Wednesday, February 27, 2019

The Lure of Limits, the Temptation of Taboos

Sacchi Green

What would we do without limits?

I don’t mean physical limits, although many breaching of the limits set by social and religious and legal factions do involve sex, which is about as physical as anything we do or imagine. Tangible limits like cliffs and iron bars, though, are not the kinds of limits I’m contemplating, even though they may be challenges for some hang gliding or rock climbing adventurers. Lovelace’s “stone walls do not a prison make” is all very well in terms of the spirit, but iron bars do make a jail for the unwilling body.

Come to think of it, I do mean some physical limits, as well as spiritual and, of course, sexual. Those iron bars in other, consensual circumstances, can represent domination and submission that often includes a spiritual element, but sometimes also gains much of its savor from the thrill of transgressing societal limits, taboos, mores, whatever we want to call them. Would we be bored without any societal limits on sexual behavior?

The limits do shift over time, sometimes in one direction, sometimes in the other. On the whole, sexual freedom has advanced over the centuries, but still with fluctuations, and still within limits, although those limits change position frequently. They also depend on the particular beliefs and customs and tastes of many different cultures, and factions within those cultures, even within families. Some people are disposed to cling to the perceived safety of limits, while some get off on the power trip of being the ones who enforce them. But lurking within most of us is a feeling that pushing the limits, breaking the taboos, could make the pleasures of sex even more intense, and knowing that you’re being transgressive is the most fun of all.

These days the more we have, the more we want, and the more we crave ever more sensations out of what we get. This applies to various things—experimenting with food, searching out kinds of music and new forms of art only the newest generation can tolerate, and sex that we want to make go beyond anything permitted, stretching limits, achieving new peaks of pleasure. Sometimes, in my aging and cranky opinion, even beyond sex. Some forms of kink seem to me to have only a tenuous connection to sex, but that’s neither here nor there.

Wherever we set the limits, I’m not sure that we do have more fun. Maybe we do, maybe we don’t. “In olden days, a glimpse of stocking/was looked on as something shocking,/now heaven knows,/anything goes./” Were those glimpses of stocking  as titillating turn-ons to the viewer as skimpy bikinis are now? I think of Leopold Bloom in Joyce’s Ulysses getting off quite happily by watching a girl in a park deliberately raise her skirt to show her underwear. The limits as to what was shocking, forbidden, were very different then, but the fun may have been as keen. Or maybe not. There’s no way to measure.

What isn’t fun these days is the rather sudden swing the idea of limits has taken with the revelations of sexual harassment of so many women and even children. Men have always benefitted most from pushing limits, and used their positions of power to force themselves on women. It’s good that these matters are being discussed, and the rights of women upheld, but it’s also confusing when it comes to what the limits should be and where the lines are drawn.

We writers of erotica are as confused as anyone else, and more affected than most. Erotica, which already had a pretty much transgressive reputation, is now being actively shunned in many areas where we depend on selling our work. There’s still a market for what’s considered taboo, although the audience is narrowing. Consensual sex is being tentatively accepted, but the nuances of desire for fictional dub-con (dubious consent) or even non-con have been pretty much driven underground, or maybe they always have been. That’s not my circus, so I can’t say for sure, but I’ve known people for whom the verge of non-con really seemed to be necessary for fulfillment.

I have to admit that I have only a relatively vague notion of taboos. For example, I don’t understand why sex between step-siblings or step-parents/step-children is apparently a popular fetish in fiction. Other than the power differential between the parent and child, which makes consent complicated, what makes it all sexier than other couplings? Imagining that it’s actually a blood relationship? I assume the original incest taboo was because our ancestors noticed the genetic problems with offspring in some of such cases and assumed the gods were forbidding it, although the ruling families of Egypt didn’t seem to get the message. Many, probably most, taboos had a logical origin in the past. Patriarchy certainly played a role in keeping women repressed so men could be sure their children were really their own. But with step-siblings the genetic problems would be no greater than with any other pairing, so why the excitement?

Enough of my only semi-informed rambling. My usual niche in erotica has always been rather tenuous; many if not most of the lesbians who like to read and actually buy books are not fans of explicit sex in fiction. Admittedly there’s plenty of such sex out there that I’m not a fan of, either, but as an anthology editor I get to see the work of really good writers who can tell stories where sex is essential and clearly on view. Not only that, they can push the limits of what’s been done too often, what’s too hackneyed or formulaic, and create work as original and gripping as any in other literary form.

