Your heart quickens every time you catch that first glimpse, melts with wonder and joy as you gaze longer until you are burning with fierce adoring need. Painted and polished, on display for the gaze of the discerning connoisseur and the idle glance disinterested passer-by both; she presents the same face to all and provokes in you a hot desperate need for exclusivity, access to the soul behind the smile, to explore the uncharted territory of mind and heart beneath the smoothed-over surface.
There are no fingers deft enough to pick her locks, impervious to light touch or sly nudge she stays locked away behind a shield of transparency. What you see is what you get, says her open face; here on my sleeve is my heart, look no further. You know there is more, and better beneath.
You refuse to haggle, for doing so would cheapen your trophy. Reason and rationale have no place here; this is no courtroom or boardroom for bloodless executive thrust-and-parry. Art is visceral, experiential and so with a twist and a growl, clutching hands pierced with shards of need, you claim your prize in an smash-and-grab warrior’s raid.
As you carry off your bounty, you note that her enigmatic smile for once holds genuine warmth.
Having acquired your treasure, you set to work ruining its purity with graffiti-splatterings of your come, spoiling its elegant lines with a welt here, a bruise there, all the while admiring your handiwork as your subject’s calm perfection disintegrates into sweat and mess, wild-haired, wide-eyed slobbering need. Cast down from the plinth and sprawled despoiled across your stained and tangled sheets, here is your artistry panting and grovelling before you.
Your raise your hand again, every slap stokes the furnace in her eyes, palm-prints bloom as brightly on her flesh as the flush of desire in her cheeks. With your hot sticky salt-spray drying in her hair, her lips bruised and limbs spread wide, she is more luminescent than any spotlight could make her; with marks of degradation and depravity her only adornment you see at last what you were searching for.
My libido woke from its temporary hibernation and delivered this dream, alongside my writing mojo. Welcome back to both. Please feel free next time not to drag That Guy up out of my subconscious along with you.
like all good parties, most of the action has coalesced in the kitchen. Guests lean against the counters, drinks in one hand, the other draped casually around nearby waists or scrabbling at tortilla chips. Robust opinions mingling in good-natured rowdiness against the backbeat of the nostalgic 90s Britpop blaring from the corner speakers.
I’m standing alone by the back door, trying not to sneak too many glances at him in case he notices. It’s been a long time since we split up, under not-entirely-amicable terms (for which I must accept my share of responsibility – which is most of it). He’s changed little, his long blond hair showing evidence of recent highlighting; handsome, boyish – almost delicate – Nordic cheekbones and wide blue eyes, tip-tilted nose a startling contrast to the sandy goatee and black leather clothing. My stomach flutters when I look at him. Admiration, for he is as pretty as I remembered. Apprehension, in case he is still angry or worse – disdainful. Hope. A tiny, flickering butterfly of hope. For what, I’m not exactly sure. Something.
There’s an instant when the expression in his eyes turns from adoringly playful to speculative intent. That look, as he sideslips from boyfriend to Dominant; hunger turning to command, sparks heat and a flood of wetness in response. My legs part of their own accord, my breath hitches in my chest, my mouth parts in anticipation. Signalling to him my willingness – my eagerness – to be owned and used and taken by him.
He cuffs my ankles, fastening them to either end of the spreader bar so that they are held wide apart. I’m forbidden to come until he gives permission, he tells me, his voice low and calm. Naturally, at this ominous news, I moan and squirm in excitement. It’s going to take a long time, he warns with a smirk. Unnff.
This week, I was amazed and overjoyed to find myself on the list of New Voice awards in Molly’s top sex blogs 2018 (sponsored by Chaturbate). One of seven writers – some of whom were familiar (kisungura, Jayne Renault) and others who are new to me – I look forward to delving into their sites over the coming days.
