Negotiation or Seduction? #BDSM #negotiation #nostalgia

By Lisabet Sarai

I wish now that I’d kept his letters—the ones in which he detailed his fantasies about spanking me, tying me to his bed, dripping hot wax over my breasts, then asked for my reactions. We hadn’t touched each other at that point, just flirted over a chess board (he almost always won). I’d never thought about the activities he described in his multi-page messages, at least not consciously, though I’d had kidnap fantasies since before puberty.

Somehow he sensed that I was susceptible, before I knew this myself. With old-fashioned, pen-on-paper epistles, then later through lengthy, expensive phone calls, he revealed his kinky nature and explored mine. When we finally met again in person, more than six months after he’d left grad school and moved to the West Coast, we were in essence already lovers, though we’d never even kissed. With his arrogance, eloquence, and calculated crudeness, he’d captured my erotic imagination and won my consent. We both knew we’d have sex, and not vanilla sex, either. (Hard to believe, but I didn’t even know the term “vanilla” at that point!) I was ready to yield, eager, despite the fact that I had no idea what to expect.

But actually, that’s not true—I had learned about his desires as he interrogated me about mine. Face to face, we didn’t need to negotiate anything. I trusted him, somehow, with my body and my spirit. I think he was surprised by how easy it was.

I was too overwhelmed by emotion and sensation to even consider the question.

That was almost exactly forty years ago. I’ve wondered, since then, whether he and I would have come together if he’d stayed on to get his PhD instead of putting 2500 miles between us. Geeky and awkward as he was, would he have had the courage to offer himself as my master? Struggling to deal with my own raging hormones, would I have paid enough attention to him that I would have seen who he really was?

Believe—believe in me, and in your own dreams.

For I will make them real.

I am the one, the Master.

Give me your nakedness, your naked heart.

As you open yourself to me, so I will satisfy your lust.

I don’t have those letters anymore. One day, years ago, I destroyed all the correspondence I’d saved. I decided it was unhealthy to hold onto them. Rereading them over and over them was too guilty a pleasure. I worried that my obsession with our past love might be damaging my marriage. But a few of his words and phrases live on, quoted verbatim in my novels—like the snippet above from RawSilk.

Lisabet Sarai probably would not exist if not for that long-ago, long-distance negotiation. I’d always written stories, but without my memories of that incandescent passion, would I have been so moved to write erotica, especially erotica featuring power exchange? I doubt it.

I really wish I had those letters. Would I still react the same way? Or would his words sound cheesy and silly? I am no longer the innocent I was. We were both so young. Still, even at twenty four, he had the true instincts of a dominant. In those letters, he both guided and tempted me. I fell for his lines. I answered his embarrassing questions. I gave myself wholeheartedly into his hands.

I’ve never for an instant regretted it.

For an earlier post about negotiation, go here:

http://ohgetagrip.blogspot.com/2010/06/delicate-art-of-negotiation.html

For a fantasy about those letters:

http://ohgetagrip.blogspot.com/2016/02/stash.html

Coming Out

by Jean Roberta

(We're delighted to welcome our first guest author at the re-invented Oh Get A Grip, the erudite and eloquent Jean Roberta. See the end of her post for her links.)

Doing anything for the first time tends to inspire nostalgia later on (oh, how innocent I was/we were then), but at the time, it’s usually embarrassing.

I “came out” as a lesbian in the winter of 1982 by going to the local gay bar (in a town of under 200,000 on the Canadian prairie) after thinking about this for years. I went alone. I had ascertained the existence and location of this dark and smoky place by calling a telephone number I had discovered, trying to lower my voice to a mutter so I would sound like a Real Dyke, newly arrived from a more worldly city.

At the bar, I was delighted to meet friendly strangers, both men and women. At one point, I was sitting at a table where everyone was telling their “coming out” stories. “Gay” life at that time and place was parallel to the life of a debutante in a narrow circle of “good families” circa 1870 or so – everyone in the lady’s community could guess her age, social status and availability from when, where and how she had “come out” into “society.”

That night in 1982, I would rather have died than admit that I was “coming out” at that moment. I had no juicy stories of sweet or tragic love affairs with other women to tell, no stories of conservative parents throwing me out of the family home. I could imagine myself in a debutante’s white gown, exposed as a blank slate to the knowing eyes around me. I pretended to be too buttoned-up to discuss my private past. The woman sitting next to me asked: “Are you straight?”