Well, there’s nothing as sure as change. Erotica will survive, and thrive, in one form or another. And once this current necessary moving of the goalposts backward is ready to shift again toward sexual freedom, those more restrictive limits will be easy to breach, because we’ve already been there.  

Sunday, February 24, 2019

Take It To the Limit

By Tim Smith

The topic Pushing Limits reminds me of something I heard once upon a time—“The things you regret are the risks you don’t take.” I wish I could credit that bit of wisdom to a great philosopher but the truth is, I heard it in the movie “Grumpy Old Men,” spoken by Ann-Margaret. It seemed like good advice and it stuck with me.

As writers, we’re obligated to take chances and push boundaries. Some of us pushed our limits simply by finishing that first book and getting it published. That’s not as easy as some people seem to think. It requires a lot of commitment and hard work. And that’s just the creative part. Once you decide to make writing a career, you really have to push your personal limits with regards to promotion and marketing. Some of us also push the limits of our bank accounts.

I like to try new things with my writing. I become bored easily and if I didn’t flex my creative muscles, that malaise would find its way into my stories. It also keeps readers on their toes. With one of my early books, “The Vendetta Factor” (Nick Seven series), I went retro by using chapter titles. Since it was an old-style pulp fiction crime thriller, it seemed like a good fit. One of my romantic comedies, “Anywhere the Heart Goes,” took the title thing one step further. I began each chapter with a quote about love and relationships, to set the mood. Some of them were quite funny, while others were more poignant.

When I wrote the Vic Fallon mystery “Lido Key,” I pushed my limits with some of the sex I depicted. It fit with the characters and plot, so I figured “Why not?” I made the female lead bisexual, enjoying a relationship with her cute housekeeper, and both of them are attracted to the hero. Naturally that scenario called for a threesome in a hot tub. I didn’t receive any complaints from those who read it, so I’m assuming I got it right.

Characters are another way I push limits. I like creating personalities that are unique and a bit off the wall. This makes them step out of the page and come to life. I constantly study people and make note of their fashion statements, physical characteristics and speech patterns. This has gotten me into trouble on occasion, when someone is convinced that I based a character on them or a mutual acquaintance. This is patently false, because I’m careful not to clone someone I know. They’re all composites, and what people want to read into it beyond that is up to them.

I really like to push limits when I give interviews. I have a lot of fun when I can be outrageous with my responses. It plays into something I learned a long time ago—any publicity can be good publicity, especially if it gets people talking about you. As proof, search the name Kardashian and see what pops up. During a live podcast interview, the hostess suggested that the book I was pushing would be great for Oprah Winfrey’s book club. I stated that I wasn’t interested in that because I didn’t think Oprah and her audience would understand or appreciate it. A long silence followed while she pondered the future of her program.

The biggest limit pusher for me resulted in my becoming a published author in the first place. I had recently gotten out of a bad marriage, where most anything I wanted to pursue was shot down. I was at loose ends and restless, and I recalled an idea I had for a story I had always wanted to write. I challenged myself to either write the damn thing or stop talking about it. The result was the first in my popular Nick Seven spy series, “Memories Die Last,” which continues to sell nearly 18 years later and has cultivated a nice fan base.      

One of my erotic short stories has the male lead getting involved with a transgender escort in Key West. This one hasn’t been published yet, because I haven’t gotten up the nerve to release it under my own name. It isn’t that I shy away from controversy, but all of my books so far have been categorized as straight erotic romance. Perhaps I’m not ready to push that boundary yet.

Saturday, February 23, 2019

Sex, Fitness and Reality TV

In TrainingBeing cajoled, browbeaten, and bullied into getting fit has always been one of the unusual story themes that keeps recurring somewhere deep in my unconscious. In fact, my very first trunk novel from the days when I was fresh out of uni working a dead-end job, and fantasising about doing a marathon was just such a tale. It's a Pygmalion story of sorts. Lots of my stories come back to mythology. Strangely enough, or maybe not, the title of that novel was also In Training. In it the hero did, indeed, bet a colleague that he can train anyone, no matter how unfit, to finish a triathlon. Not very original, I know. That's why it's a trunk novel. But add a little reality TV and a challenging fell run in the English Lake District, along with lots of angry sex and sweaty rendezvous, and oh what fun it was to tackle that archetype afresh. 

