled half an hour later, shuffling and nervous, ashen even, but ready to have a go. After all, they were on wages, this was a serious training course, they had to do as they were told. The British Civil Service is like that.

Well, most of them are. My main target was no where to be seen. She’d taken a call from Somewhere Very Important and had to leave early. In short, she’d done a runner.

Of course, I had no expectation of listening to songs and quickly put them out of their misery. The relief was palpable. But for that wretched half hour that the trainees believed they had this coming, they experienced the genuine terror of being thrust unceremoniously out of their comfort zones, the same terror they inflicted on their clients daily. And now, knowing how it felt, they might empathise more and be ready to work with the people they were employed to help on ways of pushing those limits more kindly. And ultimately, I would hope, with more success.

I like to think it worked for some. Others, well not so sure.

Sunday, February 17, 2019

Limits: A Love Story – #bloodsports #bdsm #limits


D&S Duos Book 1 cover

By Lisabet Sarai

Since I talked about my cutting story earlier this month, I thought I’d share a bit of it today.

I’ve no experience with knives or blood play. I’d probably totally freak out in the real world if someone proposed to draw blood as part of a BDSM scene. Or maybe I wouldn’t. Blood has powerful symbolic and emotional resonances (as illustrated by the popularity of vampire erotica). We talk about blood bonds, the strongest connection possible between two souls. Given my attraction to the psychological side of BDSM – trust, surrender, communion – maybe I would offer myself to my Master’s blade.

Anyway, I’ve imagined this in “Limits: A Love Story”.


* * *

All our firsts parade through my imagination, an escalating frenzy of sadomasochist indulgence. The first time he fucked my ass (during our very first sexual encounter, but after a long and filthy epistolary courtship). The first time he whipped me. The first caning, first fisting, fire play, golden shower. In our years together, we've demolished one limit after another, only to move on to the next.

I know he cherishes me, that my willingness to explore and experiment delights him. When I surrender, the assurance that I've pleased him brings me far more fulfillment than any physical release he might graciously provide. Now I wonder though, whether I've been topping from below all along.

Perusing his serious face, noting the way his lips press together and his brows knit in tension, I'm suddenly convinced that this is all wrong. I'm pushing him way beyond his comfort zone with my implicit demands for ever more extreme submission.

"I'm sorry," I mutter. "Forgive me, Master."

"What? What are you talking about?" He grips my shoulder, leaning forward, cruel fingers digging into my naked flesh. The slight pain does not distract me from my misery. "I told you, Becca, it's your choice. You can stop this now. You don't have to apologize."

"No, no, you don't understand." My eyes itch as tears well up. Trussed up as I am, I can't stop one from spilling down the side of my nose. "I don't want to stop. But I think you do."

He stares at me for a long instant, confused, before bursting into laughter. "You think I want to stop this?"

I nod, swallowing a sob.

"You believe I don't want to carve my initials into your flesh? Mark you permanently, so that everyone will know you're mine? You think I don't have the guts?" He rises to his feet, towering above me. For a moment I expect a slap in the face. A wave of lust crests and drowns me. I squirm in my chair, struggling for control, feeling the straps tighten around my limbs.

"No, no, it's not like that, Master...I'm sorry...but I've been the one...I'm never satisfied, it seems, always wanting to go one step further, to try something more...."

"More intense." He finishes my sentence for me. "More dangerous. Something that requires even more trust."

"I shouldn't be so greedy, so selfish. You're my Master. You should decide how far we go, and how fast. What I want – it shouldn't matter."

"Ah, but it does matter to me, little one." He strokes my hair, working out the tangles. His gentle touch floods me with a sense of well-being. "I love your kinky mind, Becca, as much as your lush body. I love pushing you – seeing how far you'll go, for me. Discovering the depths to which you'll sink if I ask."

* * *

If you’re curious to read more, this story is one of two in my book D&S Duos Book 1:

Kinky Literature

Amazon US

Amazon UK

Barnes & Noble

Kobo

iTunes US

Excessica

Saturday, February 16, 2019

Where Are the Limits?

by Jean Roberta

Thinking of going beyond limits, I had some thoughts about this post several days ago, but life got in the way, so I’m late again. I hope I’m not trespassing on someone else’s time-slot.

