Monday, November 30, 2009
By Devon Rhodes
I list to port
Sailing upon unfamiliar seas
Without a compass.
Silken threads bind.
Insecure in my security,
A feathery touch doesn't reach
Yet leaves a bruise.
Marked invisibly within,
Anonymous, I move among the hordes
Recognition is impossible.
With a stretch of flesh
The impermanent grafts,
Never to sunder.
Pain is fleeting but irrevocable
As I move beyond
Hull is breached,
She is boarded
By a fated foe.
The impact inevitable.
I have a very organized mind for the creative sort. I drive with a bird's-eye view map in my head, I'm equally at home with literature and accounting, and although I love the blurred edges of Impressionism, I am comfortable, happy with its definition of images, boundaries.
Anything abstract takes me right out of my comfort zone. I like to be able to clearly label things, have organization in my world.
When it come to either reading it or penning it, poetry makes my heart stop...not in a good way. Too open to interpretation, too vague, too few rules. Now, I'm sure that someone who is an afficianado of poetry will tell me there are rules, however my mind can't wrap itself around them or easily sense their boundaries. They are not readily apparent to me, and my mind revolts when I try to read it.
Even my sample above, to my mind, came out more like a draft of an idea than poetry. Time and again, I had to restrain myself from breaking into prose. I tried my best to feel my topic and take the process seriously, but I felt silly writing it, and even more silly putting it out there for others to read and roll their eyes over.
I love the idea of free-flowing thought and truly admire those who are able to express themselves in this manner.
But I ain't a poet...and I know it.
Historicals are a different matter. I absolutely love to read a well-done historical, of any subgenre. And I aspire to write one someday. However the attention to accuracy, the placement of things and events, the language and vocabulary, all overwhelm to make it seem a daunting task.
Every time I attempt one, the littlest details pull me right out of the story.. Was that even a word back then? What did they call underwear in that period? How did you address someone of that rank again?
Before long I've lost my thread amongst the minutiae. Harrowing to say the least, especially for someone who writes by the seat of their pants often as not.
But I do love the craft of historicals done well, and I haven't given up all thoughts of attempting one.
My guest blogger this week, Ava March, has a beautiful historical style and voice which effortlessly pulls the reader back into the Regency period, whether in her Ava m/m novellas, or what I call her "hot het historicals" as Evangeline Collins. Sigh. So wonderful.
A published historical by Devon? One day, I hope.
Poetry? Not so much.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
"Get out of my room, you filthy varmint!" Mirabelle Hawkins stood her ground, hands on her hips, facing the stranger who had just crawled in the window of the Black Bluffs Hotel and Saloon. The fire in her voice matched her coppery hair.
"Sorry to disturb you, ma'am. But I'm runnin' for my life." The man was long, tall, and dark, with a rugged, handsome face and twinkling blue eyes. Aside from a distinct horsy odor and a masculine five-o'clock shadow, he wasn't nearly as disreputable as Mirabelle's ephithet implied. His dusty clothing belonged to a gentleman rather than a ruffian, although Mirabelle couldn't help notice the distinct bulge distorting his waistcoat. He was carrying a gun. That made him dangerous.
"That doesn't concern me. Find some other defenseless young thing to impose upon. Just because my pa died and I've got to travel on my own all the way from Fort Wayne to Deadwood to fight the crooks trying to snatch his land doesn't mean you can take advantage of me."
"Darlin', I never considered such a thing." The stranger scanned her from head to toe, his crystal eyes brazen. "Though now that you mention it..." He took a step towards her. His nearness, his power, his scent (or that of his mount) nearly over-powered her.
Mirabelle stepped back, narrowly missing the chamber pot. Her cheeks burned as bright as her curly locks. She remembered all at once that she was wearing only her chemise and petticoat. In any case, this man's gaze made her feel completely naked.
Her nipples tightened into sensitive peaks that rasped against the linen covering them. She felt hot and damp and flustered. Damn it, she hadn't put off all those suitors back in Indiana just to fall prey to some feckless gambler. She made her voice hard, though inside her everything seemed to melt.
"Back off. I've a knife, and I won't hesitate to use it to defend my honor."
The stranger smiled and held up his hands in mock surrender. "Sweetheart, I'd never threaten your honor. All I want is a place to hide out for an hour or so, until Dirty Jim Jenks and his boys give up their search."
"Dirty Jim!" Maribelle had been in town only twenty four hours, but she'd already heard about the Jenks gang. Apparently they galloped into Black Bluffs every couple of weeks, drank up every bottle in the hamlet's two saloons, shot up a few stores, kidnapped a child or raped someone's sister, then thundered back to their camp up in the hills. Everyone was terrified of them, including the sheriff. Hiding did seem to be the only option when they set out on one of their sprees.
"Yessiree, Jim really wants my balls this time." The stranger sank into the chair by the window, his long, muscular legs splayed out in front of him. Mirabelle realized that he was exhausted, even as she admired the other bulge revealed by his position. A twinge of sympathy wove its way among the tendrils of her growing lust.
"What did you do to him?" Mirabelle seated herself opposite him, on the stool by the dressing table, and tried to look demure, even as the hot bead at the apex of her sex throbbed and her taut nipples screamed for attention.
"Well, beat him at five card stud, to start. Polished off his twelve-year old bottle of whiskey. And stole his gal." The interloper grinned at her, and her anger flared. The cocky bastard thinks he's the good Lord's gift to womanhood, she thought. The only trouble was that he was attractive--devilishly so. And he knew it.
"And what happened to her?" she asked, though she didn't really care. Maintaining some sort of conversation seemed to be the only way stop herself from throwing herself into his arms.
"Oh, I sold her to the Sioux." His voice was casual. When he saw the shock on Mirabelle's face, though, he laughed. "I'm kidding, darlin'. She got tired of me after a week or so. They all do."
Behind his blustering humor, Maribelle caught a hint of the man's inner pain. She leaned toward him. "I'm sorry," she murmured. He sat up in his chair and inclined his lean, rugged body in her direction. Their lips were inches apart.
"Never mind about that, sweetheart." His breath warmed her cheek. "I think I may have found myself a new gal."
His mouth claimed hers as though he owned her. He tasted like beer and beans. He rose, pulling her up with him, clasping her to his chest with powerful arms. She trembled in that embrace. The strength that had brought her half way across the continent alone vanished like morning mist. His tongue snaked between her lips, exploring her, urging her to surrender completely.
A hand slid up Maribelle's thigh, under her petticoat. His palm was hot against her bare skin, moving higher by the moment toward the seething cauldron of desire at her center. She knew she should stop him. Yet she couldn't move, didn't want to move. She was paralyzed by his raw confidence, by his taste and his scent and his heat. This is wrong, she told herself. This is what you've been fighting against all these years. Yet it felt so right. She wanted to stop fighting.
