I Challenge You to a Game of Sex #sexuality #confidence #kinky #queer

A post by @GiselleRenarde

I'm asking myself if I've ever been attracted to my opposite, and I honestly don't think I have--not in any big sense. The people I'm attracted to are always similar to me in most ways. Our values and beliefs are the same, we tend to enjoy the same literature, films, music, all that.

I've never been the bookworm making eyes at the biker, nothing that extreme.

But if we're talking about sex, well, that is one area where I suppose I have been drawn to people who weren't exactly my mirror image.

When I was younger, I was strikingly confident with regard to sexuality--seeing as I was a virgin and all...

I remember watching American Beauty when it came out in 1999.  When it turned out that (spoiler alert!) Mena Suvari's ravenously seductive character was also a virgin, it was like looking in a weirdly humiliating mirror.

That was me. That's how I behaved. I found the idea of sexuality very empowering, but I'd never actually HAD sex.

Was I attracted to other people who made raunchy jokes and flaunted their assets? Of course not!  I had friends who were like me, but the people I was attracted to, when I was younger, were really quite bashful. Innuendo embarrassed them... excited them, too, I found out years later... but in the moment all I saw was the bashfulness... and all I felt was the power I wielded over men with my feminine wiles.

I liked being able to intimidate men, and I liked men I could intimidate.

I wanted to be in charge, and I was.

Later on, when I was confident in my sexual skill (because I actually had some), I found myself drawn to people who could expand my horizons. Looking back, I was pretty gosh-darn vanilla, at that point. If you'd asked me, "Are you vanilla?" I would have been like "Of course not! How dare you!" but when I think of all the things I hadn't done... wow, that's a long list.

I ended up with someone who was kinky as hell, and not because she was trying to be--she just exuded that brutal feminine confidence I'd felt so sure I possessed all those years ago. It was the dominating nature of her personality that taught me to submit. And, I tell you, it came as a relief to not be in charge in the bedroom anymore.

The effects spread beyond the bedroom, too.  Spread to my writing. If not for that confident kinkster, Lexi Wood would never have been born. She pushed me to write beyond my boundaries--to write incest erotica like the Adam and Sheree series, and Lexi's ever-growing list of short stories.

Sometimes you need someone who's going to challenge you.  You need it to grow.

Now I see myself as a kinky queer who is quietly confident about sex, but who doesn't have to be in-your-face about sexuality or wield it like a sword.

Maybe the whole "opposites attract" thing has operated with subtlety in my life. At times, I've challenged others to a game of sex. At times, I've been challenged. But the result has been growth, overall, and a better understanding of relationships, myself, and my place in the world.

Taboo for Everyone

by Cameron D. James

I sometimes feel a bit strange writing a post on taboo desires and other general kink and fetish topics. It’s certainly a comfortable space — you can’t escape these sorts of things when you’re an erotica writer, so you make yourself comfortable and enjoy the discussion — but it’s not really a space where I fit as an author.

My main purpose, at least under this pen name, is erotic romance, which generally leaves a lot less space for the taboo, the forbidden, and the kinky. I do have a series I co-wrote called “Forbidden Desires”, in which each of the three novellas explores a different taboo relationship. (The first is a huge age gap with a young guy falling in love with a father figure, the second is a Catholic priest giving into his desire for dick, and the third features an eerily-familiar bombastic President who subsequently falls in love with a Mexican rent boy.)

While these might be taboo and kinky to some, they are flat-out vanilla to others. Indeed, this is my most vanilla pen name. I’ve mentioned previously that I have a pen name that explores much more taboo kink, but even that is still mild compared to what some other authors write.

I used to feel bad about it, like I should, as a writer of sexy smut, be exploring much more extreme kinks. Like, it comes with the job, right? But eventually I realized that there’s a place for everyone in this sexy workplace — there’s room for the plain and vanilla and there’s room for fiction about stuff that’s illegal to do in real life. And there’s plenty of room for everything in between.

And just like there’s room for all levels of smut and taboo in this wonderful space of writing, there’s a wealth of perspectives that come from our readers. For some, my priest/parishioner erotic romance would be shockingly taboo and would really get a reader’s gears going, whereas for others they would put it down when the boredom sets in on the second page. And for some readers, the very fact that two men are kissing (never mind what they do after that kiss) is taboo.

To me, it doesn’t really matter where a reader’s taboo level is. If just two men kissing gets a reader going, then I hope they enjoy my books and don’t get too overwhelmed when the pants come off. If a reader has a higher taboo threshold, hopefully one of my slightly-kinkier titles does it for them. And if a reader’s taboo threshold is far beyond anything I write, well, I might not be the right author for them and I’m okay with that. (Or I may serve as a refreshing pit stop between super taboo kink stories. Like a water break or something.)

Taboo should be something that is self-defined. After all, my beliefs of what is taboo will be completely different than someone who is new to reading sexy smut, and also very different from someone who is heavy into BDSM and looking for fiction that explores the most extreme depths of smut. My perception of taboo changes over time, too, as I’m sure it does for readers and other authors.

When I first started writing smut, I was all about vanilla smut because it was so new and hot to me — but I couldn’t do the more extreme stuff because it was beyond my comfort level. Now, though, that definition of taboo has changed and while I still do plain vanilla stuff (because I do enjoy it), I also explore some other areas. And under my kinky name I explore even more taboo areas. As time goes on, I’ll probably explore a little further, a little deeper. Maybe then I’ll have more experience in taboo desires for a more titillating post. :)

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

Forbidden Pleasures #taboo #erotica #kink

Image credit: Pixabay

By Lisabet Sarai

taboo (n): A social or religious custom prohibiting or restricting a particular practice or forbidding association with a particular person, place, or thing.

Origin: Late 18th century: from Tongan tabu ‘set apart, forbidden’; introduced into English by Captain Cook.