The word “transgressive” has been slung about excessively to tempt readers to buy erotic stories. Every sexually-explicit narrative could be considered boundary-breaking because some conservatives still think sex should not be openly described at all, especially if it feels good for everyone involved. In that sense, erotica involving married and/or procreative heterosexual couples could be considered transgressive. (I’ve written that kind of erotica, and it doesn’t seem more acceptable to conservative types than the most elaborate BDSM scenes.)

Actually, I’m not sure my real life would shock more people nowadays than any of my erotic stories. I’m in a long-term lesbian relationship for almost thirty years, and we’ve been legally married since 2010. Anyone who finds my lifestyle perverse and unnatural would probably go into a swoon if forced to read any of my descriptions of sex, including the most traditional.

Among other pieces, I wrote about the conception of King Arthur in “Under the Sign of the Dragon,” available on Excessica, and a thorny but ultimately satisfying relationship between a man and woman with competing claims to the same plot of land in “The Way to a Man’s Heart,” in Like a Sword, a collection of “high fantasy” stories from Circlet Press. But I digress.

I believe that writers and fans of erotica should support each other, regardless of the diverse pairings and genres we write or prefer to read. There is M/M erotica, there is F/F erotica, there is M/f, F/m, various multiple arrangements, and various types of power exchange. It’s all too much for those who would like to silence us all.

Years ago, I taught Lysistrata (in a modern English translation) to first-year university students. This work is an ancient Greek comedy by a one-name playwright, Aristophanes, who imagined an ingenious way of ending the war between Athens and Sparta: the married women of both city-states go on a sex strike until the men declare a truce. In the fantasy world of the play, this works, and the grand finale is a feast and an orgy to celebrate peace. In effect, this play predates the 1960s slogan “Make love, not war,” by over 24 centuries.

A young male student spoke to me after class. He was clearly in distress, and he told me he was offended by the assigned text because he was a Christian. He then said that he thought sex should only take place between a man and a woman in holy matrimony. I reminded him that the numerous raunchy references to sex in this play are surprisingly marital as well as heterosexual. It’s all about sex between a man and a woman in a long-term relationship as a mutual source of pleasure and bonding, and a metaphor of union between different entities.

I suspect that young men like my former student are less offended by graphic descriptions of slaughter in battle than by descriptions of sex. Bring on the spears, the blades, the catapults, the burning destruction of buildings, crops, livestock and humans! (And while we’re in imaginary ancient Greece, I could mention a substance that sticks to clothing and burns the wearer alive, which is sent as a gift by Medea to her faithless husband’s new bride, and which sounds uncannily similar to napalm.)

Never mind the Song of Solomon, or any other evidence that sexual love and mutual pleasure are not opposed to Christian ethics. Conservative Christian parents don’t want their offspring to be seduced or corrupted by subversive types like us. Some of them would like their sons to be encouraged to voluntarily join the military so they can fight in the latest war.

The boundary between me and the Anti-Sex League (to borrow a term from the dystopian post-WW2 novel 1984) seems much bigger than any limits between different types of consensual sex.

------------------------------------------------------

Wednesday, February 13, 2019

Men in Uniform Anyone?

Hi everyone, Morticia here! I'm in the process of revising and expanding my bestselling Sin City Uniforms series that began in 2014. First one on deck, All Fired Up, is now on preorder. This installment is a combination of erotic exploration between a cop and firefighter along with a dose of mystery and danger.



Shawn can’t decide whether he wants to punch or kiss Trent. Kissing wins.

The party never ends in Las Vegas, but neither does the danger. Shawn is the new foot patrol officer on the Strip and he’s ready to take on the town and keep the peace. Once he spots hunky firefighter Trent, Shawn wonders whether he can take him on too.

Trent is dedicated to his job, built tough and a no-nonsense man of few words. At a local blood drive, Trent eyes a handsome new officer but doesn’t dare get too close. After his boyfriend’s life was snatched away in the line of fire, he couldn’t bear the agony of such a loss again.