There it was, the question I dreaded. I hadn’t been able to answer it conclusively for myself.

I gulped and said, “No.” That answer seemed good enough to gain me entrée into the bar crowd. Within weeks, I had enough lesbian experience to realize that you can only enter a small, gossipy community once – after that, you have a role in it, for better or worse.

There are many ways to “come out,” and most people do this several times during their lives. Each time you start a new job, you are taking on a new role in a new milieu.

“Coming out” as a writer is parallel to other debuts. I was thrilled at age ten when a teacher showed me my poem in the teachers’ magazine to which she had submitted it. I was published! But the world didn’t care for long, and I was never asked to join a secret club. Since then, I’ve learned that the secret writers’ club (publication guaranteed) is largely a myth.

It’s true enough that writers, editors and publishers of a certain genre tend to know each other, and it’s true enough that being known in the biz can be helpful. But being known and being accepted without reservation are two different things.

After a year of submitting my erotic stories to editors who didn’t reply, I began getting thrilling messages telling me that my work was accepted and would be published somewhere. I still can’t predict reliably whether a certain story submission will appeal to a certain editor. I’ve been amazed to get glowing praise for writing of mine that I no longer like very much, and (rarely) to get wildly contemptuous rants from editors about stories of mine that I still secretly love. As they say, there is no explaining taste.

Stories posted to writers loops such as the Erotic Readers and Writers Association by writers who confess to being unpublished amateurs are sometimes so polished that I doubt whether the authors will stay unpublished for long, except possibly by choice. I’m tempted to point out that if you don’t want others to know that you have no publication history, you don’t have to tell them; readers (and ethical editors) will judge you by what they read.

Writers who want to satisfy themselves as well as others are always trying to grow and change, and this means always beginning again, always “coming out.” I no longer think that a blank page or screen is less intimidating to a much-publisher author than to a novice. Every new work-in-progress is another first-chance to make an impression, for better or worse.

---

Obsession - Erotic short stories by Jean Roberta

Jean's links:

• Primary website: www.JeanRoberta.com


• Regular column - "Sex is All Metaphor": Erotica Readers and Writers Association


• Staff reviewer:
  
  
  
  • Erotica Revealed
  
  
  • The Dominant's View
  
  
  • Rainbow Reviews
  
  
  
  

Initiate THIS, Suckers!

By Helen E. H. Madden

Oy. This is me.

For those of you who don't know me, I'm Helen, the new resident pain-in-the-ass here at OGG. Did we have a resident pain-in-the-ass before? No? Well we've got one now.

What qualifies me for the title of PITA, you may ask. How about attitude? I've got plenty of that, as you can see.

When I was first invited to join up with this blog, I was delighted, ecstatic even, to share my aforementioned attitude with such a discerning audience. After all, what a wonderful opportunity this would be to reach out and touch people with my words (and I mean touching in a good way). Then Lisabet announced the topic for the first week was going to be 'initiation,' and all of a sudden, I wanted to curl up in a corner and die.

You see, the word 'initiation' takes me back, waaaaaaaay back. Don't ask how far back - I have a milestone birthday coming up in two weeks that I do NOT wish to discuss. Let's just say all the way back to my days as a cadet in the Corps of Cadets at Virginia Tech. Yes, that's right. Pick your jaw up off the floor. Your's truly, the Pain-In-The-Ass Extraordinaire, the Priestess of Perverse, the She-Devil of Erotica, was once a uniform wearing Dork with a capital D. Do you like a woman in uniform? I sure as hell didn't, especially not when that woman was me.

The Corps of Cadets at Virginia Tech is like a mini-military academy stuck in the middle of a civilian university. Cadets wear the uniform every day, live in cadet dorms, march together, run together, eat together, puke together, suffer through millions of push ups together, etc., etc., etc. How did I end up in an outfit like that? My father, in all his infinite wisdom, decided that I really, really needed to sign up for ROTC in college because it would be good for me. When he found out there was a Corps of Cadets at the university of my choice, he jumped for joy. Yes, his little girl was going to grow up and become an officer! Yes, she would learn discipline and duty and the value of hard work! Since Daddy was footing the bill for my education, I had very little choice about whether or not I was joining. So one bright August morning, my folks packed me and all my gear into their van, drove across the state, and dumped my sorry ass at the doorstep of Rasche Hall, into the welcoming arms of Hotel Company, Second Battalion of the VTCC.

