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!

Buy Links

Amazon US - https://www.amazon.com/dp/B077J37RW6

Amazon UK – https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B077J37RW6

Barnes & Noble - https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/mirandas-masks-lisabet-sarai/1127499525?ean=2940158774584

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/760225

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/th/en/ebook/miranda-s-masks

Excessica: http://www.excessica.com/books/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=25&products_id=1339

Add to your Goodreads TBR list! https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/36622764-miranda-s-masks

Was this book based on a true story? #lesbian #ageplay #bdsm #erotica

Someone very dear to me recently asked if my lesbian ageplay book NANNY STATE was based on a true story. Ha! Don't I wish! My life isn't that interesting.

More specifically, I was asked if Sweet made me get rid of all my thongs and switch to granny panties--which is the rule Victoria imposes on Summer in the book. She didn't. I've still got a vast selection of thongs stored away for a time when they feel relevant once again.

Having said all that, Nanny State did alter and improve our sex life. While we've never delved into ABDL, the book did inspire us to incorporate spanking into our repertoire, and spanking quickly became a go-to for us.

So, while Nanny State was not inspired by true events, it did inspire us to shake up the sex we were having. Just one of the many ways this little book of lesbian domination and submission changed my life!

You can find your copy at Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/146337?ref=GiselleRenardeErotica
eXcessica (publisher): http://www.excessica.com/books/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=17&products_id=540
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Nanny-State-Lesbian-Kink-ebook/dp/B007Q1H1NK/ref=dondes-20
Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1109809789

In case you've never read it, enjoy the first chapter!

Chapter 1

“Victoria?”

The lights were off when I got back to the house—very unusual, because my strict landlady Victoria was pretty much always around. She’d converted the extra bedroom into an office years before I came out here for school, and that’s where she worked as some sort of typist. I never asked for details about what she did for a living. I didn’t really care.

I know that sounds mean, but Victoria was hard to sympathize with. At times, she was unbearably controlling. She demanded I come home promptly after class, and I always resented the way she’d stand in the living room with one eye on her watch, asking, “What time do you call this, Summer?”

Victoria was an old friend of my mom’s, but the longer I stayed with her the more she acted like she owned me, like I was a little kid in need of protection. Who did she think she was, bossing me around in that passive-aggressive way of hers?

“Victoria? Are you up here?” I climbed the stairs, turning on every light as I went.

As much as I complained about Victoria breathing down my neck every hour of the day, I hated being alone in the house. It gave me the creeps. If I could afford it, I’d get a nice little apartment of my own, but that would mean finding a job. After getting fired from my last two restaurant gigs I couldn’t get a reference to save my life.

Anyway, until I finished university it was better to focus my time on writing papers and studying for exams. That’s a big part of the reason I transferred schools and came out here to live. Back home I got way too distracted by hot friends and good times.

In fact, the thing I missed most about my freedom was all the meaningless sex. Under Victoria’s roof, I couldn’t get away with shit. School and home, bedroom door open at all times. She even had the parental block set on the TV so I couldn’t watch anything with “mature themes.”

My poor pussy was craving attention, and the most I could give it was a little stroke in the shower. Even then, Victoria timed me as if I was wasting water. After five minutes, she’d be knocking on the door, hollering, “What are you doing in there?”

I stood at the top of the stairs, gazing into open, empty rooms. “Victoria?”

No response.

That settled it—she wasn’t home! No way I was going to miss this opportunity to do something naughty. Racing into my bedroom, I shut the door and pulled my laptop out of my bag.

My heart thundered in my ears while a thick heat pulsed low in my belly, spreading all the way down my thighs. I couldn’t wait.

“Gimme the good stuff,” I said as I clicked on my favourite porn site. It had a feature where you could search out what you liked best.

I typed in lesbian orgasms.

There was nothing I loved better than watching real girls come, and I looked through the thumbnails for one where the women weren’t bleach blondes. Girls with tattoos got me off almost immediately, so when I found a porn clip starring one inky vixen with hot pink streaks in her hair and one innocent looking redhead, I was all over it.