"Darlin'," he whispered in her ear as his fingertips brushed the curly thatch protecting her sex. "I've been waiting for someone like you a long time..."
Crash! A boot slammed against the flimsy door of the two-bit room. "Dillon! Curse you, Jack Dillon! I got you now!" someone roared. The crack of a pistol and the squeal of splintering wood drove Maribelle and her companion apart. "Under the bed!" Jack Dillon whispered. "Quick now! I'll handle this."
Maribelle wormed her way under the iron bedstead, but not before she'd grabbed her pa's bowie knife from where she kept it, under her pillow. Despite the danger, she felt as though she was in a dream. Jack. His name was Jack.
This week, Devon asked us all to talk about the genre we'd least like to write. In fact, she challenged us to try penning a snippet in that genre. It didn't take me even five minutes to realize that Western romance is my Waterloo (assuming that we rule out slasher novels).
I know that this genre is popular, but I just don't get it--not as a reader or as a writer. I don't find mud and horse manure, a bath every few months and a head-full of lice, at all appealing. Cowboys just don't do it for me. I like feisty heroines (who proliferate in Western sagas) but I get annoyed when they fall apart and depend on the heroes to save them.
Meanwhile, from the writing side, I'm hopeless at dialect. Furthermore, if you worry about historical accuracy (which as a writer you really should), you start to realize that the period of the Wild West stretched for some hundred years and lots of things changed during that time. You've got to fix your narrative in time (especially, before or after the Civil War) in order to get the details right. You can't depend on stereotypes or your vague memories of watching "Rawhide".
However, dutiful blogger that I am, I made an effort and came up with the piece above.
Now you can see why I don't write Western romance.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
I was born in Canada during WW II. The men were off in Europe kicking Nazi butt, so my earliest memories are of a world run by females. The heaviest lifting was done by the younger women, who worked in the factories, fed their families after work, and managed the large and small tasks of the household and society in general. They were a generation of iron women, and they ran their world efficiently and in peace. As a small boy, I was safe with my mother and a circle of aunts who combined feminine gentleness with work-hardened minds and bodies.
Then Hitler died and the Bomb went off. The men came home, expecting to slip comfortably back into their places at the head of the table. But power is habit forming; during this time, I witnessed the tension and outright battles between the newly empowered women and the men reclaiming their entitlement. Since that time, I've been particularly attracted to women who resembled those of my early memories: at once strong and assertive, kind and loving. I've gone so far as to marry a woman like that, and my most admired female friends are cast from the same mold. So also are many of the female characters who find their way into my stories.
'Female domination', or 'femdom', is really two nearly distinct subgenres. The one that comes most readily to mind is 'classic' femdom—the Amazon in the opera hose and faux-Nazi uniform, brandishing a whip over a cringing, naked male. Writers in the genre know it for what it is, a fantasy scripted by men and imposed on women, a quirky extension of the testosterone-fueled paradigm we all know and loathe. How many women, really, are amused by dressing up in rubber bustiers and thigh boots and tormenting men? It's a big world; no doubt women like these exist, but for the most part they are a figment of men's fantasies.
The matriarchal apologist William A. Bond wrote, "Because [femdom] was created by men, many of its symbols and methods of domination are very masculine." [Note 1] In real life, relationships of this sort are probably rare, for one important reason: there's nothing in it for the woman. To my knowledge, few women delight in watching a man prancing about in a maid's uniform, or bound to a whipping post, screaming in pain. Kidnap him, dress him up in women's clothes, piss in his mouth, share him with friends, beat him unconscious. They're all products of the male hypothalamus.
From behind the bushes, another, kinder, gentler femdom is emerging. Too new to have a consistent name, it's been called 'femdom lite', 'female-led relationship', 'loving female authority', or, most descriptively, 'she makes the rules', or 'SMTR'. [Note 2] It's a relationship where women are freed from the pressure to take their cues from the classic femdom canon. These women really do write the scripts. They've found that they don't have to sacrifice their own needs, limits, or femininity to get what they want, yet they can still satisfy their men's kinky desires. They only have to study and accept the head-scratching complexity of the male fantasy life, then go forth and simply take charge.
Some women readily buy into the SMTR paradigm, rejoicing, "Where has this been all my life?" To some men, such a woman is a gift from God. A much larger number are led into it by men who've examined their own fantasies, found them wanting, and channeled their imagination in new directions. To put it simply, these men love their women and want to give them a happy and pleasure-filled life. If done right, submissive men can satisfy their fantasies, and women get a vastly improved sex life. If they play it right, their daytime domestic life can improve, too. These men are turned on by a woman who demands cunnilingus; assigns housework duties; and controls the household finances—all within the context of mainstreet family life, with children, dual jobs, and monthly bills. Men and women who've entered this lifestyle report greater intimacy, improved fidelity, and more creative and satisfying sex lives [Note 3]. This is the case, even though one of the chief tools borrowed from classic femdom is the strict rationing of the male orgasm, which perversely supercharges the male sex drive and realigns his mental gears so that he's ready to do absolutely anything to please his woman.
Recently, there have been a few—a very few—sex manuals that address the SMTR lifestyle (though all predate the invention of the term). The classics are Ian Kerner's 'She Comes First' (now found only in a Kindle edition), Ken Addison's 'Around Her Finger', and Mark Remond's 'Worship Your Wife'. Each of these books proposes the same approach to relationships: a guiltless assumption of authority by the woman and contented submission by the man. The womans' pleasure is foremost; the man's is secondary, often to the point of being denied entirely. In a relationship of the female-led variety, the woman chooses those things that pleasure her most: backrubs, having housework done for her, sex her way, even a return to the days of courtship when she was the center of his life. Sounds too good to be true, but she can, in fact, have it all.
What happens to men's sense of masculinity in all this? How do they hold their heads up among the good ol’ boys down at the tavern (assuming their wife allows them to go at all)? Are these men pussywhipped? By any definition of the term, yes. But are they emasculated wimps? Most will beg to differ. Some in the lifestyle refer to themselves as 'knights', pledged to serve their woman with all the courage, strength and will they're capable of. Many feel that their identity as men has been strengthened by their service to one woman.
Mark Remond, in ‘Worship Your Wife’, quotes Clairette de Longvilliers, "If you want your wife to be a Goddess, first worship her." If any one statement can be taken to incorporate the guiding philosophy of SMTR, that is it.
My earliest attempts at novel writing were built around this theme, though I was unaware of it at the time. 'The Sisters of Kali' (1996-2003), my first attempt, concerned a group of women, selected apparently randomly by God to prevent an apocalyptic religious war far in the future, specifically by beginning the change of world societies to matriarchal ones. (Events so far this century have obviously overtaken and overshadowed this premise.)
