Was this book based on a true story? #lesbian #ageplay #bdsm #erotica

Someone very dear to me recently asked if my lesbian ageplay book NANNY STATE was based on a true story. Ha! Don't I wish! My life isn't that interesting.

More specifically, I was asked if Sweet made me get rid of all my thongs and switch to granny panties--which is the rule Victoria imposes on Summer in the book. She didn't. I've still got a vast selection of thongs stored away for a time when they feel relevant once again.

Having said all that, Nanny State did alter and improve our sex life. While we've never delved into ABDL, the book did inspire us to incorporate spanking into our repertoire, and spanking quickly became a go-to for us.

So, while Nanny State was not inspired by true events, it did inspire us to shake up the sex we were having. Just one of the many ways this little book of lesbian domination and submission changed my life!

You can find your copy at Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/146337?ref=GiselleRenardeErotica
eXcessica (publisher): http://www.excessica.com/books/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=17&products_id=540
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Nanny-State-Lesbian-Kink-ebook/dp/B007Q1H1NK/ref=dondes-20
Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1109809789

In case you've never read it, enjoy the first chapter!

Chapter 1

“Victoria?”

The lights were off when I got back to the house—very unusual, because my strict landlady Victoria was pretty much always around. She’d converted the extra bedroom into an office years before I came out here for school, and that’s where she worked as some sort of typist. I never asked for details about what she did for a living. I didn’t really care.

I know that sounds mean, but Victoria was hard to sympathize with. At times, she was unbearably controlling. She demanded I come home promptly after class, and I always resented the way she’d stand in the living room with one eye on her watch, asking, “What time do you call this, Summer?”

Victoria was an old friend of my mom’s, but the longer I stayed with her the more she acted like she owned me, like I was a little kid in need of protection. Who did she think she was, bossing me around in that passive-aggressive way of hers?

“Victoria? Are you up here?” I climbed the stairs, turning on every light as I went.

As much as I complained about Victoria breathing down my neck every hour of the day, I hated being alone in the house. It gave me the creeps. If I could afford it, I’d get a nice little apartment of my own, but that would mean finding a job. After getting fired from my last two restaurant gigs I couldn’t get a reference to save my life.

Anyway, until I finished university it was better to focus my time on writing papers and studying for exams. That’s a big part of the reason I transferred schools and came out here to live. Back home I got way too distracted by hot friends and good times.

In fact, the thing I missed most about my freedom was all the meaningless sex. Under Victoria’s roof, I couldn’t get away with shit. School and home, bedroom door open at all times. She even had the parental block set on the TV so I couldn’t watch anything with “mature themes.”

My poor pussy was craving attention, and the most I could give it was a little stroke in the shower. Even then, Victoria timed me as if I was wasting water. After five minutes, she’d be knocking on the door, hollering, “What are you doing in there?”

I stood at the top of the stairs, gazing into open, empty rooms. “Victoria?”

No response.

That settled it—she wasn’t home! No way I was going to miss this opportunity to do something naughty. Racing into my bedroom, I shut the door and pulled my laptop out of my bag.

My heart thundered in my ears while a thick heat pulsed low in my belly, spreading all the way down my thighs. I couldn’t wait.

“Gimme the good stuff,” I said as I clicked on my favourite porn site. It had a feature where you could search out what you liked best.

I typed in lesbian orgasms.

There was nothing I loved better than watching real girls come, and I looked through the thumbnails for one where the women weren’t bleach blondes. Girls with tattoos got me off almost immediately, so when I found a porn clip starring one inky vixen with hot pink streaks in her hair and one innocent looking redhead, I was all over it.

When the video began, the tattooed girl was already sucking the redhead’s tits, thank god. I hated when lesbian clips started with ten minutes of kissing. Sure kissing was hot, but when I watched porn I wanted it to be on fire.