In Training was originally a part of a series of novellas called British Bad Boys, now re-released it as a stand-alone.

In Training Blurb
Getting fit on reality TV is PR guru, Lauren Michaels’, brainchild for gym equipment and fitness company Physicality, Inc. The brilliant PR stunt involves one brave volunteer who wants to be fit badly enough to submit to the not so tender training techniques of personal trainer, Wolf Jennings, whose successful, but non-conventional, methods would make a drill sergeant look like a fluff ball. But when CEO and owner of Physicality, Inc., Claire Amos, decides her PR ace in the hole needs to walk the walk, Lauren finds herself between a kettle bell and a hard place… er, a hard trainer. That’s nightmare enough, but for six weeks, 24/7, the explosive chemistry between the two will be sweated out live on camera for the whole world to see. What could possibly go wrong?
In Training Excerpt
Claire’s phone blared out Flight of the Valkyries over Jennings’ barked instructions to his tortured clients. “Speaking of the devil,” she said, nodding to Jennings’ arse on the screen as she answered her device. “Wolf, darling! Lauren and I were just talking about you. Watching your lovely video, actually. On our way over.” She winked at Lauren, whose stomach suddenly felt like it was in freefall. “Here, sweetie, let me put you on speaker so I can introduce you two,” she said just as the Wolf Jennings on the screen yelled for his people to clench those glutes and zip those abs.
And suddenly it was like that slow-motion scene in a horror film, just before the pretty young innocent is shredded by Freddy Krueger or pursued by the monster from the fetid swamp. Wolf Jennings turned to gaze at the camera from beneath hooded eyelids that revealed familiar blue eyes. He offered a smile that was damn near erotic. Then he said in a very northern accent, “If you do your part, I guarantee I’ll get you there.”
As the clip ended and Misty and Del were once again on camera, Lauren sat frozen to the spot, just like all those poor women in the films. She didn’t scream, though she felt like it. Instead she managed in a shaky voice, “I can’t work with him.”
“I can’t work with her.” The response on the other end of the phone was simultaneous. The familiar voice was honey and heat and frustration. Then he continued, sounding at least as breathless as he had on his video, as he had when he got up close and personal with her in the garden behind the pub. “There’s been some mistake, Claire. I can’t work with her. We can’t work together.”
The smile on her boss’s face slipped just a fraction. “Why ever not, Wolf? You two are perfect together. Not only is Lauren comfortable on camera, but she’s horribly unfit.” Before either of them could respond, she continued, “I need my PR ace in the hole fighting fit, and right now I doubt if she could fight her way out of a paper bag.”
“Oh, yes, I could.” Fuck, Lauren sounded like a kid at the Christmas pantomime.
“Didn’t look like you could on the stairs,” Claire responded. She turned her attention back to Jennings. “Obese couch potatoes or under-muscled, out-of-shape career women, unfit is unfit, Wolf.”
“I’m not really that unfit.” Lauren barely got the words out before they both said in unison,
“Yes you are.”
A part of her wanted to crawl under the seat in her embarrassment while the other part wanted to punch Wolf Jennings right in his smug gob. Instead she snarled between her teeth, “You lied to me, Jennings.”
“I lied to you?” His voice became a hushed growl. “How do you figure that? If anything, you lied to me.”
“As I recall you’re the one who sat down right next to me and wheedled your way in. I didn’t ask for your company.” She leaned closer to Claire’s iPhone, which the woman obligingly held up for her, with a bemused shrug. “I didn’t even know who the hell you were, or you’d have been wearing your Sneck Lifter.”
“Did you two have sex?” Claire Amos seldom pulled punches.
“We didn’t,” Lauren said.
“We would have,” Wolf said.
“Would not,” she responded.
“Oh, and that’s why you grabbed for the condom, was it? You couldn’t even wait to get to a room.”
“You had me pushed up against the garden wall. I wouldn’t have come near you if I’d known that you were Wolf fucking Jennings.” She grabbed Claire’s phone away and all but yelled into it. “Look, I don’t want to be here anymore than you want me to. I’m not one of your fucking gym bunnies.”
“Clearly,” he spat back.
Lauren felt the chill of doom crawl up her spine as Claire took the phone from her hand. The smile on her face was back, this time with a good dose of scheming behind it. “Let me get this straight, the two of you ran into each other in a pub?”
“And one thing led to another and you got touchy-feely.”
“Mind telling me why you didn’t do the deed?”
“You sent me the fucking file with Lauren Michaels’ image front and centre,” Jennings managed. Even on the phone, Lauren could tell he was struggling as much for control as she was. “I don’t sleep with my clients.”
“Well you must not have been too into each other if you let a little text file stop the action.”
“I didn’t check it intentionally.” He sounded offended. “The phone fell out of my jacket and the message popped up with Lauren’s name and photo.”
Claire actually giggled. “I won’t even ask which of your explosive cardio moves you were trying on Lauren that made your phone fall out of your pocket.”