In 2005, after some abortive attempts in other genres, I began work on a frankly erotic novel that had stewed in my brain for several years. This time, I planned explicitly to incorporate an SMTR relationship. 'The Ancestors of Star' is told from the point of view of Tim Hyatt, 22, testosterone-charged Big Man on Campus. He takes a year off college to work at a clinic on an Indian reservation, part of his master plan to gain admission to medical school. He figures the reservation experience will strengthen his case for admission, and might even help him win a desperately needed scholarship. To his bemusement, he discovers that his new boss, 46-year old Elaine Yellow Star, a smart and assertive Native woman, hires a young man every year to help out in the clinic as well as perform certain, ahem, 'personal services'. Though prepared to resist, Tim is soon ensnared, and the services she demands of him could scarcely be more personal. Still, to the consternation of both, love grows between them. After numerous adventures, the two end the story in a committed relationship.
Tim begins to guess what awaits him when, after an afternoon of unrequited cunnilingus with Star in the mountains, he is summoned to her room next door, presumably to take up where they left off:
"You read much fiction?" she asked.
"Some Michael Connelly and Robert Crais and Lawrence Block. Suspense and mystery. That type of thing," I said. "Why did you page me?"
"Get me a meat sandwich and a bottle of cola from the cafeteria, Tim."
"I beg your pardon." I gaped in disbelief.
"You heard me. You're my assistant, and I'm hungry. Please take care of it. Get some lunch for yourself, too."
"Isn't this some kind of employee abuse?"
"I don't think so. In any case, you weren't there when I needed you this morning, were you? Don't be long."
Tim is repeatedly used and abused by Star, but when he attempts to break free, he is pulled back by her unabashed exploitation of her sexuality:
She shed her nightgown, held me by the waist and stroked me very slowly until I gasped, "I don't think you want me going off this soon."
She stopped stroking, and said, "Tim, I don't intend to let you go off at all. Will you let me get away with that? I wonder if it will excite you half as much as it excites me?"
I turned to whisper in her ear, "You can do anything with me that you want, and you know it."
"Yes, I can, can't I?" <
Star, as strong as she appears, carries serious damage, the result of a gang rape at the age of 20. She's been unable to sustain a permanent relationship with any man. When she finds herself falling in love with Tim, she struggles fiercely against it, insisting she will only use him for the year and send him back to his fiancée in Chicago. But at the end, Tim overcomes her emotional resistance, and she agrees that he can stay with her indefinitely: 'The Ancestors of Star' is an exploration of love and its blossoming under unusual conditions, and the rewards of persistence:
At last, she let the wet flesh slip from her mouth and looked up at me. Her eyes shone with lust, even in the dark room. "Tim, you know nothing in this room will change for us. You'll still do my laundry and cleaning. You'll have to resign yourself to being teased mercilessly and then left without coming. Most of the time, anyway. You know how it excites me to do that."
"It excites me, too," I whispered, and a thrill rippled though my body as I realized that Star was no longer speaking about the short term. She was referring to a future together.
"It took a long time for this kink of mine to develop, Tim. It won't go away overnight. Perhaps never. I can't apologize for it, either. I enjoy it too much."
I tried to keep my voice calm as I smiled back. "I'm surprised at myself. A year ago, I'd never have believed I'd let any woman torment me the way you do, or that I'd come to need any woman so much. But I'm not going to be like Jeff and go away when I'm told. Whatever it takes, I'm staying."
She kissed my thigh, and looked up at me as if seeing for the first time what she had created.
The story is also about life on a modern Indian reservation: the poverty, the encroaching plague of drugs, and the attempts by the People to keep alive their culture against the forces of assimilation and exploitation.
I've been heartened by the reception of 'The Ancestors of Star', and I've gone on to work on other books on the same theme. My current work in progress is 'Mortal Turpitude', a modern biotech thriller incorporating an SMTR relationship.
William Gaius lives and romps with his Queen in the American Southwest, where the life and landscape have long inspired him. Find 'The Ancestors of Star' in e-book or print at:
1. William A. Bond, "Femdom and Brainwashing Techniques" in his blog, 'Femdom Matriarchy'. URL: http://tinyurl.com/yf3xpgx Bond's writings on the wisdom and practice of matriarchy are extensive and found all over the Web.
2. http://www.she-makes-the-rules.com/ Information site managed by two women who are in the SMTR lifestyle.
3. Forum part of the above site. Requires signup, but contains a vast archive of posts and discussions.
(From Lisabet: You can read my review of The Ancestors of Star here.)
Friday, November 27, 2009
Some days, I like to lie and tell myself that being a writer means for at least a small part of the time, I am actually in charge of people who will do exactly what I tell them to do. I mean, I'm the writer after all, right? When I write a character, that fictional person will do exactly whatever it is I decide they are going to do, without any back-talking or heel dragging or whining or outright rebellion. Writers write and characters obey. Right?
Wrong. Oh so dead wrong. Anybody who has written a story will tell you horror stories of characters run amok. You set out to write a beautiful little love story full of tenderness and life lessons and the next thing you know, your main character has pulled out a chainsaw to hack up the zombie hordes who have decided to invade the plot line. It happens so frequently, I wonder why I even bother to kid myself that I'm the one doing the actual creative part of the writing. I'm not. I'm just some schlub taking dictation half the time. The other half the time, I'm some schlub who's down on her knees begging her characters to say something, anything to get a story moving forward. Yeah, it sucks to be a writer.
I've actually written quite a few stories about fem dommes. I like seeing women in charge, especially in charge of men. It's a huge turn on for me to write these stories, right up until the characters take off in some direction I didn't expect, and then I'm back to being the dictation-taking schlub. One of my first fem domme stories was called A Man In A Kilt, and it was about a dominatrix who's lover is - you guessed it - a kilt-wearing Scott.
We were at Jimmy's place one night when the phone rang. Jimmy was kneeling on the floor with a spreader bar between his ankles. I sat behind him, binding his wrists behind his back. We were busy, so after the fourth ring, the machine answered for us.
"Hey Jimmy! It's yer brother! Pick up the phone!" Jimmy started as a Highlands brogue rang loud and clear over the answering machine.
"Sorry," I told the machine as I stood up to survey my handiwork. "Jimmy's a little tied up right now!"
"Nan!" Jimmy strained against the cotton ropes, trying to free his hands.
"Don't worry, love," I cooed as I guided his head to the floor. His ass came up as his head went down, presenting me with a picture-perfect view of his anus, scrotum, and cock. "He can't hear me."
"Where the hell are ye?" the voice continued. "Nobody's seen ye in months, and ah'm starting to worry. Come doon to the pub tomorrow night so ah know yer not dead."
The phone clicked and the answering machine fell silent. The only sounds in the room now came from Jimmy as he continued to struggle.
"You're never going to get free," I said as I knelt behind him and fastened a leather strap around his balls. "Why don't you just relax?"
Two pieces of lightweight chain dangled from the strap. Jimmy gave a little moan as I hung a small weight between them. With a push of the finger, I sent the weight swinging just a bit. It tugged his balls back and forth as it swayed.
