Where Does This Stuff Come From?

18 Tuesday Sep 2012

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I get asked that question more times that you’d believe. “How do you think of this shit?” My inspiration comes, as I think it does for a lot of people who find themselves inspired to do, say, create, write, paint, craft, sculpt, or whatever something: in a sudden flash and usually out of nowhere.

One of my favorite stories I’ve ever written is “Dirty Little Secret” that’s published in Not Safe for Work. The working title for that story was “Ice Cream” until I actual compiled the anthology of short stories and was putting it into print. The entire inspiration for that story came from an exchange in an online forum in which an ice cream cone was mentioned.

Ice cream. Those two words were the catalyst for a whole story. Honestly, nothing more.

Obviously there’s more to making it into a full-blown story than that. Once the inspiration hits me, it sits at in the center of my thoughts not unlike a magnet, and bit by bit, ideas drift by and are attracted like bits of stray bits of metal. The ice cream story started small, as little more than a stroke piece. But as I finished writing the first section, published it, and stepped away from it, I realized that the magnetic inspiration that sat at the core was still attracting ideas. I thought the story was told, but it wasn’t. The characters had more to say, so I opened the file and kept writing.

The second time I stepped away from it, I felt like the story was told, and the resulting story of a man who in a moment of crisis walks away from everything he holds dear resolves itself in a way that was true to the characters. I felt like my characters had both grown and discovered something about themselves. The central idea had stopped attracting, so to speak.

It’s also one of the sexiest stories I’ve ever written, I think, not just because these are two people who’ve just completely given themselves over to fucking each other, but because of the turmoil going on inside his head. He’s a complex character and I think it’s why his story garners so much response. I think it’s why people are sympathetic to him even though he’s cheating on his wife. They can relate to how he feels. He’s very real.

He is, to be clear, no one man I know. Yeah, he shares attributes in common with real people that I know well. They’ve let me inside their heads by being friends and lovers and companions. I know how they think because they’ve told me. They’ve shown me. That character is his own man, but the way he feels about his life, the way he deals with his angst, the things he needs from the much younger woman in the story–those all come from different places. They are different bits of metal drawn to that central core.

One of the comments I hear a lot is that my stories are so real, but with the tagged on assumption that I draw heavily from my own life. Obviously, I do to an extent. I do write what I know.

For instance, I wrote the short story “Falling” out of thin air. The inspiration for that story was an ad on a website that had a picture of a rumpled bed. It flashed by as ads do, largely unnoticed. But the image that barely registered in my conscious brain became that magnet. And ideas floated by and grabbed on. I don’t know what order they took or how an innocuous picture of a bed made me think of two people being in it that shouldn’t be.

Even the imagery of falling means something different to me than it did to the people who read it first. I pictured two people on the edge of something big. Something life-changing. Two people having to make the decision to let themselves go, to give into their lust for each other, to just…fall, and damn the consequences.

I didn’t mean falling in love, and I was surprised when that was the reaction I got. I had to go back and re-read it again with different eyes to see if that’s actually what my words said.

I meant it was two people not necessarily in love giving in physically to a craving for each other.

I could see how a reader could assume deeper feelings, though. I thought to clarify it, but decided not to when I realized those beta-readers were bringing their own thoughts and feelings to the story. My experience, my fantasies, my own moral compass aren’t the only driving force. I steer the ship, but the readers all follow their own currents.

But that story brought up a lot of questions, especially from my husband. We had a long talk about just this sort of thing: where do my ideas come from? Is this about someone in particular? Am I having feelings for another man that he should know about?

The answers were no, it’s not about anyone in particular and no, I don’t have any feelings for any other man but him.

But I can imagine those feelings. I can articulate those feelings and apply them to characters I create. I can do those things because I’m a writer.

It has (and does, I guess) beg the question if my stories are in any way me working out my own personal fantasies.

The answer is yes, and no.

Sometimes I find myself working out some of my own issues in my writing. But more often than not, it’s just my imagination hard at work. Do I want to cheat on my husband? Hell, no. But can I imagine it? Hell, yes. I get in my own head and think, in that situation, how would I feel? What would I do? What kind of emotions would I be feeling? It’s not hard. And there’s an honesty to that kind of writing. A lot of the fantasy I write is just that–pure fantasy. Not some deep-seated desire or any sense of longing for anything in particular, just a matter of asking myself “Can you imagine?” and finding the answer is, “Well…yeah. I can.” I won’t lie. There are other men I find sexually attractive. I mean, just because I’m on a restricted diet doesn’t mean I can’t look at the menu.

Right now I’m working on a story that’s got so much metal stuck to it that I can barely see the magnet at the core. I’ve started writing it three times now, trying to weed through all the bits that have stuck on and finally think I’m moving it in a direction where it will highlight the more substantial pieces I want to get at.

The basic idea that was kicking around in my head, the inspiration magnet, was the idea of a long-distance romance. I was drawn to the challenge of writing an erotic story where the two people never actually touch each other. There’s a lot of romantic possibility and a great conflict.

My brother-in-law’s wife once said that she didn’t consider Internet friends to be real friends. I was affronted, to be honest. Hell, one of my best friends is someone I met when she was living in England, then for the three years she was in Germany, and now even though she’s stateside again we still have yet to “meet”. We’ve laughed together (a LOT) and cried together and have shared our hearts time and time again. The fact that we’re not breathing the same air doesn’t matter. I’ve come to know her through words, and as a writer, words matter to me.

Knowing in my own life that I have Internet friends that I hold very dear to my heart, the idea of a romantic relationship forming doesn’t seem far-fetched at all. And sexually? Well, there are lots of dirty things that can be done over the ‘net. I know it. You know it. Maybe you’ve even done it. I don’t judge how you get your jollies.

So the story is a friendship with sexual overtones that’s about to jump over into romantic feelings, and while both people are free to be in that relationship, will it be enough for both of them? It’s been a hard story to write. The subtext is tricky.

