Wednesday, February 21, 2018

Power of Consent

 by Daddy X

As I’ve mentioned a number of times on these pages, I abandoned coming on to women back when I was a boy and the women were girls. I couldn’t handle the aftereffects of rejection, so I learned to wait for a girl to show interest in me.

I started going to weekly school dances (called ‘canteens’ in my area of Bucks County Pa.) in 6th grade. I still remember my first time. I came home in a state of rapture: I could actually hold a girl in my arms! I found these to be wonderful, if confusing, encounters unless someone said ‘no’ when I asked for a slow dance. That rejection would smack me down to the point where I wouldn’t have the confidence to approach another girl all night.

In my experience it was always the girl who held all the power. I’m talking power of consent. Even as a teen, I could never imagine forcing myself on a girl. Isn’t the whole idea to achieve an equal sharing of intimacy, along with any and all physical pleasure? It certainly was how I viewed  sex at the time—and for that matter, now. Let’s face it, the most ideal expression of desire is when it goes both ways. I wanted to be wanted. For me, mutual desire was the sexiest part.

The method worked well when I became a partner in a bar/restaurant. It was the women employees who came on to me, rather than my taking advantage of anyone by wielding increased power. For the first three years I worked at the place, not once did I have sex with another employee, but after making partner the waitresses (and some customers) began virtually throwing themselves at me. The same thing happened at another bar when I became manager after working there nearly a year.

So these days  I read that it’s really men who exert all the power. Even now, I can’t imagine how bringing a woman home and masturbating in front of her is any kind of come-on. (Unless it’s what they both want, and allude to before the fact.) Clearly those guys are thinking only of themselves.

Thinking one step further, and considering recent consequences for company executives who manipulate underlings, what future does this hold for women who want to fuck their way to the top? They’d simply be using their assets. Shouldn’t a slut have an equal shot at success? Over the years, some of my favorite people have been sluts.

And if I was more of a prick, maybe I’d have gotten laid more.

Tuesday, February 20, 2018

A Defence of Fifty Shades of Gray

I spend a lot of time talking about romance and erotica. I have two podcasts of my own and appear regularly on a third podcast — and people in my daily life who know I write smut often ask questions about the industry.

And more often than not during these conversations, I’m put in the place of defending Fifty Shades of Gray.

Full disclosure: I have not actually read the books, but I’ve seen the first two movies. I’m aware of the books’ criticisms, particularly the lack of writing skill, the problematic portrayal of BDSM, and the fact that it started as Twilight fan fiction.

I see Fifty Shades of Gray as being the scapegoat for everything that outsiders perceive to be wrong about erotic fiction. And insiders to the genre view it as an outside imposter that’s doing a bad job of trying to fit in.

With specific regard to the three most common criticisms I see — the writing skill, portrayal of BDSM, and its fan fiction origins — I find the first and third criticisms to be annoying more than anything else.

Every author starts somewhere and every author develops their skills at their own pace. The fact that EL James’s writing is amateurish is a reflection of where she was at in her stage of writing skill at the time. It’s only because the book blew up that people even paid attention to it. If Fifty Shades of Gray had launched like most first time authors’ books do, it would have seen some minor success before quickly falling off the radar.

Yes, Fifty Shade of Gray dominated the sales charts despite the lack of writing skill. Why? Because EL James knows how to tell a story. If you strip away the awkwardness of the prose and look at just the structure of the story, it’s clear she knows how to hook readers by giving them what they want. Sure, she might’ve made some choices that a more seasoned writer might not have made, but that’s again a reflection of writing maturity. When I saw the first two movies, I was sucked into the plot and taken along for the ride, even though I could see some of the problems during that ride.

Its fan fiction origins are not problematic for me in the slightest. Dreamspinner Press, easily the biggest and most successful publisher of MM erotic romance, has fan fiction origins too. They used to, and perhaps still do, peruse fan fiction sites to look for authors and books to take on. (Weirdly enough, given the community I’m part of on Twitter, I’ve seen Dreamspinner authors complain about the fan fiction aspect, like it automatically makes Fifty Shades of Gray utter trash.) I’ve read more than one Dreamspinner book that was thinly-veiled fan fiction, including one that was very clearly about One Direction. I’ve never even heard a One Direction song, nor did I know the names of the singers, but I could clearly identify the origins of the novel. A quick text to a friend of mine confirmed all my suspicions.

Fan fiction origins aren’t even exclusive to romance. Any established genre has elements of it. I can think of a few Star Trek novels that I would consider to be fan fiction or to have fan fiction elements. I clearly remember one book having a rather pointless scene that had characters named Koothrapali, Cooper, and Wolowitz (three of the guys from Big Bang Theory) — while the book itself was not fan fiction, this scene clearly was. Some Star Trek books I consider to be fan fiction of Star Trek itself, as they do “fan service” rather than tell a unique story.