Then the top 100 list was published and I realised what a small proportion of the writers on there I actually know about. Lordy, if only I didn’t have a day job that claims so much of my attention! When I win the Lottery, I’m going to spend almost all of my time reading about sex, with occasional breaks for writing about sex and actually having sex. That’s my idea of the good life 😆
Today I saw a tweet by Amy Norton that reminded me that the writers themselves don’t always know about the differences their words are making in other people’s lives. I was reading other people’s blogs for a while before I started my own, wondering if I could have the courage to be so open about my thoughts and feelings to an unseen audience, hoping that I could write with similar elegance and raw eroticism as the words I was reading. Writing my blog has been unexpected fun, helping me to understand myself better, channeling both my inner slut and my long-held goal of being a writer. It’s brought me so much joy, it’s only fair to thank and celebrate those writers who inspired me right at the start.
The first sex blog I ever read, after a close friend recommended a specific post (I forgot which but it was definitely one of the ‘filthy ones’). Over the course of a weekend, I read everything on the site with total, wide-eyed, thigh-squeezing fascination and have been an avid follower ever since.
Much of my recent education on previously-unfamiliar topics such as polyamory started with Amy’s educational and insightful writing. Being of occasionally fragile mental health myself, I greatly admire the honesty and courage with which Amy tackles this topic. I had no idea erotica could actually be so erotic (having previously only been exposed to the Mills & Boon or Jilly Cooper end of the genre).
Quinn was writing under another name when I first stumbled across her blog. From the start, her beautiful pictures and highly-charged erotica got me hooked. As with both GOTN and Amy Norton’s writings, Quinn also tackles the topics of mental health, relationships and libido, with bravery, grace and wisdom.
Once I’d realised that I needed to learn more about kink in order to really recognise and enjoy my own preferences, the BDSM section of Kayla’s site became my first port of call. Her sound common sense, compassion and genuine desire to help others leaps off the screen straight away. I’d had plenty of experience in how not to do D/s relationships but up until about two years ago, no real idea of what it might look like when it’s working as intended. Kayla’s was one of the blogs that really opened my eyes to the possibilities.
Since then, I have discovered many more excellent bloggers – some new to the community, some just new to me – and I hope to continue to do so for a long time yet! Today I want to acknowledge these four writers who inspired me to get started on this journey, to let you know that what you do does make a difference – a huge one – and to say a massive thank you because if it hadn’t been for you; I might not have arrived at this point at all.
The Fella and I have been binge-watching ‘Sons of Anarchy’ lately. I’m enjoying it very much, the plot twists are clever and the characters are complex. It’s violent and pretty fucking harsh in places, and that’s what triggered this blog post.
Without going into detail that might reveal spoilers, there are some scenes of nonconsensual sexual activity, quite graphically depicted. Gratuitously, one might say, considering that this is fiction and not documentary; what is the necessity to portray for entertainment the awful things that people might do to each other? Perhaps it’s for titillation – and this is where the title of this post comes in for me.
I know lots of stuff. On some specific (niche and uninteresting-to-most) topics, I know loads. I’ve learned a lot about myself too over the last few years; my character, my sexuality, my triggers and vulnerabilities, blind spots and biases. Sometimes this all gets in the way, meaning that I fall back on the knowledge I have already collated. rather than learning and adapting. There’s a small window of learning opportunity between fear and arrogance; sometimes I sidle through that window, other times I get stuck and flail about until I panic or get angry and fearful and sad. When that happens, Things I Know get filtered through Things I Feel and a vicious circle can develop.
On Friday night, I and the Fella with new and old friends, went to a fetish club.
I looked and felt blatantly sexy. I wore revealing clothing, something I haven’t done in public for many years. I writhed and undulated on the dance floor, I took a bare-arsed spanking in front of a crowd of avid spectators, I was led around by a chain and every minute of it felt good, right, natural.
I sat and chatted – about kink, of course, but also about reminiscences, IT project delivery, developments in AI, that man’s amazing butt and flowing beard, that woman’s otherworldy beauty, those people’s elaborate makeup, our plans and hopes and thoughts.
We were surrounded by people who were there to have fun, dance, play, chat; people of many ages, backgrounds, regions, professions, persuasion and passions wearing some utterly fabulous outfits – lace, velvet, latex, leather, PVC, chains, straps, stays, feathers, and exotic makeup.
