Innocent Curiosity

by Daddy X

Finally alone, I situated myself on the sofa. Lying on my back, I pressed my knees against my chest and slipped Sylvia’s dildo into my ass. It’s not like I’m gay. Just wondered how deep it would go. Simple, innocent curiosity. How it feels when it buzzes.

Suddenly, the door opened to a mortified Sylvia, mouth agape. She screamed and ran from the house.

I followed, not realizing I hadn’t pulled my pants on. I leaped from the porch only to confront a uniformed policeman on the sidewalk. Chased up the street, I ducked into an alley. Dead end.

The cop cornered me, threw me on my stomach and unzipped his trousers, releasing a formidable cock.

I struggled, protecting my rear end with one hand.

His knees wedged between mine while a forceful grip wrenched my other wrist behind. I shook violently. Somebody was shoving at my shoulder. “Dan! Wake up! What’s wrong?”

I opened my eyes. “Oh Sylvia!” The stark relief of leaving the nightmare washed away the panic. Thank God.

“Are you okay?” she asked, looking down on the sofa. “And what’s my vibrator doing out here?”

The Guilty Pleasures of Suz deMello

When I looked at this topic, I realized that many of the themes we've been writing about here on the OGG blog are quite similar. I blogged about "weaknesses" on 6/30/12, and here's what I talked about:

Men.

Food.

Smokables.

Regency romance.

8/25/15 saw me blogging about "naughtiness". Again, pretty much the same thing and I came up with....food. Specifically, pot brownies, red wine, nuts and Manchego cheese. 

And Regency romance.

9/22/15: the topic was personal demons, and I named (again) men, red wine, and brownies.

So have my guilty pleasures changed in the last six months?

Not really, except that I have a lovely boyfriend who gives me a tremendous amount of pleasure without a shred of guilt.

My weight is what it should be, so if I want red wine, Manchego cheese and brownies, I can indulge--again, without guilt. At least not much.

Smokables? I have a prescription. Not breaking the law, so no guilt. (Not that I have felt guilty about that since I was seventeen).

Regency romance? The one Regency novel I wrote has consistently sold very well, so I want to write another. I am, therefore, reading in my genre. So no guilt.

I'd say right now I feel most guilty about being a  lapsed vegetarian. I think the farm system is vicious and cruel, and I really shouldn't eat farmed meat. But I do, and I don't feel especially good about it.

Out of guilt, I buy most of the meat I eat from Whole Foods, where they swear that the animal flesh they sell has been sustainably raised and ethically killed.

But you know what? Dead's dead.

The meal my fabulous BF made for me on V-Day.
It was delicious.

And my BF assured me that it was a happy New Zealand lamb
 that was sustainably raised and painlessly killed.

Still feeling guilty.

Guiltless Pleasure, Pleasureless Guilt

Sacchi Green

It’s a sad thing to realize how boring one’s life has become. I’m no stranger to guilt, but pleasure has seldom been in that mix. I suppose failing to do something because it’s just too hard seems, at the time, to be less unpleasant than actually doing it, but that doesn’t make it pleasant.

There is something, though, that I do often enjoy, even though it makes me feel guilty (which tends to lessen the pleasure.) It’s an addiction, in fact. A case could be made for most addictions being guilty pleasures.

My failing is procrastination by way of the internet. If there are any possible directions to ramble online where there might be something new of interest, I’m driven to exhaust all such possibilities before I get down to writing, or serious reading. A looming deadline can get me to shape up and do real work, but it has to be looming pretty ominously, and the figurative pile of books I should have read and would have enjoyed looms high enough to block out the sun.

Fortunately I do manage to get myself out under the actual sun fairly often, and I’ve been wise enough—or miserly enough—not to invest in the sort of device that would let me noodle around online even while I’m hiking along a woodland trail. If I had such a thing, I’d probably have broken my neck by now tripping over tree roots or stone outcroppings (or moose or bears.) Getting outside and walking even saves my writerly bacon from time to time by letting solutions to plot problems float up out of my subconscious and call attention to themselves, something that doesn’t happen while I’m following seductive links on Facebook. No, not that kind of link! More like odd historical bits and scientific discoveries and information about people and places that interest me. Sometimes, it’s true, I do come across information that I can make use of, or that sets off a productive train of thought; such serendipity is more than I deserve when I’m just web-surfing as a means of procrastination rather than dedicated research.