But the portrayal of BDSM is where everyone gets hung up the most. No, it’s not realistic. Yes, it’s problematic.

There are two rebuttals I commonly voice to this criticism:
- Fifty Shades of Gray is fantasy, not reality.
- The target audience of Fifty Shades of Gray is not those who are participants in the BDSM community.

Romance and erotica are genres of fiction. Further, the stories are fantasy. While, yes, there is an ethical appeal to a fully consensual and fully negotiated sexual encounter, the fact is that readers by and large want pure fantasy. They want to see Christian push the lines of what’s acceptable, they want to see Anastasia get punished, they want to see that dominating and domineering side of Christian come out, they want to see Anastasia submit to it and have sex with him. They don’t want reality. In reality, that would be a very problematic relationship, but in this fantasy, the characters don’t get caught up in the problems.

The target audience, though, is perhaps the most tricky thing for both authors and readers. Every book has a target audience. There is no book I can think of whose target audience is “everyone”.

Quite often I see this pop up in regard to MM erotic romance. Gay men will now and then criticize women for writing MM with complaints (primarily) about it not being a realistic portrayal of gay relationships. Sound familiar?

The reason it’s like this is because gay men are not the target readership of MM erotic romance.

Women are the target readership and, because of this, they get to dictate the rules of how MM relationships are portrayed. These authors clearly have their target audience in mind and are writing to that audience. Their target audience loves it and can’t get enough of it. The style between women and gay men writing MM erotic romance is so stark that I can nine times out of ten determine the gender of the author simply from how the story unfolds and the sex is portrayed.

Similarly with Fifty Shades of Gray, authors of more “ethical” erotic romance are not the target audience. No, the target audience is women who are looking for the type of story that EL James wants to tell. I believe its wrong to shame people for what they want to read. Romance and erotica suffers from that often enough from those outside the genre — so why do we do this within the genre itself?

There’s a negotiation between author and reader. The author offers something and the reader either accepts it or rejects it. In that negotiation, the author finds their target audience and the negotiation is a success. EL James has done that. And for that, I applaud EL James and hope for her continued success.

Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is Schoolboy Secrets. He is publisher at and co-founder of Deep Desires Press, member of the Indie Erotica Collective, and hosts two podcasts, Deep Desires Podcast and Sex For Money. He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit

Monday, February 19, 2018

Negotiation, Anticipation, and Writing Erotica

Sacchi Green

They say “Getting there is half the fun.” I haven’t been able to track down who first said that, but I did discover that Henry J. Tillman claimed that the saying “became obsolete with the advent of commercial airlines.” Henry also said, “If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the precipitate,” so I’m inclined to go along with whatever Henry says.

I very much doubt that Henry was taking into account “mile high club” action when he dissed the experience of traveling on commercial airlines, but I do suspect that thinking about and planning how to have sex on a commercial airplane, and anticipating how you think will be, can actually be more than half the fun of the undertaking, considering how hard the airlines work at making customers uncomfortable.

All of which has little or nothing to do with our topic of sexual negotiation, but I do have it on good authority that elaborate negotiation sometimes turns out to be more than half the fun. Not, by any means, often, but once in a while. It’s like when a writer has planned out a story in great detail, even outlining it scene by scene (not that I’d know anything about that,) and when the time comes to actually write the piece it feels like been-there-done-that. The anticipation factor has come and gone. Or so I’ve heard. Really.

I have, in fact, heard about some negotiations that go so far as to become lengthy written contracts, although my sources may be extreme outliers. I’ve read one long, detailed contract between a dom and a would-be submissive that could be a story in and of itself, and though I have no personal knowledge of whether the actual sex was even more fun than the anticipatory negotiations, I was told much later that after a while there wasn’t any more actual sex, for a reason that was too sensitive to have been included in the negotiations. It had to do with the young submissive making a comment about older bodies, without realizing how sensitive the dom was on that subject.

The necessity for negotiations was emphasized in the BDSM club for women that I belonged to on a largely nominal basis some years ago. I know about asking what areas of the body are off-limits, the relative preferences of pain or humiliation or dirty words, the necessity of safe words, the sharing of special fantasies. This was in the context of “play parties” rather than extended relationships, although I was close to some people who were trying to make long-term relationships work. The club had regular meetings with demos and lessons, and negotiation was one of the major themes. I got the impression that some folks there really got off on the negotiation part, especially as it represented a form of control of both self and partner. Looking back, I can see why the club eventually ceased to be when the non-sexual and never-ending “negotiations” over bylaws and mission statements made it impossible to get enough members to serve on the steering committee. Too bad, since the lessons on safe sex, required for all members, were quite valuable, and there were some great parties. But time moves along, and online groups like FetLife come along, and things change.