The Oxford English Dictionary

Every society has forbidden practices, particularly with regard to sex. Incest, bestiality, pederasty and necrophilia are among the most common sexual prohibitions. Many cultures condemn same-sex intimacy, sodomy and extra-marital sex. In some places, even today, any type of physical contact between unmarried males and females will be condemned and punished.

Humans are perverse creatures, though. We delight in breaking the rules. The more serious the taboo, the greater emotional charge associated with its violation. Fear mingles with desire to make the forbidden experience more exciting and intense than sanctioned sexual behavior.

Erotic authors are experts in exploiting taboos. We push our characters to step over the lines of propriety: to fuck strangers in a dark alley; to beg for a spanking; to watch a teenage brother jack off then slip into his room naked. Not every erotic tale depends on the flaunting of taboos, but I suspect that the majority incorporate some aspects of the forbidden, or at least, the officially frowned upon. Nice girls don’t get up on stage and take off their clothes. Proper, masculine husbands don’t get aroused watching their wives get serviced by big-cocked studs. Modern, emancipated women don’t allow themselves to be tied up and whipped by bossy dominants. In the world of erotica (though not in erotic romance), it’s rather unusual to find sex that conforms to social norms.

Some taboos are enforced by law, or by rules made because of fear of the law. In the United States (though not in some other countries), you can write about mother-son, daddy-daughter, or sister-doggy sex, but Amazon and many other outlets won’t publish or distribute your naughty tales. On the other hand, sex between teens (or heaven forbid, pre-teens) is strictly sanctioned. Porn film-makers are required to certify and document the fact that all their performers are over eighteen.

Other restrictions are based on convention. Many readers strongly reject any tale with adulterous themes, despite (or maybe because of) the large amount of cheating that goes on in the real world.

What I find most fascinating, though, is the way taboos shift. Back in Victorian times, a flash of ankle was considered terribly improper. Now tiny bikinis that cover next to nothing are perfectly acceptable on public beaches – and Victorian-style corsets are the height of sexiness!

Two or three decades ago, homoerotic activity fell into the prohibited category. Same-sex stories often focused on first-time scenarios, and included a lot of fear, shame and soul-searching. As societal attitudes have changed and become more tolerant and inclusive, LGBTQ fiction has changed as well. The conflicts tend to revolve around other aspects of the characters and their relationship.

Then there’s kink. The success of Fifty Shades of Grey brought BDSM out of the closet and into the mainstream. Before FSOG, we early practitioners of D/s felt like members of a secret society, brave pioneers, outcasts who broke the rules of vanilla sex and reaped the erotic rewards. Now leather-clad Dommes show up on daytime TV and bondage cuffs are sold in department stores.

Kink was a lot more fun when it was verboten.

On the other hand, I’ve observed a new taboo developing around sex without condoms. I subscribe to Selena Kitt’s Excite Spice newsletters, at least partly to see what other people are publishing and what sub-genres seem to be popular. At least once a week, I read a blurb about some well-endowed guy “taking” a woman “hot, hard and unprotected”. Of course, bare-back sex is fundamentally more enjoyable than sex with a condom, but it seems that to post-AIDS readers, it is also breaking the rules and thus has acquired a new erotic charge. Personally I find this emphasis a little peculiar, since almost all the sex I’ve had in my life has been “unprotected”, but for the generations who came of age in the nineties and after, unprotected sex is forbidden, risky and exciting.

This started me pondering the question of whether I could write a story about a society with taboos against using condoms. Perhaps the elders in this society believe that fertility is sacred and that women are divinely intended to bear children. In such a world view, creating a barrier between sperm and egg would be viewed as thwarting the will of the Creator, as well as offering opportunities for women to indulge in sex for pleasure rather than for procreation.

Wait a minute... this suddenly doesn’t sound so original...

I’ve penned a few pieces where I’ve played with the idea of how taboos develop. In Quarantine, after a devastating, AIDS-like plague apparently spread by gay men, M/M intimacy has become illegal and invisible. The US has succumbed to nostalgia for the fifties, heterosexual sex is the only kind that officially exists, and simply having a genetic predisposition toward homosexuality means indefinite imprisonment in a remote internment camp.

My scifi short Trespass (in the altruistic erotica collection Coming Together: By Hand) involves a society in which everyone wears gloves. Fashions display large amounts of skin, but bare-handed contact is strictly forbidden – and thus unbearably arousing.

Then there’s incest. The original prohibition against inter-familial sex supposedly derives from the dangers of inbreeding. In a world (like today’s) where fertility can effectively be controlled, is there really any reason for brothers and sisters not to get it on?

Sometimes I rage against taboos that limit what I can publish. On the other hand, if all the rules were to suddenly vanish, that might have a negative impact on my imagination. I could still write about sensual pleasure – but pleasure can be so much sweeter when it’s forbidden.

Place of Honor (#submission #commitment #devotion)

By Lisabet Sarai

Finally, I’m where I belong.

I’m on my knees, at your feet, waiting for you to decide what happens next. Will you wrap my already prominent nipples in rubber bands, to see how much plumper they could be? Will you unfasten your belt so you can paint new stripes on my ass? Will you fuck me? Will you kiss me?

Whatever you choose, I’m here, here where I know you want me. Where I want to be, more than anywhere else in the universe.

I kneel for you, spread for you, writhe for you—and only you. After all these years, I’m still full of wonder at the connection that binds us. You don’t need to tell me how grateful you are for my surrender, though sometimes you do. We both know the truth, and glory in it.

I honor you by bending to your will. You honor me by accepting the gift I offer.

Everyone else would be horrified to see me in this place of apparent abasement—horrified and astonished. I’m not the type to take orders. Friends call me assertive and proactive. Others less favorably inclined label me aggressive and bossy. A less likely slave would be hard to imagine. I’m competent, articulate, a natural leader, a feminist. I’m opinionated and stubborn, according to some people. But submissive? No one would believe it.