This clip definitely fit the bill. After fifteen seconds of ogling that leather-clad punk as she suckled the pallid redhead, my panties were soaked through. I reached under the elastic waist of my Uni track pants and cupped my mound overtop of my juicy, soaked underwear.

Victoria had disposed of all my sexy thongs the first time she did laundry, replacing them with white cotton undies. Totally not sexy, but I never did like going commando so I just grew extra cautious about letting people get an impromptu look at my panties.

“Fuck yeah!”

The chick with the ink planted rough kisses and love bites down the redhead’s paper-white belly. God, they were hot together. I hadn’t eaten pussy in months, and I missed it so bad I could almost taste that heavy, musky aroma at the back of my throat.

“Yeah, lick her hard,” I told the girl onscreen. “Suck her clit, you fucking slut.”

I didn’t mind calling instructions out to my computer. Didn’t make me feel crazy or anything. I figured, hell, if I had the house to myself for once I should take full advantage and make a little noise. When Victoria was home, I always had to be quiet as a church mouse and it was driving me nuts.

When the tattooed girl lunged against the redhead’s bush, a growl rumbled deep inside of me. I wasn’t sure who I should be more jealous of: the one doing the licking or the one getting licked. Fuck, I loved the look of that bright red pussy hair. So many girls in porn were shaved—hell, so was I—but it really turned me on to see a full cloud of pubic hair between a woman’s thighs.

The tattooed girl seemed to like it, too. She ate that redhead’s pussy wildly and without remorse, like a wolf tearing into a bunny rabbit. The redhead reacted in a big way, shrieking and whimpering, her voice mellifluous even when she grunted and groaned.

I pushed my bottoms to the floor and spread my legs for the girls onscreen. Parting my smooth lips, I traced my middle finger round and round my sensitive clit, pretending they could see me.

“You like my pretty pussy, huh?” I smacked it for them, jumping in my chair as the slap to my clit rang through my body. “Look how much you turn me on, you little sluts. I’m all fucking wet for you.”

Stroking my clit with one hand, I pulled up my t-shirt with the other. It was tight enough to stay there, hiked above my breasts as I tugged my tits out of my bra. When I pinched my nipples, a surge of electricity zapped down to my clit. If only I could do what the redhead onscreen was doing, bringing her breasts up to her mouth and sucking them, but my boobs were nowhere near as big as hers.

“God, I love your tits,” I told her, pretending she’d heard me and that smile on her plump pink lips was acknowledgement.

The girl between her legs ate her hard, ravaging her clit. She hugged her tits and shrieked. Planting her feet against the mattress, she bucked up against the tattoo girl’s wet face. Watching her lips contort with blissful agony set my belly ablaze, and I scoured my clit so hard and so fast I came when she did—and I came hard!

But once was never enough when I was getting myself off. I cupped my mound, squeezing it in my hot hand, feeling my slick inner lips pound and pulse against the outer ones.

When the porn clip finished, I reached for the touch pad on my laptop. My goal was to get the cursor to a thumbnail of a naked blonde and an Asian woman with giant boobs, but my fingers were wet and my aim was off. I ended up clicking another video instead.

My belly flip-flopped when the clip started. It was another lesbian scene, but I’d never come across anything like it before. There was a woman in her forties, I guess, wearing a prim dress unbuttoned at the front so her big naked breasts were fully exposed. In her arms, she cradled a girl who was probably about my age. Like a baby. So much like at baby that the girl was wearing a diaper!

“What the fuck is this?”

I’d seen some kinky-ass porn in my day, but nothing had ever made my heart clench and my stomach wrench like this did. It seemed really wrong, and I urged my hand to click another thumbnail, but my fingers would not obey.

When the younger woman took the older one’s nipple in her mouth, my pussy gushed with juice. There was something mesmerizing about the way she sucked that woman’s tit, like she derived more than just sexual pleasure from it. And the woman in the dress—wow! The look on her face was so serene, so loving, that my heart warmed as I watched them together.

“Fuck, I can’t be turned on by this.” I spoke more to myself than the computer this time. “This is some crazy shit.”