I know there’s much more to sexual negotiation than I can imagine. The closest I ever came was as a novice spanker, with a young spankee who knew exactly what she wanted, and what she didn’t. The main thing I remember was that she wanted me to be mean, so she could feel righteously angry at being unfairly mistreated. Okay. I don’t know what I would have done if she hadn’t already told me that her backpack contained, not sex toys, but library books, and YA books at that. I could play the mean librarian punishing her for bringing books for children to this den of iniquity (my hotel room connected to the play party suite.) I could also wield hand and belt and hairbrush harder, she said, that she’d thought possible. Ha. Don’t jump to conclusions about aging bodies. Although, several years later, I doubt that my joints could handle that much.

Getting back to my half-boiled theory about negotiation being somewhat like story-writing, I get quite a few submissions for my anthologies in which the negotiations makeup a major part of the story. In fact I was reading one today in which the negotiations and anticipations were the whole story, which, because of how intriguing the characters were, sort of worked, but may not end up being what I need for Best Lesbian Erotica of the Year. We’ll see. I have miles of text still to go, or at least it seems like it. Just eighty more submissions…



Saturday, February 17, 2018

The Roommate Agreement

by Jean Roberta

Ah, the roommate agreement, such as the one Sheldon insists on in the sit-com Big Bang Theory. As groan-worthy and legalistic as it sounds, it appeals to me. If all the rules of living together were written down, no one could say, “I never promised to . . . “ even though they did. No one could take anyone else’s willingness to do various chores for granted, unless it had all been explicitly discussed and written down. With witnesses on hand.

My story, “Alpha Male”* is written from the title character’s viewpoint. He is a Sheldon Cooper-like graduate student in biology who shares an apartment with his old friend from high school, a young woman named Kelly who loves all the arts and hangs out with creative types. To say there is a credibility gap (or synapse) between Rob the scientist and Kelly the fledgling actress would be putting it mildly. She seduced him once before by getting him high, and he considers that an experiment that shouldn’t be repeated.

Things come to a head, so to speak, when she rubs herself against him, dressed in a corset, while he is trying to work on his thesis.

“You’re a brat,” I said, lifting her off her nylon-covered feet. She should have known I was strong. My best experiment was my plan to pack thirty pounds of muscle onto my bony frame for self-protection. My sessions in the gym were paying off, not to mention the supplements I was getting from a guy named Mike.

“Brats are children,” she told me recklessly in her vulnerable position. “You never take me seriously.” Her large, blue-grey eyes looked as restless and troubled as an ocean. Kelly’s feelings always seemed close to the surface.

Against my better judgment, I sat down and held her on my lap, where she did nothing to discourage my rising boner. “Kelly.” I sighed. “You are such a pain in the ass that if we hadn’t known each other so long, I would ask you to move out. Is that serious enough for you?”

I honestly didn’t expect tears to fill her eyes and pour down her face. “You never tell me what you want!” she sniffed, wiping her face with both hands. “You could give me a list of rules, and I would follow them. Robert.”

Hmm. I reached for a kleenex, handed it to her, then casually groped her perky little breasts through the corset. “Could I spank you if you don’t?”

She looked hopeful, and the light in her eyes was like a glimpse of sunlight breaking through storm clouds. “Yes, really. Or tie me up. Or whatever you want.”

Rob had not seriously considered these possibilities. Now he is really tempted, but he is secretly terrified of losing control, and he wants to establish boundaries for both of them. He offers her this deal.

“Be mine for a week, my pet. Just a week. I need to know you’re faithful to me. I can’t have my girl hanging out in dives and getting picked up by strangers.”

“I don’t --.” She looked at my face. “Yes, Master. I want to be yours.”

The pleasure of role-playing was another thing I had underestimated.

I lifted Kelly off my lap. “On your knees, girl.” I stood up, pulled my T-shirt over my head and dropped it on my desk, then unzipped my jeans. When my cock sprang free, I enjoyed seeing it reflected in her eyes.

I sat down and spread my legs. “Show him some love, my slut. You know how.”

She held my meat lovingly and guided it into her mouth. She closed her eyes as she closed her lips around the base. My cock was bathed in her heat, and it wanted to fill the space.

She stroked me with her tongue like a courtesan of legend. She worked me with her mouth until I was ready to burst.

I had never come in her mouth before. “Uh!” I warned with more passion than clarity. And then it was too late.

Kelly opened her eyes when my juice flooded her mouth in a series of spurts. I wouldn’t apologize for what she had so skilfully pulled out of me, but I could give her a choice. “Girl, you don’t have to --.”

Kelly released my softening cock and swallowed. “But I did, Master Sir.”