The guilt is a sort of background music in my consciousness most of the time when I’m procrastinating like this, especially if I’m not getting any actual pleasure out of the process. All too often I just forge ahead taking any route to keep from doing what I should.

Like I said, boring. Guilt that comes with sex at least is likely to be paired with pleasure. It’s true that I don’t associate sex with guilt much, but even that indicates how boring I am. Still, there’s one kind of sex, masturbation, that most of us would rather no one knew we were enjoying, or at least (with some exceptions) would rather do in private. That’s not guilt, exactly, but it’s the closest I can come, and even then I’m not going to come any closer that resorting to an excerpt from a story where pleasure mingles with rage, and guilt. Yes, this is cop-out. I feel guilty about it. But the main pleasure involved is that I’m finding a way to fill out my post this week, on time, with hardly any procrastination.

This is from a heterosexual historical romance story I wrote for Delilah Devlin’s Hot Highlanders and Wild Warriors. I only did it because I’ll take almost any chance to write historicals, and the Mongol Invasion of Europe interests me. Plus, falcons! (Uh oh, have I quoted this bit before? If so, yeah, I feel guilt, and without the lube of pleasure.)
__________

From "A Falcon in Flight"

By Connie Wilkins (my alter ego)

When word of defeat came from Georgia’s capital, Father Kristopor searched out Ardzvik on the mountainside where she hunted with her falcon Zepyur. She knew, seeing him from far above, what his mission must be, and cursed fate for robbing her of the longed-for solace she reserved for such fine, cloudless days when the blue sky went on above forever and her hawk soared high and free with no likely prey in sight. At least the priest had not discovered her in the midst of what he would surely consider sin.

“Now is the time,” he called, and then, when he was closer, “Send at once to the Mongol General. Say that the Province of Aragatsotn in Armenia has long been a vassal of Georgia, so it is only right that its people offer fealty to the new rulers. I will bear the document myself. The Mongols are quick enough to sack churches, but I have heard that they retain some degree of respect for holy men of any faith.”

“Surrender without a battle.” The words, bitter on Ardzvik’s tongue, burned even more in her heart.

“Without blood. Surely they would rather have the wine of our vineyards and grain of our fields than the lifeblood of those who tend them. Dead men cannot be taxed.”
So it was done. Ardzvik Zakaria, lady of Aragatsotn, signed above the seal presented to her father’s father in Tbilisi by the legendary queen Tamar of Georgia.

As soon as the priest rode his mule northward, Ardzvik retrieved her falcon from the mews and rode again high onto the mountain. Zepyur was still as swift and graceful, the sky as blue, but now the lady of Aragatsotn could not shed her duty, her constraints, and be pure flesh and spirit.

Lying back on tufted mountain grass, she envisioned, as she had so often, the airborne mating dance of the wild falcon pair that had produced her own sleek hunter, but she could not rid her mind of earthbound turmoil.

Her hands knew all the ways to pleasure herself, the places to twist or stroke or beat with rough force while a part of her soared aloft with the hawks, the earth dropping away, away, until they plummeted together as one through space. Falling, falling, diving faster than anything could fall, cold air ripping past, battering, the ecstasy forced deeper and deeper, keener, unbearable...and her own ecstasy bursting forth at last like the cataclysm that had torn open the mountain’s peak.

But this time, no matter how hard she rubbed or deeply she probed, she achieved only a sharp burst of sensation, as much pain as pleasure. The scream forced from her throat was of rage, not triumph, and tears flowed hotter on her cheeks than the rivulets of sweet release between her thighs. Surrender without battle. Dishonor. But duty nonetheless.
__________

Hmm. Maybe I did get some pleasure after all from revisiting this story. And there’s no need to feel sorry for Ardsvik: this is what (or who) the Mongol General turns out to look like:

Guilty Pleasures Of Mine

Broad regal noses and dark curls on “kittens”