What followed that day was four years of absolute hell. I was never cut out to be in the military, let alone a miniature version in the shape of a cadet corps. I had, among other things, a lack of discipline, no desire to follow orders, too much attitude (see my opening paragraph), and abysmal upper body strength (to this day, push ups make me break out in hives). I yakked three days worth of food every time I had to run a mile and couldn't tell a sergeant from a captain to save my life. Being a cadet meant I had to keep my room clean, I had to iron my uniform, I had to march in step with fifty other people and turn when they turned. I had to salute and say "Sir!" or "Ma'am!" every single time I ran into someone who outranked me. I had to ask permission to eat, to speak, to even breath! Absolute fucking hell, I tell you.

And yet, some of the best stories of my life come from this period of time. Like the one I'm about to share with you now.

One evening, six weeks after being abandoned by my folks, I was summoned from my door room by a screaming cadet corporal and chased down the hall to my unit waiting area, where I was lined up with all the other freshman cadets, better known as 'rats.' Our company First Sergeant - the biggest, baddest son-of-a-bitch you'd ever want to see - stalked in and cut us down with an ugly glare.

"You rats make me sick! You're all weak! You can't even tie your damn shoes! You think you can be a part of my Corps of Cadets? Do you?" He stomped up and down the hallway, sneering at us. "Well we're about to find out!" he roared. "Tonight is Company Initiation, and I'm sending you out on a special mission. The only ones getting into my Corps of Cadets are the ones who succeed in this mission, and you're either all going to succeed or you're all gonna wish you'd died trying!"

The mission turned out to be a scavenger hunt that sent us all over the campus, looking for clues as to the where-abouts of our company guidon (that's the little flag thingie each company carries in parades to identify who they are). Some genius upper classman had hidden it on the vast grounds of Virginia Tech, and we rats had three hours to find it. Armed only with our knowledge of campus trivia and a tourist map, we started running. We all had to run together, and we all had to arrive at each check point in the scavenger hunt together or so help us GOD, our cadet First Sergeant would drop us for push ups until our arms fell off (I believe I lost my arms somewhere around check point three, which was the Duck Pond; if you go to the campus today, and you find them, please send them back to me, okay? Okay). We ran, and we ran, and we ran. It got dark. The upper classmen made us put on reflective vests and carry flashlights so we wouldn't trip and kill, and we still kept running. We ran all over the campus. We ran under the campus, into the steam tunnels below ground, where it's so damned close and dark, you can't see the guy ahead of you freaking out from claustrophobia, but you can hear him even as you pray to every god you know that you don't freak out too. We ran until we puked. And we did push ups, lots of push ups, even those of us who had already lost our arms to previous sets of push ups. We climbed walls and crawled on our bellies across the drill field and carried each other in relay races until our legs gave out. We amused the hell out of the civilian populace on the campus who just stood there, pointing and laughing while we ran some more. And then...

Then we arrived at the campus golf course.

Our cadet First Sergeant met us at the sand trap by the sixth hole. "You sorry bunch of maggots! You think you're tired? Well you're not done yet! Get down on your bellies and low crawl across my sand trap! That's right, CRAWL! Dig a trench with your chin. Move it! MOVE IT!"

We crawled one way across our bellies and another way on our backs. I got sand up my nose, in my mouth and down my underwear. I could feel it trapped between my ass cheeks and stuck inside my bra. It rubbed skin off of areas that were far to sensitive for that sort of thing, and to this day I still bear the scars. Back and forth, back and forth, we crawled through the sand until it must have looked like Normandy Beach on D-Day. And then...

"All you rats, break up into groups of three or four!" the cadet First Sergeant yelled. "Stand with your backs to each other! Squat down in the sand and start digging! I want to see a mountain of dirt in front of every one of you puke-faced little cry-babies!"

So we squatted and we dug. Our hands clawed at the sand until we each had a pile that came up to our chins. And then the cadet First Sergeant stepped out of the sand trap and said...

"Now I want each of you rats to grab a double-handful of sand and toss it up and over to the person behind you, and scream, 'I'm a dust bunny! I'm a dust bunny!'"

No shit, that is exactly what he ordered us to do. And we did it. Twenty freshmen cadets grabbed handfuls of sand and started throwing it to the person behind them, declaring themselves dust bunnies at the tops of their lungs. I could not get the sand out of the crack of my ass for weeks.