I laughed as I petted her silky hair and pulled her into my arms. I loved the position she had to assume, with her ass sticking up. “You did well, pet,” I told her. “As a reward, you may taste my essence whenever you like. I can assure you it won’t give you anything but a salty aftertaste. Unless you receive it somewhere else.”

Kelly didn’t look alarmed. I didn’t want her to run screaming from the room, but I also didn’t want her to get pregnant before we had discussed the issue for an adequate length of time: at least two years.

Rob has already been reminded that his smaller head has a mind of its own, and he is taken aback by Kelly’s apparent willingness to take whatever he gives her. He gives her another warning.

“My slut, you’re very good at pleasing me, but I need a girl I can trust to make sensible decisions. I don’t want a mindless bimbo.”

Lightning flashed in her eyes. “Permission to speak, Master?”

“Please do, my dear. I don’t want you to hide your thoughts from me.”

“I’ve never been confused about what I want – Robert. While you weren’t looking, I grew up and found my calling. I went to the clubs and made friends in the leather scene. I’ve introduced you to just about everyone I know, and you keep them at a distance with your own style of cold politeness. I’ve tried to show you how I feel about you, but you seemed oblivious until I got you high. And then when I got in your face today.”

Rob now has more information than he had before. He tells Kelly to stand still with her back to him.

Hoping she wouldn’t guess that I was improvising, I pulled out a length of string and wrapped it around her wrists. “This is just cotton string, pet. You could break it, but then I would stop playing and leave you alone. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master.”

I unhooked her garters and rolled her stockings down her legs. Then I pulled her lacy panties and garter belt over her hips and firm buttcheeks, exposing them to my admiring gaze. “You know you’ve earned a spanking, don’t you?”

Kelly turned her head, trying to read my expression. I held her jaw as I gave my order: “Eyes straight ahead, pet.”

“I know you want to give me a spanking, Master.”

I chuckled. “Now you’ve really earned it for not answering my question. Your safe word is ‘plateau.’ Can you remember that?”

“Yes, Master. ‘Plateau’ means I’ve reached my limit.” Her voice sounded sweeter than it had before.

But they haven’t reached perfect agreement. Rob explores her with his fingers, to put her in “the proper frame of mind,” then gives her a spanking, but she doesn’t use her safeword.

“Don’t move,” I told her. I went to my bedroom, my congested cock bobbing with every step. I found a coiled leather belt in my belt drawer, and brought it back to where my pet was still patiently draped over the arm of the sofa. I wondered if the fabric would be permanently stained, and this possibility tickled my pride.

Was I wise and responsible or was I becoming a caveman? I had no time to ponder these questions. I drew back my arm and let the leather fly through the air to kiss her ass.

Kelly jerked and moaned. The second strike drew a muffled scream from her. I didn’t hear anything that resembled her safe word.

I gave her two more for good measure, and a welt appeared on the tomato-red curve of one cheek. I gave her one more, and another. The last strike drew blood and a kind of gasping sob. But there were no words.

“That’s enough, girl.” I held her by the shoulders and moved her around so I could lay her face-down on the sofa. Every part of her body looked wet. She was trembling.

“My brave pet.” I soothed her with my voice and my hands. “You need to use your safe word. Knowing your limits is one of your duties to me. Remember what I told you?”

“Yesm,” she answered, her mouth against a sofa-cushion. She didn’t need to tell me that coming is worth what it takes to get there.

Kelly sat up, wincing. “Master, you’re a natural. I knew it. You’re an alpha male.”

“I’ll get better with practice, pussy-slut, and you have a few things to learn too. Bend over again so I can put ointment on your sassy bottom.”

She sighed with pleasure as I lightly smeared cool ointment on her hot skin. I kissed her neck. “You’re mine now, Kelly,” I told her, “and you’re living in my castle. For this week, you’ll tell me what you’re feeling and when you’re coming. You’ll clean up after me, yourself and the cat.”

“Gladly, Master.”


When the story ends, Rob and Kelly have the rough beginning of a verbal contract. As the author behind the scenes, I would advise them both to get hold of a standard contract for such relationships, then customize it by mutual agreement.

I probably should have studied law. :)

*in The Sexy Librarian's Dirty Thirty, first volume, edited by Rose Caraway (Stupid Fish Productions, Orangevale, California, 2015).

Friday, February 16, 2018

The Joy of Celibacy

Celibacy and just Not Getting Any are not the same thing.  Not Getting Any is a lonesome thing, and for the most part not a chosen thing.  Celibacy is something you choose.  I’ve experienced both.

