Feeling Blue: Trans-Dimensional Sex

Sacchi Green

This isn’t precisely a story of sex in space, but close enough, I hope. It was published in a long-gone online magazine, and eventually I included it in A Ride to Remember from Lethe Press, a collection of my own work.

This excerpt is from the very end of the story, and a lot happens before that, so I'd better share some info so that you can, I hope, make sense of what you read.

 Blue is from an alternate dimension where voyeurs peer into our world as a form of entertainment, and scientists and the very rich can even visit and try out more or less human forms, but they have to totally renew and change those forms periodically. Blue isn’t rich, but she worked at the transfer portal and managed to sneak through.

Katje used to be a chemically-induced vampire, and a former whip artiste with an elegant kink salon in New York, but she’s left that life behind. Mostly. Blue wants to try out that milieu, too, but gets into trouble, so Katje takes her away to hide at a lakeside cabin in her home state of Minnesota.

Here’s the end of the story, but not necessarily the end of their story.

Feeling Blue

Sacchi Green  

Blue wanted to be surprised. Once safe at the cabin I knew I'd better do it soon. She was due to transform any day now, and she'd been poring over an illustrated edition of Longfellow’s Hiawatha she’d found there. I didn't know how to explain why I could cheerfully take a whip to the pert white rump of her little pseudo-Transylvanian imp form, but might not feel like doing it to Minnehaha.

The afterglow of sunset still burnished the lake. Moths beat against the screened porch in their frenzy to reach our lamp, and I flicked the tip of the lash at them like a fly-fishing line. Blue looked up from the glider.

"Oh! Is time now?" Her voice was startled but her look was eager. I grasped her slender wrists and yanked her upright.

"Now. Turn around. On your knees." I shoved her back onto the seat till her breasts pressed into the cushioned back.

She grinned as I bound her wrists to the metal frame with bandanas, but she kept silent. "Begging is part of the process," I said. "It won't make me stop. But if you really want me to stop say...say 'Gitchigumee.' That's your safeword. Got it?"

She nodded, pulled herself higher, and waggled her butt at me. I grabbed the waistband of her shorts and yanked hard. She cried out just a little, and then her smooth white curves were naked and vulnerable and eager.

It was easier than I'd thought to get past memories of Selene's "salon." There was a moment of yearning to see Blue's pearlsheen flesh repeated in that baroque array of mirrors, but then the present shut out all else.

I let the slender tip of the lash whisper across her cheeks, slip into the tight crack, curl lightly around a thigh. Then I increased my force, still more kiss than bite, and increased again until she gave a little whimper, thrusting herself out even more and rubbing her nipples against the cushions.

I made the whip crack in the air. Its impact was still only enough to heat, not cut. Then gradually the force and pace of my strokes mounted, and she tugged against the wrist bonds and squirmed and moaned but didn't shrink away. The glider creaked with her spasmodic jerks and her moonpale skin became latticed with streaks of sunset red.

Words mingled with her gasps. "Please, Katje, please, don't stop...don't stop...but my hands, let me, let me please, I need to touch...don't stop, but I have to..."

"Quiet! I'll let you know what you have to do!" I slowed a little, to draw it out, and she twisted and jerked in a futile attempt to press her crotch against the swing back while still keeping her butt extended.

At last, when she began to sob in frustration, I held the whip stock tight against her buttocks and loosed one hand. She rose and fell then, rubbing engorged breasts against the cushion, thrusting her free hand against her clit and moaning incoherently as I worked a hand over her hot crimson flesh and kneaded it forcefully.

She thrashed and writhed and dug her fangs into the cushion; tears seeped through her tight-shut eyelids but I knew she couldn't bear for me to stop now. Just as orgasm at last tore a muffled scream from her throat, her teeth tore a large chunk from the glider cushion.

She was spluttering and gasping and even giggling a bit when I untied the other hand and sank onto the seat with her body across my lap. I feather-stroked her poor throbbing ass and kissed it again and again. A few bright beads of blood glistened where the whip had cut too deep. I must be out of practice--or maybe I had been too swept up in her sensual storm. The old hunger quivered in my gut, but I had long ago mastered the compulsion, sweated out all but an insignificant vestige of Selene's poison. When I licked up the crimson droplets it was with love and tenderness, scarcely rougher than a mother cat's caress of a wounded kitten.

Finally Blue slid to her knees and grinned shakily up at me. "Wow! Katje, Katje, what can I do for you so fucking wild? Quick, before the change? Don't want to change, this body is still so full of feeling, but I can only wait a little bit."

I knew what I wanted, wanted so much I shook with it. "Blue, I want to feel you, not the bodies you make, but you! I saw your light-form that first night in the subway. I've seen the flickers under the door while you're changing. That's what I want, to be inside all that, to feel it inside me! Isn't there sex where you come from? How can I feel you like that?"

She frowned. "Not sex, like here, no. Is a kind of joining, very special, but then both become just one--and with bodies is much more fun to stay two!" Her face relaxed into a grin. I tried to smile back, but she could see the intensity of my longing.

"Oh, Katje, I don't know! I've never done it, is so rare, so special; and when one is in body-form and one is not... I might hurt you, very much!"

"If you could just let me see you! And then try, very gently, to come close. Please, Blue, I want it so much, even if it hurts..."

She brushed her fingers over my face with exquisite lightness. Her black eyes gleamed in her pale face. "I want it, too. I will try. You must wait, and when is time, I will come to you. I promise." She stretched up to kiss my lips and then slipped away into the dark interior of the cabin.

I went down the path to the lake. The night sounds of the woods and the water couldn't soothe me now. Even the serenity of the full moon was intoxicating, and the silver light licking the rippled surface of the water sent waves of longing through my body.

It might be hours yet. I wished I had asked how long, wished I had some sense of how long it had been already. I willed the moon-glazed wavelets to hypnotize me, and time passed.

I felt her coming, a current in the air, a tingling. I turned and saw the blue light flickering through the trees, and waited, trembling, as awestruck as any peasant wench dazzled by the unearthly glow of Faery.

But she was real, and my own Blue, however unearthly. As she drew closer her intricate bands of light danced and flowed into shape after beautiful shape, resolving, when she stopped before me, into discernible arms and legs and face and even a hint of that smile.

Her hum of energy vibrated in my rushing blood. She lightly touched my hands; my arms jerked, then steadied as I willed myself to stillness, to acceptance.

It was far beyond tingling, barely short of shock. Blue's light flickered across my skin, pulsed in waves from her touch, close to pain, closer to ecstasy. As soon as I could stand that much I felt a desperate need for more, and leaned toward her, into her embrace, into her whole being.
Light seized me. Energy poured directly into my consciousness. My body was consumed in fire, blown away in glowing wisps of ash--too much, too much to bear...

Blue shifted subtly. I felt my body once again, and its unabated hunger. Then her energy focused, pulsed into me, flooding the deep, hungry places she knew so well, probing and demanding until my flesh vibrated at last to her frequency and the resonance tore through me like a trumpet blast.
...
                           
"Katje?" Her face was high-cheeked, brown, with a coppery glow. Long black braids brushed my throat as she bent over me. She had far surpassed the Maxfield Parrish illustrations. "Katje, you are all right?"

"I think so..." I had no idea how I'd gotten into the cabin, into bed.

"Katje, I must tell you, I think...I think they have been watching us. But they do not make me go! Last night, as I came to you, I felt them, felt them start to take me, then pull back. I think maybe they like to watch!"

I smiled up at her, relieved to find any part of my body still functional. I ached with the afterglow of pain and ecstasy, and the certainty that there could be still more to feeling Blue, if only I had the chance to train myself to bear it.

"So you can stay as long as we don't let them get bored?" She nodded, the little blue wheels sparking deep in her eyes. My own wheels were spinning with the possibilities. In her present form certain games came to mind, things to try on horseback, or in a canoe. And when it came time to change, the possibilities were infinite, and infinitely intriguing.

The blue fire had burned the last of Selene's archaic poisons from my blood, and soul. Now we were free to create our own mythos. With my experience and Blue's imagination, it was a challenge we couldn't refuse.

A Swing and a Miss (#Play Parties #Floggers #Slings #Voyeurs #Whips #BDSM)

Sacchi Green

I’ve been around here so long that I’m not only repeating myself, but repeating those repetitions. My wild and crazy second adolescence has been mined so deeply that you can bounce echoes off its walls, and there was never all that much of interest in the first place. Just the same, here we go, because the closest I’ve come to our theme of “swinging” isn’t the couples-trading-partners kind, but just the play party kind, which may have included the occasional partner-swapping by some of its participants, but the ones I knew about always ended badly. Let’s not talk about those, okay?

I was introduced to play parties a few years after I’d started to write and publish erotica, at an age when I was old enough to know better but also old enough not to give a damn. I’d met a couple of other writers who been living a virtuous rural life together for twenty years, but were beginning to reestablish contact with city friends who were involved in a women-only BDSM club. I went along for the ride. And the research. I discovered much later that the club’s founders had already bailed when there got to be too much wrangling over rules and by-laws and committee elections, but there were still useful demos at meetings on everything from do-it-yourself sex toys to fisting to obligatory safety training. (Admit it, you thought I was going to talk about another type of do-it-yourself, and, in fact, there was some of that, too.) And, increasingly, there were invitation-only parties.

Most of these parties weld held in a loft-apartment high up in an old factory building, with the owners’ living quarters curtained off except for the small kitchen we could use for pot-luck snacks to keep our strength up. Hey, even just playing the role of a voyeur can be strenuous work. There were two spacious rooms for play, one usually darkened and relatively quiet, with bondage tables and various odd contraptions like a huge wheel-shaped thing that was said to have been hospital equipment for turning burn victims over without putting pressure on their injuries. The other room was well-lit, with such accouterments as swivel inserts in the ceiling with ropes to dangle from, spanking benches, and whatever people might have brought along to use and share, like folding slings (which are pretty close to swings, right? Entirely appropriate to our theme.) Floggers and whips might be used in either room, depending on how crowded the spaces were. There were a few regulars who were real artistes with whips.

Then there were the parties in hotels, especially during the annual Fetish Fair Fleamarkets that had been put on for years at a venerable city hotel, until some reporter did an article with photos of costumed (or extremely noncostumed) party-goers in the elevators, resulting in public outrage and the necessity of moving the event from venue to venue, motel to motel, until finding what may now be a permanent yearly home in a big airport hotel near another city not too far away. The event was a party of sorts all by itself—I remember the pony room fondly, although all I did was watch—but there were also parties in hotel suites, and the club I’d joined always had a good one. I went to these Fetish Fairs as a vendor; I still owned an eclectic college-town store then, and some of my employees liked to go and help out, so we could sell enough in the way of belly-dancing gear, gypsy skirts, assorted humorous/libidinous magnets and buttons, jewelry, and suggestive tarot decks to pay for the trip with a little left over.

What? You think I’m avoiding the interesting parts, like what I actually did at these parties? Well, not all that much. I was mostly a voyeur. Too old to be a beginner, my only tenuous appeal was to role-play a mean old teacher, and I gave it a try a few times, but my heart wasn’t in it. I did try my hand (hah!) at spanking, once, with some success—I think I already told that story here, and got a story out of it that was published—but there were complex emotional things going on at the time, and I never got as good a chance again, or really wanted to.

When I went to the parties at the Fetish Fair I got my kicks out of taking along one of my employees who loved to be flogged and spanked and tightly bound and pretty much anything else, all for the endorphins. The more she was punished, the more she giggled and laughed. People gathered around for the fun of hearing and seeing her. I only flogged her once myself, at a poorly-attended party when there was no one else I’d trust to do it, but on the whole I drew the line at playing that way with an employee, especially since after her mother died I’d taken on a role like a kindly aunt who could be confided in, and with both the employer and semi-parental vibes it felt wrong to get into sexual power play with her.

Flogging was about as far as I got with anything. A good friend gave me one of her floggers, and some instruction, and I had several friends who were into getting flogged without complications, so I did get some vigorous exercise that way. But this is where the swing and a miss part comes in. The first time I felt confident enough to wield the flogger at a really big party, it went well, and my floggees were very impressed. But I'd hoped my friend would be impressed, too, and it didn’t work out that way. She’d recently met two much younger girls somewhere else who came to this party for the first time, and they put on a dancing-slave-girl show for my friend, who watched like a sultan from a pile of cushions, and pretty much everyone else was just as entranced.