If they saw me here, in this place, they’d label it as abuse, or worse. The welts on my butt—the ropes cinching my wrists—the scar on my shoulder where you carved your initials—they’d call this insanity, pure and simple.

How little they understand. It is pure, this devotion, or tries to be. I dream of perfecting the alignment of my will with yours. You dream, I think, of possessing me ever more completely, of pushing me harder, of testing the depth of my commitment and discovering it is bottomless.

This place gives me the courage to step out onto that perilous wire, when you invite me. On my knees at your feet, I am brave enough to attempt anything your devious imagination may suggest. I’m frightened—you’d hardly enjoy it, if I were not—but in this place, trust overcomes fear.

On my knees, at your feet, I don’t worry about what anyone else might think. I worry only about pleasing you. This place strips away all the silly concerns of daily life, reminding me of what really matters. My mind quiets even as my body hums with the heat you kindle. I am calm, patient, at peace as I wait for your next command.

This place gives me joy.

Offensive Material

Over the past couple years, I had made it a personal project of mine to read through some older gay erotic literature from my local LGBT library. I thought it would be neat to see the evolution of the genre over the decades. Honestly, I thought I’d be reading fairly tame stuff that didn’t even compare to today’s modern smut.

Holy fuck was I wrong.

Hardball by T. Hitman, which remains the hottest book I’ve ever read, had non-stop sex that evolved into piss-play in the latter half of the book. Punk Chicken, which had an anonymous author, features a lead character who shits on guys’ chests after fucking them. And The Leatherman’s Handbook, by Larry Townsend, while technically not a novel, opened my eyes to new areas of the BDSM and leather culture that I didn’t even know existed. I also tried reading a couple other books from that library, but one was so full of shit play that I couldn’t finish it and another had content that just flat-out made me super uncomfortable.

Given the consistency of content from those books, as a few of them were from within the same decade or so, I can only make the assumption that gay erotic literature, in general, had that level of raunch and fetish. It was normal back then.

And then I look at today’s gay erotic literature and the tight bounds put on it by Amazon and other vendors, and I just see vanilla. Even the kinkiest thing on Amazon is still vanilla to what was in those books from a few decades ago.

With erotic literature, perhaps especially gay erotic literature, entering the mainstream market, writers had to tone it down. (In fact, in the backs of some of those books, it sounded like their primary way of making sales was by mail-order catalogue, not by local bookstores.) The general public has deemed erotic literature to be obscene, unless it fits within a vague, but very rigid, box.

Amazon has a reputation and a history of unilaterally deciding something is offensive and removing books, and sometimes an author’s entire catalogue, from their site. Other vendors, when media attention was drawn to the fact that they carry erotic ebooks, have cleaned out their website of “obscene” material. These vendors often act surprised that there is such “offensive” material on their website and decide to make a public showing of cleaning out the filth. But they knew it was there. They might not have known about the specific title or two that tends to spark these news articles, but they knew the quantity of erotica titles on their site and they knew the general themes of much of the ebooks. In order to save face, they have to act surprised when easily-offended people make a stink about the easy access to “porn.”

About a year ago, I embarked on a new writing journey. Knowing what gay erotic literature used to feature rather extreme stuff, and knowing that current day sales of rather vanilla erotica is likely fuelled by the fact that kinkier stuff simply isn’t available, I wondered what needs weren’t being met by the erotica-loving public. Just because several major vendor refuse to sell extreme fetish doesn’t mean there isn’t a market for it.

I set out a plan to bring back the level of kink found in those older books.

The first was to find a vendor that wasn’t so easily offended — which I found in Smashwords and Excitica. Both of them allow stuff that isn’t allowed elsewhere, but still have a few restrictions. I decided I wasn’t going to worry about making it into Smashwords’s distribution channels — all I wanted was to get it up on Smashwords, and didn’t care of iBooks or Kobo or Barnes and Noble decided they didn’t want to carry it because it was offensive to them.

Admittedly, I’m not comfortable writing everything I saw in those old books. However, I took what I was comfortable with and threw in a few other things. I’ve covered piss play, incest, and some BDSM that’s a little more extreme than one generally finds in the BDSM section of Amazon. (All characters are always over 18.) I put the books up and kept watch on sales stats.

Most of my books ended up being picked up by most of Smashwords’s distribution partners. These books would get my account banned on Amazon, but were acceptable on Barnes and Noble and Kobo. iBooks blocked some of my books, but took most of them.

The real mystery, though, was how sales dollars would compare. If this new pen name was going to depend almost exclusively on Smashwords, whereas Cameron D. James is on every major retailer site, would it even be worth my time and effort?

Surprisingly, this new pen name, despite not being on Amazon, the world’s biggest bookstore, immediately outsold everything I’ve written under any other pen name. With only a few titles and very limited distribution, this new pen name is fast becoming my bread and butter.

While I’ve always sort of accepted that one person’s obscene material is another person’s masturbation material, this experiment really hammered it home. I generally don’t talk about this pen name — indeed, I haven’t mentioned in this post what the pen name is — because in the few cases where I’ve talked about it, I see people cringing at the thought. But I’m not writing for those people. I’m writing for the people that are stuck reading poorly-written stuff over on Nifty. I’m writing for the people who want a piss play story by an author that can actually form a sentence. I’m writing for the people who have a secret fetish and are looking for a little masturbatory material.

I’ve always kind of snickered when someone tries to set up a new erotica bookstore website and makes loud statements about how major retailers tell you what is erotic and what is obscene. I used to think that these people were just bitter that they couldn’t play inside the little box that Amazon set out for them. Now, though, I agree with them. As long as it’s within the bounds of the law, no one should be telling a reader what’s obscene and what’s not.



Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is Seduced by My Best Friend’s Dad (co-written with Sandra Claire). He is also the publisher and co-founder of Deep Desires Press  a publisher of erotica and high-heat-level erotic romance. He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit http://www.camerondjames.com.

Caritas

By Lisabet Sarai

“Beanpole.” That’s what they call him, that designer-clad, perfectly-coiffed pair of society moms over near the window. One of the kinder epithets they’ve bestowed, actually, but it fits him, poor man.

Awkward, skinny and at least six feet tall, he hunches over his laptop at his regular table in the corner, alternately pounding away at the keys and staring into space. His head’s a wild mass of straw-colored curls. His eyes are a watery blue behind the thick lenses of his wire-frame specs. His wrinkled shirt is half untucked and half unbuttoned. I catch a glimpse of his pale chest, sprinkled with blond fuzz.

He flashes me a vague grin when I bring him his double cappuccino. Not at all like the avid gaze he turns on the coeds and career gals who come in for their caffeine fix—all those tanned legs and painted toenails, flirty skirts and high heeled sandals. Not that I blame him; summer brings out the best in the local women.

With my buzz cut and tattoos, I guess he doesn’t realize I’m a girl. Still, I’d wager a triple mocha frappe with extra whipped cream that I could show him a better time than one of those little tarts.

He’s not really my type—I prefer both my men and my women with darker hair and more meat on their bones—but he broadcasts his need like an S.O.S. Plus I’m intrigued by his metier. He’s spent almost every weekday afternoon here, for the past month, and I’ve had plenty of opportunity to sneak glimpses at his screen.

He’s a writer—well, anyone could figure that out—but guess what he writes? Erotic stories. Kinky stories, if I’m not mistaken. I’d love to read them, but in my professional capacity I’ve only caught a sentence here and there.

“I’m willing to bet the price of this fancy ride that your pussy’s bare under your skirt.”

“Oh, but those rosy nipples just cry out for some clamps!”

“The belt slices into my flesh, less than an inch from my pubis.”

I’ll say one thing for Mr. Beanpole. He’s got a vivid imagination. Probably compensating for a lack of sex in his everyday life. In this image-obsessed town, especially, someone with such a total lack of style probably has a tough time getting laid.

What would happen if I came on to him? I can picture him stretched out on my futon, his desperate cock rearing up from the yellow tangle of his pubes. I suspect it’s long and thin, like he is, just right for getting at those hard to reach places. Perfect for back-door entry, actually. That’s probably something he’s fantasized about a lot—most guys do, I gather. One of my specialities—both taking and giving.

Wiping the smudges off the massive brass espresso machine, I pause for a moment to close my eyes and imagine his solid, greased rod sliding into my anus. I feel the scary pressure against my tight ring of muscle, always there no matter how many times I’m butt-fucked. Then the painful instant when he breaches me, followed by the sweet, nasty sensation of his bulk filling me up. My clit tingles and swells as I mingle recollection with anticipation. My jeans are suddenly too tight.

When I shoot a glance in his direction, I discover he’s looking back at me. He points to his empty cup and with an apologetic grin, raises one finger.

Sure, baby. Whatever you want.

I grind the beans, set a pristine cup under the spout, and go to pour the milk while the head of steam builds. Inhaling the rich, complex scent of high quality coffee, I flip the scene in my head. Now I’m the one reaming him, the straps of my harness biting into my hips as I bury my cock deep in his ass. His pasty white cheeks tense each time I impale him. They just cry out to be pinked by a slap or two.

Would he like that? Given what he writes, he just might.

He wouldn’t refuse me, certainly. If nothing else, he’d want the opportunity to research all the things he writes about. And I expect he’d be suitably grateful. After I make him come, I’m sure could coax him into eating me out.

So what I’m not his ideal woman, all soft and feminine. Beggars can’t be choosers.

I scribble my phone number on a napkin and stuff it into my jeans pocket. Then, feeling playful, I sprinkle cinnamon over the foamy surface of his beverage, in the form of a heart. When I place the cup next to him on the table, I deliberately brush the side of my breast against his arm.

He starts, looks up, snags my eyes. Oh, there’s fire there! A bolt of lust sizzles from my solar plexus to my pussy.

I’m just about to hand him the napkin when the door of the shop opens. His gaze snaps to the woman who enters.

He jumps to his feet, towering over me. “Layla! You’re early!”

She breezes in, silver bracelets tinkling, unutterably lovely. Ringlets black as midnight tumble over her shoulders and down her back. Ropes of colorful beads encircle her neck, nestling in the valley between her opulent breasts. A flowing rainbow-hued skirt drapes over her equally abundant hips and swirls around her sturdy ankles.

“Michael, darling!” I back away as she descends on the writer and sweeps him into a searing French kiss. His hands slide down her back to fondle her ass. As his tongue plunders her mouth, he grinds his pelvis against hers. The gesture’s definitely not family-friendly. I glance around at the other customers, hoping no one has noticed, but everyone appears to be transfixed by various mobile devices.

They make out for a shockingly long time, while I watch, becoming hotter by the instant. And I thought this guy wasn’t getting any! I thrust my hands in my pockets and crumple up the phone number, as a blush climbs into my cheeks. Talk about feeling stupid!

Finally, I tear myself away from the erotic spectacle, hurrying back to busy myself behind the counter. They’re still kissing, though the intensity has waned a bit. At last he releases her. She sinks into the chair next to him, licking her lips.

I’m still quivering with arousal when the writer—Michael—beckons to me.

“Can I get the check please, Nicki?”

I didn’t think he knew my name. “Oh—sure. Just a sec.” I have new respect for this guy. Despite his less than impressive appearance, he must be someone special, to have hooked someone as gorgeous as Layla.

