Tuesday, April 30, 2013


Ok, that caught me off guard - Angelwithatwist from my post 'Scared'.

This weeks' prompt is turning a comment from my blog into a post, this is my take on it. Being able to catch my readers off guard is a common theme with my posts. I do it to make my work interesting and to keep you, my dear reader,  stimulated mentally...as well as in other areas.

Ross breathed hotly on the back of his lover's neck, noticing a little mole; not very large but one that looked like melted chocolate. It went well with the freckles all over their body, that pale translucent, delicate skin that redheads tended to have. However, he would always want to nibble and lick that cocoa stained mole.

Entering his partner slowly Ross pushed so that their inner walls held and caressed his cock. This tender act was one of love and completion. Moving his hands over his lover he thrilled at the doughy flesh with fine silk hairs adding to the sensory experience of it. He started to rock his hips in a gentle motion. The aural stimulation of their combined moans and throaty murmurs added to his incessant need that filled his body and made him thrust harder.

Thunk was the sound of the front door closing. A cold, wet hand of fear covered his heart and throat and rapidly softened his cock. The creeping death of guilt as he heard Claire ascent the stairs. Ross listened to the wooden symphony of each step as her weight shifted onto it.

In slow motion the bedroom door handle turned. Hang time they called it in basketball. The moment stretched on like a geography class on a sunny Friday afternoon. As the door opened she filled the frame with her fat, lumpy middle aged silhouette.

"Michael" she gasped, before being struck dumb once more by the sight of her husband's illicit coupling.

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Tuesday, April 23, 2013

Reining - a dark tale

The first blow connected with their eye socket, a beautiful strike. It was like he had been taught in school, old pugilism lessons coming back to him in lightening slivers. His body moved slowly of its own accord. Left. Right. Left. Hook. Jab. Uppercut. Punches reigning down onto his opponent. Was opponent the right word? Some might say victim but he would say that he was justified in what he was doing. He was delivering justice. He was doing the right thing; he was standing up and being a man.

There was a sense of unreality in the scene, it was slow and the sensations were strange; some were present and more intense, some were absent. If this were a film, he reflected, then the images would come in snap shots and there would be no sound track to add to the mood of the moment. Possibly the colour would be slightly sepia in its tone, like a Guy Ritchie gangster movie, adding an untold facet to the action.

He felt slightly removed as though he was watching this from afar. His knuckles were warm from the beating but they were not sore despite being bloodied. Was it his blood? He was not sure but it felt good. It was not a feeling of warmth that he was experiencing, nothing of that nature, nothing so trite. It was an incandescence that exuded from his core. Behind his tensed stomach muscles came pure light and energy that filled him. An ecclesiastic joy; a divine righteousness in what he was doing. This was not wrong, it was meant to be.

The energy that he was generating flowed from him and into them by way of the beating. His left hook connected with their mouth sending a crimson spray across the wall. It came with a resounding click that registered as their jaw breaking. No more would lies come forth from their mouth as their mandible hung at a weird angle, tendrils of bloodied drool sliding from their face. They would not be doing much in the weeks and months that were to come: nose broken, one eye already swollen shut, one ear bleeding – he was not sure how he had done that but he felt a smug superiority as he observed it.

The pride and vigour of this deliverance was making his cock hard. To suggest that he was surprised would be too strong, it was just a physical thing that happened. He contemplated thrusting his dick into their mouths and spraying his cum down their throats in a final act of violation. Grabbing a fist full of hair he wrenched them up to their knees from their sprawling state. A pathetic, whimpering moan came out of their face. It might have been pleading for him to stop but it was hard to tell. He didn’t care, it was not up to them to make him to stop; he was in control, he would decide, he had the power now, not them.

Holding the hair he shook it and smacked their head against the wall gently, it was an almost tender act after the violence of the last few minutes. It left a bloodied circular stain on the bedroom radiator. Then he let go, allowing his life size marionette to fall to the floor. Removing his hard-on from his pants he slid his hand along its length, delighting at the feel of it. Warm and solid, it felt great as his movements speeded up of their own accord his orgasm edging ever closer. It was fast and violent like the pounding had been. He felt his climax judder out of him as he watched the white fuck rain down, landing softly in their hair and on their battered face. It felt complete, he felt complete. He had finished.

“Fucking bitch,” he stated as he spat on his wife’s prone body. Without another thought he folded his softening penis into his trousers; he turned and left the room, feeling right and justified in his behaviour.