Thursday, February 21, 2019

Banned Books #AgePlay #Taboo #Erotica, a post by @GiselleRenarde
Quality erotica can be hard to find—especially now that many booksellers are banning adult fiction they deem obscene. The Banned Books Box Set showcases three censored stories in which consenting adults explore ageplay and taboo sex.

I wrote that book blurb in 2013, when I released the Banned Books Box Set. It was true then. It's even truer now.

When I released that book at Amazon, I decided not to take any chances. Rather than calling it Banned Books Box Set, I called it Pushing Boundaries--which is what brought it to mind today.

Before setting out to write this post, I opened the document where I keep all my metadata and buy links for the book. When I pulled up the Amazon link, guess what?

My Banned Books Box Set had been... banned.

I'm not exactly surprised. I guess I'm more surprised I didn't know. This has been the trend with other retailers, but Amazon usually tells you when you've been naughty. A lot of other ebook stores just quietly remove your evil erotica and hope you never notice.

What's in this book that's so ban-worthy? Three things I'd written that had been banned when they were first released. The first is a lesbian sleep sex story called "Stripping My Son’s Sleeping Girlfriend." Banned for its name, its content, and the nudity on its cover.

The second is a taboo novella by Lexi Wood called "Dance for Daddy, Salome!" It's gone by other names, too. "Dance, Salome, Dance!" is one, I think. I've lost track, but it's a book set in the 70s, about a dirty-dancing girl who first sleeps with her stepbrother, and then with her stepfather. I'm pretty sure I stole the plot from the Bible, but who remembers?

Number three is the book I can't forget. It's "Nanny State," one of my absolute favourites. Lesbian landlady/college girl(s) D/s, ageplay, ABDL, all sorts. That is one DIRTY book, but, to me, its contents never seemed terribly taboo. Maybe I'm just massively fucked up--in fact, I know I am--but any sex that happens between consenting adults doesn't seem all that awful. Even if one of them's dressed up in diapers. Even if they spank each other in schoolgirl uniforms.

A couple weeks ago, I reached out to a new distributor to ask them about their limitations around adult content. I'd rather know their rules from the outset than accidentally break them and get dinged for it after the upload.

Anyway, I was surprised to see ageplay and ABDL on their list of topics your work can't contain if you're distributing books through them. I guess my Banned Books Box Set won't be heading their way.

I just found it kind of sad, because Nanny State is kind of my masterpiece of nastiness. Poor little Nanny State. Poor little banned books. So much dirty smut the reading public of the future may never get to see.

Wednesday, February 20, 2019

Seduced By My Best Friend's Dad -- A Dirty Excerpt (#taboogaysex #gayerotica)

Given this month's theme of "pushing limits", I thought it appropriate to dig up my most limit-pushing novella -- and, perhaps unsurprisingly, one of my most popular. Readers love seeing those limits get pushed.

Seduced By My Best Friend's Dad

Jay has a crush on Richard, his best friend's dad. Richard is older, very masculine, cares about Jay, and is extremely sexy. There are just the problems of Richard being straight, married, and the father of Jay’s life-long best friend.

When Richard takes his son and Jay on a camping trip to celebrate turning eighteen, becoming men, and taking their first steps into the adult world, Jay struggles to contain his lust. Hitting on Richard would ruin the camping trip and destroy his friendship.

But when his friend takes ill and Jay and Richard enjoy some bonding time alone, it becomes clear that Jay isn't the only one in the thrall of forbidden desires. A relaxing camping trip soon turns into a series of sweaty, erotic encounters, as Jay and Richard stoke this fire burning between them.