When the video began, the tattooed girl was already sucking the redhead’s tits, thank god. I hated when lesbian clips started with ten minutes of kissing. Sure kissing was hot, but when I watched porn I wanted it to be on fire.

This clip definitely fit the bill. After fifteen seconds of ogling that leather-clad punk as she suckled the pallid redhead, my panties were soaked through. I reached under the elastic waist of my Uni track pants and cupped my mound overtop of my juicy, soaked underwear.

Victoria had disposed of all my sexy thongs the first time she did laundry, replacing them with white cotton undies. Totally not sexy, but I never did like going commando so I just grew extra cautious about letting people get an impromptu look at my panties.

“Fuck yeah!”

The chick with the ink planted rough kisses and love bites down the redhead’s paper-white belly. God, they were hot together. I hadn’t eaten pussy in months, and I missed it so bad I could almost taste that heavy, musky aroma at the back of my throat.

“Yeah, lick her hard,” I told the girl onscreen. “Suck her clit, you fucking slut.”

I didn’t mind calling instructions out to my computer. Didn’t make me feel crazy or anything. I figured, hell, if I had the house to myself for once I should take full advantage and make a little noise. When Victoria was home, I always had to be quiet as a church mouse and it was driving me nuts.

When the tattooed girl lunged against the redhead’s bush, a growl rumbled deep inside of me. I wasn’t sure who I should be more jealous of: the one doing the licking or the one getting licked. Fuck, I loved the look of that bright red pussy hair. So many girls in porn were shaved—hell, so was I—but it really turned me on to see a full cloud of pubic hair between a woman’s thighs.

The tattooed girl seemed to like it, too. She ate that redhead’s pussy wildly and without remorse, like a wolf tearing into a bunny rabbit. The redhead reacted in a big way, shrieking and whimpering, her voice mellifluous even when she grunted and groaned.

I pushed my bottoms to the floor and spread my legs for the girls onscreen. Parting my smooth lips, I traced my middle finger round and round my sensitive clit, pretending they could see me.

“You like my pretty pussy, huh?” I smacked it for them, jumping in my chair as the slap to my clit rang through my body. “Look how much you turn me on, you little sluts. I’m all fucking wet for you.”

Stroking my clit with one hand, I pulled up my t-shirt with the other. It was tight enough to stay there, hiked above my breasts as I tugged my tits out of my bra. When I pinched my nipples, a surge of electricity zapped down to my clit. If only I could do what the redhead onscreen was doing, bringing her breasts up to her mouth and sucking them, but my boobs were nowhere near as big as hers.

“God, I love your tits,” I told her, pretending she’d heard me and that smile on her plump pink lips was acknowledgement.

The girl between her legs ate her hard, ravaging her clit. She hugged her tits and shrieked. Planting her feet against the mattress, she bucked up against the tattoo girl’s wet face. Watching her lips contort with blissful agony set my belly ablaze, and I scoured my clit so hard and so fast I came when she did—and I came hard!

But once was never enough when I was getting myself off. I cupped my mound, squeezing it in my hot hand, feeling my slick inner lips pound and pulse against the outer ones.

When the porn clip finished, I reached for the touch pad on my laptop. My goal was to get the cursor to a thumbnail of a naked blonde and an Asian woman with giant boobs, but my fingers were wet and my aim was off. I ended up clicking another video instead.

My belly flip-flopped when the clip started. It was another lesbian scene, but I’d never come across anything like it before. There was a woman in her forties, I guess, wearing a prim dress unbuttoned at the front so her big naked breasts were fully exposed. In her arms, she cradled a girl who was probably about my age. Like a baby. So much like at baby that the girl was wearing a diaper!

“What the fuck is this?”

I’d seen some kinky-ass porn in my day, but nothing had ever made my heart clench and my stomach wrench like this did. It seemed really wrong, and I urged my hand to click another thumbnail, but my fingers would not obey.

When the younger woman took the older one’s nipple in her mouth, my pussy gushed with juice. There was something mesmerizing about the way she sucked that woman’s tit, like she derived more than just sexual pleasure from it. And the woman in the dress—wow! The look on her face was so serene, so loving, that my heart warmed as I watched them together.

“Fuck, I can’t be turned on by this.” I spoke more to myself than the computer this time. “This is some crazy shit.”