And I really should get to work on it.

He’ll Never Tell

17 Monday Sep 2012

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In the cold calm of early morning, Bob opened his eyes and looked through the gap in the room-darkening drapes that had refused to close entirely. He could see the red glow of the motel sign that beckoned weary travelers from the highway shining brightly against the cold, slate gray sky. “Rooms starting at $69,” it declared. He snickered again at the double entendre, mentally high-fiving the clever son-of-a-bitch that had set the room rate.

Scratching his balls thoughtfully, he looked at the clothing strewn around the room. In the dim light coming through the broken drapes, he could see a black lace bra dangling from the bent television stand and he smiled, remembering the sight of Pam’s large melons tumbling free as he tossed it aside. His cock stirred, and deciding he wasn’t going to waste his sixty-nine bucks by missing out on a hot morning fuck, he stroked it, coaxing it back to life. After all, he reasoned, you didn’t become the owner of three successful car dealerships by wasting cash.

From under the badly hung bathroom door he could see a wedge of bright light shining in an irregular pattern across the well-worn carpet. The shower was running and he could hear occasional snatches of a tuneless melody as she hummed to herself. He rose and padded silently on bare feet across the floor, narrowly avoiding a large brown stain near the foot of the bed.

She jumped slightly when he pulled the heavy, white shower curtain aside, but smiled when he stepped between her and the stinging hot spray, and grinned a more knowing grin when she saw his purple cock jutting out from beneath the beginning of a paunch she’d never noticed as long as he kept it sucked in.

He spun her around, forcing his cock into the cleft of her ass, stroking her silicone sweater puppies and tugging on her big, brown nipples. He bent his head, pressing his lips to her neck where the dark roots of her hairline changed abruptly to the platinum blonde tresses that were pinned messily atop her head. “You’re a sweet piece of ass,” he said, feeling the head of his cock throbbing between her cheeks.

She giggled and looked coyly at him over her shoulder. She was too old to pull off the demure act anymore, but she still had a few good years left in her before those big titties started heading too far south for her to be able to dance on the main stage at his favorite gentleman’s club. He bent her over and ran his hands down her back, spreading her cheeks and stroking her bald beaver. She braced herself against the shower wall, moaning as he spread her snatch.

“Oh, yeah, Daddy,” she said, her voice high and breathless, “put your big cock in me.” She wiggled her ass and bounced up and down on the balls of her feet. “I’m your naughty girl.”

He sank into her, watching the round globes of her ass jiggle as he pounded her. In his mind, Pam was just what every man should have: a tight, hot cunt with a pair of huge knockers, always ready for a quick fuck whenever and wherever. So far she hadn’t mentioned him leaving his wife again–her one cock-wilting inconvenience. He told her he couldn’t afford an ex-wife and a girlfriend, but it didn’t keep her from opening her yap about it every damn time they fucked. He was grateful that for now the only sounds coming out of Pam’s mouth were the little kitten noises in the back of her throat that came with each powerful thrust of his cock. He grabbed her hips and drilled her, speeding up as the pressure in his balls built. “Come on, Daddy,” she said, reaching down and diddling her own clit. “Make your baby come.”

“Fuck!” he grunted, and shot his hot load into her cunt, wetting down her insides with his seed. He pulled her close, feeling his cock throb weakly as he spent, leaning on her long enough to catch his breath. He slipped out, watching as a glob of cum oozed out of her gaping crotch and slid down her leg, only to be washed away by the rapidly cooling shower spray.

“Sorry, baby,” he said, giving her ass a congratulatory slap. “I tried to hold back for you, but your tight pussy just drives me wild.”

Pam stood and turned, pressing her tits against Bob’s chest. She stuck out her lower lip. “Aren’t you going to finish me?” she pouted, wrapping her arms around his neck.

He disentangled himself and stepped out of the shower. “Not this time, baby,” he said, smiling at her as he quickly dried himself off. “I gotta get home before the wife finishes her shift,” he said, lifting the lid of the toilet and groaning as he released a long stream of urine into the bowl. “And besides,” he said, looking at her leaning against the wall of the shower, “it’ll give you something to look forward to next time.” He shook, splattering piss on the seat, and walked out of the bathroom.

He was zipping up his pants when he felt a sharp pain rocket through his head and saw a blinding light behind both of his eyes. He stumbled and fell, landing hard on his hands and knees. A heavy glass ashtray rolled past him and landed under the dilapidated dresser, and he could see blood on it. He wondered where it came from as his arms buckled and his cheek scraped roughly across the stained carpet. He gagged as a piece of some sort of fabric was shoved in his mouth, and as he felt the room fade to black, he heard Pam’s voice. The breathless schoolgirl affectation was gone, and her words sent a chill down his spine. “I intend to have you, love. How hard you fight is up to you.”

Ask me.

16 Sunday Sep 2012

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A Tumblr follower asks: where do you stand on pubic hair?

Image

I don’t have a firm stance on pubic hair.

On the one hand, I love a man with a thick pelt of hair. I love to run my fingers through the thatch at the base of his cock and pull him to me. I love to have my nose tickled when I deep throat him, when I take him all the way in my mouth with his hands in my hair, his hips thrusting because I’m making him feel so damned good. I like it when it’s still damp and curly from his shower, or when I nuzzle his balls and he smells funky and sweaty from working all day. I love it when I’m shaved bare and I straddle him, sliding him inside me and feeling the coarse nest of hair against my naked, sensitive skin and how it feels when I grind my clit against him. I love to go down on him after he’s made me cum and smell my own muskiness perfuming his pubic hair.