Consent was negotiated – and protected. There were no visible altercations. There was violence but only that which had been discussed, agreed upon and enjoyed by the participants.
….he leans forward and clips the chain to my collar-ring, wraps the links around his fist to reel me in, our eyes locked. Around us music pounds and throbs. With a tilt of his head and a tug on my chain, he orders me to my knees before him. Gazing up at his handsome face in awe and adoration, I wait with lust-soaked obedience for release. Take me I plead silently, use me, hurt me, own me, love me…
…I’m shackled wrists-together over the spanking bench, my thighs pushed wide apart. He holds my head down, no peeking and pushes my skirt up over my hips, exposing black lace and smooth skin. In one hand, he hefts the flogger; with the other he caresses, explores, assesses…
…the flogger trails lightly over my arms, along my back, the leather leaf-and-rose-petal falls brushing softly in sensual contrast to the sharp sting of the tawse against my bare butt cheeks. I’m writhing, moaning, both flinching from and arching my back in pleasure towards each blow…
…it’s a competition and a collaboration between them, my lover and my friend – timing and placing their impacts in quick succession, left cheek, right cheek, left cheek harder, right cheek, harder still. My fists are clenched; my cunt aches with need for him. He checks in – everything ok? – yes, I’m fine, I’m good, don’t stop…
…with my face held to the leather bench by a strong hand on the back of my head, I can’t see how many people are behind the railings. It was crowded when we arrived and now there will be dozens of strangers’ eyes watching my arse shudder with the shock of each impact, seeing my skin redden. Can they see the glistening of arousal in the smooth cleft between my thighs? Do they track the swing of the flogger in his hand from its path through the air to its landing-slap against my tender nethers? The thought brings a flush to my face and a whimper to my lips. This is so much fun…
…I’m sandwiched between the handsome man I love devotedly and a pretty girl I love differently, who strokes my arm with warm fingers while he rests a casual hand on my fishnet-clad knee. They play with the chain attached to my collar, trailing the cold links against my warm skin and watching with appreciation the shiver and squirm of my response. Her lips pressed against mine are soft, sweet, gentle. I feel safe, loved, admired, desired and in return I am filled with the urge to serve and please, to be useful and used…
…resounding slaps on bruised and flaming flesh; each a shock of glorious agony, the receding tide of sensation meeting the next impact, wave on wave until I am engulfed and awash…
…he helps me to my feet, wraps his arms around me and kisses me tenderly. Later, when we get home, he will gag me and fuck me with brutal power, holding me in place with tight grip while I come, drooling and gasping and shuddering with joy.
Later still, we will share a quiet spliff in the breaking dawn light before snuggling down together under the duvet; tired, happy, loving, sleepy.
CW: this is dark, twisted stuff depicting non-consensual abduction, imprisonment and abuse. It’s not smut for titillation, but written to challenge. If that will distress you, please read no further. Always take care of yourselves and each other.
I should have known he was more than the average slightly obsessive fan. From the second time he showed up at the stage door, pen in hand, greeting me like an old friend; I should have known.
He swaggers in through the saloon doors, leaves them swinging and creaking in his wake. Strides up to the counter with a ringing of bootheels, leans against it in comfortable silence. Surveys the other patrons momentarily, then turns to face Adeline behind the bar. At his back, murmered conversations resume.
Adeline is already pouring the whiskey. A generous measure for a generous man. She’d like to catch his eye like he’s caught hers many a time, but will settle for a brief half-smile and a grunt of thanks. She bustles away to the corner of the bar, resisting the urge to sneak a last sly glance at his handsome narrow-eyed features. Cheekbones you could hang your coat on. Some say he’s part Cherokee, others say his momma was a coolie girl to whom his lawman father took a shine. A scar runs through one thick dark brow and his nose has been broken more than once. Bar fights, stand-offs, mule-kick – the stories fly but facts are few. Rosemary surely knows, but Rosemary doesn’t gossip.
He’s here to see Rosemary, of course. Every Friday afternoon, regular as clockwork. She’s the best whore in town, spoken of in hushed reverent whispers and yearned after with eyes on stalks and cocks standing to attention, but no matter how high the clamour, she keeps this time for him. She’s a whore and he’s an outlaw, but they’ve been sweethearts since forever.