"Oh God Nan!" Jimmy gasped. "What are ye doing to me?"
"Something you'll like. Trust me."
I waited while Jimmy bitched and moaned. The weight gradually came to a stop and he calmed down a bit. Then I slipped my fingers between his legs and started rubbing the sweet spot just behind his balls. Jimmy moaned and rocked his hips, which sent the weight swinging again.
"Ah! Ma baws, Nan! Please!"
"Now, now. This doesn't hurt and I promise your family jewels won't fall off. Oh, speaking of family, you never told me you had a brother!"
I continued to massage his perineum with one hand as I slid the other around his hips to stroke his cock. Jimmy couldn't help himself. He stiffened right up and pushed forward into my grasp. The weight swung in a wider arc and Jimmy swore.
"Language, dear!" I chided him. "So what's your brother like? Is he nice?"
"He's just... oh God... he's a'right..." Jimmy gasped. I quit stroking his shaft and began toying with the Prince Albert dangling from the tip of his cock. He shuddered as I twirled the shiny steel ring in and out of his urethra. The piercing was my gift to Jimmy on our one-month anniversary, my way of saying how special he was to me, and I played with it every chance I got.
"He's okay, huh? Maybe you should take me to this pub tomorrow night so I can meet him."
"Oh, ah don't know, Nan... Oh God!" He jerked as I left off massaging his perineum and pressed a finger against his anus.
"Oh quit fussing! It's not like I'm exploring virgin territory here. Besides, I've got plenty of lube." I let up on Jimmy's trap door long enough to grab the nearby tube of gel and flip the top open. I squeezed out a dollop and slowly spread it between his cheeks. "So why won't you take me to see your brother? You too embarrassed to introduce me to your family?"
"No!" Jimmy's hips came up high as I teased the rim of his little brown hole. The weight arced between his legs like a fortuneteller's pendulum.
"So why not take me to the pub?"
"Oh God Nan! Ah'll do whatever ye want!"
"I want to meet your brother tomorrow. Think we can do that?"
This time I pinched the head of his cock. Jimmy bucked uncontrollably and the weight swung wild.
"Aye! Aye! Please Nan! God please!"
"Good boy. That's exactly what I wanted to hear," I said as I slipped a finger inside him.
When I started working on A Man In A Kilt, I had had a certain preconceived notion of what a dominatrix was supposed to act like. You know the stereotype; the she-bitch in black leather corset and matching thigh-high boots who walks around swinging a riding crop. But Nan flat out refused to conform to that idea. She was just too damned easy going. She was also too damned sure of herself to let me write her any other way, so I did my obedient little dictation thing and just wrote as fast as I could to keep up with her. Then I submitted my story to the critique group at the Erotica Readers and Writers Association to see what others thought. Wouldn't you know it? The first critique I got back told me I had done it all wrong. Nan was no good as a dominatrix. She should have been more severe, a hard-nosed bitch who wouldn't put up with any nonsense from her sub. My critic even went on to suggest that Nan should have stabbed a potential rival in the hand with a fork in one scene. It was an interesting critique as I recall.
But it also wasn't the only feedback I got. Other writers came back with fervent support of Nan. No she didn't conform to the usual ideal of a dominatrix, but she was definitely in charge of the story. Considering that Nan had pretty much written the story, those supporters had no idea how right they were! In the end, I let Nan be Nan and went on to publish the story not once, not twice, but four times. To this day, I'm still getting positive feedback on it.
Nan was my first dominatrix, but hardly my last. Since then I've written about Amazons who turn the tables on self-indulgent frat boys making homemade porn; a world where women rule and virgin men are married off for expensive dowries; dryads who torment lazy gardeners with whips of willow branches; and my own personal favorite, a dominatrix who sees the future every time she comes. None of these women are the stereotypical ice queen in black leather. Heck, some of them aren't even human! But they are all in charge of their own stories, and I do not dare suggest that they be anything other than what they are.
I am a writer. I like to pretend that I am in charge of my characters. Fortunately, we all know better than that. Right?
"Sahir came... Sahir comes... is coming, will have come..."
It sounded like a lesson in verb tenses, but it was actually the beginnings of a prescient vision, the kind Nadine only got when she was on the verge of a twenty mega-ton orgasm. The word come sounded promising, but my name was Aaron, not Sahir, and it kind of bothered me to hear Nadine call out another man's name when things were getting hot and heavy. Not that I thought she was involved with anyone named Sahir. It's just that after spending two years as her boy-toy, it would have been nice to hear my loving domme shout Aaron, Aaron! when she was about to blow.
"Sahir will come... will come..."
Well, at least she was with me physically. Gray eyes glazed, vision turned inwards, Nadine cinched a piece of surgical tubing around my freshly shaved balls. All the while, she kept muttering about Sahir. I bit the penis-shaped gag stuffed in my mouth and groaned. I should have realized playtime wasn't her top priority when she brought me into the lab instead of the apartment upstairs. Most dominatrixes have a dungeon. Not Nadine. She was a scientist, so she had a lab and a test subject, a very willing test subject.
From the start of our relationship, she'd measured all my responses, tested my physical and mental capacities, and analyzed my phobias and fetishes. Feminization ranked as my fifth-worst fear as well as my second favorite turn-on, which meant wearing frilly panties got me so hard it scared the hell out of me. So naturally, Nadine had transformed me into a little girl for this particular session. I stood before my latex-clad domme, hands secured behind my back, wearing a lacy pink baby-doll dress with matching socks and patent leather shoes. A pair of itchy ruffled panties hung around my ankles. I had cried when she made me put them on, then breathed a sigh of relief two hours later when she finally yanked them down to torment my cock.
"Sahir comes... comes up to the register... he counts the till..."
Damn, still talking about Sahir. Sahir was the guy who ran the convenience store a few blocks from Nadine's house. He got robbed once a month, but she'd had never had a vision about it before now. Why the hell was he so important this evening?
"Sahir counts the till... a boy is hiding... hiding in the store..."
Beads of sweat formed around a series of flat metal disks pasted to Nadine's forehead. More disks lay hidden beneath the red latex suit that encased her from neck to ankle. The wireless electrodes, one of Nadine's early inventions from the days she worked for a biotech firm, stood out as stark white patches against her dusky brown skin. They transmitted her brainwave activity to a nearby computer where all Nadine's visions were recorded for later analysis.
"The boy pulls out a gun... Sahir doesn't see... he counts the till..."
As her vision grew more intense, I stole a peek at the computer's monitor. A series of wavy lines crawled across the screen. The third line from the bottom, the one Nadine said represented her theta waves, began to spike. Did that mean she was close to coming, or was that a symptom of the vision she was experiencing?
Wham! The stinging smack of a paddle on my ass drove any further questions from my mind. Even through the vision, Nadine had sensed my straying attention. To correct me, she picked up a small leather flogger and began slapping my cock with it. With every stroke, my tortured dick bounced up and down.
