#ComingSoon to #Audible!
As you may well know, one of our most favorite things to do while celebrating the release of a brand new anthology is to offer up a few #WriterlyWisdoms and #SexySnippets. Whether you are a long-time writer or an aspiring one, a KMQ #LuridListener or a brand new fan of Erotica, we at S.F. Productions always like to share helpful inside looks at the Art & Craft of Erotica. Not only do we hope to provide writers with something valuable to add to their writer tool boxes, we also thoroughly love introducing a few of our talented contributing authors while highlighting samples of their wonderful stories, so that readers get an idea of what to expect. Because, of course, everybody can use a super hot #SexySnippet.
No matter its style, when written well, an erotic story should affect our minds and our bodies. Today, we welcome returning author, Malin James to briefly discuss a little bit of what it takes to write a story that’s designed to engage the reader/listener on a much deeper and more satisfying level so that they come back for more.
*Continue reading after Malin’s #WriterlyWisdom! We’re featuring our very first #SexySnippet to celebrate the new release of our latest publication, The Sexy Librarian’s Dirty 30, Vol.2.
Fair warning, this post doesn’t distinguish between erotica and porn. It also doesn’t distinguish between erotic fiction, “literary” porn and smut. It doesn’t even distinguish between literature and sex writing. Those distinctions are too subjective and market-driven to help when it comes to craft. Good writing is good writing, regardless of market conventions, and that standard applies to all genres, including genres that focus on sex.
So, how do you make sex writing “good” writing? A lot of that depends on why you’re writing the story. Good sex that’s intended to turn the reader on is different than good sex that confronts, explores, or seeks to understand, but there is one set of tools you can apply to sex in all writing, regardless of intent.
The biggest mistake people make when they start writing erotica is to put all of the emphasis on scene and kink. Sure, they’re important, but if you want an m/f/m story to get a rise (heh) out of someone who hates threesomes, you have to go beyond that, to specificity and characterization. Those are the tools to bank on.
People read porn because they want to be affected. Erotica is like horror in that way, except that instead of wanting to be terrified, the reader wants to be turned on. Arousal is a visceral response, just like fear is. The one quality all good sex writing has, regardless of kink, scene or label, is that it gets a visceral response out of the reader. How / where the characters fuck is mechanics. Why the characters fuck is visceral.
Here’s what I mean.
“He fucked her on the table.”
They could be people, sloths or sentient dust bunnies—it doesn’t matter, so long as the tab goes into the slot. There’s nothing wrong with that, there just isn’t much for readers to get lost in.
“He fucked her after the funeral—bone cracking, angry fucking, with her legs wrapped tight around his waist.”
That is visceral and specific. A guy fucking a woman who embraces his anger. It’s not about the fact that they’re fucking, it’s about the anger and humanity that underpin the sex.
Important note: For all its specificity, that sentence isn’t “literary”. Sure, the sex could be about guilt or mortality, but the story could also just be about two people having angry sex after a funeral. Either way, the hot, visceral goodness is in the people, not in kink or scene.
So, if you want to write good porn (or erotica, or sex in general), avoid tabs and slots. Put people in your porn. Complicate your characters. Use meaningful details—a tear in her stocking, dirt under his nails—to get under the reader’s skin. Erotica, literature, porn…the label doesn’t matter. Make your characters specific, and the reader will care. If they care, you’ll get that visceral response. Get that response and they’re yours.
That is how you make them come back for more.
Simon studied my face. “I need you naked…if you don’t mind.” The lines around his mouth tensed as if he expected me to laugh.
I didn’t laugh. I nodded and turned around before unbuttoning my shirt.
Simon didn’t move.
For one delicious moment, I wondered if he was going to watch.
Then, he muttered something under his breath and started to leave the room. “I’ll come back when you’re done. There’s a robe on the chair.”
My hands shook as I shrugged off my shirt. I was much more nervous than I’d have liked as I wrapped myself up in the robe, deliciously aware that I was naked underneath. It was huge and threadbare, obviously his, and I wondered how often he wore it and who had given it to him, and who had worn it last—useless questions, all of them, but my brain wouldn’t stop.
Needing to move, I drifted around the apartment inhaling the robe’s clovey scent and loving the way the worn, plaid flannel brushed against my skin. One canvas, in particular—a smaller one that was propped on an easel—stood out. It was soft and lush, like velvet, and full of coiling shapes. It looked like a nautilus or the inside of a mouth. The layers pulled at me, making demands. My fingers itched to touch.
“I just finished that one. Do you like it?”
Every nerve in me jumped, but my gaze stayed on the painting.
“I think it would swallow me if it could.”
“You’d have to let it first.”
I looked at him, dizzy and exposed as the space between us narrowed, compressing ten years. I was so wet, so swollen, so absolutely drenched that I wouldn’t be able to hide it once the robe came off, but I didn’t care. It took everything I had not to kiss the curve of his jaw.
“Where do you want me?” I asked.
Simon cleared his throat. “On the couch-thing.”
He glanced at the futon. I nodded and crossed the room.
My fingers were cool as I untied the belt, but they were trembling—tiny tremors in the tips that only I could see. The robe slipped off my shoulders and pooled at my feet. I bent to pick it up.
“Leave it,” he said. He was right behind me. “I didn’t know you were inked.”
Simon didn’t touch me, but he didn’t need to. I felt his fingertips floating just above my skin as he followed the vines that coiled around my waist.
“It’s not who I am anymore,” I murmured.
His breathing went slightly ragged, hot on my too-flushed skin.
I leaned back into his whiskey-like warmth and subtly shifted my hips. “Should I sit?”
I turned around and sat, overly aware of everything—his height, his hands, the crinkle in his brow.
His eyes met mine, and he knelt at my feet. “I thought so,” he murmured, taking me in from the angle of my neck to the flexible bend of my toes. Then, he plucked the glasses from his collar and put them on as if it would help him think. “Can I touch you?” he asked. “To move you, I mean.”
“Yes. Of course,” I said.
My voice was cool and steady. My voice was a lie. I wanted him to touch me. I always had. The second he did, I was lost in a lick of heat.
His hand brushed my arm, and then wrapped around my wrist.
Beneath the skin, my nerves jumped, shaking off dust and years of remembering until I felt like a bundle of live wires. I was hungry and hot, sitting on that couch, steeped in the pleasure of wanting him.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, he placed my hand on my knee. Then, he covered my hand with his and gently parted my legs.
My clit throbbed. I was so wet it was obscene. I needed him to touch me. Not respectfully or thoughtfully. I needed him to bruise my skin.
I straightened my spine, displaying my breasts, nipples hard and aching to be sucked.
Simon’s snake-charmer eyes met mine as he skimmed my thigh with his thumb before settling on my waist.
The need to kiss him filled my mouth, but before I could even part my lips, his mouth was hard on mine.
He tastes like cloves and whiskey—that was my last coherent thought before he grabbed my hips and pulled me against his chest. I spread my legs and pressed my cunt against the bulge in his jeans, but it wasn’t enough, not even close—not after ten years.
Desperate, I ground my hips against him and snatched at his clothes. The button of his fly rubbed against my clit, sending ripples of pleasure down through the balls of my feet. