Sky Full of Stars ( #BDSM #FlashFiction #FemDom #GeekLove )

by Annabeth Leong

Hey there! I'm posting an unpublished story that seems to fit the theme. It's not about sex in space, but it's about sex with an astronomer and the wonder of space, so I say that's close enough!

I was a beginner. We both knew that. God, how I wanted to toss Ajay to the bed, tie those lanky limbs into the most artful tangle, and apply a wide variety of expert and creative tortures, in the forms of both pain and pleasure. But I knew I’d only embarrass myself if I got too fancy, and we’d talked enough about this that Ajay shouldn’t expect more than I could deliver.

Still, my hand shook as I stroked it down the side of his face. He smiled. “Relax,” he murmured. “That’s what this is for, right?”

I took a deep breath. “Right. So get on your knees.”

For a moment, he looked back at me with steel in his eyes. My stomach flipped over. I didn’t have any right to this, and I knew it. I’d never been sure of my own power. All my life, I’d been told I could do things—get into college, then grad school, find internships I could afford to take, somehow feed myself on meager grant funding, finish my thrice-damned thesis—and in the depths of my soul, I didn’t believe any of it. What made people think I could do that stuff? What made me think I could tell Ajay what to do? Even if he’d agreed to this. Even if it seemed like we both wanted this.

Then, slowly, smirking as he did, he sank to the floor, and my heart soared with every inch he dropped.

I put my hand on the top of his head. This was real. This was happening. Tonight, I might be able to feel in control for what seemed like the first time in my life.

“Put your hands behind your back,” I said. Behind my own back, I fingered the handcuffs I’d bought for this occasion. They hadn’t thrown me out of the sex toy store, hadn’t asked for any credentials, hadn’t asked any questions at all. I guess I’d known they wouldn’t do any of those things, but I’d still felt dizzy as I walked out with the handcuffs in a plain brown shopping bag. I’d still tensed when a police car drove past, as if the officer might leap out and demand to know what I was carrying.

I moved to the other side of Ajay, trying to make a show of it. Was it really possible for steps to be authoritative? Were mine? I berated myself for not wearing high heels, for not buying leather of some sort, but the handcuffs already represented money I could only sort of afford.

I bent down, half-expecting Ajay to twist away and laugh at my presumption. Instead, his breath quickened as I took hold of one of his wrists. It was so slender. His brown skin lightened to a dark, creamy yellow on its underside, and I traced a finger along one of his veins.

Wonder filled me as I touched him and he let me. I’d forgotten the feeling. I’d entered my grad program enchanted by the mysteries of space, and now I never looked at the sky anymore. Instead, I spent my evenings tangled in datasets and the R programming I’d had to learn on the fly and never really felt comfortable using.

I clipped the handcuffs on and took a deep breath. I’d planned out what I wanted to do—a certain amount of spanking, a certain sort of ordering him around—but I’d just gotten a better idea and I wanted to go with it. “Back up to your feet,” I murmured, helping him. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been spontaneous about something. Vaguely, I recalled that part of being relaxed involved feeling free to follow a whim. Topping Ajay was working already.

I led Ajay toward the door to the fire escape. As I did, my confidence slipped. There was probably pigeon shit out there. It would be pretty private, but what if he didn’t want to be outside at all while wearing handcuffs? What if he expected a spanking, and what if this idea seemed weird and stupid to him?

The door swung open. It was cool outside, and as clear as a city night was going to get. I wanted this, and I needed to be sure he did too.

I stopped and looked him in the eye. “I want to take you outside. You’d use your safeword, right? If that made you uncomfortable?”

He smiled, softer than he did when we saw each other in the department lounge. “You can trust me,” Ajay said, and I did, and that made me feel safe taking him out into the fresh darkness and ordering him back to his knees, though the fire escape was indeed not particularly clean.

I watched his face as I pulled up my skirt. I did it slowly, not to tease him, but because my heart was beating so fast I wasn’t sure if I could stand it. He looked excited, too, and part of me wanted to burst into tears due to some bizarre combination of hope and fear.

My teeth began to chatter. I pulled him toward me until his nose touched my clit through my panties. “Take a deep breath,” I said.