In this scene, about a third of the way into the book, Jay is hiking up a forested hill with Richard -- they're alone, as Jay's friend has taken ill and is sleeping it off in the tent. At the crest of the hill, they sit for some water and sunshine, but soon Richard's leg muscles start cramping from the hike. The erotic tension between the two men has been crackling between them like bolts of lightning -- and it only gets more intense when Richard asks Jay to massage his legs. When Jay gets on his knees in front of his best friend's dad, he discovers that the older man isn't wearing any underwear under those shorts.

Still not breaking eye contact with Richard, Jay willed his fingers back to life, massaging Richard’s upper thigh. With every squeeze of his fingers, he moved his hand half an inch closer to that patch of ball skin. With every passing moment, he felt the tension build in both of them, like he was waiting for Richard to call him a pervert or Richard was waiting for Jay to burst out laughing at the prank. But then his fingertips brushed against that warm, soft, wrinkled, hairy skin, and the tension deflated from both of them.

“Jay...” Richard said, his voice a mere whisper. It was filled with lust and need, happiness and contentment. He wanted this — needed this.

Jay brushed the skin, rubbing his fingers back and forth, then carefully worked his hand under Richard’s shorts and boxers. Soon he had one meaty ball rolling between his fingers. It was almost plum-sized, firm and round. He squeezed the ball lightly, tugged it gently, and Richard let out a low moan, falling back on his elbows on the rock, head cast back. Jay eased his other hand in the other pant leg and grabbed Richard’s other ball, giving it the same massage treatment. He rubbed both balls, smoothing out the skin, holding them firm in his grasp. The long bulge in the middle of the pile of fabric at Richard’s crotch twitched.

Shifting to grasp both balls in one hand, Jay slid his fingers reverently up the length of Richard’s cock, watching the man’s face for any reaction that this was going too far. But Richard was too far gone, too lost in the heat of the moment to ever say no — Jay knew he had Richard, that the man was putty in his hands, but that he had willingly and knowingly put himself there.

He still didn’t understand it — Richard was straight and married and the very fact that Jay was his son’s best friend should have put up some immediate boundaries, placed him off limits. But those boundaries were obviously being ignored. The almost father-son relationship they’d developed over the years also wasn’t a boundary that could stop them. If anything, that closeness only added to the intimacy of the moment. Jay was giving pleasure to the man he’d looked up to all these years.

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

Monday, February 18, 2019

Do something every day that scares you (but not if you value your sanity)

Motivational coaches, always full of good advice, by definition, are fond of telling us to ‘do something every day that scares you.’

I used to do a bit of motivational stuff myself (more on that later), but I’m not especially keen on too much flirting with danger. We’re not all cut out to deal with stress in a positive way, and repeatedly shoving yourself out of your comfort zone for no better reason than to ‘be your better self’ - whatever that might be - seems foolhardy and a waste of good worry-power to me. There’s quite enough real stress out there. We don’t need to go inventing more.

But, there can be powerful learning in this. It was a part of my job., at one time, to offer training to professional managers whose roles involved getting their teams or clients to alter their behaviour in some way. In this particular instance the goal was to improve the efforts of job-seekers to go out and find work, and one particular manager was convinced that this was a perfectly reasonable thing to expect and she could see no reason why fit and able-bodied folk didn’t just go and  do it. They had no cause to be reticent, and no reason to lack confidence. Jobs were there to be had, she knew that. She had lists and lists of vacancies on her computer. People were just stubborn. Or lazy. Or not trying.

The thing is, though, if you don’t have paid work, and never have, and if no one in your family does, either - your parents, older siblings, neighbours, it is genuinely very difficult to imagine yourself in any other situation. Unemployment spans generations, whole families are workless and stay that way. It becomes normal, the culture. It’s their comfort zone whether they like it or not. Unemployment may  not be pleasant, and poverty lurks around every corner, but at least every day is much the same, and it’s the devil you know.

It’s ingrained into us not to long for that which we don’t believe we can have,  never to aspire to that which we do not in our heart of hearts believe we can ever achieve. The disappointment would be too cruel.

There are occasional exceptions, people who despite all the odds step outside their reality, overcome awesome barriers, and find greatness. I’m thinking of the likes of Rosa Parkes, Stephen Hawking, holocaust survivors – but such individuals are rare indeed.

It’s a sort of defence mechanism or we’d make ourselves too unhappy. We have to cope with our reality and dreaming big in a hopeless situation is not the way it’s done for most. If I don’t believe that people like me can find a decent job and keep it, then I don’t let myself get sucked into that world. It’s just too terrifying.

But my JobCentre manager client was having none of that. She just didn’t see it. So, we played a little game. I split the group into teams of four and gave each of them a card with the name of a famous singer on. Their task, to select a song by that singer, one of their own choosing,  a favourite that they all knew. They were asked to have a little practice over the coffee break, then return to the afternoon session ready and rehearsed to perform that song to the rest of us.

Pretty much everyone cringed and went pale. I wondered is someone might actually throw up.

Sing? To an audience? Me? I work in  a JobCentre, I’m not a performer. I can’t sing!

Still, these were hardy souls and they reassembled half an hour later, shuffling and nervous, ashen even, but ready to have a go. After all, they were on wages, this was a serious training course, they had to do as they were told. The British Civil Service is like that.

Well, most of them are. My main target was no where to be seen. She’d taken a call from Somewhere Very Important and had to leave early. In short, she’d done a runner.

Of course, I had no expectation of listening to songs and quickly put them out of their misery. The relief was palpable. But for that wretched half hour that the trainees believed they had this coming, they experienced the genuine terror of being thrust unceremoniously out of their comfort zones, the same terror they inflicted on their clients daily. And now, knowing how it felt, they might empathise more and be ready to work with the people they were employed to help on ways of pushing those limits more kindly. And ultimately, I would hope, with more success.

I like to think it worked for some. Others, well not so sure.

Sunday, February 17, 2019

Limits: A Love Story – #bloodsports #bdsm #limits

D&S Duos Book 1 cover

By Lisabet Sarai

Since I talked about my cutting story earlier this month, I thought I’d share a bit of it today.

I’ve no experience with knives or blood play. I’d probably totally freak out in the real world if someone proposed to draw blood as part of a BDSM scene. Or maybe I wouldn’t. Blood has powerful symbolic and emotional resonances (as illustrated by the popularity of vampire erotica). We talk about blood bonds, the strongest connection possible between two souls. Given my attraction to the psychological side of BDSM – trust, surrender, communion – maybe I would offer myself to my Master’s blade.

Anyway, I’ve imagined this in “Limits: A Love Story”.

* * *

All our firsts parade through my imagination, an escalating frenzy of sadomasochist indulgence. The first time he fucked my ass (during our very first sexual encounter, but after a long and filthy epistolary courtship). The first time he whipped me. The first caning, first fisting, fire play, golden shower. In our years together, we've demolished one limit after another, only to move on to the next.

I know he cherishes me, that my willingness to explore and experiment delights him. When I surrender, the assurance that I've pleased him brings me far more fulfillment than any physical release he might graciously provide. Now I wonder though, whether I've been topping from below all along.

Perusing his serious face, noting the way his lips press together and his brows knit in tension, I'm suddenly convinced that this is all wrong. I'm pushing him way beyond his comfort zone with my implicit demands for ever more extreme submission.

"I'm sorry," I mutter. "Forgive me, Master."

"What? What are you talking about?" He grips my shoulder, leaning forward, cruel fingers digging into my naked flesh. The slight pain does not distract me from my misery. "I told you, Becca, it's your choice. You can stop this now. You don't have to apologize."

"No, no, you don't understand." My eyes itch as tears well up. Trussed up as I am, I can't stop one from spilling down the side of my nose. "I don't want to stop. But I think you do."

He stares at me for a long instant, confused, before bursting into laughter. "You think I want to stop this?"

I nod, swallowing a sob.

"You believe I don't want to carve my initials into your flesh? Mark you permanently, so that everyone will know you're mine? You think I don't have the guts?" He rises to his feet, towering above me. For a moment I expect a slap in the face. A wave of lust crests and drowns me. I squirm in my chair, struggling for control, feeling the straps tighten around my limbs.

"No, no, it's not like that, Master...I'm sorry...but I've been the one...I'm never satisfied, it seems, always wanting to go one step further, to try something more...."

"More intense." He finishes my sentence for me. "More dangerous. Something that requires even more trust."

"I shouldn't be so greedy, so selfish. You're my Master. You should decide how far we go, and how fast. What I want – it shouldn't matter."

"Ah, but it does matter to me, little one." He strokes my hair, working out the tangles. His gentle touch floods me with a sense of well-being. "I love your kinky mind, Becca, as much as your lush body. I love pushing you – seeing how far you'll go, for me. Discovering the depths to which you'll sink if I ask."

* * *

If you’re curious to read more, this story is one of two in my book D&S Duos Book 1:

Kinky Literature

Amazon US

Amazon UK

Barnes & Noble


iTunes US


Saturday, February 16, 2019

Where Are the Limits?

by Jean Roberta

Thinking of going beyond limits, I had some thoughts about this post several days ago, but life got in the way, so I’m late again. I hope I’m not trespassing on someone else’s time-slot.

The word “transgressive” has been slung about excessively to tempt readers to buy erotic stories. Every sexually-explicit narrative could be considered boundary-breaking because some conservatives still think sex should not be openly described at all, especially if it feels good for everyone involved. In that sense, erotica involving married and/or procreative heterosexual couples could be considered transgressive. (I’ve written that kind of erotica, and it doesn’t seem more acceptable to conservative types than the most elaborate BDSM scenes.)

Actually, I’m not sure my real life would shock more people nowadays than any of my erotic stories. I’m in a long-term lesbian relationship for almost thirty years, and we’ve been legally married since 2010. Anyone who finds my lifestyle perverse and unnatural would probably go into a swoon if forced to read any of my descriptions of sex, including the most traditional.

Among other pieces, I wrote about the conception of King Arthur in “Under the Sign of the Dragon,” available on Excessica, and a thorny but ultimately satisfying relationship between a man and woman with competing claims to the same plot of land in “The Way to a Man’s Heart,” in Like a Sword, a collection of “high fantasy” stories from Circlet Press. But I digress.

I believe that writers and fans of erotica should support each other, regardless of the diverse pairings and genres we write or prefer to read. There is M/M erotica, there is F/F erotica, there is M/f, F/m, various multiple arrangements, and various types of power exchange. It’s all too much for those who would like to silence us all.

Years ago, I taught Lysistrata (in a modern English translation) to first-year university students. This work is an ancient Greek comedy by a one-name playwright, Aristophanes, who imagined an ingenious way of ending the war between Athens and Sparta: the married women of both city-states go on a sex strike until the men declare a truce. In the fantasy world of the play, this works, and the grand finale is a feast and an orgy to celebrate peace. In effect, this play predates the 1960s slogan “Make love, not war,” by over 24 centuries.

A young male student spoke to me after class. He was clearly in distress, and he told me he was offended by the assigned text because he was a Christian. He then said that he thought sex should only take place between a man and a woman in holy matrimony. I reminded him that the numerous raunchy references to sex in this play are surprisingly marital as well as heterosexual. It’s all about sex between a man and a woman in a long-term relationship as a mutual source of pleasure and bonding, and a metaphor of union between different entities.

I suspect that young men like my former student are less offended by graphic descriptions of slaughter in battle than by descriptions of sex. Bring on the spears, the blades, the catapults, the burning destruction of buildings, crops, livestock and humans! (And while we’re in imaginary ancient Greece, I could mention a substance that sticks to clothing and burns the wearer alive, which is sent as a gift by Medea to her faithless husband’s new bride, and which sounds uncannily similar to napalm.)

Never mind the Song of Solomon, or any other evidence that sexual love and mutual pleasure are not opposed to Christian ethics. Conservative Christian parents don’t want their offspring to be seduced or corrupted by subversive types like us. Some of them would like their sons to be encouraged to voluntarily join the military so they can fight in the latest war.

The boundary between me and the Anti-Sex League (to borrow a term from the dystopian post-WW2 novel 1984) seems much bigger than any limits between different types of consensual sex.


Wednesday, February 13, 2019

Men in Uniform Anyone?

Hi everyone, Morticia here! I'm in the process of revising and expanding my bestselling Sin City Uniforms series that began in 2014. First one on deck, All Fired Up, is now on preorder. This installment is a combination of erotic exploration between a cop and firefighter along with a dose of mystery and danger.

Shawn can’t decide whether he wants to punch or kiss Trent. Kissing wins.

The party never ends in Las Vegas, but neither does the danger. Shawn is the new foot patrol officer on the Strip and he’s ready to take on the town and keep the peace. Once he spots hunky firefighter Trent, Shawn wonders whether he can take him on too.

Trent is dedicated to his job, built tough and a no-nonsense man of few words. At a local blood drive, Trent eyes a handsome new officer but doesn’t dare get too close. After his boyfriend’s life was snatched away in the line of fire, he couldn’t bear the agony of such a loss again.