It’s been a long time now since I’ve been to a kinky play party. Gasoline got so expensive about then that I stopped driving almost two hours into the city and then back late at night. I did go to the Fetish Flea parties for several years, until the employees who had helped out got involved in other things, including the one who loved to be tied up and beaten. She’s married now with a great little kid, and the other two who helped out are married now to each other and have two great little kids. I sold my store to that couple eventually, but they couldn’t make a go of it and closed it after five years. I was too busy with writing and elder care (my dad) and various things to go back into the retail business.

I did get something important from my not-really-immersion in the world of kink. I understand things I never would have understood otherwise. I’ve seen deeply into people’s needs and desires in ways nothing else would have shown me. I know people I’d never have met anywhere else And as a writer, I can merge my mind convincingly, I think, into characters who are deeply moved by power play and the various other aspects of BDSM. I know myself, who I am, who I might have been, and who I’m not. I did, at least, swing, and if I missed, for many complex reasons, it turns out to be just as well. I still have miles to go, and as a writer, I can, with the utmost respect, walk some of those miles in other people’s metaphorical shoes.          

 

The Joys of Writing BDSM

by Lisabet Sarai



In my post two weeks ago I complained about the constraints of fitting into a genre. Now I have to admit that there is a genre where I’m comfortable -- the genre commonly known as BDSM.

I love writing BDSM. I find it far easier than writing so-called “vanilla” romance or erotica. I’ll be the first to admit the reason: it turns me on. BDSM pushes my personal buttons. My real world experience in the BDSM arena has been fairly limited but has had incredible personal impact. Nothing excites me like a well-written scene between a Master or Mistress and his or her willing slave. I know this is because the action and conversation contain echoes of my own ecstatic awakening to the joys of dominance and submission.

“BDSM” is short for Bondage, Discipline, Sadism and Masochism. It also subsumes “D/s”, Dominance and submission. What is included in BDSM fiction? Depending on who is doing the writing, bondage could be anything from naughty little games with silk scarves to ball gags, hog tying and suspension. Discipline can range from a playful spanking to flogging with a bull whip. Blindfolds, handcuffs, slave collars, dildos, riding crops, leather masks, stiletto heels – the paraphernalia of BDSM have in fact become familiar to the point that they’re almost clichés.

For me, though, the external tools and symbols of BDSM don’t matter, not really. The essence to BDSM, the key to understanding its appeal, lies in the relationship between the dominant and the submissive. Trust is the core concept. The submissive entrusts the dominant with her body, believing that he will administer no more pain than she can bear. She opens her mind to him, sharing her desire to be mastered. She gives him power over her, trusting him to use it wisely. Meanwhile, the dominant trusts the sub to use her safe word if he misjudges her limits, but otherwise, to let him lead her through the scene and not “top from below”.

(For convenience, I am using the terminology of a male dominant and female submissive here, but the dynamics do not change significantly regardless of gender.)

The two participants in this exchange of power are connected – emotionally, psychically, even spiritually. Successful BDSM scenes require a level of communication and honesty beyond what one usually finds in vanilla sexual encounters. A skillful Dom intuits the sub’s psychological and physical state from her breathing, her skin, her body language. To the sub, it can feel as though the dominant is reading her mind – and maybe he is. She cannot lie about her arousal or her agony. Both are plain to see. The experience of being seen and known so deeply is intoxicating, magnifying the sexual excitement.

I enjoy writing BDSM because I can participate vicariously in this intimate connection. I can write from the dominant’s or the submissive’s perspective, male or female. It doesn’t seem to matter. The buzz is the same.

This is just my view. Some readers, and writers, take a more fetishistic approach to BDSM. For these individuals, the paraphernalia are arousing in themselves. It doesn’t matter who is using them. And of course, there are people who find non-consensual scenarios of rape and torture sexually arousing.

It’s not my place to judge these people. After all, there are lots of fine upstanding citizens who would label my own interests and desires as evil or sick. However, neither of these perspectives on BDSM corresponds to my own. I write safe, consensual, responsible, emotionally satisfying BDSM scenes between adults who at very least care about each other’s welfare.

