This is a No Kink-Shaming Zone #taboofiction

By Morticia Knight

Wow. There have already been some great posts on taboo this month, so I’m not sure how I can top it *wink*. The timing is ironic, since this month also included an Author Behaving Badly saga where an author kink-shamed someone publicly. On Twitter. With screenshots from a private group. I’m not going to name and shame this author, but rather discuss the fallout from this person’s actions and how others—both readers and authors—responded to them. I’ll give you enough of an outline of events so that if you weren’t a witness to it in social media, you can understand what went down.

It all began when said author took offense to someone asking for some erotic romance books that included incest. The reader’s request was in a closed group on Facebook specifically meant for people to share recommendations of M/M books. The reader became curious about this kink after watching Game of Thrones. Since this rec group has always been a safe space, the reader felt comfortable posting that question, and indeed, many people jumped in with books they thought she might like (I myself have read a few of them!). But this author took a screenshot of the post and shared it on Twitter with commentary that amounted to how awful this person was and that kink is. The reader was justifiably upset, since if her identity were to somehow be discovered, it could hurt her professionally or personally. There are plenty of us who don’t share the type of books we enjoy with our boss or grandmothers!

The outcry against the author was immediate, and she eventually had the good sense to take down the tweet and acknowledge it was ‘a shitty thing to do’. But she continued to double-down on Facebook and defend her position—explaining that it made her embarrassed to be associated with the M/M genre and thought we should all be taking the higher road and not fetishizing gay men by writing about such disgusting taboo subjects. Several gay men chimed in at this point and reminded her that they enjoy writing/reading about several of the subjects she decried, and that even if they didn’t, the gay men of the world had never appointed her their champion. Others commented that it seemed as if she was internalizing a bit of homophobia based on her claim of being embarrassed that gay romance wasn’t more like het romance. Hmm...

I could go on for quite a while citing all the reasons why readers and authors were upset by her actions and words. But did she have a point? Is writing/reading about taboo subjects something we should be concerned about, something we should stop? Where would we draw the line?

In my opinion, we draw the line at pedophilia if we’re talking romance or erotica. Anything involving a child is a hard no. It’s illegal for a reason. But then, so is incest, right? Yeah, it is. And it’s super triggery for some and can destroy people’s lives. At the same time, it was also a big plot point in a bestselling, classic YA novel. I’m of course referring to Flowers in the Attic by VC Andrews. Mainstream fiction, people. Pubbed in the seventies with several movie adaptations to follow—including on television—and the incest aspect was never glossed over. I read it when I was twelve, as did many of my friends. I’ll also add at this point that I know people who have been in incestuous relationships and that there are countries where marrying first cousins or an aunt or uncle is legal. But right now, what I’m really discussing is fictional taboos.

We all have our own personal boundaries when it comes to taboo subjects. Rape is very controversial as well, and CNC (consensual non-consent) in the BDSM community can sometimes divide kinksters. I wrote a CNC scene in my book Role Play (Play Series 1) and had some pushback from a few readers who weren’t expecting it and the scene upset them. Then there were readers who didn’t think the scene was all that taboo or extreme. In erotic romance, there will always be those who will point the finger at a kink and say, ‘for shame!’. We can’t squash our creativity to try and please everyone. As an author, I write what I want to read. I figure, hey, if I want to read it, then there are probably plenty of others out there who do too!

The Opposites Inside Me

Sacchi Green

We occasionally discuss how we put something of ourselves into our writing, whether consciously or not. But I think most of us, if not all, are at least as apt to create characters who are very different from us, even the opposites of who we are, or, more to the point, who we feel that we are.

Readers often like the comfort of recognizing themselves in fiction, but they also lust for the different, the exciting, immersion in the lives of characters who are in many ways the opposites they wish they could be. We writers are no different, except that we get to exert some degree of control over our fiction. Our readers, some of them, at least, enjoy entering the fictitious lives of a wide variety of characters, and for writers, creating those characters, giving them distinctive voices and adventures, is even more intimate than reading about them. Come to think of it, though, maybe that’s not true. If we do our work well enough we can draw the reader as deeply into our stories as we have become, or even more so, since they see the finished product and not the ups and downs and frustrations of its creation.

“Opposite” isn’t always a precise term. People opposite to each other in some ways may not be all that different in others.  I was immersed in reading when I was a kid, enjoying worlds far different from my day to day boring normality, from the Victorian England of Sherlock Holmes to the India of Kipling’s Jungle Book to distant planets when I got seriously into science fiction. The fact that all those places and characters were in most ways the opposites of my mundane life and self was the greatest attraction. Eventually I got into the romance genre, too, with characters who seemed even more opposite to my less-than-attractive teen-age self, which made their allure all the more powerful.

All that time, through childhood and college and into inescapable adulthood, I intended to be a writer myself. It took a lot longer than I’d expected, and by the time I got around to actually focus on writing I’d already given up on associated dreams like traveling around the world and seeing all those far-away places I’d loved to read about. I did manage some travel, but came to realize that time had made the places I’d dreamed about even farther away than mere distance could.

But back to the theme of opposites. The first complete story I ever wrote was fanfiction based on a series of graphic novels, Elfquest, about elves who rode wolves and were part wolves themselves. About as opposite to myself as anything could be, but they were my younger son’s favorites, and had grabbed my attention. The first stories I actually had published were fantasies about strong women with paranormal powers, clearly the kind of opposites I would have liked to be.

