Reminding Him of His Place (#gayerotica #eroticaexcerpt)

I don’t often delve into BDSM themes — which is what first comes to mind when I hear the post theme “Knowing One’s Place” — but one of my first stories touched on it. Going All The Way was the third in a three-part series about hot sex and hot yoga — with the dominant older yoga teacher instructing the nubile young twink yogi in all manner of scorching hot maneuvers. While I feel my writing has improved considerably since when I wrote this story, it remains a consistent seller.

(Fun fact: the characters in this series are loosely based on an older daddy-type yoga teacher and twink yogi that I always saw hanging out together at the hot yoga studio. They might not’ve been fucking, but I’m pretty sure they were.)

In this excerpt, Brad (the dominating teacher) has to remind Simon (the mostly-submissive twink) about his place in the relationship. To give some context, prior to this scene, Simon inserted a vibrating butt plug into his ass, which is controlled by an app on Brad’s smartphone. The excerpt picks up in a gay bar in downtown Toronto, as Brad and Simon are celebrating Simon’s recent win at a regional yoga competition.

———

When they were alone, Brad picked up his glass and clinked it against Simon’s. “To my favorite boy.”

Simon blushed profusely, trying to hide behind his glass as he sipped. After a few sips he leaned in close, lowering his voice. “Are you going to get me drunk so you can have your way with me? I’ve always wanted to drink and fuck.”

“What, you’ve never done that before? Be honest.” Brad took out his phone and placed it before him on the table.

“Honest!” Simon’s cheeks turned redder still. “I’ve only done a few things before you—with Randy—and since you...only what we did that night at the studio.”

“Hmm. Just Randy, eh?” Brad tossed back another mouthful. It went down smooth, burning a path to his guts.

Simon matched him, taking back his drink as eagerly as he took cock down his throat. His eyes watered, but he steeled himself, pretending to be more of a man than he was. “I’m telling the truth, I promise.”

Brad stared at his phone, tapping the table with a thumb, then slammed back the rest of his drink—Simon copied, fixing him with his best innocent face. Both drinks finished, Brad flagged Alex over to order another round.

“So you want to drink and fuck, eh?” He said when the server was gone. Brad nuzzled his knee against Simon’s under the table. The boy responded by rubbing his foot up along Brad’s calf. That simple touch made Brad ache with need. He longed to take the boy and ravish him, plunge his dick deep inside him, share his energy with him...tell him he loved him.

A ding sounded from Simon’s direction, barely audible above the smooth jazz from the overhead speakers. Simon fished in his pocket, then withdrew his phone. He grinned. Tap tap tap tap tap tap came the annoying click of texting fingers.

“Simon...?” Brad said.

“One sec. Just texting Randy. He’s asking how the tournament went today.”

Brad tapped on his phone too in the designated spots until he hit the desired app that made Simon’s body jolt.

The boy dropped his phone and fixed Brad with pleading eyes. Brad gestured to his phone. “Thought I’d answer a text too while you ignored me.”

Simon clamped his lips shut, slamming his hands against the edge of the table to brace himself, screwing up his face in a ridiculous expression. He squealed—barely audible. A quick glance around revealed that few people noticed or cared about the outburst of sound.

“You seem to have forgotten that you’re still my slave. A little reminder can’t hurt—that’s all this is, a reminder. Now, I will turn this off if you promise not to touch that fucking thing again while we’re out. Got it?”

Simon nodded fiercely. With a tap, Brad turned the vibrator off.

“Now,” Brad said, picking up Simon’s phone where it had fallen on the table, “I hope that taught you a lesson.”

Simon gasped a few times before speaking. “Yeah. I—won’t—anything—I’m—yours.”

“Good boy. Now put it away unless I tell you to take it out.”

“Yes, sir—master.”

Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is Erotic Love & Carnal Sins: Confessions of a Priest (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.

My Favorite Sexy Tools

by Annabeth Leong

I didn’t start buying sex toys until I was in my late twenties. My ex-husband was one of those men who’s uncomfortable with the idea of a vibrator, viewing it as some sort of penis substitute that would eventually crowd his out. I had always masturbated just fine with my hands, so I didn’t think I was missing much.