Trent’s over-protective instincts kick in during an emergency call and he embarrasses and angers Shawn in front of their fellow officers. Too late, he realizes he’s falling for the sexy man. But has he already destroyed any chance they might have at something more?

Once they spend time together away from the stresses of their jobs, they find they’re not just compatible – they’re combustible. However, right as their relationship deepens, the threat of terror escalates on the Strip. The underground vigilante group, the Citizens Against Immorality, have raised the stakes. Will Shawn and Trent be their next targets?

Publisher Note: This book has been revised and expanded from the original edition that was published under the same title at Totally Bound Publishing in September of 2014.

****

Pride Publishing: https://bit.ly/2GFaWzX
First for Romance: https://bit.ly/2E89ZP6

A Beginners Guide to Hell



Tonight is cool, not cold. I’m orbiting the block where I live like a stray comet.  I’m feeling myself breathe, trying to hear the chill air whistling through my old guy nose hairs.  The air smells like smoke.  It always does at night, after a lifetime I still don’t know why that is.  Even in the summer.  

This is November in the south.  The homes are quiet, a flicker of TV screens behind some of the gauzy windows.  Overhead the clouds seem as though they're standing still and it’s the moon that's moving.  Not bad for hell.

Its okay, I’ve got this. I don’t mean to make it sound like some big deal.  I’ve been looking forward to this a little bit because I’ve been training for it.  Mentally, anyway.  As much as you can train for something like this.  Things are bothering me, upsetting me tonight, but I've been given a good night to walk.  That's nice.  I feel glad.  Taken care of.

It’s not the worst kind of hell, totally not, the people in the houses, some of them know way more about Hell than I do, they just don’t know what to do.  I’ve been working on it, you know, as much as you can for something like this.

This is just baby hell, beginners hell.  But I got this.  Somewhere down the road I’ll probably be dealing with the real deal.  The hot seat as it were.

The Tibetan Buddhists have had this thing figured out for centuries.  They’re amazing.  Your Buddha Nature, your enlightenment, your epiphany, its not found so much where you’re at your best or where you’re happy. Why?  Because humans are primates, and we like to be comfortable.  When we’re comfortable, we hang back.  When you hang back you don’t learn that much, you just hang.  No transformation.  Things grow in the dark.  A stretched soul sings.  You got to sing.  You stretch until you feel it, the edge, where just a touch makes you quiver.  That’s hell.  Hell is for serious people.  Those Tibetans, they say that your wisdom is on the other side of your darkness, and you have to go straight through it. That takes fear. Show me what you’re afraid of and I’ll show you your God.

Are you afraid of being poor? Even if you’re not?  Your God is probably going to be security.  Good luck with that.  Afraid of immigrants?  Your God is your country.  Your God should never be your country.  That’s how wars start.  You don’t like people of color, your God is being white.  What is my fear?  I don’t know yet, maybe the dark will tell me.  I think I’m scared of being a schlub all my life.  That’s the short answer.  I think my God might be pencils.  I just really love writing with a good pencil.

This is beginners hell.  This is just practice.

There is Darkness in me.  Thank God for that.  

If you own your darkness, if you look it straight on and don't kid yourself, its less likely to take you by surprise.  Less likely to make a fool of you or to turn you into a werewolf in that moment when you most need to keep your shit tight.  Fear can be your friend.  It can be the energy you ride to make a bridge of compassion with what you’re afraid of.  

You have to make a separation.  There’s this story line that runs through our heads all day long as we go on describing ourselves to ourselves.  You drop the story line, and all you’re left with is the bare steel wire energy of the emotion, of the experience.  You grab that wire.  Drop the story, grab the wire.  The story is the teeth of the tiger.  You drop the story line and the energy of the dark can push you forward like a jet engine. 

Failure gets a bad rap.  We come from a culture where failure is like a moral statement.  It means you’re a loser,you’re weak or something.  Only losers find themselves in hell, even beginners hell, where the singing is.  But creative people know failure is part of the process.  Evolution is based on failure.  The infinite variety of life, beauty and consciousness on this solitary rock, all comes from one thing – mistakes.  Endless genetic mistakes, where everything that swims, flies or crawls has to play the cards they’re dealt.