Nadine continued muttering about Sahir and the hidden boy. I writhed before her, caught in a hellish mix of agony and ecstasy. Beneath the surgical tubing, my balls swelled and ached. The throbbing head of my cock turned purple and started to leak. A buildup of pressure at the base of my dick told me I was almost home, but just as I was about to drop to my knees and explode, Nadine tossed the flogger aside and spun me around to face the examining table. I wanted to scream in frustration, but the gag made it pointless to try. Even in her current state, the lady knew exactly how to take me to the edge and keep me there for hours on end.
"The boy is hiding... a red-haired boy hides, pulls out a gun... Sahir counts the till..."
Christ, could she just shut up about Sahir? Nadine grabbed me by the neck and bent me over the table. I heard the snap of latex and felt a cold dollop of lube hit between my ass cheeks. My third-worst fear and all-time favorite kink-anal penetration-kicked into play as Nadine's slender gloved fingers spread the lube around my clenched hole.
Heart pounding, I wriggled and bucked, desperate to break free. Hell if I was going to let some woman finger-fuck me! I was the guy, I was supposed to do the penetrating. No way was I going to stand there, dressed up like fucking Shirley Temple, and take it up the ass from some bitch!
Nadine grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and shoved me back down on the table. With my hands cuffed and my ankles hobbled by those damn ruffled panties, there wasn't much I could do except whimper into my gag. Then Nadine slipped a couple fingers inside my sphincter and I just melted. Waves of pleasure rippled through my body as she eased them in and out of my hole. I couldn't fight her. I didn't want to. It felt good when she fingered me, calling me her sweet boy, playing with my cock while she stretched my hole wide. I wanted her to fuck me. I wanted her to bend me over and make me cry. Most of all, I just wanted to hear her say my name.
"Sahir looks up... he sees the gun... Sahir..."
God dammit! I started struggling again. I didn't want to hear about Sahir and some stupid robbery. I wanted Nadine to focus on me.
"Sahir sees the gun... the boy with the gun..."
Nadine forced me back down on the table and slipped a third finger inside me. My knees started to shake. I'd never taken more than two before. Now I was stretched impossibly wide. A million different feelings flooded my brain-fear, pleasure, shock, shame, excitement, relief... I had Nadine's attention, all right. That one extra finger had put me into orbit, and she knew it. If she did anything else...
"The boy pulls out the gun... puts his finger on the trigger..."
I was so excited I could barely hear the words anymore. Nadine grabbed my hair and pulled me upright as she continued to work my ass. As soon as I was standing, her hand snaked around my waist and gripped my cock. I forgot all about Sahir and Nadine's vision. I rocked my hips back and forth, thrusting into her clenched fist and then back onto the fingers of her other hand. I started to moan and shiver, all my senses focused on my throbbing dick and my aching hole. The buildup inside me grew and grew and grew...
"Sahir sees the gun... the boy pulls the trigger... the boy pulls... Oh god, Aaron... Aaron... Aaron!"
My name at last. The sweetest sound in the world issued forth from my lover's lips as I shot my load all over the examining table. Behind me, I felt Nadine stiffen and shudder. Her hand tightened on my cock, squeezing the life out of it along with the last drops of cum. Completely exhausted, my knees gave out. Nadine and I sank to the floor.
Nadine pulled the gag out of my mouth. I turned to curl up against her, burying my face in her neck. "Oh Nadine, oh god I love you," I whimpered.
Panting, she stripped off the latex glove and tossed it aside, then held me tight to stroke my hair. "It's all right, baby. Mama's got you."
I wriggled closer for a kiss. She gave me a squeeze, then straightened up.
"Honey, we got to get moving." She pushed me away and struggled to her feet. "Come on, get up. We've got to go."
"Nadine, please!" But she was already pulling me up after her. With a quick tug, Nadine undid the restraints from my wrists. She tore the electrodes off her face and scalp and grabbed the coat she'd left hanging on a nearby wall hook. Then she snatched my clothes off the floor and shoved them into my arms.
"Don't just stand there, Aaron, we've got to go. Sahir's in trouble."
"What, you saw him getting robbed again?" I snapped. "He gets held up all the time. Why the hell are we running out to help him tonight?"
"Because tonight he gets shot and killed!"
Nadine glared at me, her grey eyes sparking. Shamefaced, I dropped my gaze to my patent leather shoes.
"Can't we just call the police?"
"They won't get there in time. Now come on, we're leaving."
She spun on her heel and raced out of the lab, pulling on her coat as she went. I yanked up my panties and ran after her. I prayed no one would see me stumble outside to the car. The engine was already running by the time I slid into the passenger seat. As Nadine tore off down street, I struggled into my clothes. Oh well, at least she said my name when she came.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
I was quite surprised when I heard someone describe a handful of my titles as ‘fem-dom fiction.’ I went back and read the title to which they were referring. Sure enough, the central protagonist was female and she did hold the dominant role in instigating sexual encounters. But I had never made a conscious effort to specifically write something in the fem-dom genre.
Whilst teaching a recent writing class, the theme of gender was touched on. Students were arguing the differences between men and women and telling me that women are more softly spoken whilst men usually have more authority. Women discuss things in more details (such as colours, emotions and styles) whilst men are less affective in their language and use their vocabulary to describe the practical and the pragmatic. I listened patiently, before explaining that men and women are exactly the same, save for one trivial difference: men are better at writing their names in the snow.
I know we live in a patriarchal hegemony. I’m aware that studies have been carried out showing that reinforced gender stereotypes are an inescapable part of contemporary culture. But I don’t think that’s a part of the world where I live, and it’s certainly not a factor that has influenced any of my writing.
I was born in a country ruled by a female monarch and governed by a female prime minister. The majority of my teachers were female whilst I was at school and, with very few exceptions, the majority of places where I’ve worked through my life have found me working beneath a female employer.
Which means I’ve never fallen into the trap of thinking women are naturally subservient and men are naturally dominant. I’ve known all along that it’s never about gender: it’s all about the character and their personality.
Glancing through my other titles, I know that my erotic fiction isn’t exclusively focused on the fem-dom genre. I’ve written novels with dominant males and submissive females. And I’ve written novels where heterosexual couples share a parity of status and an absolute equality. And, throughout all of those stories, it’s never been about the gender: it’s always about the character. Dominance, whether it’s sexual, physical or psychological, is seldom about gender. In the world in which I live and write it’s always about character.
To illustrate, the following lines are from the opening pages of my short story ‘Victoria’s Hand,’ which appeared in Rachel Kramer Bussel’s anthology, She’s On Top.