My first masturbation tool was erotica. That I bought from a relatively young age, and I’d binge on it from time to time, staying up all night, not wanting to stop once I’d gotten started. Toward the end of my first marriage, I’d often stay on the couch long after my husband had gone to sleep, downloading books from the internet and reading them in long, breathless gulps—sometimes more than one a night.

Later, though, I started craving sex toys, partly because I’d gotten into reading BDSM erotica and I wanted to use the things I was reading about. I think most people, upon discovering the scene, go out and spend a ton of money on things they’ve been fantasizing about for a long time, but those things may or may not turn out to be as imagined. For me, I didn’t know at first what I actually liked and wanted to use in real life, and what things just seemed good in my fantasies. Then there’s the matter of certain toys requiring a partner who’s also into using them.

It would take way too long for me to talk about all the sex toys I’ve bought and what I thought of them, but I’ll share some highlights—both in terms of biggest disappointments and biggest successes.

Biggest Disappointments:

3. Spreader Bar
I’d fantasized a ton about these, and been turned on by what I’d seen of them in porn. I liked the idea of being forced open and exposed, and not being able to do anything to get away from, say, a spanking on the clit. (Oh, I still do—writing that turned me on.) In real life, at least with the spreader bar that I bought, I found that I could bang my ankles on the metal and twist in all sorts of dangerous ways. It’s also awkward and unwieldy. Probably lots of tying expertise could fix those problems, and maybe I’d feel different if I had some sort of built-in suspension ring in my bedroom. It just felt like more trouble than it was worth. I think I only used it once or twice.

2. Ring Gag
This is an A+ turn-on for me in an erotic story. Mention a ring gag, and I’m usually just a twist of the wrist away from an orgasm. In real life, the pain of the thing definitely works for me. I got one that I can barely fit between my teeth, and I absolutely love the feeling of my jaw being stretched. What kills it for me, though, is drool. In real life scenarios, I’m not into humiliation, and I find the drool humiliating. I didn’t realize from fantasizing and reading exactly how much gags would make me drool (the ball gag is, if possible, even worse as far as drool goes than the ring gag). This has made it mostly unappealing to use my ring gag.

1. Hitachi Magic Wand
You read that right. I love reading the Amazon reviews for this thing. One might be forgiven for thinking this was a Biblical product given how many times God and Jesus and angels are mentioned. I’m not trying to diss on a classic. However, the Hitachi Magic Wand is not, for me, the orgasm factory that it apparently is for some people. For me, it produces, even on its lowest setting, a barely tolerable level of vibration. I only ever use it through clothes. While there might be some sort of forced-orgasm sexiness to its extremes, that’s not how it goes for me. If I can’t come within the first couple minutes of using it, my clit goes sort of numb and tingly, and I’m locked in a frustrating almost-orgasm for a long time (usually until I give up and use my hands). I’ve had scenes where these qualities were harnessed to my benefit, but for the most part the Hitachi is a tricky toy, not a perfect one. There’s also the problem that, when I use it a lot while lying on my back, I often get wrist pain afterward (not at all cool for typing). I’ve tried lying on my stomach and riding it, but this exacerbates a tendency I have to get a headache along with my orgasm. That can happen sometimes anyway, but it seems to always happen when I use the Hitachi this way.

Biggest Successes:

3. njoy Pure Plug (smallest size available)
I considered just writing njoy the company, and putting them at number one, because all their toys are boss. (The things I’ve seen the Eleven do… Oh, my God). For the Pure Plug, though, I have a specific story. While writing Untouched, I wanted to use a butt plug for long-term wear (think of it as a sort of method acting for Celia, my sexually insatiable main character and constant wearer of insertables). I’d found, though, that the butt plugs I purchased weren’t comfortable while I was sitting at my computer. After a long and, dare I say, probing conversation with an njoy employee at the Fetish Fair Fleamarket, I decided to buy a Pure Plug. I did ignore her warning that many people regret buying the smallest size and wish they’d bought something larger. I love anal play, but I often feel some fear about it. I didn’t think I’d regret having the smallest one. Anyway, it was everything I dreamed it could be. It’s easy to insert, easy to keep clean, comfortable for hours, and really arousing. I like sitting with it. I also like inserting it just before sex. It intensifies all my sensations to have it there, and it’s not ever something I have to work up to.

2. Chair Dildo
I was almost afraid to buy one of these. I’d had a fantasy about them for a long time, and the words “chair dildo” in a story get me going like you wouldn’t believe. A deeply cherished fantasy of mine is to sit on one at the breakfast table, pretending nothing is going on, eating eggs, trying to look normal. After the disappointment of the ring gag, I was afraid the reality of a chair dildo would burst my bubble. Reader, it did not. It was, if possible, even more awesome than I dreamed it would be. I have a harness that quickly and easily attaches to any seat. I lube up the dildo, and slide onto it. It hurts in a good way, but I can also stay on it for a while. It’s fun to sit still on it and see how long I can resist doing anything else. I love to be watched while I use it. As I write this, it occurs to me that part of the success of the chair dildo is that it combines a lot of things I love: masturbation, exhibitionism, pain, pretending that nothing is happening when something definitely is. I think it took a lot of trying and failing with toys, though, to identify these sorts of elements.

1. Blackjack
In my opinion, the perfect impact toy. After much experimentation, I learned that my preferred type of pain is “thud.” There is nothing more deliciously thuddy than a blackjack. This is the sort of thing that comes down and strikes deep. You feel it in muscles you didn’t even know you had, and you feel it there more than you do on the surface of the skin. It leaves a sort of deep bruising that, if you’re into this sort of thing, serves as an incredible reminder the next day. Nothing takes me into my favorite masochistic place faster than the blackjack. I bought mine from Agreeable Agony, and the fact that it smells deliciously of leather hurts nothing. I tried several of their models, and I believe the one I chose could be described as medium intensity. This is nice for me because I like working into pain a bit. Starting out with very hard pain can make me call a quick stop. Also, the blackjack is one of the first toys that gave me a real desire to switch. I used to think I didn’t ever want to top, but the way I felt the first time I hit someone with a blackjack… I guess the thud appeals to me in all ways, not only on the receiving end. I think of this toy as something I came to as I matured in BDSM, something I only bought once I’d learned about myself and what I like.

***

Of course, this list is highly personal. I would definitely recommend Agreeable Agony and njoy as makers of quality sex toys, but my favorites are deeply tied to my interests and desires. And that, I suppose, is the point. A tool, after all, must serve its proper function.

The Mother of All Tools

Sacchi Green

What a marvelous device! A tool that can grasp, lift, turn, reach out, withdraw: move with force and speed enough to be a weapon, or move slowly and gently enough to handle tiny, fragile things. A tool that can manufacture other tools, even robotic replicas of itself, sometimes to reach where it cannot safely go, sometimes to perform surgical procedures requiring even tinier, more precise movements than it can manage itself, in spaces where it cannot fit.

And a tool that can challenge any sex toy ever made, most of which require its help to function. Ropes or gags cannot tie themselves. Clamps do not generally open and close themselves. Vibrators have off/on buttons, and even electric wands must be held and directed. Dildos and other penetrative gadgets need to be fixed in harnesses or manipulated manually (with the exception, I‘ll admit, of a few outrider contraptions of a roughly “saddlehorn” nature.)

Manufactured. Manipulated. Manually. All words derived from the Latin for “hand.” Admittedly “tool” is understood to mean something used by the hand to perform tasks, if not directly, then by means of other tools dependent on hands at some point in their construction. I’m stretching the theme to the point of cheating to represent the hand itself as a tool. In fact my point is more that the hand is the source of all tools, and  sometimes the prototype, in the sense that many tools were first developed to extend what the hands could do. If hands could throw objects, a sling could allow the hand to throw them farther and harder.  If hands could, with difficulty, open a clamshell, a sharp stone could be used by the hand to do it more easily. If hands could pull strips of leather through slits in hides to fasten them together, an eyed needle made from bone could let the hands do finer work.

Still, calling a body part a tool is, as I admitted, a stretch. The alternate definition of “tool” that the Merriam-Webster dictionary gives so coyly: “d. often vulgar :  penis”, is a common usage, but irrelevant here.  I did learn something from exploring definitions, though; I’d always assumed that calling someone a “tool” was like calling him a “dick,” whereas it turns out that a more specific definition from The Urban Dictionary says, “One who lacks the mental capacity to know he is being used. A fool. A cretin. Characterized by low intelligence and/or self-esteem.” In any case, this too is irrelevant, except to display my own ignorance.