He turns to the gypsy-like vision beside him. “This is Nicki. She’s been taking care of me over the past few weeks, while I’ve been trying to finish the novel.”

Layla snares me with eyes the color of French roast coffee. “Thanks, Nicki. I know Michael can consume a lot caffeine when he’s in the throes of a creative endeavour.”

“Um. Yeah. I noticed.” I’m burning up, though I can’t say whether desire or embarrassment makes the greater contribution.

She turns to her lover. The pair share a long, smoldering look, before she swings her gaze back to me.

“Looks like you work really hard.”

Is she mocking me? I’m sure she saw the cinnamon heart. “Well, you know. It’s a job.”

She fingers a inky tendril of hair before it flipping over her shoulder. Her full lips curve into a friendly smile. “So we were wondering, Michael and I, when you have a day off.”

What? My knees actually go weak for an instant. Does she mean...?

“I’ve been feeling a bit sorry for you, actually,” Michael adds. “Seems as though nobody here really appreciates you.”

“Except Michael,” Layla adds, stroking his arm. He shifts in his chair. Even though his lap’s in shadow, I glimpse the swelling in his crotch. “And me, of course.”

The beanpole hands me a twenty. Electricity sizzles between us when our fingers touch. “Keep the change, Nicki.” His smile makes me feel naked.

Meanwhile, Layla pulls a pen from her lover’s shirt pocket and writes something on the check. “Call us,” she murmurs. “We’ll be good to you.”

Blood roars in my ears. I have a lot of fantasies. I’m not used to having them come true.

I’m certainly not going to turn them down. Even if, for them, it’s an act of charity.

Hurt Me, but Don't Tell Me What to Do

by Annabeth Leong

The more I think about it, the more I’m uncertain about why the acronym BDSM is strung together this way, as if all the activities it describes are related. There’s a constellation of kinky stuff that’s treated as if it always goes hand in hand, but that doesn’t really make sense.

When I started showing up at kink events, I said I was submissive because I knew I wanted to bottom and receive pain. I didn’t realize there were distinctions here, and most of the events I went to elided them, too.

Over time, however, I recognized a growing anger in myself. I hated, viscerally, the experience of being treated as submissive. Of course, I met some cool people. I also encountered a lot of smarmy sneering, people talking to my dominant instead of to me (which, depending on your point of view, might have been proper protocol), jokes that irritated me, incorrect assumptions, and stuff that pissed me off in general.

I had a partner at the time who I called my dominant. Really, my partner was my sadist. We weren’t using proper vocabulary, but most people around us weren’t either. When we went to events, my partner adopted what they saw as a dominant-type persona, and I found it embarrassing and cringe-worthy.

At the same time, I truly do enjoy bottoming—as in, I love being on the receiving end of intense sensation. I love being tied up for a variety of reasons. I like it as a meditative state, I like it as a way of inducing discomfort, I like it as a decorative art, I like it as a way of experiencing the sensation of textiles on the skin, I like it as a way of drawing blood flow to certain areas to make them more sensitive, and lots more. I also love receiving pain. Impact play is a favorite for me, but I also love electricity, clamps, biting, and so on.

Over time, I realized I needed to distinguish between bottoming as a masochist and power exchange situations that framed me as submissive. These two things are so commonly associated that I’ve encountered many people who respond with disbelief or confusion when I try to explain that I want to be hurt but there’s no way in hell I want to submit.

I think a lot of kink activities boil down to being about trust. I do have to trust a top or a sadist. For me, that trust works best when I’m in the situation as an equal. It’s also easier for me to trust myself to speak up when I need to.

What’s funny about this is that I have a lot of submissive instincts. I am very, very good at service. It is easy for me to subsume my needs and focus on those of others. If you give me an order, my first reaction is to obey.

However, I don’t like that stuff about myself. I don’t want to feed it. What I’m working on in my life is to stop knee-jerk obedience. I don’t want to practice it on the weekend.

I know that many people experience submission as freeing. For me, it’s much more freeing to meet a top as an equal and figure out together how to hurt me for fun.

The more I’m around kink events, the more the dynamics around power exchange feel touchy and delicate to me.

For example, there’s a big kink con in Rhode Island called the Fetish Fair Flea Market. I go every year, and usually have a mixed experience. In some ways it’s awesome, and in some ways it infuriates me.

Early on, I went in clothing that identified me as an s-type (a sub or bottom). I didn’t always love how I was treated, but I didn’t know anything else.

One year, I went alone in these hot boots that I really loved. I didn’t think much about it at the time—I’m into feet and shoes, and these were just hot. They were thigh-high black leather boots that laced all the way up, with at least a three-inch heel. I felt gorgeous in them.

I could never have anticipated how much the boots would change my experience of the Flea. Apparently, the boots made people read me as a D-type. All of a sudden, I saw everything from a different perspective. I got more respect in the vendor halls. People answered my questions. The conference opened before me like a flower.

I still got regularly sexually harassed, don’t get me wrong. Random dudes still came up to me to share their sexual fantasies about me (I still presented female, after all), it was just that those fantasies had changed. Still, it was shocking to be freed from receiving the biases and assumptions that had come at me when people saw me as an s-type.

These days, when I go to the Flea, I struggle to find a way to dress. There’s not an obvious outfit that says masochist, at least not that I can think of. It’s hard not to wind up looking s- or D-. But really, I’d like to be able to step outside of power exchange with my kink experience.

And there are times when the distinction is subtle.

Last fall, I went with a top to a carnival. My top tormented me with unpleasant, frightening rides, laughing delightedly at my misery (I love that kind of thing, so while I was horribly uncomfortable, I was also having a great time). They pushed me to get on these things relentlessly, one after another.