London, England, 1890
The parlour was quiet enough so Victoria could hear the tick of the grandfather from the hall outside. Stark spring sunlight filtered through the net curtains to illuminate the elegant furnishings. The family’s finest bone china was laid out on a lily-white tablecloth. The afternoon tea was complete with freshly baked French fancies. Sitting comfortably in one of the parlour’s high-backed chairs, Victoria placed one lace-gloved hand over the other, adjusted her voluminous skirts, and stared down at Algernon as he knelt before her.
She knew what was coming.
She had anticipated this day for months.
Before he started to speak, she knew what he was going to say.
It was the first time they had ever been together without a chaperone. Unless he had come to the house with this specific purpose her parents would not have allowed her to spend any time alone with a suitor. The idea of her being alone with a man was simply too scandalous for civilised society to contemplate.
“Victoria, my dearest,” he began.
There was a tremor of doubt in his voice. Victoria liked that. It suggested he wasn’t entirely certain that she would say yes. His bushy moustache bristled with obvious apprehension. His Adam’s apple quivered nervously above his small, tied cravat. His large dark eyes stared up at her with blatant admiration. He looked as though his entire future happiness rested on her response to this single question.
She was dizzied by the rush of rising power.
“I’ve spoken to your father,” Algernon began. “I’ve discussed the matter with my own parents and employer. I’ve even gained tacit approval from the local bishop. But now comes the time for the most important response of all, my dearest. Victoria: I’ve come to ask for your hand.”
She smiled smugly to herself.
Outwardly her face remained an impassive mask.
“Algernon,” she murmured. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes,” he said quickly.
She allowed her lips to twist into a demure smile.
He fumbled in the pocket of his waistcoat and produced a small gilt-edged box. Almost dropping it in his haste he snapped the lid open and showed her a quaint ring that was encrusted with microscopically small semi-precious stones. She recognised it as one of the DEAREST rings that were currently enjoying popularity. The initial letter of each stone – a diamond, an emerald, an amethyst, a ruby, another emerald, a sapphire and a topaz – spelt out the word DEAREST. The eclectic collection of colours made Victoria think it looked more like a childish novelty than a genuine declaration of their betrothal.
“This is a mere token,” he explained.
“Yes,” Victoria agreed. She made no attempt to take the offered jewellery. “It is a mere token. With the emphasis heavily on the word “mere,” I think.”
He blinked with surprise.
She could see it was time to test his mettle. Straightening her back, quietly deciding she liked having Algernon on his knees before her, Victoria said, “”Do you want me to consider you as a potential husband?”
“I’d be honoured.”
“Then get your cock out. Let me see what I’d be getting.”
The words hung between them like a thrown gauntlet. The grandfather in the hall outside continued to tick loudly. Algernon studied her face with an expression that was almost comical. “Victoria?” he whispered meekly. “I don’t think I heard you correctly. Could you please forgive me and say that again?”
“Get your cock out,” Victoria said flatly. “If I’m going to consider marrying you I want to make sure you’re carrying something more impressive than that crappy little ring you just offered me…”
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
I had this dream a few nights ago. I don’t remember the dream, but I woke up thinking about pipes and I’ve been thinking about them since. If I reach that age someday where cancer no longer holds any terrors for me I may take up smoking a pipe.
Pipes are Sherlock Holmes and Father Christmas, leprechauns and mad sea captains. Pipes are Ahab pacing the midnight deck on a leg made of whale ivory; snarling at his first mate through clenched teeth “Blasphemy! Speak not to me of blasphemy man – I’d strike the sun if it insulted me!”
Pipes invoke childhood memories of my dad in a row boat, silently chewing the stem of a meerschaum with that far away look, watching his line in the water. And then there’s the evenings. That’s when you want a pipe. As a boomer baby of the ‘50s and ‘60s I grew up with that television image of The Father, who returns in the evening to his fiefdom. The Father sits in his easy chair like an oil sheik, with his slippers and his newspaper and his pipe. The Father’s wearing a suit and tie which he will still be wearing when he eats his dinner at the dining room table where his little son Buzz is doing his school work. At his feet lies a fawning spaniel. Hovering above him is a certain woman. This woman, a mythical species such as the unicorn, is the woman who has brought him his pipe and newspaper (the dog brought the slippers). She waits for his command, a glance, a smile of approval, there in her pleated skirt and pearl necklace which she wears when she cleans the house, part harem slave, part Wilma Flintstone. Serving his wishes gives her existence meaning, and anytime they can ditch the kid, serving his desires as well.
As a good liberal, I am morally obligated to despise this woman’s benighted state of mind, labor mightily for her extirpation from male oppression and cheer for her subsequent enlightenment. But in my darkest heart of hearts, I find this woman intensely erotic.
Once in awhile when I catch a rerun of the Twilight Zone or Alfred Hitchcock, I see one of these fine harem housewives in their dresses and pearls, attending the male while The Very Bad Thing looms in their immediate future. Late at night, bumping into Harriet Nelson on the glass teat, there are these moments when I understand something of what BDSM is all about. That unstained dress, those kissable fellatio lips, that hair longing to be tousled by roaming hairy hands, those virginal pearls, arrayed in shining Christian wisdom with her hands clasped above her roguish, conspicuously cone shaped Black Lace Embroidered Playtex Living Bra Size C Cup 36 those . . .those . . .my god man, those tits - as wide eyed she says “But Ozzie!”
Hear me, pity me, do not judge me, oh Friends of the Inner Sanctum – but jeezus-that hot bitch gives me the fan-tods.
“If you were Ozzie, would you do her?”
The answer is only expressible as a sinner’s despairing wail. A rutting cave man grunt. No modern, enlightened concupiscence, patiently courted with dinner and flowers and mutual respect for her individuality and intelligence, no, but pity me! - instead alpha-male chimpanzee dick-brained bug-eyed grabasstic urgency that gives no shit for any law of God or man. Do her? Do her you may ask? Before the kids could even leave the room, honey. Before she could gasp ‘"But Ozzie - !" I’d have this submissive, fecund hipped female with her midwestern honest calves, mighty thighs, righteous rump and twin peaked button up Southern Baptist Sunday School Teacher blouse, heaved over my shoulder, hauled off and flung down hard on her little twin bed (chastely separated from Ozzie’s by a good ten feet of invisible Berlin Wall) yank that perfectly pleated rayon skirt over her head and charge in howling where screenwriters fear to tread.
"But Ozzie! Ozzie?? . . OH! AH!! . . oh . . . oh ozzie . . . "
I ask myself, where does this come from? This odd fetish with the idealized 50s woman? Is it some Freudian thing, something to do with my mom?
Here’s what I know so far:
I am a mammal.
The natural world is ordered is such a way that as a general thing male mammals are the Fuckers and female mammals are the Fuckees. The Fuckers compete for the choicest Fuckees available. The females of the herd may or may not have anything to say about it. In that last point flows all the beautiful and truly horrible variations lust and love gives rise to here on God’s foot stool, all of which at one time or another have been on display in romantic fiction.