But I also I love it when he stands in the hot spray of the shower and maybe on a whim gets the sudden inspiration to get rid of every last wiry curl. I love seeing every inch of a man’s shaft from root to tip. I love to slide my hands over the smooth skin, especially if I can slip my hand inside his boxers and find nothing but flesh with no worries of pulling too hard or getting anything caught in a wayward zipper. I love my naked, hairless flesh touching his. So much lovely skin, so much beautiful contact. So many open, exposed, unprotected nerve endings rubbing against each other.

I love it when the hair is starting to grow back. I love the stubble beneath my fingers and I caress him, and feel the sharpish ends of the hairs against me like a fine brush. It hurts, but so good. The shorter hairs against my ass, against my chin, under my lips are all more intense sensations. It’s more fiery for a few days, then one day, it’s not. The hair grows ever longer, ever softer, ever thicker again, until I can run my hands through it and again revel in the feeling of his most private curls between my fingers again.

 

Forsaking All Others

14 Friday Sep 2012

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As I sat down to work out a story idea that was scratching around in my brain, I did what I usually do. I think about who the characters are, what they are like, what kind of personalities they have, and what’s going on in their life.

One of the most important things I consider when I’m starting to put the story down on paper is the conflict. I wrote a little while ago about how it seemed to me that stories with no discernible conflict are selling. How it seems that readers are looking for simple stroke pieces and not stories where the sex is less than perfect.

That aside, I still look at the story I want to tell and ask myself, “What is the conflict?”

I’m married, and I’m finding that lately a lot of my stories have had an infidelity theme running through them. I’m not sure why, exactly. After 16 years together, we’ve discussed the issue of cheating pretty often and we know where we both stand.

More or less.

I confess that sometimes I feel lazy when I put married characters in a position to cheat. It seems like an easy conflict to me. But examining the reasons for cheating and getting inside the heads of people who have strayed–people who have broken their marriage vow to forsake all others–right now at this point in my life, that interests me. I’ve reached the point where honestly, I can see it. I can understand why it happens. I have been married long enough to know that marriage isn’t always easy, that happily ever after takes work, and it doesn’t take a whole lot to upset the apple cart. It really doesn’t take much at all, in fact.

I can understand the what if’s that come up. What if he meets someone else? What if her feelings of friendship turn into something deeper? What if you grow apart over the years instead of closer?

I’ve also found that lately among my married friends that the topic of cheating comes up from time to time. In online forums we’ve discussed what cheating actually is. In a world where people can connect emotionally without ever breathing the same air, it adds a new layer of complication. The emotional affair is as real as the physical one, and just as damaging. In my opinion, it’s more damaging.

I believe I’d rather have my husband fuck someone else for funsies than to find out he was in love with another woman he’d never so much as touched.

One of the more interesting definitions of cheating when it comes to online interactions was “Would you do it if your spouse was standing over your shoulder watching you?” If the answer is no, you’re cheating.

I’m still not a hundred percent sure I agree with that, entirely. I tend to be pretty much the same person I am when L. is around as when he’s not. I flirt at the same level in person whether he’s there or not. I’m an open book. I never pretend to be someone I’m not. I’m open and casual and I have lots of guy friends. There is flirting, online and in meatspace.

He’s okay with it. He knows. And he knows it doesn’t mean anything. He understands that it’s not about an emotional connection or about me looking for something I don’t have at home. It’s my personality and part of who I am, and he loves me for it.

But not all my friends can say that. Some of them are very different people when their spouses are around. Normally outgoing, sexy, friendly, carefree people put a muzzle on their personalities, and it confuses me. Why would your spouse want you to be someone you’re not? I don’t get it.

Be not another if thou canst be thyself.

Having said that, my husband I have secrets. We don’t need to know what the other person is doing all the time, or with whom, or what exactly is said. There are things I say to my online friends that I probably wouldn’t say with him over my shoulder. Not because he would disapprove or not understand, but there are things about me–kinks that I enjoy–that depend on secrecy. There are things that are sexier because they’re not shared directly with him.

For the longest time, I kept my erotica writing a secret from him. It was hotter knowing that people were getting off to stuff that I was writing without his knowledge. Not that he would disapprove, and when it got to the point that this little writing hobby might be a paying gig, maybe even (dare I say it?) a career, I told him. He didn’t flinch. He’s not much of a reader, though. I’ve written stories using my friends as inspiration and let him read them, and he’s still okay with it, though the stories themselves were just that much hotter to me when he didn’t know.

There’s something inherently naughty in secrets.

For me, cheating is anything that interferes in a negative way with our relationship. If it comes between us or pushes us apart, that’s a bad thing. If it doesn’t affect us, if it doesn’t touch his feelings for me, or mine for him, I’m okay with it. He can’t say the same thing, though. His definition and mine aren’t the same.

The thing is, if one partner would consider a particular behavior cheating, it holds the other partner to that standard. On the one hand, I can see that because it makes sense. If your behavior puts a wedge between you and your partner, it probably is cheating. On the other hand, I can see that taken too far. I know people with spouses whose are threatened by what could be considered next-to-nothing by any sane, rational person.

It’s not easy to define, and as such, it’s hard for me to ever point fingers and say “That behavior is okay” or “That behavior is always wrong.” I think people are more complicated than that. A person who cheats isn’t always bad, someone who gets involved with a married person isn’t always bad, and the wronged spouse isn’t always a blameless victim.

Shit happens.

Humans are delightfully complicated, and if you let it, it makes for good reading.

The Thrill of the Hunt

10 Monday Sep 2012

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“Don’t turn around. Just hand me the money and I won’t have to hurt you.” Nick spoke calmly and quietly, pressing the muzzle of a revolver into the small of the woman’s back to make his point.