The first half of my young adult life I lived in a religious community, in a communal lifestyle.  There were idealistic young men and women both, my age.  The women lived down the hall in their own room.  There were some times we had to share bathrooms.  Unmarried sex in this particular belief system was considered the worst of all sins.  The worst thing you could do, the kind of thing that could get you kicked out.  The kind of thing you go to Hell for.  Never mind the reasoning behind it.  That was then.  So for about thirteen years I lived in a series of places, with young women, intelligent, strong, often, not always, physically beautiful.  Each quirky in their own way.  It was a lifestyle that tended to attract quirky people - such as me - which over time only made them more interesting.  Celibacy was how you lived in a house, just down the hall from the very thing your loins were longing for.  Pussy.

It was a choice. Being a choice gave it power, it was a strain, a boundary that made you grow as a plant finds a way to grow in a tiny sidewalk crack.  Bonsai trees, before they showed up in supermarkets, were revered in ancient Japan by samurais, because of where they were found in nature.  A natural bonsai tree could be found growing on the side of a cliff, or some such place where a plant had no business being.  The roots were small, because they were growing in cracks in the rock, with what soil gathered there.  They represented an ideal of toughness, of determination to live, a form of art known as Wabi Sabi, seeing the beauty in imperfection.  Celibacy is like that.

When a boundary is created, a line drawn, it is a limit.  It restrains from the possible,  But it also creates an alternate possible.  For me, a young man who never much impressed the ladies, it eliminated the need for sexual competition.  The women didn’t need me to impress them.  They weren’t looking for a boyfriend.  We were brothers and sisters, and that was understood.  This was incredibly liberating.  It was the first time I found a way to get past my own ego and insecurities. I could be their friend.  I could connect with my feelings and express myself in a way usually reserved for gay guys.  We could hear each other.  In those years I learned to really love women.  I love the company of women.  I love the conversation of women. I love what women are. I love the way a room feels when a woman is in it. That is a priceless gift many men never get the chance to have.  I was recently the stage hand for my church’s production of “The Vagina Monologues”.  The women in the cast elected me “Bob”.  When I found out what that was, I felt greatly honored.  You’ll have to look it up.

Thursday, February 15, 2018

Breaking Our Own Rules #lesbian #erotica

The Girl on Your Skin
Lesbian Erotica by Giselle Renarde
How could I complain? I was breaking my own rule.

Nesta and I made lots of rules when we opened up. She wrote them down in the back of her daybook, and we kept those pages pinned to the corkboard by her computer:

-Don’t bring dates home
-Don’t fall in love
-Don’t rave about how great the sex was
-Don’t come to bed smelling like another girl

The list went on, but I was hung up on that last point. All night, I’d been tossing and turning in my sweat-soaked sheets. TV was boring. I went to bed with a book, but the book was boring too. Brought out my vibe. Didn’t do a damn thing. The room felt different when I was alone in it, when I knew Nesta was fucking someone else.

Waiting was killer. Lying alone in our bed, I waited to hear her key in the door, waited for the hinges to creak, for her to unzip those big boots and kick them off in the hallway. Even the sound of her breath, the shallow guilt as she tiptoed to the bathroom, flicked on the light, closed the door—it was all there, right in my ear. The squeal of the shower. I heard every step in the process like an echo as I waited for her Nesta to come home.

I felt feverish, searching for a cool spot on my hot pillow. My head was burning up, and buzzing like a bee hive. I bucked against Nesta’s side of the bed, smelling her hair, her perfume, her body. It was all there in the sheets.

Where the hell was she? Fuck, it was… nine-forty-five? How was it only nine-forty-five? Felt like three in the morning. I covered my eyes and rolled onto my stomach, growling. My breath saturated the pillow, and I rolled again—onto Nesta’s side of the bed this time. I wasn’t going to preserve it anymore. When she got home, she was just going to have to deal with messy covers.

“Do you know what time it is?” I asked, in my mind. But that was a stupid question, because it wasn’t really late. “I’ve been worried sick.” Or maybe, “Who was she?” Or, “How was she?”

No, I couldn’t ask that question. It was in the rulebook. We weren’t supposed to ask about sexual performance.

I rolled back onto my side of the bed. More and more, I was starting to think it took a special type of person to survive an open relationship, and maybe I wasn’t that special. Did everybody feel this jealous?

When I finally heard Nesta’s key in the door, it came as a surprise. Maybe I’d given up hope or something, because I sat straight up in bed, on high alert, like the figure coming through the front door might not be Nesta at all.

She unzipped her boots, kicked them off in the hall. I couldn’t see her until she tiptoed past the bedroom door, and even then she was only a shadow. The shower would come next…


Something inside me was adamant about this. I whipped off the covers and stomped across the room in basketball shorts and a T-shirt. Nesta shrieked when I grabbed her wrist and pulled her out of the bathroom. She shrieked like she didn’t know it was me, like I was some faceless attacker in the night.