Even so, my fingers parted my smooth wet pussy lips, tracing up and down my slit and bursting inside while my thumb found my clit. My whole body surged. Sure I’d just come, but that wave of orgasm was still close at hand. Stroking my clit in tight circles, I thrust my fingers languorously in and out of my pussy, savouring the wet squelching sound they made in there. It wouldn’t be long until I was riding that wave of climax again.

I watched the scene on my computer more intensely than I’d ever watched any other porn clip. Mainly, I think I wanted to understand why I found it so arousing. And at the same time, of course, I didn’t want to know at all. I just kept fucking myself and toying with my clit as the maternal older woman stroked the younger girl’s fine blonde hair, rubbed her back, and caressed her thigh.

It all looked so intimate and serenely sensual that I wanted the same thing, though I didn’t know why. I loved the way the younger girl’s smallish breasts pressed against the older woman’s bare belly, just above where her dress was still buttoned up.

“Suck my tits, baby.” I pinched them one by one, imagining those pretty pink lips against my nipple, that velvet-soft tongue licking it, bringing it into her warm, wet mouth.

A surge of energy pulsed through my clit, and my pussy muscles tightened around my fingers. I was going to come watching this crazy fetish porn. I was going to come watching that pretty young woman suck those big, beautiful tits. This was unbelievable.

“Summer!”

Every muscle in my body clenched. My heart seemed to stop beating, and still I struggled to extract my fingers from my pussy and turn off the porn.

Too late anyway. I’d been caught red-handed. I’d gotten so involved that I didn’t even hear the door open.

“What do you think you’re doing, young lady?” Victoria hovered just inside my room, hands on hips. She hadn’t even taken off her leather boots.

I quickly pulled my t-shirt down to cover my boobs, though my bra was still lodged beneath them. My face felt burning hot. It must have been red as a beet! Still, I couldn’t let her know how embarrassed I felt.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” I scrambled into my track pants. “I’m trying to get off—and you’re no help, standing there like the wicked witch of the west.”

Was that the bad one? I couldn’t remember.

“I have absolutely no intention of helping you in that twisted endeavour.” Victoria’s gaze kept darting to the computer screen, where the younger woman continued to suckle to older one.

“Besides,” I said. “My door was closed. Don’t I deserve a bit of privacy in my own damn bedroom?”

Finally, she let out an exaggerated hmph sound and pushed my wheeled study chair clear across the room. By the time I’d turned myself around, she’d closed my laptop and was trudging out of my room with it.

Now my blood was really boiling. That laptop was my private property! “Where the fuck do you think you’re going with that?”

Victoria gasped, spinning on her heels. Her face was like marble, hard and white and frightening. “Mind your language, Summer. This is still my house, after all.”

“Yeah, no shit!” I couldn’t control my anger. The power she wielded like a weapon just made me so damn mad. “You remind me every day: ‘My roof, my rules. Your mother sent you here for a reason.’ I’m so sick of you.” Grabbing hold of my computer, I yanked it from her hands. “I take all my class notes on this laptop, and I do all my reading on it too. It’s not a toy, and even if it was, it’s mine, you ugly bitch.”

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion after that. I held my laptop so close to my chest I could feel its warmth against my pointed nipples. My breath was coming so fast after all that screaming I worried I might hyperventilate, but I worried even more that Victoria would hit me with something.

It wasn’t right of me to call her an ugly bitch. I knew that. And it wasn’t even true. She was the kind of woman whose skin didn’t know her age, except for the laugh line to one side of her mouth and the crinkles she got around her eyes every time she smiled. But she sure wasn’t smiling now, or laughing. I’d never seen her looking so… hurt.

“Wait,” I said as she walked to her bedroom across the hall from mine.

She looked at me, seeming small, gaunt, powerless. She didn’t say a word.

“I’m sorry, Victoria.”

But it was too late. She’d already closed her door.