Love and happiness are never a problem.  Everybody wants that.  It’s the other stuff.  Because it hurts, it makes your soul sing.  Everybody sings.  Every single soul.  Its what we have in common. 
Rubber souls 

We stretch, we sing.

Sunday, February 10, 2019

Erotica, Unlimited

Sacchi Green

Excerpt time! My favorite!

I wanted to share something that matched our current theme of “limits,” but on further consideration I think I’ve already use my most limit-stretching pieces here over the years. Like the one in “The Red Tent” where one character is blindfolded with wrists and ankles tied to the tent posts at the corners, while the other tells her that the cold steel being inserted where she’s warmest is an ice-climbing screw with sharp edges along the spirals cut into its tip. Edge play involves limits, right?

Since I’ve already done that excerpt, I’ll take another tack entirely, with the same characters as they appear in a subsequent story, “Bright Angel.” I’ve written three stories about them, so far, and the third one, “Meltdown,” is included in my second collection Wild Rides: Erotic Adventures appearing in March, so yeah, my motive is a bit on the promotional side.

“Bright Angel” has plenty of kinky scenes, but my only excuse for connecting it with “limits” is what a young man, a beginning writer, said to me after a public  reading. “I didn’t know you could do that with erotica!” I forget what else he said, and I’m not quite clear what he meant, but my guess is that he’d only just then realized how unlimited the possibilities are.

So here goes, not quite from the beginning, and not quite to the end.