He’s finished his whiskey. Jerks his head questioningly towards the staircase. Adeline dries her hands and sighs. Nods. If she were the jealous type, she’d be running for the sheriff about now. But she’s not. It’s hard enough to find affection around here, let alone love. She envies Rosie and her paramour but its a sweet, melancholy ache not the sharp stab of jealousy. Besides, Rosie has long nails and sharp teeth for all her ruffles and flounces. Not a woman to cross.
The outlaw ascends the stairs steadily. All week long he’s been looking forward to this visit. Every night, he’s pictured her trapped between his thighs with her big brown eyes open wide and her soft pretty mouth stretched full of him. Dear Lord, the things that woman can do with her tongue.
Third door on the right, as always. She’s sitting by the window, legs crossed to reveal her boots and stockings, drinking from a teacup. As always. They have a ritual. He bends to kiss her cheek, then her mouth, cupping her jaw with his hand. A tender greeting before the game begins.
Then, his hand around her throat. Pinned to the chair back, he waits until her instinctive struggles have subsided. When she is still, he strokes her face, clasps her waist. Tells her what a good girl she is.
Rosie knows she isn’t a good girl. She makes her living on her back, on her knees, on all fours; spread and folded, rider and ridden. Her choice. Work is work, she may as well do something she’d be doing anyway and be better-kept than the ranch-wives she sees at the general store. He’s the only man she’ll accept those words from. Coming from his mouth they’re both challenge and reward.
“How many this week?” he asks her, as he always does. She does a quick calculation in her head. “Nineteen.”
“Then that’s nineteen times over you’re gonna pay” he says, uncoiling his whip. “Get on over that bed now.”. She shakes her head, stubborn. “Oh, you’re gonna make me make you? Well sure.” and he grabs a handful of her hair, drags her across the room and throws her face-down onto the bed. Before she can pick herself up and start fighting him, he’s covered her body with his own, pressing her firmly into the mattress. For a moment, she forgets the game and undulates against him, her legs opening of their own accord.
“None of that” he says, and rears up enough to take hold of her wrists, roping them together tightly. “You just keep still now” More rope, securing her ankles to the sturdy legs of the bed, until she is spread and helpless in front of him. Her skirt pushed up, silk drawers ripped aside, now she is ready. He aches to plunge himself inside her right then, but that’s not how the game goes. First, the whip.
“Count ’em” he orders, raising his arm
Welts rise on her skin.
Now she flinches at each blow, her breath coming in gasps.
Her hands digging clawmarks into the sheets.
She will not cry and she will not ask him to stop. This is a rite of passage, a sloughing-off of the confected saloon-whore skin she wears in the week. She has earned every stroke and will not settle for less than her due.
“Nineteen.” She raises her flushed face, lets out a breath somewhere between a sigh and a whimper. “Thank you honey”
He can’t resist the urge any longer. Drops the whip, rips open his trousers; caught in the snare of her scent and the sight of her. She’s his now, all his and everything to him. He pushes his way into her soft, slick warmth and suddenly he feels like a man coming home. She’s a beacon in the darkness, a mouthful of water in the desert, a blazing sunrise and right now she belongs to him they way she’ll never belong to any of the others. He spreads her buttocks further apart with his hands, and shoves himself deeper within her, riding her bucking hips with the practiced ease of the horseman. She whimpers at the rough handling of her reddened flesh and writhes against him, spurring him on; as much incitement as she can offer.
He won’t let her take control. She’s used to setting the pace, force of habit inclines her to brisk dispatch but he’s not a paying client and he won’t allow her these tricks of the trade. Her small sigh of disappointment as he pulls away from her brings a grin to the corner of his mouth. She’s greedy, his Rosie. She’d take it all now and be wrangling for more in ten minutes if he’d let her. “Oh no, honey” he whispers into her ear “Not too soon now”.