She froze. They always froze. “Hurry up,” Nick commanded, snapping his victim out of her shock. His carefully laid plans allowed for only a few minutes to get the money and get the hell out of there without getting caught. A police siren wailed in the distance and even though he knew they weren’t coming for him this time, his tension level rose perceptively. He forced himself to concentrate on his breathing and staying relaxed and focused. The cops weren’t going to arrest him just because he lost his shit at every little noise. He dug the gun harder into her back, and with a whimper she took the bills out of the ATM and held them up with shaking hands. He grabbed the cash and said, “The bag, too,” pulling her purse off of her shoulder. “Now you just keep standing right there and count to a hundred,” he ordered.

“One, two, three,” she began in a shaky voice. Nick tore out of there, shoving the gun and the twenty-dollar bills into his pocket as he ran. He rounded the corner into an alley, then slipped through an opening in the chain-link fence that surrounded the loading dock of an abandoned warehouse. He crouched down behind the crumbling concrete wall, hidden by darkness and debris, and listened for the sound of footsteps or voices. When he heard none, he took a deep breath and quickly unzipped his sweatshirt. Moving fast, he pulled a black backpack from behind a pile of rubble and quickly stuffed his hoodie into it. He shoved the purse into the backpack as well, and running his fingers through his hair, he put the backpack on and slipped through the shadows out a second opening in the fence.

Half a block to the west, the bars and clubs were packed and the night life was in full swing. Nick walked calmly and with purpose toward the music and the lights. In five minutes he had melted into the city’s sea of humanity, while less than two blocks east an angry blonde tried to give his description to the police, but had to admit that she “didn’t get a good look at the guy.”

Nick knew there were easier ways to make a few bucks, but few were as satisfying or half as exciting. Nothing got the adrenaline flowing like picking a victim, helping yourself to their stuff, all the while knowing you could get caught at any time. The first time he realized that he was in the clear, that he’d committed armed robbery and got away with it, he was both startled and amused to realize he was half-hard from the excitement of it all, a reaction he hadn’t expected but had come to crave. It wasn’t even about the money anymore.

The best nights were when, after disappearing into the crowd, he’d see a handful of uniformed cops walking around asking people if they’d seen a guy in a hooded sweatshirt come running through with a woman’s purse. Of course, no one had, but he had to hand it to them for at least trying. It was after his second or third robbery that one of the cops had approached him. His heart pounded and his mouth went dry as he was questioned and he imagined he could feel the stolen purse in his backpack burning him between his shoulder blades.

The officer’s blue eyes bored through his own and looked into his thoughts, but he didn’t look away. Without blinking, he replied, “I haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary tonight,” which was only a half-lie. The officer thanked him and moved on, repeating his questions to a couple nearby. His erection strained against his jeans and he shuddered as the thrill coursed through him. He ducked into an alley and hid in the shadows behind a dumpster. He pulled out his cock and stroked it furiously until he came, leaning against the building with one arm and splattering his seed all over the dirty bricks.

No police were on the scene tonight, so he milled around in the crowd looking in store windows for awhile, letting the ebb and flow of the foot traffic carry him along. He brushed past people, bumping them slightly and smiling in apology. “Sorry,” he’d say, and a charge would course through him as he’d be forgiven time after time. The physical contact acted on him like a drug, sharpening his senses and making his nerve endings tingle. He never failed to get aroused by the post-robbery social interaction, and the more people he could pull unwittingly into his game, the hotter it made him. He walked around until he could stand it no more; only when he was fully erect and the need for release reached the point of pain would he slip into the subway and make his way home.

Nick let himself into the empty apartment and locked the door behind him. He crossed the small studio space and pulled the backpack open, dumping the contents onto the bed. He pulled everything out of the purse and emptied the wallet. Glassy-eyed, he ran his hands through the lot of it, arranging and rearranging the driver license, credit cards, and pictures of families and pets on top of the comforter. He picked up her hairbrush and pressed it to his lips, inhaling her scent. He rubbed it against his erection through his pants before placing it back on the bed.

Finally, when he had touched everything he had stolen and had it arranged the way he wanted it, he stripped slowly and seductively, dragging out his pleasure. He lay down on the bed and stretched naked in the middle of the night’s take. He closed his eyes and wrapped his hand around his cock and replayed the images in his mind.

Give me the money…I don’t want to hurt you…count to a hundred…

He recalled how they always shuddered with his gun pressed into their backs. The women–always young, pretty women with expensive shoes and expensive bags. Women with shiny hair and slender waists, and manicured hands that trembled as they gave him what he wanted. Women with soft voices that whimpered as they surrendered to him and quivered with fear when they begged him not to hurt them.

Nick stroked his cock slowly, feeling strong and powerful as it pulsed hard and hot in his hand. He thought about how he was taking more than some cash or a few personal items. He took their security. They were going to think of him when they asked their building managers to change their locks and cut new keys for them. They were going to think of him when they called to cancel their credit cards. And they were going to think of him every time they walked past a cash machine.

He moaned as he milked the precum from his cock and used it to lube his fist. His excitement grew as he pictured a beautiful blonde with a smart, new bag approaching a well-lit ATM and shaking as she punched in her new PIN code. She’d tremble all over again as she took the cash, and then she’d look over her shoulder, feeling his presence and reliving the fear.

He could see her scared expression in his mind’s eye, as real as if she was in the room. He came with a grunt, shooting hot gobs of cum onto his smooth, bare chest, thinking of the sadness in her eyes as she walked away, willing her hands to shop shaking and her breathing to return to normal.

Falling

08 Saturday Sep 2012

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“Dude, this is all kinds of wrong.”

His acknowledgment of our sins hangs in the air between us. The naughty transgressions that brought us to a breath away from broken promises, and the larger, looming ones yet to be realized hover, waiting. His voice is low and the naked desire in it makes me shiver, and in that instant I see in his eyes the glimpse of a man letting go.

His lips are on mine, warm and soft…hesitant…asking…he’s falling and I can feel his struggle as he looks for a last-minute hand, something to hold onto, to stop himself before it’s too late. In that gentle kiss is a plea…grab me, don’t let me fall, but I don’t listen. I can’t hear.