Men are in one way or another afraid of women. We are afraid of the power women have to bust our balls. They are the Goddesses of pleasure who guard the gates of transcendent ecstasy. They have to power to swell our vanity, or humiliate and betray. When you’re young and unsure, they have the power to affirm or destroy the way you see yourself and part of a man’s journey to owning his maleness is his struggle to free himself of that power. Somehow. This gives rise to a distinct and subtle power war between the sexes.
There has been an ongoing struggle between the men and women to keep each other under control in the way that passion is given or withheld. The males want to know at all times that they are the sole fathers of their children, and have loved, married, bribed, sold, served, wooed, whipped and mutilated the custodians of their DNA , put the fear of God in them and in some places made them go through life with a bag over their heads to keep other males away. Women have loved, wept over, seduced, nurtured, nursed, abused, berated, avenged, castrated and cuckolded the males in their life in return. Above all they have tried by any means sweet and bitter to keep the good men close to the nest. It’s the most ancient and universal of all bargains, going back to the dawn of our species, and not just our species but many others as well. The Fucker brings home the fresh meat, and lays his life on the line to protect the Fuckee and her offspring from all dangers. In return, the Fuckee, possibly several Fuckees, attends his wounds obtained in her service, flatters his ego, gasps with admiration at his gruff tales of derring-do and bestows on him a world of wet sticky pleasures.
“. . . oh . . . harriet. . that feels so damn . . .“
That’s when the deal is working. Whether it works or not depends on what defines a manly man and what defines a womanly woman.
When I lived in the Caribbean, my impression was that in that part of the world Manliness was defined for men by other men. As it turns out this was disastrous. A Macho Man, was that man who had a small but dependable harem of Fuckees, do-able on demand. This has resulted in a large population of fatherless boys and tough angry women. Macho Men spent money on personal adornment and status symbols. They hung out with other men as a rule. Hanging around with a woman was regarded as a sign of being pussy whipped. It was the men they were trying to impress. In the orient it was similar. Men did not generally look to women for emotional intimacy and companionship. Women you fuck. Wives you fuck to have children, preferably sons. Mistresses you fuck for fun. Men are who you share your feelings with, usually when drunk. Marriage was often about practical matters such as property, family and the ability to bring home the meat.
Although the cultural landscape has diversified a great deal as I’ve gotten older, in the more WASPy America of the 50s and 60s, the standard of Manliness was clearly defined for men by women. Think about it. This makes a huge difference. An American ’s Man - from my parents generation - was that stoic, confident, hard working Joe, who held down his job at the factory, carried his lunch to work and played by the rules. After work he might toss down a brew in the bar with the boys to blow off steam and cuss and brag a bit. He fished with the boys. He hunted with the boys. But afterwards he went home. You could count on it. He brought his paycheck home too and spent that check on his family. He might even just turn it over to his wife out of hand. The ideal man attended dinner, counseled his children, ruled the roost, and in return demanded respect. Though on a small scale, it was leadership and it was the kind of manly leadership that enabled women to feel like women. Men like women who make them feel like men. Women like men who make them feel like women. That’s the magic, the rest is in the details. Times have changed, in some ways for the better especially for women. But also a lot of the magic has been lost.
I feel sorry in some ways for boys today while at the same time envying them. They live in the age of Crazy Pussy. Easy sex is all around a young man like low hanging fruit. But I remember that first time for me after a long journey of courtship and friendship, in the dark with my girl, that moment when I suddenly realized It Was Going to Happen. Watching her climb to the back seat. She kept asking - do you think we should? I don't know, do you think we should? She pulled her t-shirt over her head and there was that intense moment of unbearable physical intimacy, of nudity, that moment of revelation. Watching her undress. Seeing her recline and wait to see what I would do. The thrill of seeing a girl’s bared chest for the very first time - how utterly alien and mysterious. Of feeling so ridiculous, so terrified and exhilarated by the mystery of what was being revealed to me and what was demanded of me in return. How bizarre and inexpressibly holy that moment was. It was the feeling of being in the presence of a natural event, sacred, huge and powerful; looking out your window and seeing a tornado funnel coming towards you on the horizon. The girl in the dark. Laying down. Looking at me from the shadows and waiting to see what would happen next. I've tried and failed so many times to capture that feeling I had in that delirious moment and put it in a story. The truly sacred things can't be written. They elude you no matter how hard you try to put them into words. I don’t think young men get to have that feeling anymore when it’s all so loveless and easy.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
A topic near and dear to my heart this week and unfortunately, it's my last post as a member of the OGG family. Life has tossed a few stumbling blocks under my feet and I've had to trim my obligations. I shall miss you all and hope to visit often. You're fantastic people here, readers and authors both. Thank you!
Now, on to femdom and some of it's most amazing aspects.
As some of you may know, I began my writing career writing femdom. I've been scribbling stories about how women control men for years and have always felt very comfortable telling their stories, as well as the stories of their men. There are so many scenarios to play with here. School teacher/student, Mistress/slave, Mistress/pony, naughty neighbor/infuriated woman next door, wanna be toy/for hire Dominatrix, spaceship captain/humble slave from the ships hold, to name just a few.
I adore strong women and get very annoyed when I see those movies where the simpering young fem squeals prettily while a knife wielding man threatens her. The gun laying on the table beside her is forgotten. The dumbass woman simply waits for the hero to save her.
Grab the gun lady and blow the guys head off. Yes!
I mean for crying out loud. Would you just cringe and scream? I mean, really? I may not grab the gun, you never know that one until it happens, but I'd be doing more than squealing prettily, that's for sure.
Being in control. That's what femdom is, and for that matter it's also what male domination is. Whether it's taking control, or being offered it by the submissive, it's still having the ability to control not only yourself, but the knowledge and ability to control the other person. Sounds kind of bothersome, doesn't it?
Nah. It's fun. I'll toss in a couple of samples here. Remember, the men in my stories are willing/eager victims, and that's huge.
He knew the voice; it was hers. The husky whisper was a huge turn on for him, and she knew it. He'd told her often enough. He tried to turn and look at her but couldn't swing his head far enough. "I thought this was just going to be an interview, a first meeting, not the real thing." Even to his own ears, it sounded lame. Her laughter came as no surprise.
"No, this is it, sweetheart. The real thing."
He heard the tapping of her shoes behind him, pacing back and forth. They halted, directly behind him.
"You paid good money for this, and I have the time now. So relax."
The way she said it made him feel anything but relaxed. He struggled against the rubber holding him tightly to the wall. Even the wall seemed to be well padded, nothing bruised. He was naked inside the suit, of that he was sure. Embarrassment sent a shiver through him. "But, I…uh…I'm not sure I'm ready." Again, a lame confession, and one he wasn't sure was true.
"I am." She stepped closer.
The puff of air against his cheek wafted across his nose. He was sure it was her breast pressinf against his back. At least, he wanted to believe it was. His cock throbbed. He gasped. It was free! Somehow, whoever had bound him had left his cock and balls exposed to the open air. Heart racing, his mouth went dry. Tentatively, he flexed his abdominal muscles and felt his cock sway. Her hands on his back forced his attention away from his groin. They moved along his spine, the material so thin, so tactile friendly, he felt every touch of her fingers from high up between his shoulder blades to just above the crack of his ass. She tested and tugged at the buckles that, no doubt, held him firmly in place.
"W-what are you going to do to me?" he asked, afraid of the answer, praying she'd do what they'd discussed—wondered if she knew the rest. Thoughts in turmoil, he closed his eyes and heard his heart beating while he waited for her to reply.
"I'm going to do exactly what I want to do to you."
Yum! There's no beating or torture, the man even though he's been bound and couldn't get away if he wanted to, is very turned on. That's the lady's idea of fun. His too, big time. Of course in Vertical Tease, the fellow actually sought out the woman and paid for her services, that's not always the case. I would dare say, it's not what happens most of the time. I would actually hope that for most men, and women, this is something done in a loving relationship. Something they've talked about a great deal and agreed upon.
As in any relationship, communications is important thing. While any long term pairing takes work and talk, it's even more important if one partner is going to take control of the other. You have to know how far the submissive partner wants to go, or is willing to go. You have to make sure you don't do something that could harm the other. The submissive partner has to know, deep down, he or she can trust their partner to stop immediately if they're not happy with what's going on, or if there's more pain than they're able or willing to take. Whatever. Trust and talking, HUGE!! Without it, the scene could be classed as abuse, and has been on many occasions. And I don't want to even go there. Talk or just don't do it.
I also believe, and this is just MY opinion, that men and women have different reasons for wanting to both dominate and/or submit to another. Men are raised to be in control of themselves and everything around them. From the few submissive men I've spoken to, they crave a time when they can completely let that go. They want to relinquish their power and responsibility to someone else. They may not want it to be in any other way but sexual, but sometimes it can be more.
Women, on the other hand, have been raised to submit, to some extent. Not so much now, but there is still that hint of it in our child rearing. Women are accustomed to it, and some fight it, while others may embrace it. They feel right when submitting, they can relinquish any responsibility of sexual excitement, after all, nice girls still aren't supposed to like sex in some cases. If they are forced to climax, it's not their fault.
I've got to assume this has something to do with at least some of the submissives. I'm not going to assume I've got all the answers, or even most of them. These just feel right to me. I'm also going to assume there are more reasons or explanations than just those. I'm also going to assume, that being either dominant or submissive is something like being gay or lesbian. You don't choose it, it's part of who you are.
Gasp... felt like I was teaching class again. Mr. Lister, I believe that'd be your job.
Now for a sexy young couple who really enjoy their time together. They've talked about adding a friend to their play, but little did Rick realize, today was the day and OMG it's her!
"I want you to have a shower now, and make sure you're shaved." Cass flicked the tip of his erection with a finger, and laughed when it twitched from side to side. His scrotum puckered, and his balls itched even more. "But, make sure you don't masturbate. I'll pop in sometime during your shower to watch. If I catch you playing with yourself, you'll get both a flogging and be denied an orgasm."
"Yes, Mistress," he'd replied.
Cass got to her feet, and added, "On your feet, but keep your legs apart."
Rick had climbed to his feet. He'd curled his fingers into fists to keep them away from his crotch. The frustration mounted even higher when he'd made his way to the bathroom. His genitals swayed, the air wafted around his balls.
He'd showered and shaved, paying special attention to his genitals. Even just being able to touch and pull at the skin eased his torment somewhat. Not enough though, and by the time he'd finished, he was as horny as he could ever remember being. The anticipation of what was going to happen was the culprit, and he tried not to think about what Cass had planned. But the more he tried to concentrate on something else, the more his mind refused, and came back to the days ahead.
Cass had come in, and sat on the toilet watching him as he shaved the stubble around the root of his cock. Running the safety blade over his balls, he'd pulled and stretched the skin, ensuring a clean shave. She chuckled when he groaned, and even offered to help him with his bottom. He'd turned off the shower, re-lathered and bent forward for her, and tried desperately to hold still while she ran the blade carefully between his cheeks. Done, she'd left him trembling and told him to make sure he rinsed well.
While he stood toweling himself, he'd heard the doorbell chime. His stomach tightened. Could he go through with it?
The bathroom door had opened. It was Cass, smiling, eager. "Now is your last chance to stop this. Once I take you out of here, you'll obey me or be punished."
His mind had been numb. Excitement and apprehension warred for a moment while he stood trembling on the white tiled floor. "Kiss me," he'd croaked. For that moment he'd felt vulnerable and alone, but when she came into his arms, his world felt complete and wonderful. She washis soul mate, his lady, and the only person in the world who understood him. She went into his arms, hers wrapping around his neck and pulling his lips to hers. It was his turn to take control, if only for a few moments of sheer bliss. Bodies melded to each other, tongues twined around the others, and breath mingled as they lost themselves in each other. Too soon the kiss ended. Neither moved for the longest time, but then it was as if a signal had been given.
Rick looked deep into his lady's eyes, and said, "Yes, I'm ready, Mistress."
Cass pulled out of his arms and took a deep breath. The bodice of her slip dress showed how erect her nipples were, and her chest above the silk dappled with a flush. "Heel me," she'd said, and turning, left the bathroom.
© 2002 Jude Mason
"What would you like, pet?" I asked, standing at his side. My hand, on his naked upturned ass, felt the heat of our last hour's session.
"More - please," he moaned, squirming, trying to rub his straining cock against something, anything.
"More?" I quipped, knowing.
"Spank me!" he growled. I watched his testicles pull in tight. A finger meandered around them, then upwards to his crinkled brown star, pressing mischievously inside. "Yes… Oh God, fuck me."
"Fuck or spank?"
Lustful indecision made him hesitate.
"I'll be back in an hour for your choice." I shut the door and heard him howl.
As you can see, this really is a topic I could go on about for days. I'll refrain and just say, different strokes for different folks. Just because your neighbor might like to have his butt warmed by his wife, doesn't mean he's odd. He's no more odd than the man who likes to wear his wife's panties or the woman who can't get off unless the lights are turned off. We all have our kinks. As long as you're talking and not doing something to harm each other, in my books, it's all good. Even a well warmed bum is a good thing, if that's what you enjoy. Try it, you might find you like it. Honest!
An Acquired Taste
Ritual and Ceremony
A Fantasy Appointment
Yeah, an unabashed plug, but hey, it's my last post, so I'm being bad.
It's been a blast and I will be back to comment often, so you won't lose me entirely. Good luck and best wishes to you all. If you'd like to keep up with me, here are my links:
*Jude Mason – Readers needed: Come, explore with me…if you dare*