Was that pervy? Or not pervy enough? We’d spent hours talking about this over drinks the week before, but now I felt like I’d asked all the wrong questions. It had been one thing to go up to him sounding all modern and confident, asking if it was true he was into kink, and whether he’d be willing to try it with me. It was something entirely different to be ordering him to soak up the scent of my pussy when we’d never even kissed. Why hadn’t I kissed him first? He’d said he was open to things getting sexual, but what if this was way too sexual, way too fast?

I heard him breathing in, though. And then I heard him moan. Then I couldn’t resist. I shoved my panties off my hips, leaned back against the fire escape guard rail, and told him to start licking.

“Fuck,” he whispered, and his tongue felt as soft as the night.

“That’s right. Take your time. Don’t try to make me come. Just make me feel good.”

I looked at the sky. I couldn’t see much, but I could see Sirius. I fixed my gaze on it and zoned out, until the pleasure Ajay gave me made me feel like I could reach that star across the light years.

I wanted him to see it, too. Easing him away from my cunt, I told him to lie on his back and redid his handcuffs to hold his arms overhead. I brushed a promise of a kiss over his lips, then knelt over him, returning my pussy to his face. His tongue pointed toward the sky just as I tilted back to look. Wonder rushed through me—of body and cosmos. I shuddered from the power of it, and I let him build that into orgasm.

Catching my breath, I looked into Ajay’s eyes. It was all reflected there. But his gaze wasn’t on Sirius. It was on me.

Initiation ( #FirstTime #Fetish #Fantasies )

by Annabeth Leong

Virginity loss has featured in my sexual fantasies for most of my life.

It goes way back to one of the first books I read that included explicit scenes, Jean M. Auel’s Valley of the Horses. That book includes descriptions of a ritual around a woman’s first time that really turned me on—partially because it involved her being initiated by a stranger. That page of my edition was heavily dog-eared, and I remember setting my alarm clock to wake up in the middle of the night so I could read it in private and, er, respond to it in the ways that came naturally.

Even well into adulthood, fantasizing about a hypothetical first time would get me off. I’ve also enjoyed a lot of roleplaying—protestations of innocence or wonder, sometimes with a creepy, consensual non-consent tone, but sometimes playing it just flat out silly, giggling at the ridiculous things I’m saying, while also coming hard. It’s fucking hilarious to pretend I don’t know where my own cunt is, and it turns me on to a surprising degree.

It’s odd because my actual experience of losing my virginity was not that wonderful or thrilling. I was rather young—twelve—dating an older guy who wouldn’t take no for an answer. I remember seeing a friend right after the first time it happened, and she was excited, and I was more bemused than anything else. I didn’t feel particularly changed or transformed.

So I don’t know why virginity loss has been such a consistent turn-on. Maybe I’m looking for a do-over, but maybe I’m hunting a fiction that’s never existed. I know most of the fetishes around virginity are nonsense. I don’t have a freshness seal, and I never did. (If you want your mind blown, read Emily Nagoski’s Come As You Are and discover that the hymen does not work at all like most people think it does.) It was not a magical initiation. I didn’t reach simultaneous orgasms. And so on. And yet…

Lately, a funny thing has happened. I’m in my thirties now, and I’m noticing that many of my fantasies are shifting. I can’t buy myself in the ingenue role anymore. I’ve been fucking for more than thirty years. I’m not sure why that didn’t start bothering me a decade ago, when it had been more than twenty years, but what can I say? The point is that I can’t plausibly fantasize about my own virginity.

Instead, I’ve started fantasizing about the other side of the initiation. The shift feels strange, but perhaps natural. I’m still into something about the mystery of the first time, but now I’m the one who’s navigating it for an innocent partner.

I’m not so into the freshness seal idea. What’s getting me now is the idea of showing someone something and watching them see it fresh. It’s the same way I like to take people somewhere they’ve never been before or tell them about something new. Initiation is sexy, whether that’s magical or mundane.

I never liked the idea of “losing it.” It always seemed weird to me to think of virginity as something that’s “given up.” Because really, it’s about taking in, soaking up the new.

And maybe this is a bit afield from what I started out to say, but when one’s fetish is novelty, it can be found many times over. First time being caned. First time caning. First time giving oral sex. First time getting it after a while. Or, to paraphrase a comedian I saw once, first time on the hood of this car. I’m still into all of it, no matter which side of the initiation I’m on.

When the nipple makes its first appearance...

by Giselle Renarde

That's me in the corner...
That's me in the spot...light...
Losing my virginity...

There wasn't any music playing the first time I had sex. I kind of wish there had been. I kind of wish it was Losing My Religion.