I’m falling too.

I yield to him easily, my mouth opening for him, inviting him to spill into me and make me his.

His tongue seeks mine and the heat that has been radiating and simmering inside and between us burns through and melts away all pretense. Decorum goes up in a blast of fire and dissolves into ash. His hands are on my body, and any chance of pretending that this is a bit of harmless flirting is consumed completely. I’m a child again on Christmas Eve, sneaking downstairs to shake presents, peeling back a bit of the paper, and catching a glimpse of the secrets contained, finally opening it and reveling in the joy of knowing what I found was mine, with little heed to the consequences that lie in the bits of paper around me.

Garments are pulled off and cast away, scattered debris and wreckage of what once was litter the floor as we are laid bare for one another. His hands tremble slightly as they touch my skin, private skin that he’s seen but only imagined sliding beneath his fingertips. Gentle hands that have cradled his babies are whisper soft on me, following the graceful curves of my breasts. Patient hands that ache to make a woman respond breathlessly are on the hard, pink points of my nipples, making my breath catch in my throat. Skilled hands that know what I will like pull me close, and guide me to the bed.

I lie down and smile at him and he slides between the clean sheets of this bed…borrowed…neutral…neither shared nor sacred. We pull the covers around us and share a sigh as the delicious current of skin on skin ripples through us. He is kissing me, lightly, savoring the feel of my lips on his, and I let my hands wander over him. I want to explore him, to take my time and get to know every inch of skin that I’ve coveted, but my hands are drawn ever lower, seeking the heat that is pressed hard against my thigh.

He moans as I wrap my hands around him, feeling him throb at last in my grasp.

I know there is no turning back now.

He knows.

His hand is between my thighs, seeking my heat, and finding it easily. His fingers open me and slide into my slit, parting the plump, soft folds and stroking the hard little nugget. I moan and spread my legs for him, urging him inside, needing him desperately. His fingers possess me, no longer gentle, but strong and searching, testing my readiness…seeking my limits.

I have none.

He looks into my eyes and I know he sees nothing there by pure desire and unbridled lust. I want his cock inside me and it is written on my face so plainly that he doesn’t hesitate for even a second. His legs are between mine and I wrap around him, enfolding him, needing his beautiful thickness to fill me. A moment of regret and cool emptiness when his skillful fingers slide wetly away, but another moan of desire and a shiver of delight as the hard, hot, thick head of his cock presses against me.

“I’m going to be so quick,” he apologizes, and the sweet, naked honesty in his voice melts my heart.

“We have all night,” I remind him with a smile. Then softly, a nearly whispered, “Take me.”

He slides inside me, his hot cock filling me easily. He is thick and wonderful, seated deeply, the root of his cock throbbing against my clit. We lie together like that, bodies joined, limbs entwined, and he kisses me, his lips on mine somehow more intimate than the joining below the waist.

Slowly, we move together, trying to draw out this first pleasure, knowing it will have a particular sweetness because it will be our first. But it’s too good. It’s too hot. It’s too intensely right. And wrong.

All kinds of wrong.

I’m moving my hips beneath him, meeting his thrusts, urging him to a faster rhythm as my cunt locks around him, basting him with my juices, soaking the sheet beneath us. I’m going to be quicker than him, I fear. His eyes have closed and his eyebrows are knit, and I can see the light beads of sweat forming on his forehead as he tries to hold back, to reserve his own pleasure, to share, not take it.

“I’m going to cum,” I tell him, and his eyes open. He has come undone. My legs are around his back and he’s lifting my hips with each deep thrust and I know it’s not going to be long. My cunt is hot and swollen, ready to explode, waiting for that perfect moment, that throb, that thrust that takes him over the edge. My voice is a whimper in the back of my throat as it comes. One thrust. Two. Deep inside, and then I feel it. The swell and throb, and the hot rush of his cum wetting me down, filling me, finishing me.

My pussy contracts around him, waves of pleasure starting in my core and radiating outward in ever widening spirals. My breath is coming in ragged gasps and I’m shaking from the fierce pleasure. I peak, and ride the swell back down again, relaxing under his reassuring weight that tethers me back to earth.

His hands are on me again, soft against my cheek, his lips gentle…melting summer-sweet kisses.

We lie together and he holds me close, running his hands lazily over me like he’s trying to memorize me. Neither of us speaks. Our thoughts are our own, but running in tandem. The same doubts, the same vague guilt, the fear and anxiety of not knowing how hard we’re going to land.

Falling.

In Ms. B’s Bunk

05 Wednesday Sep 2012

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I don’t know why I’m drawn to her. I can’t pin down what makes me think about her…dream about her…long for the touch of her strong hands on my body.

I’m not a lesbian.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

I’m not attracted to women. Most women. But I’m attracted to her. Oddly.

Strangely.

I find her sexuality compelling.

When it got to be too much for me to bear, I sought her out.

I told her what I wanted, how I felt. How she makes me feel. Confused. Amused. Aroused. Oh, always aroused.

Curious.

She invited me to spend the night. In my own room, a quiet place to sit and write with no distractions.

No distractions. Just her. Sexy. Funny. Sweet. Kind.

Sexy.

Sitting with me on the sofa with a puppy draped across our laps. Her large, soft breasts barely contained beneath her simple cotton camisole. Nipples hard, visible…tempting. Both of us knowing why I’m really there, but neither one saying it.

Butterflies in my stomach.

She looks at me and smiles. Dimples make me melt and I smile back, shyly. She takes my hand in hers and just holds it. It’s warm, and soft, but strong. I feel safe. After a minute of not saying anything, she squeezes my hand, and I squeeze it back. She stands, and the dog reluctantly moves, stretching and lying down in the warm spot she’s left. I stand too, and without a word, she leads me to her bedroom.

We stand together, hands clasped.

“I’m nervous,” I confess.