______________________

Bright Angel
Sacchi Green


"Hey Roby," Maura said, without turning her head, "Too bad you don't have the balls to fuck me right here.”
Oh yeah. I still knew exactly who she was. "If you'd had the foresight to wear a skirt," I told her, "You'd be bent over that railing right now praying you could hold on long enough to ride my fist to glory." I pressed closer and reached around to unzip the fly of her elegantly cut jeans. "You could still drop your trousers and make all these amateur photographers rich on sales to the tabloids. Or you can let it simmer a while, and I'll fuck you somewhere even better."
I could see out of the corner of my eye that we'd begun to distract a few tourists, most, of course, armed with cameras. Maura, even in scarf and sunglasses and denim, has the charisma of someone whose face could stare out at you with seductive arrogance from the pages of a fashion magazine. Whose face has, in fact, done exactly that, usually with the divinely sensuous participation of her body. More often than not the eye behind the camera had been mine, back before she moved on from the pinnacle of the modeling scene to her virgin attempt at acting.
"Don't they say that no publicity is bad publicity?" Maura turned toward me. I reached out to untie her scarf and remove her sunglasses, tucking them away in the pocket of my leather jacket. The old challenge was in her eyes. Push me, it said. Force me to the edge. Make me feel.
"So you don't think your acting can stand on its own," I asked, wrapping strands of her windblown hair tightly around my fingers, "without the scandal of getting thrown out of a National Park before the movie even opens?"
She caught at my hands. I released her hair. "Maybe I'll give you a chance to show me somewhere you think is even better," she said, and headed back toward the car. I waited just long enough to appreciate the elegant undulation of her hips in tight jeans before I caught up.
Maura wasn't primarily an exhibitionist, in spite of her place in the public eye. Or possibly because of it. Her craving for danger was more complex than that. There had been times, once I’d come to understand what my weathered skin and scarred body said to her, when she had begged me to mark the face the world saw so that it would become her own again. What she thought she wanted from me had nothing to do with tenderness. Still, whether she was aware of it or not, she needed something else from me, as well. Push me right up to the edge, her fierce eyes demanded, while a tiny tremor at the corner of her soft lips added, but don't let me fall.
While I checked in at Bright Angel Lodge, Maura watched the tourists signing up to ride down the nearby Bright Angel Trail tomorrow morning. Even in April, well before the high season, there was heavy traffic along the route. This late in the afternoon we wouldn't have had long to wait to see the mule train returning from the river at the bottom of the canyon, four-fifths of a mile straight down and eight miles of switch-backing trail below, but I had no intention of waiting.
Our cabin out behind the Lodge perched close to the edge, with just room for a narrow path and a wind-gnarled pinyon pine between its wall and the Grand Canyon's rim. Even a year ahead of time it had taken luck and the pulling of a few strings to get the reservation.
While I brought in the luggage, two-thirds of it hers, Maura stood looking outward, one hand tightly gripping a pinyon branch. The drop here was really not that abrupt at first. One could conceivably survive a slide down over a series of shallow shelves to Bright Angel Trail below.
"Are we going down there?" she asked. "Not on that trail," I told her, "and definitely not on mules. Not all the way to the river, either."
"Oh, right, I'd forgotten about your poor knees." Her subtly mocking tone was just another variation on the game of challenge we played. I knew my old climbing injuries held a certain fascination for her, and she knew that my body still had more strength and stamina than hers would ever achieve from gyms and personal trainers.  "You'll get all you can handle," I told her. "Trust me."
"I'm more worried about how much you can still handle." Maura sauntered back to the cabin and stepped inside. I followed her eloquent butt, then stood in the doorway for a moment to watch her explore the interior.  The furnishings were of comfortably updated 1930s craft design, highlighting natural wood tones and artistically simple lines. The stone fireplace incorporated specimens of all the different rock strata revealed by the river's carving of the canyon, from pre-Cambrian black Vishnu Schist to the Kaibab Limestone of recent millennia. The platform bed was modern, wide, and inviting. Maura prodded the mattress with a manicured finger, sat on the edge, then lay back. She eyed me speculatively.
"You must need to rest a while after your trip," I said with exaggerated solicitude. "Go ahead, take it easy. I understand." I began to unpack, hanging things in the closet, watching for her next move. She got up and started to unbutton her shirt. Not a bad idea. The day was getting hot. So was I, but I wasn't ready to take her deceptive bait. Maura is never that easy.
My own bait was more subtle. I moved into the living room, pulled open the curtains of the window beside the fireplace, and crossed to the far side to set my cameras and equipment out on a table. Maura followed.  I didn't let her catch me watching, but she knew I could see her in the mirror as she shed her jacket and peeled off a tank top damp with sweat. She hadn't bothered with a bra. Then, to enhance the temptation, she turned around to present a rear view while wriggling out of her jeans. Her lovely ass-cheeks paused in mid-wriggle as she saw the view presented by the wide window.  The vista, tinted gold and copper by the late afternoon sun, was breathtaking. Maura gripped her loosened jeans tightly and edged past chairs and coffee table to gaze out, spellbound. It was the same scene she had surveyed from the rim outside, but somehow intensified, made more personal, more deceptively comprehensible, by the framing effect of the window. From inside it looked as though the cabin extended right out over the shining void.
I waited five seconds for the mesmerizing effect of space and light and color to take hold, and then I was on her, pushing her hard against the log wall and windowsill. I had her own silk scarf tight across her mouth and her pants and foolish thong undies down around her ankles before she could do more than gasp.