Warm copper skin tones will leave me quite smitten

Brown shapely backsides, stretch marks broad and fine

These are a few guilty pleasures of mine

Coffee-skinned honeys with full lips inviting

Nipples and ripples and wide hips for biting

Wild hair that flies as upon her I dine

These are a few guilty pleasures of mine

Midnight goddesses with blue-black eyelashes

Sweat-sheen that sprays as beneath me she thrashes

Pink of my tongue as it traces her spine

These are a few guilty pleasures of mine

On the cold nights

When I’m beating

On a solo drum 

I simply imagine my guilty pleasures

And I don’t take long… to cum

Over the Taboo Rainbow

by Giselle Renarde

When daddy smut started taking over the erotica bestsellers lists, it literally turned my stomach. Every time I saw a book cover that said FUCK ME, DADDY! I felt physically ill.

When was that?  Maybe 2013? Or was 2013 the year Amazon et al started banning it because of its sudden hyper-visibility?

I don't know. But I think 2013 was the year I wrote my Adam and Sheree trilogy: 100,000 words about a brother and sister fucking each other and a bunch of other people. Sheree really gets around. In the the third book she sleeps with her aunt, her uncle and her cousin. There's a whole lot of family sex going on.

Why was I grossed out by the daddy/daughter thing but not by the brother/sister (uncle/aunt/cousin) thing?

That's a question I can't answer. Sorry.  I just don't know.

I remember the day Adam and Sheree came to me.  I'd just taken a shower and I recall being very hot... too hot. My body just started shutting down.  I'm not a "nap" person, but it was daytime and I felt oddly exhausted. I folded myself into a ball on my bed and Adam and Sheree's Family Vacation (now also available from Amazon as Stepbrother Summer) played out for me like a movie.

It was the strangest thing. It's never happened to me before or since.  I don't think I was asleep and I didn't feel like I was dreaming. It was a movie in my mind.

As soon as it was over, I went to my computer and started typing. The words poured out of me. My fingers did all the work. My brain didn't play a part in writing any of these books.

I don't know where Adam and Sheree came from.

But it took a while before I could cross from their taboo into Lexi Wood's brand of stepdaddy/stepdaughter smut.

Is that as "bad" as brother/sister sex? Or is it worse because there's a power imbalance between a father and daughter (whether biological or not) that doesn't exist between siblings? 

Or is it HOTTER because of that power imbalance?

These are major taboos. These are ideas that turned my stomach a few years ago.

How does a writer go from turned stomach to turned on?

Is it all about the cash?

Taboo smut is harder to publish these days than it was a few years ago.  Apple won't touch it. All Romance won't. Google Play won't.  Forget Kobo, too.  Amazon will allow you to publish stepdaddy smut as long as you don't include the word "stepdaddy" in the title or the blurb or on the cover or... anywhere, really.

Straight-up incest erotica can only be published at Smashwords, Barnes and Noble, and Excitica. How can it possibly be that lucrative if you can barely get it to market?

Well, I guess it's not.

So, when my sock puppet nemesis Lexi Wood challenged me to an incest erotica duel a few weeks ago, why did I accept?  I'm the least competitive person in the world, so it's not like I cared about defending a title or anything.

I accepted because I wanted to do it.

Last year someone staged an opera about Anais Nin's affair with her father. It sounded titillating, but I didn't see it. Wish I had. Still, it planted ideas in my head. It planted the idea of a father and daughter meeting as adults and falling hard for each other.  I felt I could do something with that.

Round One of the Lexi vs. Giselle Smut Smackdown has begun. My very refined (HA!) meeting-as-adult story against Lexi's dirty-talking phone sex smut. We're encouraging readers to vote for their favourite.

Here's the warning I'll issue about writing dirty daddy sex: once you've crossed that line it's damn hard to cross back. You start seeing the world in this new taboo rainbow, and the things you used to write seem so grey and dull.

I heard John Waters talking about The Wizard of Oz one time. He said he always wondered why Dorothy wanted to go back to the black-and-white world after experiencing life over the rainbow.

Why would anyone go back?

Writing taboo erotica is a lot like that.

You can find out more about the Smut Smackdown at my blog: http://donutsdesires.blogspot.ca/2016/02/smut-smackdown-talk-dirty-to-me-daddy.html

And if you haven't read Adam and Sheree, the entire Stepbrother version is available for preorder at http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01C8XFNBW?tag=dondes-20 for only $2.99 USD. That's incredible value for all three books, and trust me--that price won't last. Comes out March 11th!