Once we had decimated the sand trap, the cadet First Sergeant generously shared with us the location of the company guidon and gave us fifteen minutes to retrieve it and get back to the company waiting area in the dorm. We made it in twenty, I think, which wasn't bad for a ten-mile run (at least it seemed like ten miles). We lined up in the waiting area, stood at attention, and presented the guidon to the cadet First Sergeant who dropped us for even more push ups for being late and then congratulated us on accomplishing our mission. Yes, we had indeed survived our company initiation and were now part of his Corps of Cadets. Huzzah!

So aside from the fact that the word 'initiation' gives me violent flashbacks to my days as a cadet, why am I sharing this little tale with you now? Let's say it makes an excellent metaphor for the writing life. Like Garce mentioned earlier this week, initiation means a lot of things, including commitment, apprenticeship, and the ability to transform into something new, hopefully something better. As beginning writers, we start out lazy and undisciplined, ignorant of the work ahead of us. We find our cadet First Sergeants, those bad-asses who will critique our stories until it hurts and whip our writing into shape or else force us out of the field. We face insurmountable obstacles in getting published and finding respect for our work. We are punished when we mess up a story, and tolerated when we succeed. And on most days, when we're wrestling with a tale, trying to get it down on paper, we look like we're walking around with a ton of sand stuck between our... well, you know.

So this is me. This is where I come from. That night on campus was a first step in developing the discipline I now have to exercise every day to earn the title of 'Writer.' Without that discipline, I'd just be another pain in the ass with attitude, and really, who needs that?

Thanks for reading today. Don't forget to comment. You might win a $30 gift certificate to Amazon.com if you do. And if you read this and don't comment? Then you better drop and give me twenty push ups, pal!

See ya next week.

Dominant meets Submissive

by Kim Dare.

I’d like to start by introducing you to two men.

First there is Luke. Blond hair and blue eyes. He’s twenty one and gorgeous - and he knows it.

Then there is Dexter. Tall, dark and intensely dominant. He’s an established master on the local BDSM scene.

Luke happens to think he’ll make a damn good submissive and that Dexter is just the man to be his new master.

Dexter, on the other hand, knows full well that Luke is nothing more than a spoilt little brat who’s been annoying the hell out of him for the last three weeks - nagging for them to do a scene together in a very unsubmissive way.

Still, Luke is very cute, and Dexter can’t help wonder if there just might be the makings of a reasonable submissive lurking deep down inside the younger man.

An initiation is about to take place.

Luke is about to find out what it means to submit to Dexter. He’s going to find out what it’s like to surrender all control of himself and his immediate future to a man he barely knows. He’s going to agree to obey the other man’s rules and accept his punishments. He’s going to be strung up from the cuffs bolted to the ceiling. He’s going to kneel at Dexter's feet, call him sir and take his first steps into the unknown.

But don’t forget about Dexter – he’s not just an idle spectator in all this. He’s going through his own little initiation too. It might not be the first scene he’s done and Luke might be far from his first lover, but he’s about to find out what it means to dominant over this man rather than over anyone else.

You see, Dexter is a good dominant and every good dominant knows that there’s no such thing as a one size fits all scene. So, he’s learning about where Luke’s particular limits are. He’s discovering the other man’s strengths and weaknesses and how to manipulate both of those things to their mutual enjoyment. He’s finding out what makes Luke squirm and what makes him gasp with pleasure and beg to come.

Initiations are often about proving yourself, and this one is no different. Luke needs to prove that he can submit - and that he can enjoy doing that. He has to prove to Dexter that he's fully capable of setting aside when he wants and thinking only of his master's pleasure - even if it proves to be frustrating or uncomfortable at times. Earlier on this week, some pointed out that initiations are often painful. Luke may well need to prove that he can accept that too. Lucky for him he’s a masochist as well as a submissive - he's going to enjoy that bit of the process ;)

Likewise, Dexter has a lot to prove. He has to demonstrate that he knows what he's doing, that he knows how the difference between a dominant and a complete pillock who's just using another person because they can. He has to show that he knows when it's important to set aside what he wants for what Luke needs.

The line between the initiate and the initiator isn't always as clear as it seems.

But, between them both, they are using this initial initiation scene as a way of working out how to turn the large scale tribal rules and ideas of BDSM into something that’s specific to and perfect for them.

And, because they happen to live in one of my books, they are also taking their first steps towards living happily ever after together.