She’s on her back, sprawled across him, his form curled against hers. “Hush” he says to her, stroking with aching slowness. “Slowly now” he admonishes her when her breath comes faster and her muscles start to tense. “Uh-huh” he teases with a smile, stilling his hands when her eyes start to glaze “Not until I say you can”. He knows every inch of her, which finger to place against her swollen button, how hard to press, how long to hold it in place; how to angle his wrist so that she is twice-impaled on his hand, gasping and held taut in obedience to his denial. “Relax” he whispers, and she does; melting against his chest, dripping across his knuckles.
Downstairs, the honky-tonk piano competes with the sodden roar of Friday-night voices, a sound to which they are oblivious. When the bar-fight starts, she will be astride him, held firmly in place as he schools her in the art of the cowboy’s slow rolling pace. As the last lamp is extinguished in the saloon, they are face-to-face, limbs twined around the other; finally he allows her to climax and is pulled down into the shuddering vortex of sensation alongside her.
He will lie with her until the first light of dawn creeps through the curtains, then rise, dress silently, and leave before the Sheriff awakes. She will lie to the Sheriff no, he hasn’t been here and mourn the healing of the welts beneath her dress; the fading of their livid colour measuring the distance between now and then. She will have a new number ready for him when he returns.
In substitution for Pervember 18: Overstimulation (about which I know nothing), I’m playing the ‘Prostitution’ joker based on a role-play fantasy inspired by one of the Fella’s hats
I’ve only once in my life had a flogging. There was I, face-down on the hotel bed, ankles tied wide apart, hands bound above my head, drifting happily into subspace as the soft leather falls bounced off my buttocks in a steady, measured onslaught.
It didn’t hurt enough. I wanted him to use his belt instead. Of course, begging for the belt only resulted in admonitions of “patience, little one” – and no belt.
Today’s the day. After weeks of careful negotiations over DMs and cups of tea, detailed planning – most of which I was not party to by my own request – and shivering anticipation, we three have arrived at the place and time of our assignation.
Oh yes. Oh definitely. I didn’t know this had an actual name until I started this Pervember exercise, but this is certainly a significant one for me.
I’m a good girl, aren’t I? See how hard I work, to bring you joy and make you smile. To cause your groans of pleasure. To taste abandonment and indulgence. I’m on my knees for you; mouth open, eyes wide, beseeching you to use me for your satisfaction. I’m stretched and bound for you, open and willing, offering myself for your delectation. I need your words of appreciation. I crave your lustful gaze. I long for your admiration.
I like to be bitten. Is it an actual kink of mine? I don’t think so. I don’t fantasise about being bitten, specifically. It’s not something I’d ask for if it wasn’t happening. I do enjoy a bite or twenty – whether gentle nibbles at my ears, neck and nipples; or a toothsome chomp on my buttocks, thighs and breasts, but I wouldn’t feel deprived if such attentions were not forthcoming. So it’s an enjoyable optional kinky extra rather than a driving sexual need (such as bondage or impact play is) to me.
I’m a physical masochist, many kinds of pain sensation either cause me direct sexual arousal or simply stir up endorphins for an enjoyable rush. The added intimacy of having that pain applied from straight the mouth of another person is a subversive enhancement. The proximity, the understanding that a piece of me is inside part of them, under their control and at their mercy. That; as much as the pain, is what I enjoy.
I like to bite too. Not in a sadistic or dominating way – that’s not my thing at all. But to scrape my teeth lightly over warm skin or to feel a yielding roll of flesh held gently between them, there’s something very satisfying and sensual about that.
I’ve been known to distribute the odd sharp nip of disapproval as well. While I take no pleasure in causing pain, sometimes that is a highly effective method of communication.
But all things considered, I’d rather take a huge greedy bite out of a cream cake or a pizza than another person.
Uhuh. Now we’re back on track. This is something I can write about with enthusiasm, whether fiction or fact.
Tonight she is slave. Not Sarah, wife and mother. Not the pharmaceutical lab tech. Not humblesub69. Just slave.
She kneels in the centre of the studio floorspace, knees spread wide with her weight on her heels. Palms upturned on her thighs and head bowed. Her only adornment is her collar, although she will likely be wearing a variety of accessories this evening. Some of them will hurt.