Writing erotica, when I got to that, turned out to be an excellent way to put oneself deeply into the story on one level, while working through characters quite different from one’s usual self.  A writer friend used to claim that I must have demons in my head that wrote their stories though me. Opposites inside me. I liked that idea. Another recently asked how I came to write so many convincing stories about lesbian cowgirls, when I’m a stolid New Englander. So many? Just those two…no, three or four…wait, there was that one, too…just five. Unless you count the three about a New England horse trainer who specializes in big draft horses. I was horse crazy as a kid, but mostly just in my reading. And I used to read many Zane Grey books and other westerns, along with just about everything else in our small-town library. But the real reason, I think, is that the cowboy mystique is an opposite that attracts me so much that I try to enter into it in my writing. Most of my writing, in fact, is based on types of characters with lives that are very much opposites to the life I’ve actually lived. Eight stories, for instance, have been about women in the military in wartime, from the Civil War to WWI and WWII and Vietnam and recent Mideast conflicts. I’m kind of a history buff, too, and enjoy the required research, but it’s really the attraction of characters I wish I were like, but can’t be. The closest I’ve come to any war-connected action is getting deliberately arrested at a mass sit-in at an air force base. There’s been some variety, of course—a rock-climbing character, a Chinese pirate in the approach to WWII—not exactly military, but close. And Olympic figure skaters, and a couple of sculptors, and…and…

My point, if I have one, is that opposites can have a strong attraction for readers, and at least as strong an attraction for writers, which works out well, right? And when you take into account the kinkier flavors of erotica, there’s the factor of enjoying the intensity of risk without any actual risk, but that’s a whole other topic, so nevermind. I'm late already with this post, but it's still Monday the 27th on the West Coast, right? Although not, I'm afraid, on the opposite side of the world.  

Taboo to Who?

It’s all a matter of perspective.

For several years I was a member of a women-only BDSM club in Boston. As the oldest person there but the least experienced I was more of a voyeur than a practitioner, but I had friends there, and made some more, some of whom wrote for my early anthologies. I learned a great deal, enough to understand mind sets that I didn’t personally share. We had monthly meetings with demonstrations of skills, and the occasional play party, especially the yearly one at the Fetish Fair Flea Market (which moved from hotel to motel over the years as locals discovered our transgression of their taboos and overrode the pleas of the hotel or motel owners who loved the business we brought.)

But we had our own taboos. Whips, floggers, spanking, blindfolds, swings, dominance, humiliation, submission, slavery, pony girls, intricate rope bindings, even needle play--those were all fine, as long as they were done according to safety rules. Our taboos were things like penetration without nitrile gloves (or similar barriers,) blood play without disinfectant for both body and tools, and, above all, nonconsensual contact. Oral-on-genital play without dental dams was in theory taboo, but generally overlooked.

Would people have had more fun without taking into account safety measures? Probably not. Just knowing that what they were doing was considered taboo in “mainstream” society was fun enough. Did those in charge of enforcing safety measures get a charge out of wielding that power? I’m pretty sure some did. Whether enforcing taboos or breaking them is the most fun depends on the individual personality and perspective. I do know that the enforcement-prone folks were those most involved in having never-ending revisions of the club bylaws, and elections of officers, and after quite a few years those who just wanted a good time drifted away. The online evolution of the Fetlife website had something to do with it, too. In any case, that club is no more. There are still some functioning “dungeons” around, and the Fetish Flea Market is still popular, but the people I knew there have moved on with their lives (aka grown older, although never, of course, catching up with me.)

In an historical context, defining what’s taboo has varied from era to era and culture to culture. In some cultures menstruating women were taboo and had to retreat to separate huts or tents for about a week each month. That would be an “ick” factor taboo. Food taboos may have been based originally on observed dangers, like poisoning by spoiled shellfish or trichinosis from uncooked pork. The incest taboo is more complicated. Observation may have shown that inbreeding tends to produce less healthy offspring, but that didn’t keep Egyptian royalty from preferring to keep it all in the family. In these modern times with relatively available means of birth control incest shouldn’t matter that much, except that it does when the power differential is extreme, as with father/young daughter intercourse, and birth control tends to be forgotten in those circumstances.

Do animals other than humans have sexual taboos? My impression is that most mammals mate only when the female is in heat and therefore receptive. And for many animals, especially herd animals with one dominant male “owning” all the females, incest is no consideration at all. Animals other than primates don’t seem to have the complex sex-associated activities like bondage or whips that the members of clubs like the one I knew enjoy partly because they’re considered taboo. Sure, our hands with opposable thumbs have a great deal to do with it, but to animals the sex itself seems like enough. Do animals, in fact, take pleasure in doing what they know is forbidden just because it’s forbidden? Okay, maybe cats do, but how can we know for sure?

Humans, though, seem to have a need for taboos, whether they obey them, enforce them, or get their rocks off by breaking them. It’s not entirely a matter of sex. For instance, I know perfectly well that my title for this post ignores a grammatical taboo. As the object of the preposition “to,” I should have said “whom,” not “who.” But it sounds better the way it is, so grammatical taboos be damned.          

                   

Secret Sins

By Tim Smith

We’ve been discussing taboo desires this month, and the stuff some of you have posted! Everything from BDSM to same-sex attraction and other points in between. Such goings on! I had a high school English teacher who referred to these as “secret sins,” the off-limits desires you may think about but never share with anyone. It strikes me that many of the things people consider taboo depend on when and where you grew up.    

I came of age in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s, during the sexual revolution. Look at all the taboos that were broken during that period. Mainstream magazines like Penthouse and Playboy broke the ban on featuring full-frontal nudity with their models. Prior to that, if you wanted to see pubic hair in a photo spread, you had to buy one of the under-the-counter skin mags that came in a plain brown wrapper. Secret sin number one.