Sounds almost wholesome, doesn’t it?

It’s possible to write BDSM fiction with none of the traditional trappings. One of my all time favorite erotic stories, by Mike Kimera, is called “Other Bonds than Leather”. Better than anything I’ve written, it captures the essence of D/s, separate from the artifacts and the toys.

Meanwhile, here’s something of my own, an example that will perhaps make my point clearer than any more of this intellectualizing.

From “Wednesday Night at Rocky’s Ace Hardware Store” in Rough Caress (Eternal Press, 2008)

We pass a display of galvanized steel fittings. I stop, fascinated. Sturdy eye bolts and swivel bolts, hooks and pulleys, interlocking rings and brackets, all sensuously curved and shining a dull silver. I can't take my eyes away, imagining spread limbs and stretched muscles. Hardware stores always bring out my creative side.

He laughs at my intensity. "You know that we can't attach anything to the walls, Sarah. It's in the resident's agreement."

"Well... what about out on the deck?" Our top-floor condo has a lovely patio built out on the flat part of the roof. From there we have a fabulous view of the city, from Twin Peaks to the Golden Gate.

"You want me to bind you out in the open, where anyone uphill can see you?" He rolls his eyes heavenward, pretending annoyance. "And you say that I'm perverted!"

He steers me onward. Reluctantly, I leave the suggestive display of fittings, only to be transfixed by the rolls of self-service chain at the other end of the aisle.

"Chain is completely impractical," he reminds me with a grin.

"But it's so decorative, so evocative," I counter. "Whips and chains, you know."

"Whatever you want, dear," he says, bowing low. I make a choice and he cuts me a four foot length of the pretty, brass-finished stuff with half-inch links. He dumps it into our basket. It gives a satisfying clink whenever we move.

My nipples go taut at the sound. He notices, of course, and leans down to tweak one, hard. Another wave of lubrication gushes from my cunt. His nostrils flare as my scent fills the aisle.

"My turn," he says. "Let's go check out the dowels." His thumb and forefinger are still grasping my swollen tit. He leads me toward the back of the store.

I look around nervously, but there are few customers at eight PM on a Wednesday evening. Despite my comments about the deck, I'm actually terrified of public exposure. To be more accurate, public restraint or punishment is still beyond my limits, something I'm not ready to admit that I want. He knows that perfectly well.

He halts in front of a rack holding wooden rods of varying diameters and lengths. I have small hands; I could not get my thumb and forefinger around one of the thickest. The thinnest are perhaps a quarter-inch in diameter, like the sticks used to mount children's balloons.

When he releases his hold on my nipple, I still feel the echo of his fingers on my throbbing flesh. "Bend over," he orders. Trembling with fearful excitement, I bend at the waist. I rest my hands on my thighs for support, but he can see that I am not comfortable. He flips my skirt up, baring my buttocks. "Don't move," he cautions, and then disappears, leaving me alone in this awkward and obscene position.

He is gone for what feels like forever. Slight currents of air brush my exposed ass like ghostly fingers. My engorged pudenda ache for his touch, and the scent of my lust is stronger than ever. Sweat trickles down my neck, dampening my hair. My heart sounds so loudly in my ears, I do not even hear him when he returns. He has a folding stepladder, which he assembles and places in front of me. "Hold on to this."

The position is more stable and places far less strain on my back. "Thank you, Master," I whisper, once again marveling at how finely tuned he is to my needs.

He slips a casual finger into my soaking cunt and wriggles it around. "You certainly are wet, Sarah." My pelvis churns at his touch. Without thought, I grind myself against his hand. I am rewarded by a sharp slap on my butt cheek.

"Be still!" he says softly. "I did not give you permission to move."

He continues to explore my well-lubricated folds. Meanwhile I press my lips together and tighten all my muscles, struggling to obey his directive of immobility.

"What are you thinking, little slut?" he whispers in my ear. "Tell me."

I can hardly speak, aroused and taut as I am. "That I'm yours," I gasp, finally. "That I would do anything for you."

That’s it, in the last sentence. I get wet every time I read that sentence. That’s why I write BDSM.