Even so, my fingers parted my smooth wet pussy lips, tracing up and down my slit and bursting inside while my thumb found my clit. My whole body surged. Sure I’d just come, but that wave of orgasm was still close at hand. Stroking my clit in tight circles, I thrust my fingers languorously in and out of my pussy, savouring the wet squelching sound they made in there. It wouldn’t be long until I was riding that wave of climax again.

I watched the scene on my computer more intensely than I’d ever watched any other porn clip. Mainly, I think I wanted to understand why I found it so arousing. And at the same time, of course, I didn’t want to know at all. I just kept fucking myself and toying with my clit as the maternal older woman stroked the younger girl’s fine blonde hair, rubbed her back, and caressed her thigh.

It all looked so intimate and serenely sensual that I wanted the same thing, though I didn’t know why. I loved the way the younger girl’s smallish breasts pressed against the older woman’s bare belly, just above where her dress was still buttoned up.

“Suck my tits, baby.” I pinched them one by one, imagining those pretty pink lips against my nipple, that velvet-soft tongue licking it, bringing it into her warm, wet mouth.

A surge of energy pulsed through my clit, and my pussy muscles tightened around my fingers. I was going to come watching this crazy fetish porn. I was going to come watching that pretty young woman suck those big, beautiful tits. This was unbelievable.

“Summer!”

Every muscle in my body clenched. My heart seemed to stop beating, and still I struggled to extract my fingers from my pussy and turn off the porn.

Too late anyway. I’d been caught red-handed. I’d gotten so involved that I didn’t even hear the door open.

“What do you think you’re doing, young lady?” Victoria hovered just inside my room, hands on hips. She hadn’t even taken off her leather boots.

I quickly pulled my t-shirt down to cover my boobs, though my bra was still lodged beneath them. My face felt burning hot. It must have been red as a beet! Still, I couldn’t let her know how embarrassed I felt.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” I scrambled into my track pants. “I’m trying to get off—and you’re no help, standing there like the wicked witch of the west.”

Was that the bad one? I couldn’t remember.

“I have absolutely no intention of helping you in that twisted endeavour.” Victoria’s gaze kept darting to the computer screen, where the younger woman continued to suckle to older one.

“Besides,” I said. “My door was closed. Don’t I deserve a bit of privacy in my own damn bedroom?”

Finally, she let out an exaggerated hmph sound and pushed my wheeled study chair clear across the room. By the time I’d turned myself around, she’d closed my laptop and was trudging out of my room with it.

Now my blood was really boiling. That laptop was my private property! “Where the fuck do you think you’re going with that?”

Victoria gasped, spinning on her heels. Her face was like marble, hard and white and frightening. “Mind your language, Summer. This is still my house, after all.”

“Yeah, no shit!” I couldn’t control my anger. The power she wielded like a weapon just made me so damn mad. “You remind me every day: ‘My roof, my rules. Your mother sent you here for a reason.’ I’m so sick of you.” Grabbing hold of my computer, I yanked it from her hands. “I take all my class notes on this laptop, and I do all my reading on it too. It’s not a toy, and even if it was, it’s mine, you ugly bitch.”

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion after that. I held my laptop so close to my chest I could feel its warmth against my pointed nipples. My breath was coming so fast after all that screaming I worried I might hyperventilate, but I worried even more that Victoria would hit me with something.

It wasn’t right of me to call her an ugly bitch. I knew that. And it wasn’t even true. She was the kind of woman whose skin didn’t know her age, except for the laugh line to one side of her mouth and the crinkles she got around her eyes every time she smiled. But she sure wasn’t smiling now, or laughing. I’d never seen her looking so… hurt.

“Wait,” I said as she walked to her bedroom across the hall from mine.

She looked at me, seeming small, gaunt, powerless. She didn’t say a word.

“I’m sorry, Victoria.”

But it was too late. She’d already closed her door.

Nanny State is available as an ebook and in print from retailers such as...