I was a pretty old virgin too, by today's standards. I was 21 the first time I had sex. It happened at a Crowne Plaza that doesn't exist anymore, in a hotel room I don't really remember because it was like any other nondescript hotel room you can think of. I booked it. He couldn't. His wife paid the bills. She would definitely notice if a hotel charge popped up on their credit card statement.

The whole time I kept thinking: God, I hope I never have to do this again.

It felt so weird, so gross, having this old man on top of. I kept thinking how much I'd begged for it. This is what I've been dying for? This is what I wanted?

I hated it. The whole time I just wanted it to end.

But we're talking P-in-V, here. What about everything else? Whether or not you think of yourself as a virgin depends on whether or not you feel you've had sex.

So what is sex?

As a queer person, I obviously don't think penis-in-vagina intercourse is the be-all and end-all. You can have plenty of sex and never do the P-in-V thing in your life.

Remember on Seinfeld when Elaine asks: “Hey Jerry, when do you consider sex has taken place?” His answer is pretty damn inclusive: “I'd say when the nipple makes its first appearance.”

So why did I still think of myself as a virgin even after I'd sucked a cock or touched a boob? Because I truly believed I was missing out on something important. I thought the moment I got a cock inside me the skies would open up and I'd become aware of all these cosmic truths.

That... really didn't happen.

But penetrative sex did get better over time. Started to feel less icky.

Every so often I like to write about the uncomfortableness of first-time sex. Maybe it's not weird for everyone. I don't know. I'm not an expert. For an erotica writer, I have to confess I'm not a voyeur of other people's sexual experiences. Actually, I'm the total opposite. I don't want to hear about it.

But I make an exception for those squicky awkward first times. There's something so gritty and real about them.

Maybe I just like to watch you squirm.

Should've Lost It Earlier

I was too hung up on my virginity. I held onto it way too long.

That’s a trap we fall into in modern society — the myth of virginity. We’re told it’s precious and we should hold onto it, that we should only give it to someone special, and that those who are still virgins are more pure and wholesome than those who are not.

So… how was your first time?

If it was anything like mine it was… awkward.

I was a virgin till quite late — my late twenties — and it was with someone who wanted to show me what it was like. Did I care about that person? As a casual friend (at the time anyway), yes. As something more, no.

Losing my virginity wasn’t some earth-shattering experience. It wasn’t the greatest orgasm I’ve ever had. And it wasn’t something that I wish I hadn’t done. I’m glad I did it, despite all awkwardness.

If anything, losing my virginity took away the stigma attached to it — the fear that the world would collapse if I had sex. I grew up in a fairly liberal family, so the hangups over sex didn’t come from there. (In hindsight, I think I got it from my best friend growing up — a super-Christian, if there’s such a thing.)

I don’t think I should have lost my virginity before I was ready — but I think I was ready several years before I actually did it. There should be a level of emotional maturity going into the act of sex — but I’m sure half of the people reading this had their first sex encounter when they were nervous teenagers, doing it long before they were really ready for it. Each experience is unique and nobody is slutty or should be shamed for what they’ve done.

So, I had sex. It was long overdue and it was underwhelming. I had glimpses of what sex could be, with the right person, at the right time, and in the right place. It set me on a journey to find that right person, time, and place. It led me to some stupid decisions, yes, but it led me on some fun adventure.

This is probably preaching to the choir here. If you’re reading this, an erotic authors’ blog, then you’re probably in favor of a healthy relationship with sexuality. But I think we sometimes do ourselves a disservice when we combat the abstinence-only folks. I think we accidentally set up a dichotomy of either total abstinence or non-stop sex, when, in reality, healthy sexuality is likely to be somewhere between those two extremes. (And, of course, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with someone choosing to be abstinent — but choosing of their own volition, not because they were told to — or someone who loves sex and has it often.)

If we would grow up with a healthy relationship with sexuality — knowing that it can be fun and spontaneous, that we should do it with people we trust and care about, and being prepared with the knowledge and tools to do it safely — then I think we could be much better as a society. It sounds absurdly cheesy, but sex can make the world a better place by making us healthier and happier people.



Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is The President And The Rentboy (co-written with Sandra Claire). He is also the publisher and co-founder of Deep Desires Press, a publisher of erotica and high-heat-level erotic romance. He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit http://www.camerondjames.com.