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Reining: Author's Note
Those who know me, know that I do not condone violence against anyone. So why write this piece? The mind is a dark and wonderful place and I want to explore it with you. I want to show you different sides to things, with this story I wanted you to see inside the mind of an abuser, how they would think.  Bad guys are rarely all bad and good guy are not always a paragon of virtue. If we like or understand the mind of a baddie, does that make us bad by association? Does it make us sympathise with them and thus tainted like them? Food for thought. It is not to my mind an erotic story, but it is wicked.

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

e[lust] #45


Photo courtesy of CreativNooky

Welcome to e[lust] - The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you're looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it'll be here at e[lust]. Want to be included in e[lust] #45? Start with the newly updated rules, come back April 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~

Bringing Toxic Sex Toy Facts Out of the Attic
How Do I Get My Wife to Dominate Me?
I Need This

~ Featured Posts (Molly’s Picks) ~
Speaking the unspeakable
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Easy Come Easy Go: A Look at Orgasm Control
I came before I was ready
Relationships and age difference
PolyAnna's Musings: Different is Good, Right?
Seriously Proud Queer
Spanking Kink of the Week
How to Be Good in Bed
A Thousand Small Unhappinesses
What's in a Number?
The Absence ofHow to Tell if a Man is Gay
Stop Shitting on the Bottoms

Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor

It's Not Misandry, You're a Douchebag


Catalyst: How it Inspired

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Caning: To count or not to count
Slavery and Social Death, by O. Patterson
His Eyes Hungry. His Body Pleads: Use Me!
Toilet Whore
And then, I apologized.

Erotic Fiction

Wicked Wednesday: A little bit of confusion
The Moment
Waxing Lyrical
The "L" word
Lolita Twenty-Thirteen, Part Three

Erotic Non Fiction

Girl on Girl
The Moment I Felt Owned
Tasting Her
Acting on Instructions
Final Cruise
A Lazy Sadistic Orgasm
I had 8 days of sex.
An hour together
Cheerful Disappointment
What is Erotic?
The Coin Flip
Playing with Adam
A Trip to the Hardware Store
Fall From Grace


A Somewhat Different Eroticon2013 4~part Post


The Dark Place

About An Inch

The crystalline sun stabbed through the curtains making a sorry confession that it was indeed morning.

"Is there much?" I ask, my voice drugged by sleep.

"About an inch," he replies. His head is poking through the curtains which frame his face like long hippy hair. A pasty bottom sticks out with fur around his cheeks and the sight brings a smile to my face.

The statement makes me ponder and wonder what an inch would feel like. An inch of this hard, kidskin encased cock in my mouth, allowing my tongue to tease and stroke it in mouth watering excitement. An inch of his tongue in my pussy, coaxing juices and shy orgasms from between my lips. An inch of his thick finger up my arse, exciting forbidden senses; making me buck and writhe.

Stretching and insinuating myself between the covers, I squeeze my thighs together in an attempt to simulate the physical yearning of my wanton thoughts. My smooth, doughy thighs; warm and responsive to the touch. I lie in my snug cocoon, wanting to be invaded and used. Desiring with my soul to discover what one inch will feel like in all of its various forms. My lusty need building and rising slowly within me, developing into a near wolverine primal craving.

Idly scratching your rear and sniffing you grumble, "Fucking white shit, I hate the snow. Makes work difficult. Hell, I'm late already and this just makes it worse."

Turning away to go to the bathroom you catch my eye and are puzzled by my expression. I feel the tension within me ebb away, replaced by a corrosive disappointment eroding my heart.

"You ok?" you yawn, scraping at your balls.

Rolling onto my front and burrowing my head in a drift of pillows to disguise and protect you from my feelings; I mutter, "I'm fine, just tired."

Accepting this at face value regardless of its plastic and disposable nature, you grunt and stalk off to empty your bladder.

About An Inch - Audio

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This weeks country for my writing challenge is Singapore

Wednesday, April 3, 2013

Roll With The Punches

Someone tweeted me recently and asked me to review their work. I had already messaged them privately and stated that I did not want to put my comments on a public forum and that 140 characters was just not enough. When they tweeted me again I replied that I thought their writing was bad. Their reply was only one word: "Ouch".

My initial reaction was that I could have been a whole lot worse, I could have been rude, I could have let rip but what good would that do? None what so ever. I like to try to encourage writers of any level to keep writing. I think writing is such an important method of communication be it within you in the form of writing therapy or communication to a reader.