Then came the dismantling of the movie rating system, allowing filmmakers to feature nudity and adult content with a parental guidance warning. It coincided with the so-called porno chic era of films like “Deep Throat” and “Behind the Green Door.” This was followed by celebrities baring it all for magazine spreads and movies, thus removing another taboo barrier. The main purpose this served was to answer the question on the minds of many warm-blooded males, the one that went “I wonder what she looks like naked?” Secret sin number two.

And how about the taboos in mainstream literature? During this same era, writers like Harold Robbins and Jacqueline Susann were considered “dirty” because they took off the gloves when it came to sex. True, their stuff is tame by today’s standards, but at the time, you couldn’t purchase one of their books unless you were an adult. These were the books we’d sneak peeks at when the grown-ups weren’t around to see what all the fuss was about. Secret sin number three.

An earlier post delved into the subject of masturbation. How many of us heard the horror stories about this natural adolescent activity when we discovered fun ways to entertain ourselves after lights out? “If you keep doing that, you’ll go blind!” Being the perennial smart-ass, I had to ask “How about until I need glasses?” Secret sin number four.     

And now for secret sin number five, the big one. The town where I spent my formative years was what they used to call a suburban white bread community. Translation: not many minorities. It wasn’t until I went to a liberal college in the ‘70s that I had my first full-on exposure to women of color. They were considered forbidden fruit where I came from. This might explain why I write so many interracial romances, featuring Caucasian males involved with African-American and Hispanic women. In my home town, dating someone who was of a different ethnic background was considered taboo. And if you did, more often than not you kept it a secret. For the record, I was never shy about who I went out with, and I’m still not.    

With regards to writing interracial romances, the only time I heard a slight concern was when my first romantic spy thriller, “Memories Die Last,” came out. The main characters in that series are a Caucasian male and his love interest, who hails from Barbados. The attraction between these two is very strong, and the sex is hot. I was actually cautioned in the early editing stages that it might hurt potential sales in some southern states, where interracial pairings were still a sensitive topic.

And I didn’t really care.    

The Animal In Us

Anyone who reads much of my writing will quickly figure out that I have a fascination with the animal in us. One of my first, and still favorite published stories was ‘On Keeping Pets.’ It appeared in Black Lace’s Sexy Little Numbers anthology eons ago. One of the bits of my first novel, The Initiation of Ms Holly, which I still get comments on for its level of heat takes place in ‘The Zoo.’ And no, that zoo has nothing to do with elephants and lions. My novel, The Pet Shop, is based on the original short story I wrote for Black Lace because the idea so intrigued me, and because my character, Tino, was such an endearing, powerful character that I knew I wanted him back again. And though he doesn’t appear in the Zoo chapters of The Initiation of Ms Holly, it’s his playful, curious nature that inspired me to write those chapters. 

One of the best parts of sex is that we can let our hair down and get back to our animal roots. It’s the one place where animal nature rules, and that’s exactly as it should be. Personally, I think the shame factor that dominates so many peoples’ lives, where sex is concerned, is rooted in the effort to separate us from our animal nature, an effort to take out the lust and the heat and leave in its place only the ‘getting in, doing our business and getting out again.’ 

There’s no cleaned-up, sanitized version of animals in rut, and ultimately we are still animals. I figure that’s why it’s a turn-on to watch the dog hump the chair leg. Sadly, we humans are supposed to act civilized – even where sex is concerned. Add to that a huge dose of shame from our Judeo-Christian roots in the Western world, and it isn’t any wonder that we’re neurotic about sex. While sexy lingerie, corsetry and fuck-me stilettos can be a huge turn-on, I find it much more arousing to think about ripping down the jeans in the woods and going at it loud and sweaty and nasty while leaning up against a tree. Such a scenario implies no forethought; such a scenario implies spontaneity and raw, driving lust. 

I think what we, as erotica writers do, is a testament to our own animal nature and to how much value we place on the biological fact that humans are every bit as sexual as any of our animal cousins. In fact, we may be more so because our urges have the power of imagination helping to stoke the already leaping flames of lust. That being said our playground, as writers, is absolutely writhing with primal, biological, animal down and dirty possibilities. We are the ones who get to write sex like we all WISH it was rather than how it more often than not tends to be. The erotic power of the written word stokes the fires of primal animal lust encouraging our civilized, tight-shirted selves, to loosen up and hump the chair leg, so to speak. 

Erotica reminds people that sex is a celebration of life and physicality in a way that absolutely nothing else is. It reminds people that button-down is no substitute for going down, and that the dirty, raucous wild mammal is still there someplace inside all of us just waiting to come out and howl at the moon and join in the rut. 

Erotica offers a peek at unabashed, unashamed, rock-your-world sex. It offers a safe and secret place to experience the wildest, darkest, nastiest of our animal nature, without giving up our civilized selves. It’s the best of both worlds, and even better yet, it gives permission to experience both. It gives a world that is too tight-laced permission to enjoy our animal heat, our urge to rip clothes off and rut hard and filthy. It reminds us that it’s all right to let the animal in us out to play. It’s all right to embrace that animal in and celebrate it.

The Pet Shop Blurb

In appreciation for a job well done, STELLA JAMES’s boss sends her a Pet for the weekend – a human Pet. The mischievous TINO comes straight from THE PET SHOP complete with a collar, a leash, and an erection. Stella soon discovers that the pleasure of keeping Pets, especially this one, is extremely addicting.