The Abandoned Train Car

by Annabeth Leong

In the town where I lived when I was younger, there's a stretch of abandoned train track that leads to a line of graffiti-covered cars. I used to sneak out of the house to walk on the tracks at night, enjoying the game of spacing my steps to line up with the cross slats, and the train, coming at the end of this walk like a divine surprise, was the most special, most sacred place in town to me.

On this particular night, she came to my house, and we were pretending to everyone that it was a friendly sleepover thing, but both of us knew what we were actually going to do. We were having a snack together late that night, and I offered her my drink apologetically, not sure if she wanted to share a cup with me. "If I'm worried about your saliva," she said, "I need to stop right now." And we laughed because that was the closest we'd come to saying any of this out loud.

After that, I took her on this walk with me, down the train tracks, to the train. We climbed up the ladder on the side of one of the train cars and sat on the top together. The night might have been a little chilly, but I was shaking for a different reason. I remember stars. We had a package of Skittles and a bottle of Coca-Cola, and I think we had talked on the way there but once we got to the top of the train we fell silent because it was obviously time.

We shared the soda, and then we played a game arranging the Skittles on each other's forearms, and then I got bold and ate one of the Skittles off her arm. We were still too afraid to kiss, so she lay on her back on the cold metal roof and I placed Skittles carefully around her belly button. I don't think I had the guts to try to eat those off, though.

Then she turned to me, and we were kissing. I remember her thick, curly hair in my hands, and the taste of the soda and candy in her mouth. It was tentative at first—we had an awkward discussion of whose lips were supposed to be on the outside of the kiss, the man role—but then it was so obviously right that we stopped hesitating.

I had heard so many warnings from adults about boys and how they wanted sex so badly, how they would go half-insane from hormones and I should never trust them and always be sure to guard myself whenever I was alone with a boy. I'd always thought that was bullshit, some sort of racket, that surely no one was actually losing their mind over sex. Despite the experiences I'd had with boys pushing and cajoling me, I felt that this raging hormones thing was a convenient lie.

Then I kissed her, and I went half-insane, and I understood what those people had been trying to describe except that I wasn't a boy. I didn't really know how to think about what I was doing with her. It felt like there wasn't a rational thought left in my body.

I wasn't a virgin in the technical sense. I'd been with a number of boys by then. But recently, I've been thinking that night was my real first time because it was the first time I wasn't performing a role. Until then, I was always acquiescing to various coercions, making deals, feeling charged with being either the sexual gatekeeper or the automatic dispenser of magical sex favors. With her, we were both doing what we truly wanted to do. We were both excited but awkward but sweet but scared. Sex had never felt so mutual to me before.

I went to visit that town just recently, and I made my pilgrimage. It was eighty-five degrees, which shocked me since I'm used to New England now. I surprised a black snake sunning itself beside the tracks and it rushed away through dead leaves, into the overgrown swamp trees that line the space that was once cleared for the railroad. Its motion was so loud that I cringed, and the sky was bright and wide and watchful above me. I didn't know how I'd once had the courage to come to that place at night.

My mother had told me the old train was gone, but she was wrong. It was still there. I wandered along it, wishing I could recall which car we actually climbed. There was fresh graffiti—new tags, badges of pride for kids I'm way too old to recognize. My husband was with me, and I sort of regretted taking him there because I wanted that place for her.

I've been thinking about that moment a lot lately. That started long before this topic came up here at this blog. I try to write about it in my journal, and I wind up circling it instead, leading up to it and giving endless back story, or analyzing all the things that happened afterward. I write her name and I start to cry, and then I ask myself what I'm crying about. Surely something about the moment, not about her—it seems too naive to be crying about her.

But I think I'm crying about all of it. All the things we didn't know, the things I never had the courage to say or do. There were notes scrawled instead of paying attention in class, boyfriends, all sorts of messes. There were the nights she came to my house and made me feel that wild need no matter how much I wanted to resist her, and there's the fact that I no long have any idea why the hell I was trying to resist her. There were the nights she got me drunk in desperation, and always, always there was my lack of courage, my fear of being seen with her in school. Then there was her conversion and the letters she sent me detailing passages from Leviticus. Years later, there was the time she came to visit me but insisted we stand outside, as if crossing the threshold of a doorway would take us back to that same old feeling. And the last time I spoke to her, she kept a table between us, as if, without the object, we would fly together again.