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Nanny-State-Lesbian-Kink-ebook/dp/B007Q1H1NK/ref=dondes-20
Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1109809789
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/146337?ref=GiselleRenardeErotica
eXcessica (publisher): http://www.excessica.com/books/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=17&products_id=540

Here's the direct link to that video: https://youtu.be/tRvEN550944

And, once again, some buy links!
Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1109809789
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/146337?ref=GiselleRenardeErotica
eXcessica (publisher): http://www.excessica.com/books/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=17&products_id=540
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Nanny-State-Lesbian-Kink-ebook/dp/B007Q1H1NK/ref=dondes-20

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.

Hello, Kitty by Giselle Renarde

I'm not sure who started it.  Maybe it began organically.  Maybe it started with Lexi Wood, the sock puppet who lives in my night table and writes stepdaddy smut.  Or maybe it started before that.  Hard to say.

Maybe it started with a spanking.

In fact, yes, it probably did.

Was that spanking my idea or hers? Can a spanking be a mutually spontaneous idea?  If it can, then it was.  She'd never spanked anyone.  I'd never been spanked.  But from the very first smack, we were hooked.

It grew from there.  We'd both mentioned, in passing, that roleplay wasn't an interest.  We weren't lying.  When we said those words, they were true.  And yet, somehow, things evolved.  Spankings altered the power dynamic. In bed, I grew younger, she grew more... authoritative.

When she bought me the hot pink Hello Kitty panties, she became my Daddy.  I became her little girl.

Now, there are complications here.  Complications beyond the taboo nature of a Daddy/daughter ageplay scene.  We've got insecurities, yes we do. And many of our primary insecurities are around gender.

Lesbian Daddies have been around since the dinosaurs. There's a long history there, but for an older trans woman who's led a shockingly vanilla life (until she met me), that seems like a different world. I've never called Sweet "Daddy" out loud, and I'm not even sure I'd want to. I think it might squick me bad and throw her into a not-so-sexy abyss of gender dysphoria.

But wouldn't you think I'd fall into that same abyss when my girlfriend calls me her little girl?  I am genderqueer, after all. My gender seems constantly in flux and it's hardly a binary entity. When people use strongly gendered terms with me in day to day life, it fucks me up.  For me, gender dysphoria feels like... I don't know, vertigo? What does vertigo feel like?  Makes me dizzy, anyway.  Sometimes all the way to that pre-fainting feeling where you know you're going to black out but you're trying really hard not to.

Is that how I feel when my girlfriend calls me her little girl?

Nope.

It's titillating. And it suits me, physically. I've got this tiny body.  Some of my clothes are children's clothes because that's what fits. But when I'm out in the world, do I want to be treated like a little girl?  Nope on the "little" and nope on the "girl".

In the bedroom is a whole other matter.  I put on my hot pink Hello Kitty panties and I get to be this person I would never be in public. I get to be that person in a safe space with a woman I trust more than anyone in the world.

She's bigger, I'm smaller.  She's older, I'm younger.  These are elements that can become very distressing in a relationship if you try to sweep them under the rug. It's no good to dismiss the ways in which being older/younger and bigger/smaller impact the power dynamic in the relationship as a whole. If you don't acknowledge these factors, they can fester--been there, done that.  It's not pretty.

We can add an element beyond bigger/smaller, older/younger.  Of course we can.  In fact, we can add two, because what's an ice cream sundae without a big banana and a cherry on top?  So let's add the fact that my girlfriend is actually actively a father.  She's not out with her kids.  She might not be their Daddy but she's certainly their dad. And me? I never discuss my gender identity with my family. Just doesn't seem necessary at this stage.  Or I'm scared. Point is, won't I always be my parents' little girl?

These are topics that can be uncomfortable to discuss and tricky to work through.  I think the organic roleplay that's eased its way into our sex life has helped us to address some of our anxieties around size, age and gender.

Maybe some day I'll be ready to call my girlfriend Daddy. Maybe some day she'll be eager to hear it.

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Sadsack Blowback #Writing #AgeGap #Erotica

by Giselle Renarde

I don't tend to keep on top of things.

That's especially true when it comes to the daily drama of the romance world.