But there are some legitimate arguments to be made in favor of seeing the hand as a tool. Consider communication. If the pen is a tool for written communication, as is the typewriter, and now the computer, what about this?

In sign language, isn’t the hand a tool for quasi-written communication? And then there are all those hand gestures that make an unwritten point.

I won't try to make a case for that sort of communication as representing a tool, though. Well, maybe the Merriam-Webster definition "d" kind.


Moving along to the matter of sex toys. If one considers a sex toy as something that gives sexual pleasure without being the standard equipment for procreation, the hand is right up there. Ask any lesbian. Not that men don’t know that, too, and not just in the context of the traditional “hand job.” At least they’d better have figured it out. Men can learn a lot from reading good lesbian erotica. Just saying. There are ways in which the hand can do things even the “tool” in definition “d” can’t manage, and do it for longer. If they sometimes require added lubrication, well, so do a vast number of other tools.

Hmm. I suspect I haven’t really made a case for the hand as a tool, but I did say “The Mother of All Tools” in my title, and it’s true—almost true—that without the hand, there would be no tools. I say “almost true,” because there are a few birds who’ve learned to do things like holding sticks in their beaks to probe for tasty grubs, and octopi have been observed manipulating things around them in ways that could be interpreted as using tools. Maybe it’s just as well that octopi stay pretty much under water. With all those talented tentacles they might learn to out-tool humans if they were terrestrial. It doesn’t bear thinking of. Especially when it comes to sex toys. (Don’t think about that. Just…don’t. Although there have been stories written…)



   

Mental

By Lisabet Sarai

I’ve been fascinated by sex pretty much all my life—from before the time I even knew what sex was. At the same time, I have to admit that from a physical perspective I have never been a very sexual person. What do I mean by that apparent paradox?

Well, even back when I was in my teens and twenties, swamped by hormones, my horniness didn’t express itself primarily through my body. I was not the kind of woman who was crazed for orgasms and would do anything, with anyone, to get them. I certainly experienced physical pleasure during my (pretty numerous) sexual adventures, but that wasn’t my primary focus.

What was my focus? It’s actually pretty difficult to describe. I loved being an object of desire. I sought the sense of connection that distinguishes great sex, something very close to spiritual communion. Even when an encounter didn’t reach that level, I enjoyed the warmth of our shared pursuit of pleasure. I liked being taken over by my lover, feeling a bit helpless. And I definitely got a kick from surprising my lover with my lack of guilt and my willingness to experiment.

Because I was more influenced by the mental and emotional aspects of sex, it didn’t matter that much whether I came or not. I realize that sounds heretical, but it’s true. When I think back to the most intense and arousing of my sexual experiences, I don’t remember orgasms at all. I don’t even know if I did in fact climax. I remember the thoughts and feelings, not the sensations.

I think this is just the way I’m wired. Maybe it’s because I’m an Aquarian. (I definitely fit the classic description of that sign.) Whatever the reason, my lack of focus on physical pleasure (relatively speaking) means that I haven’t masturbated all that much.

I did discover masturbation very early—at the age of four—but I never had any sort of compulsion to pursue the activity. As an adult, I might go years without jilling off. (Of course, I’ve had at least one sexually active partner for most of my life, so I was never particularly frustrated.)

When I do masturbate, the mental component remains more important than the physical. Without a fantasy, it doesn’t really matter how, or how much, I play with myself. I can’t come from purely physical manipulation. In fact, it’s easier for me to climax from indirect stimulation than, for instance, with a vibe pressed against my clit. Without some scene running through my head, though, I can hump my pillow for an hour to no avail. In contrast, give me a nice, filthy BDSM scenario to contemplate and I’ll come in a matter of minutes.

My characters tend to be far more physical than I am. When you’re writing erotica, that’s more or less required. Still, they tend to fantasize when they’re playing with themselves, too. It’s probably not too surprising that their mental movies have something in common with my own.

As an example, here’s a masturbation scene from my erotic romance TheIngredients of Bliss:

My eyes still shut tight, I summoned memories of Harry’s caresses. He’d go from gentle to intense in a breath, and so did I, seizing both nipples and pinching as hard as I could manage. Like turning the knob on a stove, this raised the heat level. My gluts tensed and my hips bucked. Meanwhile, my erect nipples throbbed, aching but craving more. I clamped down on them with even greater force, digging my fingernails into the swollen flesh. The first quivers of an orgasm stirred in my depths.