I would call that a masochistic experience, not a submissive one, but I think, if we’d been in a different place, that it could have been a submissive one. In my case, the focus was on unpleasant sensations. My top was administering them, but I was receiving them because I find unpleasant sensations fun/fascinating/arousing/oddly compelling. In the submissive case, I think the focus would have been more on doing these things for the top, on being obedient despite the discomfort.

The emphasis on obedience is one of the things I really hate.

I’ve revised the way I describe myself at kinky events more times than I can count, and this probably still isn’t the final answer. However, it was really important for me to realize that what I’m interested in is sensation, not power.

And I hope this goes without saying, but I want to be very clear: I hold absolutely no disdain for those who do identify as submissive and enjoy it. It’s just not for me. Because I’ve spent time in that role, I have observed some dynamics around it in the community that I think are messed up, but I’m absolutely in support of people who want to explore the role itself.

Meanwhile, I’ll be looking for sadists who want to treat me as an equal.

Stash

By Lisabet Sarai

She should throw them away. After all, she’s married now, and a mother twice over. It’s crazy —unhealthy, even—to hold on to those tattered remnants of her past. If Ben ever found them, she knows he’d be deeply hurt.

Not that there are secrets between them, not really. She’s told Ben about her all-too-brief exploration of her submissive nature, at least in general terms. He doesn’t want to know more. The notion that she ever enjoyed being beaten or bound or “forced” into lewd actions makes him terribly uncomfortable. To be faced with evidence of her joyful depravity would not only disgust him, but also make him feel inadequate. Even after a dozen years together, her husband worries that he’s too vanilla to satisfy her. The nugget of truth in that worry is her private shame.

So she hides the letters between the pages of the New Testament her born-again mother gave her as a gift so many years before. Atheist that he is, Ben won’t touch that volume. She tells herself she’s protecting him from pain. The irony of this strategy isn’t lost on her. She remembers her mother’s shrill voice, naming her as “spawn of the Devil” because of her sexual adventures—the ones Mom somehow found out about, that didn’t include any kink.

Those well-worn epistles wait for her, stashed among St. Paul’s letters to the Corinthians and the Romans. She might not take them out for weeks, but she’s always aware of their existence, a sweet temptation calling to her from the bookshelf. Just a quick look. What harm could it do?

She works from home, transcribing medical records for an insurance company. It’s deadly dull, but pays pretty well. She can make her own schedule, and be there when the boys return from school. Mornings, though, after the kids are on the bus and Ben has left for the office—those are the hardest times. She strikes bargains with her conscience. Three more cases, then she’ll take ten minutes. Reread one letter, or at most two.

An hour later she finds herself on the floor, surrounded by dog-eared envelopes and sheets of paper dense with his firm script, her eyes and her sex both moist.

At this point, she doesn’t really read the letters so much as caress them. She knows every word by heart. Still, some of them leap from the page, echoing in that rich, dark voice he employed with such skill.

Flog.

Fuck.

Open.

Mine.

He’d used these letters to seduce her, months before they’d even touched. Somehow he knew—he always knew—what she craved. After he’d dropped out of grad school and moved across the country, she’d been the first to write, a chatty, chummy letter with only the barest hint of flirtation. How had they progressed to discussing spanking, hot wax and nipple clamps? Had she been seeking that all along?

After their first incandescent encounters, the correspondence had continued, bridging the miles between them, more thrilling and raw than ever.

It never occurred to me that you’d refuse anything I asked.

The letters rekindle that wondrous, terrifying yearning. Once again she’s the innocent, eager creature he’d somehow recognized, pliant and brave, hungry to taste his power. He’d shaped her sexual self like some sculptor of the flesh. Malleable, he’d called her. Back then, his mocking superiority annoyed her slightly. Now it makes her proud. She misses that woman, wonders if any trace of her still exists.

After all these years, she doesn’t really remember the physical pleasure, but she can summon the breathless excitement of surrender simply by opening an envelope, without reading a single line. She’s never been more alive than when she lay beneath him or knelt before him, ready to accept whatever he felt inclined to bestow. That was reality, sparking into existence once again as she scans the pages. It’s her current existence, full of mundane domestic joys and ordinary comforts, that feels like a dream.

He’s married as well at this point, to a kinky girl a dozen years younger whom he met at a munch. They exchange vanilla birthday and Christmas cards, two old friends with a secret history. She’s glad he’s not her husband. He’s critical and difficult, a perfectionist. She’s not sure she could give him what he needs now. But she did, back then. She never doubts that.

With a sigh, she slips the brittle pages back into their envelopes. A few are torn already. How many years will it be before they finally crumble to dust? Will she still be re-reading his words, re-living their past connection, when she’s a grandmother? It’s possible. She’s not ready to relinquish the letters yet, though her lack of total honesty gnaws at her. They are all that remains of the gloriously liberated, utterly devoted slave she once was.

Contextual Kink

by Giselle Renarde

Sweet's always asking, "What's something you want to do that we've never done before?" I don't know. Considering she once told me we'd never have a sexual relationship, we've done a metric fuck-tonne of... well, fucking.

I flip the question back at her every time, and every time she's got an answer on the tip of her tongue: "I want to have sex with you outside. I want you naked in the woods."

Thanks, but no thanks. Been there, done that. Sex in the woods reminds me of being a teenager and having nowhere else to go. (Do kids really have sex in their parents' houses these days? I could never have done that. Yikes! Never!)

Anyhoo, Sweet's been extra wonderful lately and I took on short-term employment this spring to earn some extra cash, so last week I whisked her away on a romantic adventure... IN THE WOODS.

Well, not really in the woods, but by overlooking a lake. There were trees around so, yeah, you know what? Let's call it the woods. I rented a quaint little cottage and treated her to a magnificent meal. After that, I was pretty much ready to explode. I was so full it hurt to laugh--and I know, because Sweet made me laugh the whole way back to our cottage.