Trent’s over-protective instincts kick in during an emergency call and he embarrasses and angers Shawn in front of their fellow officers. Too late, he realizes he’s falling for the sexy man. But has he already destroyed any chance they might have at something more?

Once they spend time together away from the stresses of their jobs, they find they’re not just compatible – they’re combustible. However, right as their relationship deepens, the threat of terror escalates on the Strip. The underground vigilante group, the Citizens Against Immorality, have raised the stakes. Will Shawn and Trent be their next targets?

Publisher Note: This book has been revised and expanded from the original edition that was published under the same title at Totally Bound Publishing in September of 2014.


Pride Publishing:
First for Romance:

A Beginners Guide to Hell

Tonight is cool, not cold. I’m orbiting the block where I live like a stray comet.  I’m feeling myself breathe, trying to hear the chill air whistling through my old guy nose hairs.  The air smells like smoke.  It always does at night, after a lifetime I still don’t know why that is.  Even in the summer.  

This is November in the south.  The homes are quiet, a flicker of TV screens behind some of the gauzy windows.  Overhead the clouds seem as though they're standing still and it’s the moon that's moving.  Not bad for hell.

Its okay, I’ve got this. I don’t mean to make it sound like some big deal.  I’ve been looking forward to this a little bit because I’ve been training for it.  Mentally, anyway.  As much as you can train for something like this.  Things are bothering me, upsetting me tonight, but I've been given a good night to walk.  That's nice.  I feel glad.  Taken care of.

It’s not the worst kind of hell, totally not, the people in the houses, some of them know way more about Hell than I do, they just don’t know what to do.  I’ve been working on it, you know, as much as you can for something like this.

This is just baby hell, beginners hell.  But I got this.  Somewhere down the road I’ll probably be dealing with the real deal.  The hot seat as it were.

The Tibetan Buddhists have had this thing figured out for centuries.  They’re amazing.  Your Buddha Nature, your enlightenment, your epiphany, its not found so much where you’re at your best or where you’re happy. Why?  Because humans are primates, and we like to be comfortable.  When we’re comfortable, we hang back.  When you hang back you don’t learn that much, you just hang.  No transformation.  Things grow in the dark.  A stretched soul sings.  You got to sing.  You stretch until you feel it, the edge, where just a touch makes you quiver.  That’s hell.  Hell is for serious people.  Those Tibetans, they say that your wisdom is on the other side of your darkness, and you have to go straight through it. That takes fear. Show me what you’re afraid of and I’ll show you your God.

Are you afraid of being poor? Even if you’re not?  Your God is probably going to be security.  Good luck with that.  Afraid of immigrants?  Your God is your country.  Your God should never be your country.  That’s how wars start.  You don’t like people of color, your God is being white.  What is my fear?  I don’t know yet, maybe the dark will tell me.  I think I’m scared of being a schlub all my life.  That’s the short answer.  I think my God might be pencils.  I just really love writing with a good pencil.

This is beginners hell.  This is just practice.

There is Darkness in me.  Thank God for that.  

If you own your darkness, if you look it straight on and don't kid yourself, its less likely to take you by surprise.  Less likely to make a fool of you or to turn you into a werewolf in that moment when you most need to keep your shit tight.  Fear can be your friend.  It can be the energy you ride to make a bridge of compassion with what you’re afraid of.  

You have to make a separation.  There’s this story line that runs through our heads all day long as we go on describing ourselves to ourselves.  You drop the story line, and all you’re left with is the bare steel wire energy of the emotion, of the experience.  You grab that wire.  Drop the story, grab the wire.  The story is the teeth of the tiger.  You drop the story line and the energy of the dark can push you forward like a jet engine. 

Failure gets a bad rap.  We come from a culture where failure is like a moral statement.  It means you’re a loser,you’re weak or something.  Only losers find themselves in hell, even beginners hell, where the singing is.  But creative people know failure is part of the process.  Evolution is based on failure.  The infinite variety of life, beauty and consciousness on this solitary rock, all comes from one thing – mistakes.  Endless genetic mistakes, where everything that swims, flies or crawls has to play the cards they’re dealt.

Love and happiness are never a problem.  Everybody wants that.  It’s the other stuff.  Because it hurts, it makes your soul sing.  Everybody sings.  Every single soul.  Its what we have in common. 
Rubber souls 

We stretch, we sing.