Nanny State is available as an ebook and in print from retailers such as...

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Nanny-State-Lesbian-Kink-ebook/dp/B007Q1H1NK/ref=dondes-20
Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1109809789
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/146337?ref=GiselleRenardeErotica
eXcessica (publisher): http://www.excessica.com/books/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=17&products_id=540

Here's the direct link to that video: https://youtu.be/tRvEN550944

And, once again, some buy links!
Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1109809789
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/146337?ref=GiselleRenardeErotica
eXcessica (publisher): http://www.excessica.com/books/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=17&products_id=540
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Nanny-State-Lesbian-Kink-ebook/dp/B007Q1H1NK/ref=dondes-20

Pounded in the Butt by the Goddess—or Not

Sacchi Green

Drat. I’ve been around here too long. I thought I was all set with the closest I’ve come to a filthy story—at least there’s dirt involved, since the main character is stuck in a cave, and there’s a butt plug used, since she’s too stuck to prevent it and her companion takes advantage of the situation. But it turns out that I’ve used that story, “The Goddess Bites,” here before. I was all set with such a great title for this post! “Pounded in the Butt by the Goddess” (with apologies to Chuck Tingle.) I’m using the title anyway, which qualifies as a dirty trick, but not a filthy one.

So I’ve scrabbled around for a Plan B, and come up dry. You can’t have something both filthy and dry, can you? Filthy seems to require a considerable component of wetness. Well, so does erotica in general, but filth suggests something more akin to mud wrestling than heat between the sheets.  Speaking of sheets, my knee-jerk first image of filthy sex is the kind that, if performed in a hotel, leaves the bedding in such a state that you never dare go back to that same hotel. I’ve actually had that experience, in a way, although I wasn’t the one having the fun. It was on a club outing to Provincetown, and I was the one sleeping (but not sleeping much through the noise) on sofa cushions on the floor of the living room of a seedy hotel suite, having generously turned over the actual bedroom to a club member sharing the suite and her new acquaintance brought back from a party we’d all attended. And I was the one paying for the suite.  I’ve never used the experience as the inspiration for a story, but if I did, I think my detailed descriptions would qualify as filthy.  

Maybe I’ve written something filthy and don’t even know it. Some writers I greatly admire talk about how really filthy their latest story is, and when I read it I may think it’s a great piece of erotica, but not what I’d call filthy.

That’s the whole point, I guess. Filth is in the eye of the beholder. (Ouch! Sorry about that image.) When it comes to erotica (or porn) everyone has their own sense of where the fine lines fall between hot sex, dirty sex, and outright filthy sex. And for many, the filthier the better.  Come to think of it, some of those same writers like to say that they write smut; I’ve done it occasionally myself. It’s a case of claiming a derogatory term and using it with pride. Maybe that applies to calling one’s work filthy, as well.

On the other hand, some things may just strike us as honestly filthy, things we’re embarrassed to have written. They may not strike anyone else as notably dirty, or notably enough to be interesting, but they still make us squirm and feel icky. Especially when we use an imaginary character written about in several other stories who would be outraged to find out she was used that way. I, um, hope she never finds out.

You knew this was heading toward an excerpt, didn’t you. Here’s the setup. The character has left the love of her life because it’s wartime, and they’re sent in very different directions, and her ambitions as a pilot can’t be accomplished if she’s in a lesbian relationship (this is during WWII.) She’s crash-landed the Spitfire she was ferrying from London to Scotland in a storm, and injured a German prisoner of war who’s escaped from a nearby prison camp.