She could easily have escaped, even hobbled like that, although she despised looking ridiculous. While my weight kept her pressed into the wall, her hands were free, gripping the wooden windowsill. Now and then people strolled by just outside on the pathway; if she rapped on the window, they'd turn to look. She knew how to make me let her go. But gagging was a special treat she wouldn't risk losing, a promise that she was going to be driven to extremities, permission to let it all out without reserve. I wouldn't always humor her that far. More than once she had cursed at me and demanded a gag. More often than not I had refused.
I gathered her thick chestnut hair in my fist and yanked her head back. "Surprise, my knees aren't all that decrepit yet," I hissed into her ear, and brought my right one hard up against her ass. She jerked, but spread her legs to let me thrust between her thighs and nudge into her crotch.  "You wonder how the river carves a canyon through rock?" I asked. "You think you're stone? Haven't I cut my petroglyphs into you?" My other hand worked its way around to her belly and slid down to her shaved pubic mound. The scars I'd given her, where even bikini photo spreads wouldn't reveal them, were too shallow for my fingertips to find like this, but I knew they were there; four tiny, curving lines forming a delicate circle like a secret mandala, cut by the business end of an ice-climbing screw.  "I suppose you think the water always flows gently, smoothly, taking forever to wear away resistance." My fingers moved lower, stroking gently, too gently, over her clit and lush outer lips. "Working down through layer after layer, " I went on, going deeper, sliding back and forth in her growing slickness, keeping it up slowly, slowly, as the silk gag muffled her accelerating whimpers of demand. When she arched into my touch, desperate for more, harder, faster, I drew my fingers away and approached from the other side, starting with long strokes down between her buttocks and into the tender strata of her soaking crotch.
"But sometimes storms batter at the rocks, and spring floods from mountain snowmelt surge through the ravines." I was really getting into it now. "The water pounds, thrashes, filled with sharp silt and uprooted trees." I raised my hand suddenly to the nape of her neck, still holding her hair roughly back. The scent of her juices on my fingers roused my own. With my fingernails, short but strong, I scraped a line down the valley of her spine to its base. A shiver passed over her skin. I veered first to one side, then the other, tracing the delectable swell of her ass, leaving curving pink grooves just shallow enough to fall short of drawing blood. Her gluteal muscles flexed, and her muted voice rose in pitch.
A pair of college-boy jocks passed by outside; even through the gag she could have made enough noise to attract their attention. I felt a shudder wrack her body. She wanted so intensely for them to see...but would I pull back, drop her, rather than risk a scandal that might, at the least, distort her career?  
I don't know, myself, what I would have done, but they moved on past. My teeth fastened onto Maura's right shoulder, and her taste filled my mouth. I had no more words. Moans and incoherent curses vibrated from her body through mine as she writhed toward my touch. I spread my fingers then and slapped hard, again and again, overlaying the scrapes on her buttocks with red hand prints like the marks on the walls of ancient Anasazi cliff dwellings far below in the Canyon.
Suddenly Maura lurched backward, pushing off from the windowsill, nearly toppling me. I lifted her just enough to swing her around and then dropped her hard onto the Navajo rug in front of the fireplace. In the seconds it took for me to get a latex glove from my pocket onto my hand she had torn off her gag and kicked her pants free of her ankles, and now she crouched, long hair falling forward to veil her face, her butt lifted toward me and her swollen labia exposed.
"Do it!" she snarled, so ready that there was no need for lube. I thrust into her, slid out, thrust again, and then she was pumping herself onto me, heaving, panting, her cries rising higher as my other hand pinched her hardened nipples. When the spasms struck, tightening her cunt around my hand and wrist like a trap, I supported her until her grip finally loosened and I could withdraw, gently, holding her wide open for a few seconds and admiring her glistening folds. "Dusky rose," I said softly, "Like the sandstone layers of the canyon wall at dawn."
Maura whispered something I could barely hear. I leaned closer. "Was this the 'better place' you had in mind?"
"No," I said honestly, not sure whether she was working up to another challenge. "This was just an opportunity seized. You'll know when you get there."
And she did.  It wasn't along the rim trail or at any of the famous points where cameras clustered, not even Pima Point at sunset when the river winding far below to the west turned briefly into a ribbon of gold. It wasn't the moonlit vista of the canyon as we leaned together against a spreading branch of the pinyon pine outside our own cabin. It wasn't anyplace that easy.
We were up at dawn the next morning, breakfasting on the Bright Angel Lodge terrace.
"Why 'Bright Angel?'" Maura asked.  I told her about Major John Wesley Powell's exploration of the Colorado river, and the story that after his men named one muddy incoming stream the Dirty Devil, the Major had compensated by dubbing the first clear creek they came to Bright Angel, flowing down from the north to join the river across from what later became Bright Angel Trail. I thought, watching Maura's beautiful face, as luminescent in its own way as the morning light suffusing the mist rising from far below, that he must also have been thinking of Lucifer before the Fall, Milton's "angel bright" of Paradise Lost.
Or, just possibly, he had known someone like Maura.
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What follows, part way down the sides of the Grand Canyon, takes “edge play” literally, along with hyper-exhibitionism. If you want to read more, in a day or two I’ll post the whole story over on my blog, sacchi-green.blogspot.com. Or you could find it in my first collection, from way back in 2011, A Ride to Remember, a Lambda Finalist. And, as I said upstream, yet another Maura/Robie story will appear in my new collection coming out in March, from Dirt Road Books. Wouldn’t you like to see how many more ways I’ve explored the unlimited possibilities of erotica?