I pulled her tight to my body and held her there, like we were dancing. Her breath hit my chin in hot little bursts as I pinned her to the bed.

“I haven’t showered yet,” she said in a whisper.

That day, for the first time, I didn’t care. My lust for Nesta superseded any jealousy. I was so hot for her I didn’t even know where to start.

Pressing my body tight to hers, I kissed her hard. She was too shocked to react, and I had to pry her teeth apart with my tongue, dig inside her perfect mouth.

Her perfect mouth tasted like pussy.

The sweet tang, the aftertaste that stuck at the back of my throat—it was pussy, unmistakeable. And I shouldn’t have been surprised, because I knew what she’d been up to, but knowing and tasting are different things entirely. That girl, that other girl, whoever she was, had found her way inside my mouth. She was a stranger to me, but her pussy was on my tongue. I could taste it.

“She fucked your face,” I said, holding Nesta’s head in my hands. My palms looked huge against the fine line of her jaw. “You ate her. You ate her good. Her pussy’s all over your skin.”

“Is it?” Nesta asked, like she wasn’t sure if I was angry or what.

“Shh, shh, shh!” I didn’t want her being scared. “Baby, it’s all good. It’s all good.”

I licked her cheek and she shuddered. “Oh god.”

“I can taste her pussy,” I said, and kissed Nesta’s chin with an open mouth. “I can taste her cunt. It’s everywhere. That chick must have been riding your face hard.”

“Yeah,” Nesta admitted. “She was.”

“Tell me what she looked like, girl.”

Nesta inhaled sharply as I tore open her top. “Are you sure you want to know?” she asked. “I thought we said…”

“Forget the rulebook.” I leaned her down on the bed and kissed a sharp path from her neck to her nipples. They stood up hard against the cool night air, and I asked, “Did she do this too?”

Petting my hair, Nesta said, “Yeah, babe. She did, but not like this. We were standing by the window, all the lights on. She stripped me bare so everyone could see down on the street.”

My pussy clamped tight when I pictured my Nesta naked, all eyes on her, getting her tits licked by some girl I didn’t know.

“Was she wearing lip gloss?” I asked, because Nesta’s nips had a tacky texture that didn’t come from me. And they tasted like strawberries.

“Yeah,” Nesta said. “Gloss over dark lipstick. Fake lashes. Golden eye shadow and thick black liner.”

“A real femme, huh?”

“Yeah, babe.” Nesta pushed down on her pants, and I helped her. God knows what happened to her panties. I’d never seen her go commando before. She must have lost them at this femme’s place. Her pussy was bare where it mattered, with just a tuft of hair like a landing strip.

“You’re still wet,” I said, tracing my fingers over the slick line of her pussy lips. She was drenched with juice, just dripping with it. “Did this girl eat your pussy before you ate hers?”

Nesta nodded. “How’d you know she went first?”

I didn’t know. I wasn’t even thinking anymore. My body was taking her because that’s what my body wanted. There were days when I wished to hell I could grow a cock and fuck her with it, fuck her hard. My system was in overload mode. Too much heat.

“Get me off,” I said, begging for it. I didn’t even know what I wanted her to do, exactly. “Get up on the bed. Spread your legs.”

My cunt was throbbing for real, actually pounding like my clit had its own heartbeat. I pulled off my clothes as Nesta climbed fully onto the bed. Her top was open, hanging off her shoulders. Her bra was pulled down under her tits, but her bottom was bare. Even in the dark I could see her pink glistening. How much of that was pussy juice and how much was a stranger’s saliva?

I’d never wanted to know before. I’d never wanted to think about who Nesta fucked outside our bedroom. But that’s because I was scared. Scared these women were bigger than me, stronger than me, butcher than me, better.

That was it. That’s what I’d been afraid of—that Nesta was looking to replace me, when all that time she’d been looking in the other direction.

I don’t do feline and feminine. I like the look, but it isn’t me. The girl who’d planted her face between my Nesta’s legs had all that going for her. I could practically see her pouty purple lips parting to lap my Nesta’s nectar. Pretty girls playing in front of open windows, for all the world to see.

My pussy pounced. Turning Nesta on her side, I spread her legs so I was straddling one, the other launched over my shoulder. Yeah, I split her right in half and pushed my cunt right up close to hers. She shrieked and grabbed her tits, like that would protect her from me.

“You’re crazy,” she said, and I wasn’t totally sure whether she was amused or afraid. “What’s going on here?”

“I’m getting off on you,” I said, pressing my fuzzy cunt right up against her. “Fuck, your pussy’s wet, girl. You’re all slippery.”

I licked her smooth calf, and she moaned, thumbing both nipples. “God…”

She looked good like that, damn good, and I asked her, “Is that what you were doing while that other girl sucked your fat little clit? You twisted your tits just like that while she ate you?”