Two excerpts from “Spanking Gunther” (in DL King's anthology Spank):
_______________

1.(The Beginning)

Gunther squirmed in the grip of the familiar dream. Punishment, yes, surely he deserved every blow! But could justice be done when it gave him such twisted pleasure?
Fraulein Ludmilla, in the old schoolroom, raised her wooden ruler to bring it down on his vulnerable knuckles. Gunther tried to keep from hiding his hands behind his back, but failed, so she bent him harshly across the desktop, yanked down his woolen breeches, and proceeded to inscribe a lesson onto his tender buttocks, written first in red streaks by her hands and then, by the ruler, in purple welts.
Her grunts of exertion—so brutal, so unrestrained—beat in harsh counterpoint to his sobbing cries. The punishment went on and on, exciting him more and more…then ceased, abruptly, as a hail of bullets against a Panzer’s armored turret drowned out everything else.
The dream shattered in a jolt of panic sharp as lightning.
Battle-honed reflexes kept him low, struggling to shelter his head. Except that his arms couldn’t move! Something held him immobile, face-down. Paralysis? Had he been hit? No, he was able to twist his torso with an effort, but wrists and ankles were restrained by strong bonds. Oddly soft bonds, yielding a scant fraction of a centimeter before holding fast. When he fought harder to move, one ankle sent a stab of pain up along his leg. So he had been wounded! It subsided to a dull ache when he lay still.
“Take it easy, Gunther. It’s only a storm.” The voice was weary, stern, and unmistakably female. “You’re safe enough. Looks like you’re stuck with being my prisoner for a while, though.”
It was still a dream, then, taking strange new turns. But…a sharp flash and the bone-shaking rumble of distant artillery set him to struggling again.
“Cut it out, Gunther! It’s only…donder. And, um, blitzen. Thunder and lightning, and some damned impressive hail on this tin roof.”
Memory began to trickle back. The escape from the British prison camp at Halmuir Farm…the endless, bramble-strewn Scottish moors…his companions recaptured while he crouched in a thicket hoping to snare a rabbit for their dinner. And then, after two days of wandering, he’d sighted the sheepherder’s hut through pelting rain. But there his memory hit impossibility. The rest could not have been real, not here! A fighter plane roaring down on him so close that he’d thrown himself flat onto the cold, wet grass? The sands of El Alamein would have made more sense. And then the world vanished in a burst of pain, ceasing suddenly in darkness, and silence. He could remember nothing more.
Now Gunther opened his eyes to a stormy dawn. He turned his head. The dimness of the morning was dimmer still inside the little stone hut, its one window covered by a leather flap, but the rattle of hail on the roof had diminished. The narrow wooden door stood open to let in some light. And there was the woman, silhouetted against the grayness, lounging against a doorpost. She straightened and came to stand above him.
Not a woman from any of his favorite dreams. Nothing like Fraulein Ludmilla, nor even movie goddess Marlene, so naughty in The Blue Angel, so sultry in top hat and tails in Morocco, so deliciously cruel with an imagined riding crop in her elegant hands. This woman was tall, dark-haired, strong, self-assured—and in military uniform.

2. (The End)