Obsessed with Tino and with the reclusive philanthropist, VINCENT EVANSTON, who looks like Tino, but couldn’t be more different, Stella is drawn into the secret world of The Pet Shop. As her animal lust awakens, Stella must walk the thin line that separates the business of pleasure from the more dangerous business of the heart or suffer the consequences.

An Excerpt from the Pet Shop Manual On Keeping Pets

SURE ENOUGH ON THE kitchen table was an instruction manual from the Pet Shop entitled, On Keeping Pets. 

She opened it to the first chapter and read. 

Get to know your Pet


Your experience will be more enjoyable if you take time to get to know each other, to get comfortable with each other before you initiate sexual contact. Pets, like people, have different personalities. Some may be shy and in need of some gentle coaxing before they get comfortable with their keeper. If your Pet is shy, do make sure he or she is comfortably acquainted with you before you initiate sexual contact. 

I

f, however, your Pet is not shy, he or she may try to initiate sexual contact. DO NOT ALLOW THIS. It is the keeper who must choose when sex takes place. Your Pet must never be led to believe she or he is the alpha in the relationship. You must maintain control. No matter how aroused and uncomfortable your Pet may appear to be, do not allow even masturbation without your explicit permission. Your Pet is there for your pleasure. Even if your pleasures are voyeuristic, you must always be the initiator of the sex act. Permission is yours to grant or deny. 

All Pets arrive at their keeper’s highly aroused and ready for sex play – the males with erections, the females well lubricated and ready to accommodate a penis or a dildo. But they are also well-trained to control themselves. Make sure that they do. This will enhance your pleasure as well as theirs. 

Pets experience the world through their sense of smell, and they will get to know their keepers through that sense. Do not be nervous. Assume a relaxed position, preferably in a chair or on a sofa, with your legs open. 

Note: This should be done fully clothed. 

Command your pet to sit on the floor next to you then allow her or him to sniff you and touch you. Some pets will also want to lick and taste you. Remember, this contact is essential for your Pet to get to know you as PETS DO NOT TALK. Keep the mood light. Do not allow anything more than this initial contact until you and your Pet feel comfortable with each other. Only after this occurs should your interaction be of a sexual nature. 

Dirty Laundry, Filthy Books, #Taboo #Erotica by @GiselleRenarde

I've been spending a lot of time in my building's laundry room lately. It's recently renovated, bright and shiny, bustling with activity and, best of all, humming day and night.

Depression and anxiety have been keeping me locked up a lot, lately. That's why I'm making a concerted effort to get out of my apartment, even if I'm not quite leaving my building. I've been using the gym, the pool, and the lovely laundry room. I find the hum of those washers and dryers incredibly soothing. Highly recommended! Be the creep who hangs out in laundromats!

Anyway, people leave books in my laundry room, for other tenants to read. I was pleasantly surprised when I came across this little beauty:

(like my pink pyjamas?)

I haven't started reading it yet, but a friend was over the other day. When he spotted it on my table, I told him the one most salient point I'm aware of with regard to Anais Nin: that she had an affair with her father. A few years ago, there was a play staged about their relationship. Or was it an opera? I didn't see it, but the fact stood out in my mind.

It led me to write my story "Two Complete Strangers," which is incest erotica about a father and daughter meeting as adults... and fucking like bunnies. ("Fucking like bunnies" sounds so much cuter than "fucking like father and daughter," doesn't it?)

I always really liked that story, and you can read it in a collection called Forbidden Family Erotica:

Remember Smut Smackdown? Lexi Wood challenged me to write the dirtiest incest sex story possible. Or I challenged her. I don't really remember. Anyway, we wrote three stories each and asked readers to vote on whose stories were filthier.

I don't remember who won. Probably Lexi. Taboo smut is her bread and butter. That said, my stories were pretty damn good. The one that stands out, in my mind, is "Two Complete Strangers." There's a bicycle trip in there too. And some public sex. Because if you're going to have sex en plein air, it might as well be with a blood relative.

Anyhoozle, all six Smut Smackdown stories are now available in one collection.

Because of a recent crackdown, you won't find this book for sale at many retailers.  You may or may not be aware that Barnes and Noble, a bookseller that used to sell every kind of erotica you can imagine, has cleaned up shop. They used to sell incest smut. Now they don't. So you won't find this there. Or at Amazon. Or pretty much anywhere else you might shop.

You can buy Forbidden Family Erotica from Smashwords and eXcessica Eden. And I hope you will!

Forbidden Family Erotica
Six Shocking Sex Stories
Taboo Erotica by Giselle Renarde and Lexi Wood

Daddies and daughters, brothers and sisters, twins, cousins and more! Nobody’s off-limits in this taboo collection of illicit incest erotica. Six sexy stories certain to satisfy!

In this collection you’ll find the following family erotica: Talk Dirty to me, Daddy!, Spying on the Twins, Daddy’s Wet Little Virgin, Two Complete Strangers, The Family Bed, and Taken by Vicky’s Daddy… and Mine!

Buy Now from Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/750860?ref=GiselleRenardeErotica

Or Buy from the Publisher, eXcessica Eden: http://www.excessica.com/eden/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=30&products_id=333&zenid=d9c78c23088f2f2e029055042e1a5940

Seduced By My Best Friend's Dad

by Cameron D. James

While perhaps not my most taboo title (as the definition of what's taboo will vary from person to person), Seduced By My Best Friend's Dad is my most popular taboo title.

When I started writing this, I was catching on that incest and pseudo-incest (step-relations) were hot taboo topics, but also very problematic as books featuring those themes often got banned on Amazon. With that in mind, I took it one step back to what I decided was pseudo-pseudo-incest. There's no relation between the two males leads (biological or legal), but due to circumstances, Jay has always looked up to his best friend's dad "like a father figure".