She squeezes my hand again. “Don’t be.”

I don’t move, and she smiles again, that sweet, dimpled grin. “You’ve had a massage before,” she asks, knowing the answer is yes, but I nod. “I’ll go out for a minute. You get undressed as much as your comfortable with and lie down under the sheet. I’ll give you a massage. And if you don’t like it, I’ll stop.”

“Okay,” I agree, but my mouth is dry.

She goes out and I slip out of my short nightgown. Naked, I lie down on my stomach and pull the sheet up to my neck. I try to relax, but I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. There’s a pounding much lower, too. Throbbing. Anticipating.

I hear her come in and shut the door with a soft click. The light is already low, and she turns on some music. No words. No real tune. But musical. Soft.

I feel her weight beside me on the mattress. My eyes are closed. I don’t know what she’s doing. I don’t know if I want to see.

I smell an exotic scent. Sandalwood, maybe. Or a spice. I don’t know. I can’t tell. It’s nice. Deep, not cloying. Not heavy.

Sexy.

Her hands are gentle as they slide the sheet down just a bit, leaving me covered. Then they are on me. Oily. Slick. Sliding over my skin easily. Firm, even strokes. Almost painful, but not quite. Soothing. Powerful.

My shoulders relax…my neck…my back. The sheet slides lower. I don’t realize she’s moved it.

Her hands work the muscles of my lower back. Not deeply, not painfully. Almost, but not quite. Her hands rub the oil into my skin, making me feel soft and pliable, and I am. Her hands are on my hips, exploring the curves of my ass, and I don’t mind. It feels good. My body feels alive. I don’t know what I want, but I know I don’t want her to stop touching me.

Ever.

Her hands find mine, tucked down by my sides. She runs her hands up my forearms, moving them away from my body and up over my head. Biceps. Triceps. All the muscles I don’t know the names of. She does, and she pays attention to them all, making me aware of them.

Down again, back to my shoulders. Hands on my spine. Hands on my shoulder blades. Hands caressing the soft skin where my breasts begin. My waist. My hips again. Fingers lingering in the warm, deep cleft between my legs, then away before my brain has time to think about it.

I feel the sheet shift and she tells me in a low voice to roll over. I do.

It does not occur to me to do otherwise.

My breasts feel the cooler air in the room and I know my nipples are hard. I can’t see them because I won’t open my eyes, but I can feel them. They are tingling.

Her hands slide up my arms again, over familiar territory, before sliding back down, along my shoulders again, across the flat planes of my chest, lightly around the curves of my breasts. I take a deep breath as her hands gently rub oil into the soft tissue.

Her touch is electric.

I want her in the worst way.

It doesn’t occur to me that it is happening. I am having her. She is having me.

She kneads gently, scooping up the handfuls of flesh and tugging gently on the hard, pink points. Each stroke, each tug brings a sound from my throat. It’s a deep breath. Not quite a moan.

Until it is.

When she is drawing moans, her hands move south, over the soft flesh of my stomach. I frown, feeling self-conscious for the first time.

She speaks, and her voice is low and soothing.

“You’re beautiful,” she says in nearly a whisper, and I believe her.

She leans over me and takes a nipple in her mouth. I feel her teeth, but she doesn’t hurt me. Not quite. Her hands are moving…always moving…and she is running them between my thighs, skimming my soft mound of curls, sucking and nipping at my nipple and making me squirm beneath her.

My legs part on their own. I don’t remember moving them, spreading them for her, but they are open for her.

Offering.

Her hand seeks my warm center, parting the folds and caressing the slick, inner flesh with the same strong, soothing touch. Theraputic touch. My hips rise off the bed to meet her fingers. “Oh, God,” is all I can manage to say as she works my clit with fingers that feel warm as fire.

She kisses me…my breasts…my neck…the hollow of my collarbone…

My lips.

She tastes sweet.

Soft, but strong. Asking, offering…and I answer.

I yield. My lips part, accepting her, a “yes” to every unanswered question.

Yes. Dear God, yes.

I taste her tongue, feel her mouth working mine, teaching it to dance in ways it never has before.

My hips are bucking beneath her hand, wanting more, needing to feel her possess me. She dips into me briefly…one finger…then two…I can feel how wet she is making me…hear the sounds of her fingers inside me, on me, around me…

“Fuck me,” I whisper, opening my eyes only long enough to look into hers. She is lovely.

Lovable.

More kissing. Soft, insistent.

My neck. My breasts.

The soft expanses of my flesh are kissed, nibbled, licked…teased.

Hands move aside, parting my thighs and stroking the sensitive flesh.

Her lips are pressed lovingly against my clit. Again, in her low, soft voice, deeper and huskier this time, “You’re beautiful.”

The room spins as her lips and tongue dance over the sensitive skin. I don’t resist. I can’t. I’m grabbing her headboard, trying to stay connected to reality, but feeling it spinning out of my control.

Her fingers are inside me…filling me deep…her mouth is always moving…sucking and licking…

I can’t hold back. I want to.

I want it to last forever.

Pleasure building inside me like a glass being filled. My breath is coming in short gasps as she fucks me, filling me, pussy filling with pleasure until it can’t hold any more.

And it overflows.

I cry out, writhing beneath her as I come.

Deep spasms rippling through me…pleasure radiating out from my very center…her mouth and fingers working every last pulse, every throb, until I’m still.

But I’m not.

Slowly she slides her fingers out of me and I shudder, breathing hard, hands clenching the headboard.

She runs her hands up my arms and I remember to relax, letting my arms down and putting them around her. She is soft and warm beside me, and I taste myself on her as she leans close. I pull her to me and kiss her, tasting my own muskiness.

I am delicious.

I open my eyes and look at her. She is smiling, and she runs her hands lightly over my breasts, making goosebumps rise on my skin.

Tentatively, I touch her.