I suppose that brings me to the third person who I should be introducing you to today.

Me.

I’m pretty much just the person who’s head these characters live inside.

Luke and Dexter turned up entirely uninvited and unexpected when I first heard the topic for this week’s blog post. Depending on how long they decide they want to stick around inside my imagination, my might yet make it into one of my full length stories.

So, what can Luke and Dexter expect if that happens? What do I write?

First and foremost, I write BDSM. The full spectrum from a little bit of tie up and tease, featuring characters who wonder if it might be fun to introduce a pair of handcuffs into their bedroom, and all the way through to other character who live the complete lifestyle 24/7.

I write Male/male and Male/female pairings, with a few threesomes thrown in here and there when the mood strikes. Most of the stories have a straight forward contemporary set up, with a bit of paranormal thrown in when the vampires and the werewolves turn up and want to join in the fun. And the stories are all erotic romances with a happy ending. Never have liked to read anything with an unhappy ending, so I'm not going to start writing them.

There's not a lot else to say really.

I'm 25 years old, from Wales, UK, and a relatively new author publishing with Total-e-bound.

My first novella was accepted last summer. The first one to be released - The Gift - came out last Christmas. I've got another 10 scheduled to come out this year. Starting with Secret Service next Monday.

I have a website and a blog and a something like a real-world life, but, yeah, I'm pretty much just the person whose head various kinky characters live inside.

Remember there's a $30 amazon gift voucher up for grabs if you leave a comment :)

Great to meet you all.

Kim Dare.
Kink, love and a happy ending. Do you Dare?

And so it begins...

by Lisabet Sarai

Initiation by Eric Maslowski

Initiation. The word evokes images of secret rituals, trials designed to test the mettle of novices who seek knowledge or power or membership in some elite association. Rites of passage. Transitions from innocence to experience. Of course “initiation” also simply means “beginning”, but its deeper meaning has more emotional resonance, especially for a writer.

We’ve all lived through initiations. The first nasty rejection. The first scathing review. The first public reading of our work. The first tattoo or piercing. For some of us, the first time we were bound or sodomized, or the first time we made love to someone of our own gender.

Initiations are challenging and often uncomfortable. Looking back, we might forget the discomfort, but the reality is that it’s never easy. However, these experiences usually make us wiser or stronger -- more skilled, more sensitive or more loving. That’s the whole point.

So, what does this have to do with “Oh Get A Grip”? For the last two years, I’ve been resisting the universal recommendation that every author should blog regularly. I wasn’t willing to make the commitment. I don’t have anything to say, I rationalized – though whenever I was invited to guest blog, I always managed to fill the page. I don’t have the time, I complained to anyone who would listen. (Not too many people did, of course. They were too busy blogging!) I knew in my heart that I should bite the bullet and join the blogosphere, but I was reluctant. I resisted making the next transition in my developing career as an author.

Then, out of the blue, one of the former members of “Oh Get A Grip” contacted me, asking if I’d like to take over her slot, as she was planning to move on. I figured this was a sign. I swallowed hard and agreed. The next thing I knew, the whole original Grip crew wanted to retire. I thought long and hard. Did I want to find another group and take over responsibility for the whole shebang? I loved the topic-based organization and the lively discussions – could my group and I do as well, keep the energy flowing?

I – we – have decided to try. This week you’ll meet a whole new collection of authors, most of them friends and colleagues whom I’ve known (on the ‘Net, at least) for years. We all write erotic romance, erotica, or some combination. We’re all rather opinionated. (That’s meant to be a compliment, guys...!) I’m hoping that, in collaboration with our readers, we can create an enlightening, exciting and entertaining space here in the cyberworld.

We can’t do this without you. We want you to participate! Don’t just read, comment! In fact, to get you into the habit, all this week we’re running a “Grand Re-Opening” contest. Every time you leave a comment, you’re entered to win. The prize is a $30 Amazon gift certificate – bound to be useful in today’s lean times. I’ll announce the winner next Sunday right here. Stay tuned!

I’m about to hit the “Post” button, sending this inaugural message into public view. I am definitely nervous. Once you cross the threshold, there’s no going back. Once you’ve survived the trial by fire, you can only look ahead to the next challenge.

I’m looking forward to new tests and new opportunities to grow.

Welcome to the next generation of the Grip!

Image used with permission. Visit Eric's website for more compelling digital art.