I took a bath while she sauntered in and out of the washroom, taking off her makeup and beginning her extensive nightly beauty regime. After that, I put on a cotton camisole just long enough to cover my butt. Sweet tossed her silky red nightie over her head, and we played a board game in front of the TV. She indulged me in a rerun of Night Court, which (as you may recall from previous posts), I wasn't allowed to watch when I was a kid. It's just an old sitcom, but for me it'll always represent being naughty and getting away with it.

It must have been eleven at night by the time we'd finished our game. Without a word, I slipped outside. The night was wonderfully dark--something I'm not accustomed to, living in the heart of a major metropolitan centre. The only lights around came from the other side of the lake, which was a long way off.

Beyond our deck there was a stretch of land, a few trees by the shore, and then the lake. Earlier in the day, Canada Geese and about a thousand little goslings had been feasting on something in the grass. Now they were somewhere out there, honking at God-knows-what.

There were other cottages on the property, but ours was closest to the lake. If I stood at either edge of the deck, I could look back and see those cottages. One was lit up, but I didn't see anyone inside. The other had been dark all night.

Sweet followed me outside and wrapped a pashmina around my shoulders. I needed it. The night air was cool, for June, but once Sweet folded me into her arms, the chill just fell away. Her body warmed me from behind as she asked, "Why did you come out here?"

Did she really have to ask? "So you would follow me."

She giggled and kissed my neck and, after looking around in every direction (including UP, just in case), I slipped the straps of my camisole down my arms until it pooled around my ankles.

And here's the thing: even though Sweet's been asking for sex outdoors for years, I didn't get naked for her. Well, maybe it was a little bit for her. Maybe it was a lot for her. But in that moment, in the darkness, under the stars, with a gaggle of geese honking like old-timey automobiles stuck in an old-timey traffic jam, I really just wanted to strip down to nothing.

I didn't plan this encounter when I booked the cottage. I didn't choose a relatively remote location so we'd have the opportunity. I had no idea our deck wouldn't be visible from the neighbouring cabins. It wasn't until we got there and saw the space that we both knew, without even hinting to each other, that we'd found the perfect place.

So Sweet got her wish. She got her sex in the great outdoors.

And I got mine.

Twice.

Blessing or Curse?

by Annabeth Leong

Deirdre sat naked at the table with a jar of peanut butter, a cheap plastic ruler, and a hopeful grin.

"Oh for Christ's sake, honey."

"I'm curious…"

"About what? How do you come up with this shit?"

"I made a joke. Then I started wondering…"

I put down my purse and sighed. I had curiosity to thank for our relationship. The night we met, I'd been more than happy to help Deirdre figure out whether she could come from sitting on the seat of a running motorcycle.

On the other hand, my hip still smarted from where I'd banged it in my haste to get out of the bathroom at the automotive store while wearing a makeshift strap-on harness we'd constructed entirely from items we'd found in the aisles.

She batted her eyelashes at me. "Please…"

I kept thinking I ought to put a stop to this foolishness, but damn it, I was curious, too. I hauled her to her feet and gave her a sharp crack across the ass with the ruler. That part didn't need to be figured out.

Dierdre whimpered. Fuck, that sound turned me on.

"Okay," I said. "Fine. Where does the peanut butter go?"

The Novel I Don't Dare Write

By Lisabet Sarai

Why do I bother? Another new BDSM club – they're sprouting like mushrooms these days – but it's always the same. The egos. The poseurs. The clueless wannabees drawn by imagined glamor or the trendiness of black leather with a set of cuffs dangling from your belt. The would-be serial killers gloating over the chance to draw blood. The doormats and the pain sluts, ready for anything that will pierce the bubble of numbness encasing them.

My costume broadcasts what I'm seeking, but it's obvious I won't find it here. As I sit at the bar, sipping plain tonic and wishing it were something stronger, I eye the burly guy flogging a girl on the cross. Sweat beads on his hairy chest, which is crisscrossed by an expensive studded harness. Framed by matching chaps, his bare buttocks flex with each ferocious stroke. His boots glitter with steel chain. He looks like the perfect top, but look again. Drunk on his own power, he's hitting her much too hard. She's way beyond what she can take, but she's too dazed or too embarrassed to safeword. He doesn't know, can't read the signs. Of course, how could you expect him to know? They just met half an hour ago.

They come to play, when the reality is deadly serious. They don't understand that it's not about force but about acceptance. Closed in their private fantasies, they miss the point. Nothing works if you're not open – the dom and the sub both.

Chris knew. Ah, Christopher. My dark poet. My master. The bitter tonic fizzes on my tongue. Will the empty ache under my sternum ever go away?

Chris knew how to coax me open, from the very first time he hung me from the ceiling in his dingy basement apartment. He was born to master me, or so we both liked to pretend, though we both knew that was romantic hogwash. My beloved, cruel, deviant Chris.

I would have done anything for him. I ate his shit once, because he asked me to, to prove my total devotion. It was disgusting – I still gag, recalling the stench, the slimy texture – and yet thrilling at the same time, to realize how completely I belonged to him. A flogging? That's nothing. I wear Chris' brand on the inside of my right thigh.

It took us three years to get to that point, though, three years of building trust and pushing limits. Every morning during those years I woke in a fever, trembling in anticipation of the tests he might set me that day. Never did he disappoint me. Although he was a true sadist – my suffering brought him the most profound pleasure – he still cherished and nurtured me, recognizing and honoring the depths of my surrender.

I suppose he was a bit crazy, extreme in his wild quest for more profound experience, more intense sensation. I loved that insanity, though, that uncertainty, the sense of threat that edged even his most affectionate caress. I wanted to be everything for him – his acolyte, his slave, his muse, his nurse, his whore. Because he was open, I sensed his emptiness. I yearned to fill it.