But I happened to notice everybody freaking out about a chart-topper on Amazon. Apparently this book featured father/daughter incest and underage sex. It's since been removed from sale because both of those things go against Amazon's terms of service. This book's also been banned by Smashwords, and Smashwords will sell you books about getting fucked by your mom, a bull, and the family dog. It takes some effort to get your book bounced from their system.

Bottom line is you can't publish erotic books featuring sex with minors. Ever. Anywhere. This is what we've all agreed to as authors.

So that whole thing happened.

But it didn't stop there.

Because after that incident, I started seeing authors hating on other books... books wherein the main characters were not related or underage.  Books about legal adults engaged in consensual sex.

Hoo boy.  Here we go.

Remember 10+ years ago, when authors supported each other?  Helped each other?  I do.  I was blown away by the kindness and generosity other writers showed me when I was starting out in this business.

Now what do we get?  Authors tearing each other down.  Authors scratching each other's eyes out.  Petty jealousies that turn into witch hunts.  That's what I've been seeing lately.

After the rapey child molester book was taken off the market, I saw authors calling for other books to be taken down too--pretty much any book featuring an older man and younger woman. Consenting adults with an age gap.  Everything must go.

Look, I'm kind of glad nobody in that romance world really knows or cares I exist (or they've hated me for so long that it's not even fun anymore), because I've written a ridiculous amount of age gap fiction and I'm not going to stop because a bunch of angry authors think it's "disgusting." 

Why do I so often write about older men and younger women?  Because I lived it.  You know this about me. You know I was involved with one of my high school teachers, a much older man, a very married man.  I've told this story so many times you're bored just thinking about it. So am I.

Through fiction writing, I'm able to process my experiences as a teen and young adult.  I'm able to think about that time in my life from every angle.  I'm sure that, in reading my fiction, readers who've shared similar experiences are able to process their shit too. I recently heard someone say there's no "junk food" when it comes to media consumption. Even if you think of some stupid TV show you watch as a guilty pleasure, it changes you.  Everything we consume (books, movies, TV, music) works inside our brains in ways we're not even aware of.

Okay, so one thing that attracted me to the older man I was involved with was that... this might sound a little strange... but he was just so sad.  Like, really really sad. Existential ennui, despair, suicidal thoughts. I was so drawn to that.  I just wanted to make him happy.  I wanted to use my body to make him happy.

I was drawn to other qualities, too.  He seemed so knowledgeable and wise. Nobody in my family had gone past high school, and he had a MASTER'S degree. Like, wow, so educated! *swoon* Smart and sad. Shut up and take my virginity!

Did I think our relationship was fucked up while it was happening? Of course not!  I'd have gone to the ends of the earth to defend the choices we made.  Looking back, do I think it was fucked up?  Hell yes. But does that mean I regret my life choices? No, not at all. And does that mean I shouldn't fictionalize my personal experiences? No. It's my life. I'm gonna use it in my books.

"Fine, write your life--but depressing litfic only. It shouldn't be presented in a positive light."

Haha. That was the hottest sex of my life. You think I'm not going to present it that way? My libido's waning by the minute and I very often wish there was some way to recapture those delicious years.  I can't recapture them in life.  I can in fiction.

Pretty much everything I write is massively fucked up.  I'd be bored if it wasn't.  If a bunch of other authors hate me because I write taboo erotica or student/teacher sex or adultery or age play, let them hate. I stopped caring a long time ago.

Except I guess I do still get riled up, or why would I be writing these words?

And why would I have decided to post my new adult novella CHERRY for free at Wattpad?

CHERRY is one super-smutty book.

It's about an 18-year-old girl who falls for her father's best friend on vacation. It's pretty much exactly the kind of book a lot of authors seem to want to burn these days. What I keep thinking is: if a book doesn't appeal to you, DON'T READ IT.  It's obviously not for you. It's probably for the person who's been through this--who's going through it now or who went through it when they were younger.  Or maybe it's just for the reader who wants to peep some hot sex between an older man and a young woman. Why so much judgement? Sheesh.

Anyway, today I posted the first chapter from CHERRY at Wattpad so people can read it for free. I'm going to post a new chapter every day until I'm out of chapters. More info here.