“You could…you could try to force me to tell you the way to the prison camp.”
“I’m sure I could beat it out of you,” she said severely, but when he stole a look at her face he caught a hint of a smile, the first slight lifting of her mood.
“What’s eating you, Gunther?” she asked, almost companionably. “I don’t need your information—you can’t grow up on a Montana ranch and then become a pilot without developing a fine sense of direction—but why the angling for punishment? Who’d you leave behind?” Her voice turned bitter with the last sentence.
Now hope seemed more permissible. He looked at her slantwise, gauging her expression, and took a chance. In an exaggerated drone he began, “I tell you nothing. Only name, rank and…” Before he could get to “serial number” she grabbed his shirt by the collar, hauled him over onto his back, and dragged his body entirely off the bed. From flat on the floor he saw her knowing glance at the bulge in the crotch of his trousers, and felt it surge even higher.
“On your knees, Sergeant Bernhardt,” she snapped. “Arms across the bed, ass in the air.”
Gunther scrambled to obey, hindered only a little by his bound ankle.
“Drop your pants.”
The dingy, grubby fabric was bunched around his ankles in moments, effectively hobbling him. He heard her move away, dared a look, and saw her drawing leather gloves from the pocket of a flightsuit hanging on a peg beside the door. He shivered in anticipation, until she drew the scented nylons  that had tied him carefully from inside her tunic and tucked them into that same pocket. Startled, he blurted out, “Will you not tie me again, Fraulein?”
She let the form of address pass. “Nope. This is your party, buddy. Just hang onto the bedframe and pretend.” In two steps she was right there, swinging the pair of gloves, whipping them across his buttocks in a series of blows so fierce that he did have to grip the wooden frame to keep from flinching away.
“Now,” she ordered, pausing and pulling up the stool so she could sit, “tell me your sins! Who have you left behind?”
Gunther had to let it out. “Mein…mein General! Feldmarschall Rommel!” Just speaking that name in German brought him close to tears.
She slapped him again. “Rommel? A fine soldier in a rotten cause. And you deserted him?” The contempt in her voice hurt more than the blow that came after, one harder than any yet. The gloves had dropped to the floor, and now she was using her bare hand. Gunther visualized how it must look against his reddening skin, and came so close to ejaculation—not yet! not yet! she might stop!--that telling his story was a necessary distraction.
“Not deserted, no, never! We were his personal troops, the very best, sent to hold off the enemy while the main forces retreated.” The chaos, the despair, the exhaustion, came back to him in waves.
“And you failed?” More blows now, from an open hand, varying the angle and the sharp, cracking sounds, striking new territory, down to his thighs, returning full force to flesh already sore and beginning to throb. Then she paused again.
“No!” Gunther was half-sobbing, as much from memory as from pain. “We held as long as possible, as long as was needed, as long as enough were left alive…” He had to stop for breath.
She struck him again, but not as hard. “And then?”
“And then we were captured.”
“That’s it? That’s all?”
“I should have died, as well.” The hot tears rose behind his eyes. It all seemed so real again, and yet so indistinct, the sand, the choking clouds of artillery smoke, the berserker’s fury that had possessed him until it crashed at last into helplessness. “I swore that I would return, or die. It was all that I dared say to him...”
“And that’s what you call a sin?” The lieutenant leaned back. Gunther could sense her beginning to retreat into her own sense of guilt.
“Please!” he gasped, lifting his hips toward her. “Please!” At any moment his arousal would turn to unsated pain. She must push him that last lap, raise him to the highest peak of intensity. “Ma’am, Lieutenant, Fraulein, bitte, mehr!”
So she gave him more, spanking his sore buttocks in an unrelenting rhythm that varied but never faltered, switching hands from time to time, driving his body into the bed’s leather straps until his cock felt so savagely huge and hard that he thought it would surely burst through them. What an arm she had, and such hands! At any instant now the impact of her blows would surge right through his flesh and set him off, soon, soon…but what was that sound? Artillery again?
“Now!” the lieutenant barked. “That’s an order!” Suddenly her hand was no longer striking his buttocks, but squeezing them, digging into the flaming soreness, making his hips move so that his cock pressed into the straps in rhythmic thrusts that drove him to a peak beyond retreat. “Now!”
And Gunther obeyed, all guilt submerged, all pleasure embraced in its full, searing glory, by the power of her authority. The flood of release spewing in sticky white bursts through the leather straps onto the floor brought also a storm of cries and harsh groans and possibly words, but if he called out any name, he could never after recall whether it had been that of the Field Marshall, or of the American woman he knew only as Lieutenant, or Ma’am. And in any case, soon enough he was crouching beside the stool with his head in her lap, face against the wool of her uniform trousers, sobbing incoherently as she stroked his hair.
“Well done, Sergeant Bernhardt,” she said firmly at last. “But pull yourself together now. That’s an army jeep you hear laboring up the hill. We’ve been found.”
________________

So much for Plan B. That’s such a feeble attempt at filth that my character would be not only be outraged, she’d be contemptuous. But she’s magnificent when she’s contemptuous! And she might even call me filthy names, so there's that.