I have been thinking about this all day long, partly because I feel bad because I have been on the receiving end of comments like that often enough. However, I have partly been thinking about it because I kept asking myself if I could have done it better, handled it better, been nicer?

 My current piece of work that came back from the publishers was savaged, it was ripped to pieces and then force fed me via email. It hurt. I went "ouch". I closed the email and a couple of days later I was skyping with a friend of mine who is a screen writer and whose opinion and writing I value. I told him that I had been savaged and he just said "Aaaahhh" and nodded sagely. "Writing," he went on, "that is worth savaging is a good thing because bad writing is either pandered to and the writer is patted on the head, or they are simply fired."

I went away feeling heartened that I have been critiqued so harshly. It will make the finished product more robust and more polished. It will make the reader have a better and more pleasurable experience from perusing my work. It does not matter what genre I write in (I write in many) if I cannot communicate smoothly and with some level of sophistication to my audience, then what they hell am I doing? More to the point why are they reading it? There are so many blogs and papers out there that readers can afford to be choosy so it is up to me as a writer to make my product as polished as possible.

The person has said that their family like their work. Well, here's the crunch, so do mine. They even like the stuff that is rubbish. God bless them. I think it is something to do with them loving me and only saying nice things because they are proud of me. This makes me all squishy inside and puts a soppy smile on my face. However, it does not improve my writing! If I want honest feedback I will send it to my editor, or someone who's work I value who can critique it in the knowledge that they have nothing to gain by being nice to me. They will spot the flaws that I have overlooked. This usually happens in emails because more can be written and it can be discrete. I can go away and digest this information in private and then put it into action. I actively seek out people who will tear holes in my work, so that I can make it stronger.

I have been writing for years and with this comes a certain level of confidence in my work. I look back at some of my earlier stuff and sometimes I nod my head and think that I have done well, other times I cringe and wonder why people paid me money for that. It is a learning curve, one that I will never leave. I recently started writing erotica so I could learn more, to throw myself into a new challenge and to see if I could survive. What this has done is allowed me to develop a thick skin; to be able to roll with the punches, deal with the trolls and the bad reviews and (here is the crucial bit) pick myself up and learn from it.

Could I have been nicer to that poor writer? I have no solution. In writing this piece I was hoping to find some solace but it alludes me. I do feel that I may have done them a favour by being honest. Being honest is not about pandering to egos and being nice, nor is it about being cruel like Simon Cowell. It is about expressing my opinion and being aware that it may not be the same as the person next to me.

So to that writer, I really hope that you are reading this. I really hope that I have not disheartened you. I want you to go back to your computer and cast an eye over your work and find out why I said what I did. BUT I want you to get back in the saddle and keep writing too, learn from it, grow, expand, become better.

Tuesday, April 2, 2013

Writing Challenge

Hello my dear beloved reader. How are you today? I hope you are well. If you have come in search of some snippet of well written erotica I fear you may find me wanting today. Instead I have a favour to ask of you. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I will begin.

I have been set a writing challenge by a very close 'friend'. Since I started putting my fiction work out there only 3 months ago, I have been delighted with the love and support that you have shown me. I have watched the analytics of my site flash and grow with every post that I put out there (hell, I would even go so far as to say that I now have a fan base). So has my 'friend', and this is where their little writing challenge started to take root. You see, they challenged me that I could get my writing read in any country they chose. Fairly confident about that I laughed and said "Challenge accepted".

However, like all good challenges there is a catch, a forfeit. For ever day that the chosen country does not appear on my analytics I get a stroke of the cane. Please let me be clear dear reader, I am really not into pain, it does not float my boat and does not turn me on, quite the reverse. I thought about it and upon reflection felt that I could take one cropping per day without too much bother. My 'friend' then told me that the strokes would be saved up until my blog had been read in the chosen country. Thus if it takes 20 days for my blog to be read there on the day that I achieve it I will get 20 lashes with the cane.  This makes the challenge a bit more 'interesting' for all parties.

Now, whilst I know that some of you delicious people are sadists and might relish the thought of this erotica writer getting her come uppance. I also know that sadism is no fun without a willing masochist and I am no masochist; I have other tendencies but that is not one of them.

The first country is Italy. My thoughts run to images of handbags, leather goods, Venice, romance and some bloody good wines. So, for the sake of my love for you and the love of my currently welt free bottom, please get this post read by someone...anyone, in Italy.

Click on the link to see who else is participating in Wicked Wednesday