Here's the blurb:

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.

And here's an excerpt:

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.

And if you'd like to read more, here are the buy links!

Amazon | Barnes & Noble | iBooks | Kobo | Smashwords

Exploring taboo worlds through erotic fiction by Ashe Barker

Oh no! I'm late again. I should have posted yesterday. Apologies, but here I am, better late than never. and ready to share with you my thoughts, such as they are, on writing erotic fiction and taboo subjects. Here goes...

Write what you know.

Sound advice. Most of the time. I tend to choose settings and situations for my stories where I have at least a passing acquaintance – it saves on research – but I do occasionally venture into the unknown when my imagination runs riot.

I have a somewhat similar attitude towards the genres I write in. I tend to write what I like to read. If it doesn’t turn me on, I probably can’t get excited enough to craft a story. Much of what I regularly write about would be considered taboo by some. BDSM and the veneer of violence is one example, domestic discipline and spanking another. I get plenty of reviews along the lines of I was loving this until the hero started beating her… Still, there are plenty of readers who do get it, and who love kinky erotic stories, so I don’t get too wound up these days by the odd mainstream reader who inadvertently wanders into my world.

But the world of BDSM is wide, varied and infinitely complex. There is much within it that remains something of a mystery to me. I subscribe fully to the safe, sane, consensual mantra, and your kink is not my kink, but even so, water sports and breath play leave me somewhat bewildered. They are unlikely to feature in any of my stories.

The same goes for the Daddy Dom/little girl genre which has been incredibly popular in recent years. I’ve read a few, and by and large enjoyed them, but I’m always left wondering why. I can’t quite get my head around the power dynamic or imagine myself in it. I understand the words but can’t connect to the emotional or erotic pull. I am an observer, an outsider looking in.

But I’m glad those stories are out there. Daddy Doms may not float my boat, but I rather enjoy my occasional voyeuristic excursions into that world, and I value the opportunity to go there. Fiction is a place where forbidden or dangerous desires can be aired. As writers we can take our readers on a conducted tour of the weird, the wonderful and the plain wicked, point out all the sights, then herd them safely back onto the bus and and be home in time for tea.

Another genre I do enjoy, though haven’t (yet) written myself, is dark romance. This is a world of coercion,  non-consent, rape, abduction, dominance and submission taken to the extreme. Dangerous and rightly illegal activities, but in my world of fantasy incredibly erotic even so. I am at once repulsed and fascinated by the complexity of human desire which in the right hands can render the unthinkable sexy. Perhaps it is the innate sense of the wicked or the forbidden, but activities usually considered taboo can be exquisitely sensual

The fictional worlds we create offer a safe environment, a place to explore, to try out the unfamiliar or the plain bizarre., experience the vicarious thrill of the taboo, but without the consequences that might otherwise ensue. Our curiosity can be satisfied, or at least fed.

And no one need ever know.

Every taboo you desire -- #AgePlay #Spanking #AnalSex

Since we’re talking about taboos this month, I thought I’d share a scene from one of my most extreme and varied books, Miranda’s Masks.

Betrayed and abandoned by her first lover, shy and studious Miranda Cahill freezes in response to any sexual attention from someone she knows and likes.

During the day, she works diligently on her doctoral thesis. At night, she finds herself drawn into increasingly extreme sexual encounters with strangers. Public coupling, multiple partners, age play, spankings, bondage, lesbian lust—each experience reveals new dimensions of her depravity.

I had a lot of fun writing this book, pushing the envelope more in every chapter. In this particular scene, Miranda impersonates her roommate Lucy and has an encounter a man Lucy had contacted in age-play chat room. Dressed, as instructed, in a school-girl uniform, Miranda meets “Big Daddy” in a vintage hotel bar, then goes upstairs to the suite he has rented.

* * *

The room was luxurious and formal, all brocade drapes, oriental carpets, crystal sconces on the walls. Miranda hesitated on the threshold. The weight of Big Daddy’s hand on her shoulder spurred her to enter.

An oversized bed piled high with fringed cushions dominated the room. Miranda’s stomach flipped when she saw it. However, Big Daddy did not steer her toward the bed, but rather, to the wing chair and ottoman arranged by the window. He settled in the armchair and motioned for her to sit at his feet. Without thinking, she crossed her ankles and folded her hands in her lap.

“Now, Lucy, you must be honest with me. You must tell me about these thoughts and feelings which disturb you so much.”

Miranda swallowed nervously. It was remarkable, but she felt guilty and embarrassed. “Well, it happens mostly at night. When I lie in bed, feeling the cotton sheets drift softly over my body. Even through my pajamas, I can feel them, as if someone was stroking me. I get all tingly and strange, and then I start imagining things, remembering things…”

Big Daddy leaned forward, a gleam in his intelligent brown eyes. “What sort of things, Lucy? Don’t be afraid—you can tell me.”

“That time in school, when my gym suit ripped. All the boys saw my panties, but later, I wished that I had not been wearing any underwear.” Miranda was amazed at herself. Where were these stories coming from? They felt real; it was almost as if she could really recall the incident.

Her companion gave a little tsk, but encouraged her to continue.

“Then there was that afternoon, when Madeline and I took a shower together. She wanted to touch my breasts, and I let her. She made me touch hers.”

“Made you? Can you honestly tell me that you didn’t want to?”

Miranda blushed, astonished at her reactions to her own crazy stories. “No, Big Daddy. I wanted to touch her, I admit. Afterward, I remembered and wished that I had touched her in other places.”