"Twins" A Guilty Fantasy

(With fan affection and apologies to "American Horror Story")

‘Dear Garce”

        “You will always be dear to us both.  We will always love you

        and hold you in our shared heart beating as one.    We will love you

        until one of us draws our last breath. Soon I hope.

        Now  go fuck yourself.”

Oh well.

I met “the twins” as the Carny folk called them in Jupiter Florida, 1960.  This may have been the last working freak show in the nation as a more evolving sense of humanity which would later become a much needed sense of decency, was making freak shows morally unbearable for most folks.  I had a job taking care of the rides on weekends along with my day job because I wanted to be around the carny folks.  They’re a tight family.  I was fixing a spotlight cable in the show tent when the twins came up behind me. 

“Ya’all need any help?”

“No, ma’am,” I said to the voice behind me, without looking up.

“You new here?” said another voice in exactly the same place, which seemed strange.  I turned to say something and froze in confusion.

Two beautiful women, in a pair of tight faded blue jeans, faded loafers, a custom made blouse which became wider at the top, with two arms, two legs, two heads and two pairs of the bluest eyes looking at me with wonder.

Jupiter Florida was a place where the freak show folks came to retire after their carny careers were over, or they were just tired of the road.  It was a village where biological exiles  understood each other and refused to be shocked by anything.  It was maybe the one place where they could feel homey and just plain folks.  The twins had been planning to retire there and fade into the landscape as spinsters.  As show women, they had tried to play it straight at first, singing and reciting Shakespeare, demanding to be seen as the complex and intelligent women they were.  But it became clear the audience was almost all men and they weren’t paying to hear sonnets in two part harmony.  Finally they surrendered from being a star in the usual ten-in-one on the midway bally and became the weirdest damn cooch show that ever was.   They put the exotic into “exotic” dancing.

I saw their show for the first time that evening, partly to make sure the lights were working right.  They started with a song and dance with layers of scarves, then one by one the scarves came off.  Then the vest.  Then this break away blouse thing.

Goddamn.

Three beats a deuce every time, brother.   What their mama give them besides two heads was three titties,  different sizes, lined across their chest with little red tassel pasties over the nipples which they twirled like a pro.  Oh this beat Shakespeare all hollow.

The men bayed like wolves and then they went for it.  The whole business went from a fucking Fireball to a Mud Show, two seconds flat. 

Guys climbing on stage, that caught us all by surprise.  Freaks, flatties from the games, gazoonies and rousties like me, we tried to get in there but it was just a fucking Gorilla Show.

The twins didn’t know what.  Their eyes were rolling like they wanted to get the fuck out and couldn’t choose.  I grabbed a mop, it was all there was, and rushed the mob.  A man grabbed the twins and I planted the end of the mop handle in his ass, right up main street,  and he went down.  A big man jumped over him and grabbed the girls tits.

I tackled him and hauled him down while the twins stood over me and watched.  I got in a couple but he threw me off and got his knee on my arm.  I saw something coming at my face like a country ham, and thought I heard the Star Spangled Banner go off.

I woke up in their bed with a wet towel on my head.  My left arm hurt and my knuckles were tingling.  They were sitting beside the big wide bed in a chair.  Dot looking at me with some suspicion and Bette with something way, way else.

“Took a real knock there, sport,” said Dot. 

“We’re both virgins,” said Bette.

You don’t choose the goddess.  The goddess chooses you.

I took them out to dinner, a restaurant downtown, Vine and Craft.  Candles.  White table clothes.  Pulling out the big guns on the first date.   The waiter discreetly seated us in the shadows away from everyone, with the twins chair backed against the wall so they'd face out.  From some distance it looked like any three people sitting at a table as long as you didn’t look too close.  I kept telling myself it wasn’t wrong to want to take a woman with two heads to bed.  To be fascinated with a two headed woman was no different than being fascinated with the body of a woman with two large breasts.  Two breasted, two headed, all the same.   It was just physical.  Dot had ribeye, rare, Bette had the fish.  We talked about Shakespeare mostly, cause I know my Shakespeare.  After a few minutes, it became as natural as sitting at a table across from two women can be.  Mostly they talked, I listened.  Bette was clearly the romantic, she kept squeezing my knee under the table cloth.  Dot was suspicious of men.  Suspicious of me.  But giving me a chance for Bette’s sake maybe.  Their eyes occasionally glanced across and it made me wonder, can they read each others thoughts?  Are they deciding about me in some silent language?