Someone else would see black humor in the manner of his death. Chris perished with a rope around his neck, splattered with his own cum. Auto-erotic asphyxiation - such a BDSM cliché! How embarrassing, especially considering his expertise in the art of bondage.

Don't go there. Don't think about Chris now, here. But how can I not, when that's what I so desperately need, a master who is willing to take everything from me, and give me everything in return?

His passing ripped a jagged hole in my existence. Nearly a decade later, after the pills, the therapy, the electroshock, after two years in a vanilla marriage where I tried to pretend I was normal, the chasm still yawns. I haven't recovered. I've just gotten more skilled at hiding my wounds.

Meanwhile, I can't deny the twisted need at my core. I've tried all the avenues. Clubs. Chat rooms. Munches. Personal ads. I've been beaten and buggered and pissed on, but really, since Chris, no one has touched me.

“Miss?” The pierced and tattooed bartender places a tumbler full of golden liquid in front of me. “This is for you.”

“What?” The honey-and-smoke scent of premium single malt tickles my nose. “I-I'm not indulging in any alcohol tonight.” I've learned the hard way that when I drink in a kink club, I tend to make bad decisions.

“He insists.”

“He? Who?” I scan the crowded room. Nobody seemed to be paying attention to me.

“The man who ordered the Scotch for you.”

“Who's that?”

“He's not here right now. But he expects to be obeyed.”

The barkeep hands me a folded sheet of cream-colored linen paper then backs away. I run a fingertip over the slightly nubby surface, curious about this unexpected missive despite my jaded attitude. The dim, red-tinged light in the club made it a bit difficult to see, but I think I detect traces of a monogram embossed in the paper. I flip the note open and try to read its contents. The graceful script is regular and fairly easy to decipher; despite its flowing lines, I suspect it's a printer font, not hand written.

I know what you need, Zoë.

A chill crawls up my spine. How can he know my name? I always use a pseudonym when I sign in at a club.

I've been watching you.

Oh great. A stalker. My heart beats faster, with fear, but something else, too. Excitement. Chris would play games like this sometimes.

You need a real master, not one of these counterfeits around you.

Everything about you cries out to be taken. Used. Known. Owned.

Yearning surges through me. Tears prick the corner of my eyes. I dash them away and read on.

Drink the scotch. Savor it. It is my gift to you.

Then, if you want what I have to offer, go home. Remove your clothing and lie down on your bed, completely still. Don't move a muscle until you get my message on your mobile phone. That's very important. If you move at all, you'll disappoint me.

And I will know. I'm watching you, my lovely Zoë. Remember that as you hold yourself immobile, fighting the urge to twitch, to scratch, to reach between your legs and rub that juicy clit that begs for your attention.

Give me your stillness. And in return, I will give you everything you crave.

M.

I shake my head. I can't believe this, I just can't. It's another trick, a lie, someone having a laugh at my expense.

But what if I'm wrong?

The single malt is ambrosial, liquid heat coursing down my throat and lighting up my body. I sip it deliberately, knowing somehow that M would want me to take my time.

Then I visit my locker, grab my things, and leave, my heart slamming against my ribs and my pussy soaked.

****

This is the first chapter of a novel I've been contemplating for some time. I don't have a title. I don't even really have a plot, just a concept, a theme – really, a message.

The message: the essence of dominance and submission is psychological, spiritual, emotional - not physical.

I've toyed with this theme before. In my short story “Just a Spanking”, the psychological effects of a spanking bring a sub to orgasm even though the dom never touches her in any sexual way. In “Stroke”, a partially paralyzed Dom nevertheless manages to dominate his secretly submissive nurse. In “Higher Power”, a magician proves that that the power of mental connection between dominant and submissive can counteract the effects of swords and a guillotine. When the sub momentarily loses faith in her master, though, when she doubts his power, her spine is severed.

Not the most light-hearted tale, I admit, though I suggest that with her renewed dedication and trust, her master may heal her. Needless to say, Cleis didn't want that story!

This novel, though, will go far further. M does indeed turn out to be the master Zoë so desperately craves. Chapter by chapter, he sets her new tests and draws her closer to him. His intuition is unfailing. He metes out both pleasures and punishments, fulfilling Zoë's kinkiest fantasies. The pain of her loss begins to ebb. Her devotion to her mysterious Dom grows.

However, he dominates her by proxy. They do not meet until well past the middle of the book. And then Zoë learns that M is a quadriplegic, paralyzed from the neck down in an auto accident.

Yes, you read that right. I'm contemplating an erotic novel in which the hero is an almost completely disabled cripple.

He's physically attractive, intelligent, wealthy, with the power to control others, but he can't control his own body. He can't whip her or bind her. He can't come on her tits or force his way into her ass. He can't feel her touch on his cock.

Could this possibly work? Could I make this erotic?

Maybe.

Could I every sell it to a publisher?

Highly unlikely. And if I did, I'd undoubtedly be beset by angry hordes who'd castigate me for fetishizing disability (which is not at all my intention) or inaccurately portraying the life and capabilities of a quadriplegic (which might be a relevant criticism). I'm sure I'd also get plenty of criticism for writing a book that was a “downer” in a world and a genre where happy endings are prized.

And yet, when I imagine this novel, I do see the ending as happy. M could very well be the exactly the master to heal and nurture my damaged heroine. Zoë could serve him in concrete as well as symbolic ways, with the satisfaction that she's truly meeting his needs, needs that would make most subs run away screaming.

Still – I'm sure I'd be accused of deep political incorrectness if I ever brought this into the world, possibly even by practitioners of BDSM.

So I'll probably never write this novel. But I'm so, so tempted.

I've been thinking about this book for a long time, without writing a word. Then, I sat down to consider the Grip topic for this cycle and wrote the chapter above in about an hour. Clearly the book is waiting there, growing inside me.

Maybe it's time to let it out.

The Tales My Browser History Could Tell

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