“Where? What other places?”

Miranda stared down at her patent-leather shoes. “You know, Big Daddy. I can’t say it.”

“Hmm. Is that all?”

“No,” said Miranda. “There’s more. The thing that I remember most is the time when I watched you. It was years ago, but I still remember, and when I do, I get all hot and itchy.” Her companion was silent and attentive. “I stood behind the bathroom door. You didn’t know I was there, but I saw you. I saw your thing. You stood in front of the toilet, with your hands on your thing, jerking it back and forth. Then after a while, you yelled and were quiet. Then I saw you pee, a long yellow stream arcing into the toilet. When I remember that, that’s the worst. There’s this strange feeling between my legs, as if I needed to go to the bathroom myself. But when I try, I can’t. There is just this awful tight, burning feeling that won’t go away.”

Miranda could not believe her own imagination. She knew that this had never happened, that this was pure fabrication. Yet the mingled shame and excitement were as real as the caress of the brocaded upholstery against the backs of her bare legs.

“You watched me masturbate! What a nasty girl you are, Lucy! You pretend to be so good and obedient, but you have a dirty, dirty mind!”

Miranda hung her head. “Yes, Big Daddy. I know.”

“Do you touch yourself when you have these feelings?” he interrogated, leaning forward in his chair. Miranda was suddenly frightened.

“No, never. I want to, but I don’t.”

“Honesty, Lucy, honesty.”

“Well—sometimes I stuff a pillow between my legs. I can’t help it, I have to do something. But I never use my hands…”

Big Daddy sat back in the chair and stroked his beard. Miranda’s heart beat ridiculously fast. “Lucy, you have been exceptionally naughty. Spying on me when I am engaged in my private pursuits! You look so sweet and innocent, but you have the makings of a little slut.”

“No, Big Daddy, I’m good most of the time. It’s only at night, in the summer…”

“Over my knee,” the distinguished gentleman barked. “Now.”

“Daddy, please…”

“You know that I am only doing this for your own good. I get no pleasure from chastising you.”

Like hell you don’t, thought Miranda, but she meekly obeyed his order. She was dying to have him touch her, any way that he wanted. He helped her position herself so that her pelvis lay across his lap. Her long legs dangled awkwardly on one side. He hooked the ottoman with his foot and rolled it over to the side of the chair, so that she could rest her forearms and head upon it.

As soon as she was stable, Big Daddy pulled her brief skirt up around her waist. The simple cotton underpants that she wore fully covered her behind. Still, she had never felt more exposed.

For the longest time, he did nothing but stare at her cotton-wrapped buttocks. She felt his gaze as if it was a laser, burning through the cloth and igniting the flesh underneath. He breathed deeply, a bit faster than normal. Miranda’s own breath came in gasps. Her chest hurt from the thudding of her heart.

Big Daddy began stroking her butt-cheeks in smooth, symmetrical circles. “Lucy, Lucy, what am I to do with you?” he murmured. “You are so enchanting, it is difficult to be stern. However, I must be strong, and discipline you as you deserve.” With sudden force, he grabbed her underwear at the waistband and pulled it down to her thighs.

“No!” wailed Miranda. “I’ll be good.” She could feel his hot breath, now, on her naked butt.

“You will, indeed, if I have anything to do with it,” he replied, and began to spank her with his open hand.

It hurt more than Lucy had expected, stinging with contact, aching after his palm left her flesh. As he tanned first one cheek, then the other, she began to feel as if her whole ass was being held to a raging fire. She twisted in his lap. Little bleating sounds came from her throat, involuntary, infantile.

Now her whole lower half was throbbing. Each smack set up echoes, ripples of pain that sped along the backs of her thighs, singed her nipples, made her sex contract and ache. He was alternately murmuring endearments and haranguing her with criticism, but she hardly heard him. All her consciousness was focused on the white-hot pain-pleasure seething in her body.

Through her mental haze, she gradually became aware of something hard, poking up from his lap and pressing deliciously against her clit. She smiled to herself. Obviously, Big Daddy was not unaffected by the administration of discipline. She wriggled around, trying to rub herself against his emerging erection. For a moment, Big Daddy seemed not to notice.

Then he suddenly ceased his blows. Miranda felt a sense of loss. “You minx!” he said softly. “Even as I work to beat the lasciviousness out of your young flesh, you take advantage of my weakness!” His erection surged against her crotch, even as he made this speech. Knowing that she was sealing her fate, Miranda could not help writhing, stimulating him further.

“Enough!” her companion roared, tumbling her off his lap and onto the carpeted floor. “You will not tempt me, Lucy! Nothing will compel me to satisfy your unnatural lust. Much as you might desire it, I refuse the flower of your maidenhood.”

Miranda lay in a crumpled heap at his feet, her underwear tangled around her ankles, desperately willing him to take her.

“No, I will not sink to your level, Lucy. But I will punish you in a way that you may understand better than my honest beating. I will subject you to a shame that even you can comprehend. ”

Fear returned briefly, arcing through her body like lightning, but irrationally, trust of this stranger overcame her terror.

“On your belly, over the ottoman, Lucy. Do not cross me further, or I will have to take truly drastic measures.” Miranda wondered, curiosity overwhelming fear, what those measures might be, as she extricated herself from her panties and followed his instructions.

Her pleated skirt covered her bare buttocks, but only for a moment. Big Daddy flicked it aside, almost in contempt, then stared again at her naked ass. His gaze re-ignited the glow of his spanking. She found herself longing to feel again the delicious heat of his palm on her flesh. Instead, he grasped her cheeks and pulled them apart, so that he could inspect her anus.