Her breasts are full and large and I stroke one gently through the thin fabric of her pajama top. Her nipples are hard and large and I tease them, pinching them in my fingertips. She closes her eyes briefly, enjoying the feeling, letting me find my way.

She is so lovely.

I pull the straps down on her cami, letting the fall against her arms. The soft fabric falls away, exposing the creamy tops of her breasts. I pull her to me, kissing them.

Kissing her soft, sweet breasts.

I take her nipple in my mouth…I’m not sure how hard to suck…what feels good.

I start gently, and she arches her back, so I suck harder.

She makes a little sound, and runs her fingers through my hair. I pull, stretching the soft skin and tugging on the hard point.

She moans.

I look at her. She is smiling.

I am doing well, I think.

She answers me with a kiss. This time she is yielding to me, offering herself, and I accept her.

Gladly.

My inexperience hand…my willing hand…slides over her soft curves.

She is beautiful.

“You are beautiful,” I say.

“Shut up,” she says, but she’s smiling.

I slide my hand into her pajama bottoms and feel her soft mound. My finger seeks her slit, and a slight gasp tells me that I’ve found it. I feel her wetness. She is soaked. Her cunt is ripe and full, and I plunge my fingers into her. It feels good, and she cries out. Pleasure. Need.

Passion.

How hard? How fast? How deep?

Her hand is on mine, guiding me. I don’t need to be gentle.

Firm strokes. Even strokes. Fingers inside.

One…two…

Her clit is a hard, slick berry beneath my fingers and I work it like a tiny cock. She moans, her hips thrusting against me.

She sets a rhythm and I meet it, plunging into her pussy, making her writhe and buck in my hands.

I suck her nipple into my mouth and she cries out, putting her hand on mine again as her thighs close.

Her glass has overflowed too.

I feel her cunt grip me. Fluttering from deep inside.

Then a slow throb and pulse.

Then a deep breath, and her thighs relax.

Gentle strokes, gently used…wet…musky…spent.

We lie together, not speaking. We kiss. We giggle. Our hands touch each other.

Friendly.

Intimate.

Loving.

Lovable.

Lunch Break

03 Monday Sep 2012

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His lunch break is only a half an hour, and she lives an hour and a half away.

Once a week he slips out of the office at lunchtime and they meet up somewhere away from prying eyes. He’s found a secluded spot behind a closed gas station, in the shadow of a crumbling whitewashed cinder block building, hidden from view by a rusted and sagging chain-link fence and tall, overgrown weeds. There’s no time for renting a comfortable room somewhere. She can’t chance her husband finding a receipt from a no-tell motel, even if there were any close and discreet enough to his office, and she has to get home and get the smell of sex off of her before the kids get off the bus. He can’t risk the temptation of a rented bed and willing partner, so it has to be quick.

And dirty.

It’s never a problem.

They slide into the backseat of her car, kicking aside a bike helmet and a few rumpled, coloring books. The waxy smell of crayons and the orange remains of fish-shaped crackers serve as less-than-subtle reminders that they’re no longer a couple of teenagers, even though the urgency with which they come together is adolescent–heedless and hedonistic. His hand is inside her shirt almost immediately, pulling her breasts out and tugging at her nipples, making her gasp. She can feel how hard he is through his pants, and she fumbles with his zipper, struggling to free him.

He laughs and says, “Let me,” and deftly pulls his cock out, stroking it like he does in the short phone-cam-recorded videos he makes just for her. She watches them after her husband and kids are in bed, and records some to send to him, taking pictures and writing him long, detailed emails about her sexy, dirty, hot, funky fantasies.

She doesn’t want to leave her comfortable life, and neither does he plan on abandoning his family for her.

Friends with benefits, the kids call it, and it suits them perfectly.

She pushes his hand out of the way and leans over, taking him in her mouth with no warning or explanation. None is required. He moans, running his hands down her back and gathering up the soft fabric of her skirt and pulling it out of his way. He finds the black lace panties she put on just for him and slides his hand inside, running his palms over the soft curve of her ass.

She’d love to keep sucking his cock, to taste him as he cums in her mouth, but there can be no long, drawn-out lovemaking between them, and a quick blowjob isn’t going to be enough. Not for either of them. Not today.

He guides her to his lap, pulling her panties to the side as she straddles his cock, taking him inside as far as he can go. He fills her perfectly and they sit together like that for a minute, his hands pushing her clothes out of the way, hers around his shoulders as his mouth finds her nipples. She squirms and grinds against him as he sucks them into hard, aching points.

They move together, his cock deep inside her, hitting all the secret, hidden spots that he knows will drive her wild. And it won’t take long. The pent-up desire and frustration needs an outlet, and like a current through a grounded wire, it’s found a short path through them. She tells him she’s close and that she’s going to be quick, her words a frenzied whisper in his ear.

His mouth is on hers, her hands twined in his hair, pulling him to her, his hips thrusting against her. He is determined to make her come first, and she’s in no position to argue with him as she feels the pleasure build to its breaking point. With a powerful throb, her orgasm bursts inside her like a bubble, and as she clenches tightly around his cock, she drenches him, soaking his open pants and crying out. She’s breathing hard, and so is he, and grabbing her hips, he drives hard into her…once…twice…and then he comes, his cock exploding, his hot cum mixing with hers in a slippery, ecstatic mess.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” she says with a laugh, sliding wetly off his lap and running her thumb over the purple love bite starting to form right beside her left nipple.

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” he says, kissing the spot before pulling her shirt back into place. “See you next week?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

An Open Letter to My Husband

31 Friday Aug 2012

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It’s about last night, dear.

Thank you.

I know it was one of those strange nights that gives you doubt and makes you wonder if everything is okay. I want to assure you again that yes, everything is okay. In fact, my love, I believe it is more okay than it’s been since we first got together almost 16 years ago.