People who find this kind of book offensive can skip it. Or hate-read it. I really don't care.  I'm making CHERRY available FOR FREE for the people who want to read it--to process their experiences... or just to get off.

https://www.wattpad.com/456958988-cherry-chapter-one

I’ll Give You Something to Cry About

by Annabeth Leong

The story below is fiction (normally, I write nonfiction for The Grip). Note that this story includes themes of age play and references to childhood abuse.

Five years ago, I didn’t think I had the guts to do this scene, no matter how many years I’ve thought about it.

Five years ago was before I met Janine. She knows how to get into me like nobody has since I was small. I’d have run screaming from most people with that quality, but the key is I trust Janine, even when she occupies the deepest parts of my psyche.

What she looks like matters less than how she smells and sounds. When I wear her blindfold, her boots on the wooden floor sound like judgement itself, and deep down it’s hard to remember she’s on my side. Her smell, though—that always reminds me. She is comfort food and leather, an aroma that has become the definition of transcendence to me.

“You’ve been bad,” Janine grumbles, her voice grouchy and not her own.

I know that turns some people on, but not me. My stomach drops into my toes. I can’t help struggling, both against the ropes that bind me and against the cloying sense of failure that quickly clogs my throat and makes my eyes sting.

I hear her take a breath in sharply. It’s hard for Janine to see me like this, I know, even if she wants to see every part of me. I know she feels distressed when I’m distressed, and that these echoes of the distress I felt when I was small awaken even more resonance in her. Her fingers brush my arm briefly, the touch her own rather than that of the character she’s playing.

Then she says the line, her voice growing strange and strident. “Are you crying, little girl? I’ll give you something to cry about.”

As it always did, that line makes me cry. My sobs transform from silent, half-hidden things to loud, ugly spasms. Janine doesn’t let up, because I told her not to when we negotiated this.

“Be quiet,” she threatens, “or I’ll give you something to cry about.”

The rough edge of a wooden spoon runs up the side of my arm. In the past, she has hit me with a flogger designed to draw blood, and I have smiled through the pain and mumbled endorphin-drugged words of love. None of that matters now, though. All the blood my tops have drawn, all the marks they’ve made on me, all the times I felt strong or was told I was brave—none of that takes away my small-animal fear of the wooden spoon. I take a slow breath. It won’t even hurt that much, I tell myself, but that’s the wrong approach. It’s not about how much it hurts. It’s about what it means.

“I can’t,” I say. It’s the line I’m supposed to say, and Janine takes it to mean I can’t stop crying, like she’s supposed to. I also sort of mean I’m not sure if I can do this scene. “I can’t.” I’ve got to communicate more clearly. I owe that to her. My brain is swirling, though, and it’s hard to remember that I chose this.

“Quiet,” Janine says.

She draws the spoon edge back less than an inch and returns it to my skin a moment later, the impact too soft to break even the surface tension at the top of a glass of water. It’s more than enough to break me, though. “Yellow,” I say. I force the rest of the words out. “I don’t know if I can get through this after all.”

She changes her touch back to her own. She puts a hand on the side of my face. Her fingers smell of the potatoes we peeled earlier for dinner. She pulls my head against her thick, leather-clad thigh. “You’re a good girl,” she murmurs in her own voice. “You’re so good. You can get through this if you want to. But we can stop now if you don’t.”

She gives me time to think about stopping. I close my eyes and breathe her in. Saying that I feel safe with her isn’t quite right because she can scare me to the point of tears and desperation when we decide to play like that. But I feel clear with her, like I would never lose myself. Like she would never lose herself. I think that no matter what we do, we are always Emma and Janine, people who love each other. When we act out old dramas together, we know that’s what we’re doing.

My heart pounds. Regret starts. I wish I’d never told her about this idea. On the other hand, I want nothing more than for her to tear me open in the midst of this, to find a way to the soft places I lost long ago. Janine is big and strong enough to take my anger, fear, and pain, just as I am big and strong enough to take her force and menace and need for my tears.

“I still want to,” I whisper, and immediately start crying harder because I can’t stop thinking about the wooden spoon.

Stick candy, my father called it. The first time he threatened me with it, I thought he was offering me a treat. Would you like it? Yes, I would. I’m going to slap that smart mouth right off your face. Are you crying, little girl? I’ll give you something to cry about.