Nesta’s eyes were closed, but she nodded. “Mmm-hmm.”

“You keep tugging on those tits, baby.” I rammed my cunt right up against hers, banging our bones together, searching for the sweet spot. It wasn’t easy to find. Usually I’d have the patience for all sorts of bumping and grinding, writhing and adjusting, but not this time. “Squeeze your tits, girl, just like that.”

Nesta pushed her big breasts together as I pulled her ass off the bedspread, holding her up until my muscles trembled. She wasn’t heavy, but the effort got to me. I needed to come, and fast. I had to find that perfect place where I could rub my fat clit against her pink. I wasn’t getting there quick enough, and it made me want to scream.

I pictured this girl, this stranger, between Nesta’s thighs, lapping at her soft flesh. Would I be beat by some chick I didn’t know? Never. Never. I traced my clit up and across the plump folds of Nesta’s pussy until I found what I’d been looking for.

An imagined tongue licked our clits as we grinded together—hot, wet, slick and powerful. Every woman had a tongue, but not every woman knew how to use it. Whoever Nesta spent the evening with knew just what to do. I could feel it like an echo in Nesta’s pulsing body. I could feel it in the way she bucked against my pussy while we tribbed. There was something between us, something we could both feel even though it wasn’t physically there.

“What’s her name?” I grunted. I could barely speak.

Nesta pinched her tits and squealed. “We said we wouldn’t tell. It’s in the rules.”

“Fuck the rules.” I pounded her pussy with my clit, making it a cock, fucking her like she wanted. “Tell me her name.”

“Won’t you be mad?”

Holding her hips aloft, I traced my clit over hers, feeling her shudder. I trembled so hard I couldn’t speak. I didn’t care about that girl’s name anymore. I didn’t care about anything. My orgasm was coming on strong, riding up my thighs and swelling in my belly before shooting straight to my clit.

It was fireworks, the way we exploded together. Her hips rattled in my hands. My cunt blazed against the soft, wet pink of her pussy. There was another element in the mix, too—a lingering scent, or feeling, or taste. Something foreign, not of us.

Nothing else had ever felt this good, and I knew it was the unnamed femme, the ghost of a threesome. The tang of her pussy clung to my throat as I grunted Nesta’s name. Her tongue was there on my woman’s clit, lapping up hard while we climaxed together. The unnamed girl was there the whole time. No denying it.

My arms lost their strength. I dropped Nesta’s hips to the bed and our hot pussies came apart, making a wet kissing sound. Falling beside her, I spread my legs. My cunt felt so fat I couldn’t close them without sending aftershocks through my whole body.

Nesta was panting wildly when I found her hand with mine. For a long time, we didn’t say a word. We had way too much to talk about—a whole rulebook to re-evaluate. Hard to know where to start.

“I didn’t take my shower,” Nesta said, after a while.

“Yeah.” I slid my arm under her shoulder and rolled in to sniff her neck. The whole room smelled like pussy, but I could still distinguish the one that wasn’t ours. “You want to shower now?”

Nesta hesitated before saying, “Maybe in the morning. I’m too tired to stand.”

We pulled up the covers and buried ourselves underneath. Change was coming, but the conversation could wait. We could sleep together in the scent of that nameless femme who’d taken Nesta up against a window, for all the world to see.

This story appears in my book Spicy Confessions, which is now available as an audiobook from such retailers as Nook Audiobooks and eStories.

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Tuesday, February 13, 2018

Sexual Negotiation

I write erotic romance, usually with a BDSM slant to it, so sexual negotiation is at the heart of my stories. Lisabet’s post yesterday set out the glorious complexity and core paradox which bedevils these delicate discussions. Negotiation, compromise, subtle and often unspoken agreements are, I would suggest, essential to all relationships, sexual or otherwise, kinky or vanilla. The world of BDSM just flushes it out into the open, makes overt what the rest of the world takes for granted or leaves unsaid.

Honesty, trust, transparency, key buzz words in the BDSM community. A BDSM playroom is no place for assumptions, therein lies the route to disaster, or at least the nearest Accident and Emergency department and we all know how over-stretched they are at this time of year. The last thing they need on a busy Friday night is a bunch of kinksters turning up. That said, I know of at least one ED consultant of my acquaintance who assures me it’s not that uncommon to be asked to retrieve various interesting objects from unusual places.

But we digress…

I’m not convinced that readers really enjoy reading the finer points of the sexual negotiation between characters. That can all be pretty repetitive in any case and I reckon they want to get to the good bit, and as a writer it’s tempting to dive straight in. But there are the purists out there, we find them in the reviews, taking issue about the level of negotiation, the breakneck speed with which a relationship builds from initial meeting to whipping out the cane (so to speak). I prefer to believe that no serious Dom or sub would rely on works of erotic fiction, least of all my books, for their introduction to the noble art of kink but there you have it. Do we have a social responsibility to offer factually accurate content and provide glittering kinky role models? Christ, I sincerely hope not.