A small orchestra began.  People moved to the floor and began to dance.  I tapped my lips with a napkin and stood.  I held out my hand to Bette.  She took it right away.

I think that act of audacity, of refusing shame, won Dot over.  We danced.  They danced pretty good, with me leading, my hand on the small of their back, feeling the odd fork where the two spines came together.  I looked in Bette’s eyes mostly.  She was clearly the one who wanted to be with me.  Dot was mostly along cause she had to.  That’s what life was like for these two.  Share and share alike.  Including their men.

How did they do it?  I wanted to ask them.  Who controls the legs when you dance?  Do you take sides and coordinate?  Does only one of you actually know how to dance, and the other just rides along?  If I get Bette into bed, where we were now clearly headed, would Dot just grit her teeth and think of England?

Back at the table we refreshed our glasses.  Bette drank lots of wine and Dot just sweet tea.  But Bette was drinking for both of them as I saw Dot’s eyes blink and glaze.  They shared the same blood.  Of course.  And Bette held their liquor better.

Back at their trailer after a taxi and a nice walk down the darkened midway, shut down for the night.  A few carnies sitting outside in the night smoking, not talking, just watching us go by.  Inside the little bedroom, Dot drowsed and drooped against Bette’s cheek.  Bette put her arms around me and kissed me hard, pressing my lips against my teeth.  She opened her mouth and I put my tongue there and we fished a long while.  I felt her arm reach around and I thought maybe the Dot half was pushing me away, but no, Dot was out.  Bette, wide awake for both of them took my hand and lead it to her breast.  I kissed her again while she moved my hand around.

“Garce,” she whispered.  “I’m ready.”

“Once I pop your little old cherry, you won’t get it back.”

“But I’m ready and I want it to be with you.”

She lead me over to the bed.  She turned their back to me and I unfastened her dress and lifted it away.  Then their custom bra with its three cups, reached around and caressed her bare belly gently.  Then higher, exploring that soft mountain range of woman flesh, touching all three nipples such as no man had ever felt.

Bette stepped away, pulled down her panties and kicked them away.  She lay across the bed, looking up at me over her breasts with those wet eyes.  Ready to give it all away for love.

Seeing them naked across the bed, one asleep, one wide awake  and licking her lips, three breasts of different sizes (Bette’s breast, predictably, the largest) and from the waist a normal and robust pair of thighs, held apart.

I undressed faster than Superman and dropped my clothes to the floor.  She looked at my stiff prick standing up like she’d never seen one before.  Maybe she hadn’t.  But she wasn’t afraid neither.

Gently I mounted her and slipped in the tip and held it there just so; gently I gave her maidenhead a little tap which made Bette gasp and squinch. 

“Hold on,” I said.  “It only hurts the first time.”

I drove it home, straight and solid as a flag pole.  Bette’s eyes shut tight against the sting, her mouth a perfect round O.

Then Dot screamed.

Oh, she was awake now.  Mad as a meat axe.

“Rape!”

“What?  No!”  I struggled to pull my dick out but Bette wasn’t having it.  She wrapped their legs around tight, locked her ankles around my ass and held me square in the rabbit hole.

“You got to!” yelled Bette.  “Don’t stop now.  Oh, please.  Do it to me.  It’s okay.”

“Get off me!  Rape!” yelled Dot.

“Dot- shut the fuck up!”  yelled Bette. 

“Fucking rapist asshole!”  yelled Dot.

“I got rights to me and mine too!” hollered Bette.

“Rape!  Help!  Help us!”

“You girls are nuts!” I pulled Bette’s legs off of me and fell onto the floor, my cock glistening wet and sagging in retreat.

“You fucker!  You evil little fucker!” cried Dot and hot tears flooded down her face.

“Shut up, bitch!” yelled Bette. 

“He had no right to pop my cherry.”