I know you wanted me to enjoy the sex, and I know that the way you know I’m enjoying it is because you’ve made me have an orgasm. That’s been the litmus test for so long of what makes “good sex” that it’s hard to let go of.

I want to let you know that I want to let go of that. Not orgasm. Hell, I love orgasms. I love it when you make my eyes roll back in my head. I love it when you’ve got me so wet that I have to sleep on a towel. I love it when I come so hard that I can’t remember my own name, or yours, and have to yell for God.

Here’s hoping if the kids hear us, they think I’m just praying.

I’m getting older, and things are changing. We both know that. And over the course of the last year, I’ve learned an awful lot about how it works. I know myself well enough to know when an orgasm just isn’t going to happen for me.

We spent a lot of years with me telling you “no.” Of being mad when it wouldn’t happen, or refusing to even start because I knew there would be “nothing in it for me.”

I’m ashamed of thinking that, even of feeling it, although I know in part it wasn’t all my fault and a lot of it was depression making me feel distant and selfish. I’m sorry that you’re conditioned now into thinking that if it’s just not going to happen for me that I don’t want you to touch me at all.

I’m sick about what depression did to our intimate life. I try not to make up for it so much as I want to make you see that we have a new normal, and not fall back into old patterns. I will keep telling you and showing as long and as often as it takes. I promise you that.

Last night was wonderful. I know you were tired and your back hurt. I appreciate you doing all the things that over the course of 16 years you know that I love, and suggesting positions that are always sure-fire winners for me. It was hard to tell you that no, it’s just not working. Not because of anything you did, or didn’t do, but because at the moment, my body doesn’t have what it takes to get me there. I will soon enough, just not last night.

I know there were no fireworks. But I loved making love to you anyway.

I loved being beside you with our bodies close together in our shared bed. I never feel more safe or more loved as when your arms are around me. I love when you run your fingers through my hair and pull me close for a kiss, the ones that say “I love you,” and then turn into the kind that say “I need you. I want you.”

I loved feeling you move inside me, of feeling our bodies joined and connected. It feels good in a way that’s not just genital. I feel it in my heart and in my soul. There’s nothing between us in that moment, and it’s beautiful.

I loved stretching out beside you and putting my hands on you, knowing how you like me to touch you. I loved watching your face as you lay back and instead of insisting that you could make me come, you surrendered to me, allowing me to do that for you. I watched the pleasure play out across your face, and it brought me so much joy to feel your whole body respond to me.

There were no fireworks last night. But the love that we shared and the way we shared it–openly, honestly, and with all our hearts, thrilled me more than any orgasm could have. Last night was no great explosion of passion. It was more like adding fuel to a comforting fire that we keep burning all the time. I’m glad those flames never went out. I’m glad you kept those coals protected and glowing all those years. I love falling asleep in your arms again, and waking up to your soft kiss on my bare shoulder as you leave for work. I love being your wife.

I’m reminded this morning of the lines of a song:

“There’s a fire softly burning, supper’s on the stove, but it’s the light in your eyes that keeps me warm.”

I love you.

Ah, There’s the Rub

27 Friday Jul 2012

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As I submit stories to publishers, I’m realizing that there seems to be a certain type of smut that sells. And to be honest, I find it strange.

The collections my stories have been selected for are full of stories that I call “pretty people fucking.” Which is fine, as far as it goes. The men are studs: well-hung (of course), handsome, manly (but sensitive), wealthy. The women are thin and beautiful but think they’re (at worst) “plain”. They have perfect breasts and small waists and never have a problem buying pants to cover their asses.

These perfect people wind up madly attracted to each other and doing the nasty on every available surface. The sex is perfect and awesome and no one sleeps in the wet spot.

*yawn*

I write them, but I don’t like them. And to be honest, it’s why so many erotic stories and novels bore me. I need conflict.

I was taught way back in Basic Writing 101 that a good story needs a good conflict. The hero must have a struggle–something to fight against. In an erotic story, I still want to see that struggle. I don’t care if the obstacle is an external one, but I prefer an internal one. I want to read about what goes on in a character’s head. How do they feel?

Body image is a big one for me. To bare yourself for someone for the first time is scary. And awkward. Everyone has something they don’t like about their bodies. But so much erotica is fantasy. The heroine undresses and doesn’t wonder for a second if he’s turned off by her boobs that aren’t as perky as they used to be, or if the cellulite on her ass is turning him off. He’s never wondering if his cock is big enough, or if she prefers a guy who manscapes, or if she minds that he has a little beer belly and not a flat six-pack of abs.

In real life, these things come up. But as humans, we deal with our emotions and that struggle is interesting. When characters don’t, it’s boring.

Life is full of conflict and struggle. I just finished reading Brave New World and this passage struck me: “Actual happiness always looks pretty squalid in comparison with the overcompensations for misery. And, of course, stability isn’t nearly so spectacular as instability. And being contented has none of the glamour of a good fight against misfortune, none of the picturesqueness of a struggle with temptation, or a fatal overthrow by passion or doubt. Happiness is never grand.”

And that right there is why “pretty people fucking” is boring. I don’t understand why it sells.

Scratch that. Yes I do understand. They’re what’s known in the world of erotica as “stroke pieces.” They’re hot and dirty. They’re not meant to make you think. They are aimed squarely at the genitals. And I suppose if you buy erotica to get off, stroke pieces will do it the fastest.

I had a story accepted recently that isn’t very good story, but it’s a good stroke piece. The sex is hot, but there’s no conflict and the characters are flat. I got it in my head last night to re-write it and make it a good story instead of a good stroke piece, just for fun. Because I can.

I guess I just wish the world of erotic fiction had more literature in it than porn. I wish publishers would insist on an interesting story and fleshed out characters.

I wonder what the tipping point for erotica is. There are lots of mainstream books with very adult content in it. When does one cease to classify their writing as erotica just because people fuck?

Something to think about, I guess.