I had plenty of comment along those lines in response to my first ever book which features some fairly heavy BDSM. Re-reading The Dark Side now, there is much that I might write differently. Back then I laid on the negotiating aspects with a trowel. These days I think I’d skip a lot of that stuff to cut straight to the chase.

This excerpt is from Darkening, the first book in The Dark Side trilogy. This is, as far as I can recall, the only one of my books to actually feature a written contract.

With a shrug, he gets up and strolls across the spacious office to his desk, then opens the top drawer and withdraws a sheet of paper in a clear plastic wallet, and his iPad.
Returning to the table to sit alongside me, he glances sharply at me, cool, efficient. “So, down to business. I want your consent, Miss Byrne. But it has to be informed consent. I always like to make our sort of arrangement really clear,” he states matter-of-factly, “just to avoid misunderstandings later.”
“But first, health and safety.” What?
“We need to sort out contraception, and disease control.” At my amazed expression, he goes on to explain, “I trust you do practice safe sex, Miss Byrne?”
Me? I don’t practice any sort of sex. And I need some practice. That’s the point of all this, why I’m even considering this bizarre ‘arrangement’. I just want to get laid. Nicely, of course. Skillfully even, if possible. But laid all the same. And I already know he has the skills I want. So if these are his terms…
“I’m on the pill,” I blurt out, realizing too late what impression that will create. In fact, I was prescribed the mini pill about three years ago to deal with horrendous heavy periods rather than to prevent unwanted pregnancies. You’d need a sex life for that to be a problem.
“Ah.” He looks a little surprised, but quickly rallies. “Well, that simplifies some aspects, I guess. So, just disease control then. I’ll use a condom. Is that okay with you?”
“Er, yes, yes, of course. But—I don’t have any…”
Idiot. You should have told him you were a virgin. Too late now…and anyway, you don’t want to put him off.
Grinning, he leans in and quickly kisses my mouth. “My department, sweetheart, leave the supplies to me.” Now, leaning back in his chair again and back to Mr. Cool and Efficient, he slides the plastic wallet toward me. “Read this, please.”
I take my time retrieving my glasses from my funky little satchel, perching them on my nose before glancing down at the sheet in front of me, at the words printed there. Then I blink, take my glasses off and clean them slowly with the little bit of soft cloth in my glasses case, buying time. He’s patient, unhurried, waiting while I collect myself before eventually looking again at the printed sheet, reading carefully to make sure it does indeed say what I think it does.
Words like ‘fuck’, ‘anus’, ‘feces’, ‘fellatio’, ‘dildo’, ‘vibrator’, ‘nipple clamps’, ‘strangulation’ and many, many more leap about in front of my eyes. Snapping my head up, I look back at him in stunned horror.
“What… What is this?” I ask weakly, my self-confident bubble in danger of bursting with a nasty pop.
“Don’t look so worried. It’s just a way to make sure we both know where we stand,” he replies calmly, obviously anticipating my reaction. Reaching out, he takes my hand and turns it palm up, then strokes gently, reassuring me. “Although, in fairness, standing’s not generally my favorite position for what I have in mind for you.”
His wry humor is strangely calming, and I look back at the sheet full of obscenities, taking a deep breath. If he wants to talk about this…stuff, I can handle it. I hope. I am fully aware we didn’t come to Leeds for a picnic by the river, but still…
“We need to agree on the parameters, know what’s allowed and what isn’t. Do you know what all these words mean?” he asks, still stroking my hand.
“Yes, of course,” I reply defensively. Then think better of it. This is no time for false bravado. “Well, I know what these things are. But what do they have to do with me? Or you?” The more frightening ones keep leaping out at me—strangulation, blood, naked flames… “I didn’t realize… I mean, I didn’t expect… I can’t just… This is really dangerous.”
“Well, that stuff on that side certainly is. That’s why it’s on the ‘don’ts’ list.”
“Don’ts?” Relief washes over me. Maybe he’s not a psychopath, after all. Not totally.
His voice hardens suddenly. “Pay attention, Miss Byrne, read it carefully. You have three lists in front of you. The first list”—he taps the sheet with his index finger—“here, this explains how our arrangement will work. This is a list of some of the things I want, intend”—he looks up sharply, catches my eye to make sure I get it and know he means business—“to do to you. What your role will be, and mine. It’s not an exhaustive list, but it’s enough to give you a pretty good idea what’s going to happen. Read that list, Miss Byrne. Read it out loud, please.”

I look down, peering at the words through my glasses, my eyes skimming the list… I start to read out loud.