Janine lets go of me, steps back, and becomes terrifying again. “Are you crying, little girl? I’ll give you something to cry about.”

“No, please…”

She manhandles me into position, my ass up to receive my licks. Her fingertips tremble against my waist. She pulls my pants and underwear down roughly. I am shaking harder than I’ve shaken as an adult. My throat is too tight to swallow my saliva and a bit of it drools out the side of my mouth and onto the bed. I’m glad I can’t see, that Janine has given me the privacy of my own darkness.

The wooden spoon comes down across my ass, carrying both the sting of the present and the ache of the past. I can barely stand the sensation as it spreads over my cheeks, but I don’t get to dwell on that because Janine keeps the blows coming fast and hard.

This is not pain that feels good. This is pain that blazes like hellfire across my skin and through my heart. This is pain that burns me out and cracks me apart, that I keep thinking I’m not going to be able to take anymore. I hold my safeword at the back of my mouth the way that, as a child, I clutched my favorite glow-worm doll to my chest when I had to go out to the garage alone in the dark. Even if I don’t need to use it, I need to touch it, to take comfort in its presence.

My sobs have become silent again, body-wracking. They contort me. They add an element of breath play to this already intense scene because I can’t get control of my lungs while this is happening to me. I am not crying soft, pretty tears. I am crying tears that make my face muscles seize, that make snot pour from my nose and onto my upper lip.

The inside of my mind goes black. There are only a few things left in my world. The spoon. The safeword. The tears. Me. Janine.

There’s a clatter as the spoon drops to the floor. Janine grabs my ass and squeezes, her palms hard and cold against my heated, tender skin. She is shaking so hard I hear her teeth chattering. She reaches one hand forward and brushes her knuckles over my wet cheeks. I hear a sucking sound that makes me think she’s sucking my tears off the back of her hand, and I realize the privacy of the blindfold wasn’t only for me.

I know what she wants to do. We talked about it. The tension of the moment stretches out. She told me ahead of time that this would be the part she might not be able to do in real life, no matter how hot it made us to fantasize about it in the dark.

Her fingers return to my face, wipe the snot off my upper lip. “You’re disgusting,” Janine says, but her voice cracks out of character.

She pauses for so long that I think she’s going to stop the whole scene. I’m too scared to move, poised on the brink of too many things. “Yellow,” she says finally. “Yellow. I don’t fucking know if I can talk like that.”

I discover then that I can get some control of myself after all. I slow my crying enough that I can whisper to her, give her a message from the Emma of the real-life present. “You’re good,” I tell Janine. “So good. I love you.”

I am aching for the rest of what we talked about, but I remind both her and me of the truth: “We can do this another time if we need to. If we want to.”

She smoothes a hand down the side of my thigh. Her fingers tighten cruelly, and I gasp. “I want it now.”

My body answers with a long shiver, a sense of impending catharsis. “Green,” I tell her, and she answers with a slap to my reddened ass.

“You’re disgusting,” Janine says, her voice stronger now. “You’re still crying, little girl? I’ll give you something to cry about. I’ll fucking give you something to cry about.”

She forces her fingers between my legs, finding my cunt. I don’t know when I got wet. I haven’t felt any pleasure so far this scene. My body somehow got ready, though, as if my tears lubricated my cunt as well as my face.

Janine attacks me with spearing fingers. “You take that, you fucking disgusting girl. Is that something to cry about? Is it?”

I can’t answer her. I’m crying too hard. I’m feeling too much. I’m in a place past bad and good, a place beyond memory or the present. This was my childhood. This wasn’t my childhood. I am big and strong enough to take the desires that make Janine feel ashamed. She is big and strong enough to give me something to cry about.

I cry and cry, for myself, for the small parts of me, for the lost parts of me, for the places I can’t open anymore, and for the ways I can’t properly close, not even when I want to. And eventually, Janine finds her way so deep into my cunt, which feels just then like my life and like my soul, that I come for her, still crying.

I'd like to acknowledge the influence of Xan West on this story. If I hadn't read Xan's excellent book Show Yourself to Me, I don't think I'd have had the guts to write this.