‘You love it when it hurts.’ I could hear Harry’s warm, teasing voice in my mind. ‘You’re a natural sub. The more I torture you, the more you want.’

But of course, Harry’s ministrations weren’t torture, they were bliss. Every slap or spank he inflicted upon me, every kiss of the whip, every brutal thrust of his cock, was edged with delight.

In my mind, he knelt between my spread legs, gloriously naked, stroking his substantial erection and grinning down at me with a heady mixture of lust and love. My pussy clenched around emptiness at the image, so vivid I could see the black hair that furred his powerful thighs and the pre-cum beading on the head of his cock. I needed him—needed him with me, on top of me, inside me.

I interrupted my fantasy just long enough to strip off the shirt and jeans. I was nude underneath. Pulling open the drawer of the bedside table, I retrieved a black velvet drawstring bag and extracted its contents. Harry had hidden it somewhere in his luggage and handed it to me with a triumphant grin the first night in Paris.

Though I was alone, I couldn’t help blushing at the sight of the massive dildo. Fashioned of jet black silicon, it was nine inches long and a full two inches in diameter. Harry had insisted I buy it. He’d stood laughing in the background at the adult store while I’d stuttered and fumbled with my credit card, unable to meet the clerk’s eyes.

“It will never fit,” I’d protested, after I’d obeyed his order.

We’d strolled arm in arm down Market Street, my cheeks still hot with embarrassment. I’d felt as though every passerby knew what I carried in the plain brown paper bag.

“Oh, you’re wrong, love. It will fit perfectly—not just in your pussy, but in your ass too.”

He was right of course. If I was sufficiently aroused—and I was always that way, around Harry—it slid right in. The first time he’d commanded me to fuck myself with the obscene object, I’d had one of the most intense orgasms in my life. He hadn’t inserted it into my anus yet—nor forced me to bugger myself—but I knew he would eventually.

How would that feel? My rear hole tightened at the mere thought of such an invasion.

Stretched out on the bed again, I feathered my hands over my bare breasts, across my belly and down to my cunt. The lips were slick and swollen under my fingertips. Spreading them with my left hand, I rubbed the toy over my inner folds, gathering wetness. My clit screamed for attention, but I held off, as I knew Harry would, building the tension. Instead, I eased the first inch or so of the artificial cock into my channel, pretending it was Harry’s cock.

As always, going farther felt impossible. The silicone rod was too big, too hard. My poor, tight pussy could never accommodate such a bulk. Pain flickered through the haze of my arousal as my flesh protested. “I can’t,” I moaned out load.

‘Of course you can. You will. For me.’

For Harry, I’d do anything. I released my labia, grabbed the dildo in both hands and pushed. A few more inches disappeared into my cleft. My thumb grazed my clit, triggering a bolt of pleasure that spiraled deep into my core. The pain faded, replaced by extreme sensations of fullness, sensations that pumped energy into my gathering climax.

‘Fuck yourself. Ram it in.’

I drew my knees up that I could tilt my pelvis to a better angle. With all the force I possessed, I drove the phallus into my cunt. The tip hit my cervix. I gasped in sudden agony. Then pleasure welled up, drenching me and spilling over, washing away even the memory of discomfort.

I pulled the toy part way out then slammed it back in, using the same sort of rough, fast strokes Harry favored. Incredible! Of course, the lifeless hunk of silicone couldn’t begin to match my lover’s hot supple flesh, melding with my own.

But the sense of transgression was thrilling—the knowledge that I was fucking myself with a huge toy at the orders of my Master.

‘Good girl.’

Eyes closed, I summoned my lover. I wanted the dildo to be Harry’s cock, but stubbornly, I could only picture him watching, a delighted grin lighting his face.

‘That’s right, love. You keep working on your pussy. Meanwhile, I’m going to bury my cock in your ass.’

I’d never actually play with myself like this. I probably wouldn't enjoy it. But I love thinking about it. I love writing about it. In fact, simply reviewing the scene while incorporating into this blog post has me wet. Really. Which just goes to show that for someone like me, writing is perhaps the most effective sort of masturbation. Even if it is entirely mental.