Miranda grew suddenly cold. Surely her loving, protective Daddy would not touch her there! But no sooner had the thought crossed her mind than she felt a blunt finger, probing her in that most private of places.

“You are a wanton girl, Lucy, a slut in the making. I must show you how sluts are used, the pain and the shame.” His hands left her for a moment, and she heard the unzipping of his fly. No! some part of her cried, but another part of her burned to know how it would feel, to be penetrated there.

* * *

I’m sure you can imagine what happens next!

Whatever pushes your buttons, you’re likely to find it in Miranda’s Masks!

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Women as Vessels

by Jean Roberta

On the subject of taboos or forbidden acts, I am horrified by the drastic laws just passed in several U.S. states that aim to make abortion illegal again. Some of the male lawmakers who want total control over women’s bodies are also opposed to contraception in any form.

I’ve noticed that most of them don’t say anything about forcing fathers to support their children.

Sometimes real life resembles a horror plot: in this case, The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood, which is why women protesters against the new laws dress like handmaids, in red robes with white bonnets.

About a year ago, I wrote a historical erotic story about a woman who needs to save her own life by conceiving a baby, preferably male, to persuade her husband not to have her executed. She knows he wants to be free to marry her lady-in-waiting, Jane Seymour, with whom he is already having an affair. Divorce is not on the agenda.

The doomed queen is Anne Boleyne, and her husband, the King, is Henry VIII. The year is 1536.

A courtier, Sir Thomas Wyatt, has been fond of Anne for years, and this seems to be historically accurate. In my story, he sends her a love-sonnet, and they arrange a tryst in her bedchamber so that he can comfort her and possibly get her with child. The story is titled “Begetting.”

In real life, Thomas Wyatt was imprisoned temporarily on suspicion of being too familiar with the queen, but he survived, probably because of insufficient evidence. Other people were not so lucky. Anne was charged with adultery as well as treason (cheating on the reigning monarch was treasonous), and executed along with the men accused of being her “lovers,” including her own brother, George. Most historians now think the charges were completely bogus.

This unpublished story takes place in the mini-world of Anne’s curtained bed.
-----------------------

The moist glow of Anne’s skin by candlelight led Tom’s hands to her slender waist and her small, round navel. Her breath quickened as he kissed her there.

An earthy aroma rose from the little thicket of moist dark hair that marked the entrance of Anne’s cunt, her inner sanctum. Tom allowed himself to admire the innocent perfection of her body in the guttering light of the dying candle. Seen in such intimacy, she was like a diverse continent, and her admirer inhaled the spices of its hills and plains, its forests and coves.

“Please,” whispered the queen.

The man used both his hands to find and spread her opening. He saw pink folds and felt a slippery fluid before the candle winked out, leaving both lovers in smoking darkness.

“’Twill be well, dear heart,” he assured her. “I can find my way.” He crouched atop her and introduced the head of his staff to her wet opening, praying that his size would be just adequate for her pleasure.

Tom had never wished to enter a woman like a battering ram destroying a castle’s defenses.

The lady held him tightly, as she spread her thighs to make him welcome. And then he was in to the hilt, riding her with an easy rhythm. Her sighs rose to his ears like music, and the squeezing of her inner muscles on his shaft felt more delectable than the embrace of an angel in a virtuous man’s last moment on earth.

Tom doubted whether the comforts afforded to the faithful would ever be granted to him. He resolved to enjoy the pleasures of love while he had the chance.

Soon, Anne’s voice rose to a dangerous level. “Peace, beloved,” he murmured. He too was coming to a climax, but he clamped his teeth together and stifled his groans. He pumped his shaft as deeply into her as it would go, and released his seed. “Ahh,” he sighed. The deed was done.

After a moment of recovery, he wondered whether Anne had reached her own peak of ecstasy. Simultaneous climaxes were said to help conception, but he knew from married experience that the pace of female excitement often lagged behind that of a man. He slipped a finger between her lower lips to find the love-knot just above her opening. That delicate nubbin was swollen and trembling. She gasped sharply as he stroked and rubbed and pinched it. He felt a spasm under his fingers, followed by a gush of liquid and more twitching.

“Tom,” she whispered. It seemed she had no breath left to say anything else.

He lay on his back and pulled her atop him so that he could hold her close and press her head to his heart. Her surrender felt precious to him, and he wanted her to feel that he was truly her protector.

The hot fragrance of her hair was in his face. He ran his fingers through the silken length of it, wondering why a woman’s hair must be completely covered in company. Surely hair was part of God’s bounty, and meant to be enjoyed by his creatures.

Yet Tom didn’t want the natural beauty of his mistress to be shared with the world at large. Better for her to appear outside this chamber only as the queen, swathed in those articles which form a lady’s armor.

“My love.” She raised her head to look into his eyes. “Please remain with me until my waiting-woman returns from the king’s bed. I cannot bear to be alone tonight. You know not what fancies lie in wait to torment me.”

“Then I shan’t leave thee.” Tom’s desire was already returning, and he hoped to claim her at least once more before he must disappear like an incubus.

“Anne, dearest, our son may yet be a great king.” Tom’s words hung in the darkness like a vision of life in the land of Faery.

Both lovers knew that forces were already in play to prevent their dream from reaching fulfillment. They were well acquainted with the ways of the court, and they were determined not to save themselves by betraying each other.

They would never again be as happy as they were at this moment. Let us leave them together in the warmth of the queen’s bed, enjoying the time they have left.