“But it’s my cherry too.  I get to have this.  You wanted it too.  You know you did.”

“I was saving that for my wedding night!  For my husband!  Not with him – that pig.  . ”

“What about me?  When do I get to have a fella?  I want him!  You get your own.”

Dot grabbed the lamp off the night stand and winged it across her chest at Bette ‘s head.  She ducked and swatted it from her hand.

Faster than wham bam thank you ma’am, I grabbed my clothes off the floor and ran off naked into the night, running through the high grass with them two loons baying after me – one threatening to chop my dick off, the other  begging me to come back and finish what I started.

In the end, you have to live with who you have to live with.  They have to live with each other.  Twenty four seven.   Its pretty rough sometimes I guess.   Bette wrote me a love letter – and Dot finished it with a kiss off.  You saw.

Aw, love.

Even in my fantasies I get treated bad.

My Non-Sex Guilty Pleasure

Given that this blog is written by erotica authors, and this fortnight’s topic is “guilty pleasures,” I’m probably the only one that’s not going to talk about sex.  Personally, I feel that sex is something to be celebrated, expressed, and enjoyed — 100% free of guilt.  (Which I know all my co-bloggers agree with.)  So, how can you have a guilty pleasure if there’s nothing to be guilty about?

No, my guilty pleasure isn’t sex.  My guilty pleasure is independent coffeeshops.

Yup, you heard me.

It’s not so much the coffeeshop that’s the guilty pleasure, it’s what I eat when I’m there.  Sugar.  Also, the prices at indie coffeeshops are a little steep for my wallet (since they can’t access bulk discounts that large chains like Starbucks and Tim Horton’s can).

Most weekday mornings, I hike on over to Cafe D’Amour, a little coffeeshop run by two young women.  It’s a quiet place in the mornings, the perfect place to do some smutty writing or perhaps a blog post or two.  (I’m here right now, working on this post — with a 12 oz Americano and a rocky road square.)

On weekends, I usually head over to Travel Mug, which is, believe it or not, half coffeeshop, half travel agency.  Yup.  They have a great tea selection and their jumbo cinnamon scones are to die for.

If I go out on a weekday evening, it’s usually to Joe Black Coffee Bar, a medium-sized restaurant/coffeeshop with lots of tables and comfy couches.  This place is danger zone for desserts because they have the sweetest and largest desserts, which are brought in by a local chocolate store.  I personally like the peanut butter cup — it’s the size of a small pie.

When I take a vacation from my day job, I always make sure I go to Cafe Postal at least once during my holidays.  It’s a minuscule hole in the wall that offers great coffee and scrumptious chocolate croissants.  All it has for seating is a bar by the window and three stools — so it’s definitely a place meant more for reading than for sitting with a laptop and hammering out smut.

And if I'm feeling adventurous, I'm lucky to be in a city with a thriving independent coffee scene.  There are another four on my semi-regular rotation and another four, at least, that I could add to the list if I get bored with my regulars.

At the first three places here — Cafe D’Amour, Travel Mug, and Joe Black — I go so often that I’m either known by name or known by order.  When I walk into Cafe D'Amour every morning, they start making me a 12 oz Americano without even asking if that’s what I want.  And at Travel Mug, when they were training new staff a while back, I was mentioned, by name, as part of the training on customer relations.

Going out to coffeeshops to work shouldn’t be a guilty pleasure — but on a tight budget like I’m on, and a compulsion to have far too many sugary goods, these coffeeshops are a problem for me.  However, I’m not giving them up.  I do like the fact that I’m supporting local independent businesses, but going out to work also tends to increase my productivity versus staying at home — there, that's my justification!  (The cats like to lay on my keyboard as I type, after all.)  For a while, I had gotten off sugary treats and only purchased coffee while at these places — heck, I lost seven pounds just by cutting that out of my daily habit — but I’m back on the sugar train and have put a few pounds back on.  So, I know beyond a doubt, I’d save money and pounds by staying home and working from my office, but the sugar and the coffee and the outing are all calling me...

The desserts are just too good to ignore.  And, yes, if you’re wondering, I had that rocky road bar, filled with chocolate, marshmallows, sugar, sugar, and more sugar, before 9 in the morning.



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 lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit http://www.camerondjames.com.