In the long corridor of time since the night of their love, neither the man nor the woman has been forgotten. While one is known as the doomed wife of a king hell-bent on founding a dynasty, the other has been named Father of the English Sonnet.

Out Now! Copping an Attitude (Sin City Uniforms 2) #mmromance #gayromance #meninuniform #excerpt

I'm stopping by to let you know that I have a new book out from the newly revised and expanded Sin City Uniforms series. If you're looking for a way to get your week started off right, you might want to grab this erotic, action-filled love story with a satisfying HEA :-)  You can also read an excerpt after the blurb and links:

Survival is all Slade understands until Parker saves him from the terrors of the streets. Too bad the streets won’t let Slade go…

Hustler Slade has had little choice over his fate. Barely twenty years old, he’s had to survive any way he can after being thrown out for being gay when he was still in his teens. As soon as he hit Vegas, Slade was lured into the hopeless world of prostitution where he’s become a virtual prisoner to his pimp, the ruthless Julio Estevez.

It’s another typical night on the Strip when officer Parker comes across Slade. His heart breaks every time he sees someone so young being exploited. Yet something in Slade’s eyes tells Parker the young man might be in real trouble—especially after the recent wave of sex worker killings by a rival prostitution ring.

The two men’s lives become intertwined when Slade is almost beaten to death. The danger grows, but so does the relationship between Parker and Slade. Parker helps Slade to heal from the horrific attack and their bond deepens. But the human traffickers are still on the prowl—and they’ll stop at nothing to steal Slade back.

Publisher's Note: This book has been revised and expanded from the original edition that was published under the same title at Totally Bound Publishing in January of 2015.

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“Valeena!” Slade banged on the motel room door. “Please, Valeena, let me in!”

The flimsy door flew open. A large, enraged black man with his pants undone towered over Slade.

“What the fuck do you want? Huh? I’ll be done with her ass in five then you can have at it. In the meantime, shut. The fuck. Up.”

He slammed the door with brute force, the windows rattling in response. Slade glanced around nervously. The cops would be looking for him. They could be anywhere. He crouched down behind one of the bushes up against the seedy motel. The dump was right off the Strip and was the place they always used to take their dates. Julio rented five rooms by the week and number six was Valeena’s.

After a short while, Valeena’s trick left and Slade waited until he drove away before coming out from behind the plants. He was just about to knock again when the door flung open. Valeena’s eyes went wide at the sight of Slade’s raised arms, the cuffs holding them together at the wrists.

“Oh shit. Did a john do that to you?”

He pushed past her, anxious to get inside to what suddenly seemed like sanctuary.

“No. Cops. Close the door.” His voice was shaky, adrenaline still pumping through him.

She did as he asked then shut the light off before peeking through the curtains.

“Fuck, Slade. Do you think they followed you?”

“I don’t think so.”

She turned to him in the darkness, the glow from the lights outside seeping in beneath the ratty curtains.

“Are you sure? Because if you’re not, I’m hauling my narrow ass out of the bathroom window.”

“Um, pretty sure. I kneed the cop who had me really good.”

Valeena burst into musical peals of laughter. “Oh, man, why do I always miss the good stuff? I woulda loved to have seen that.”

Slade allowed himself a lopsided smile. “Any chance we can get these things off me?” He held up his imprisoned hands, shaking them.

She padded over to the nightstand then turned the lamp back on. “I can’t.” She scrunched her eyebrows together. “But I bet Samson can.”

Samson was a client of Valeena’s, one of her regulars. He ran a questionable business that seemed to involve the need for opening a lot of locks that didn’t have keys. Slade had never questioned her much further than that. She fished around in the drawer of the nightstand that was filled with condoms, lube, lipstick, loose bills and other assorted items until she pulled out her burner phone.

After plopping on the bed and yanking her short silky robe around her, she tapped the screen. Holding the cell to her ear, she winked at Slade.

“Don’t worry. Now sit down. You’re making me nervous.”

He perched on the only chair in the room, his stomach still twisting, his nerves still frayed. As soon as Samson picked up, she babbled excitedly to him, obviously softening him up before she hit him with a favor. He’d never heard her talk with such enthusiasm to a client before—she was much better at acting with the tricks than he was.

While he waited for her to get to the point with Samson, he ran everything that had happened with the cop through his mind. A new emotion surfaced from inside him—one he’d thought had been effectively tamped down.

He felt bad. Guilty. He knew he shouldn’t—his survival had been at stake. But it really had seemed as if the cop cared. There’d been something about him that had come across as decent and kind. Not like the asshole cops or almost every other person he’d met in the past few years—along with his own so-called family. Only Valeena had ever been there for him.

Slade tuned back into her conversation, but her voice had dropped lower and she was angled away from him. It was like she was…cooing or something.

Gross.

Staring down at the silver bracelets locked on his wrists, he recalled how the cop had been so worried he might have hurt Slade, how he’d cuffed him in the front so he wouldn’t add to the pain. His only real pain had been from Harold’s bruises, but he’d used it to his advantage. Once he’d been restrained from the front instead of the back, it had been that much easier to get away.

He squirmed in the chair. It wasn’t his fault. He’d had no choice but to strike out at the cop to get away—the man hadn’t listened to him. Slade couldn’t allow his thoughts to run any further away than that. One of the worst things he or any of the other sex workers could do was allow themselves to wish for something more, something real. His world and relationships had to remain fake no matter what, or else the pain of longing could destroy him.

But if I were ever to have someone to love…

There it was again. Those damn stinging tears. There’d been far too many times recently where they’d threatened to take over. It was pointless to think that a hot guy who led a respectable life would want anything to do with a throwaway like Slade.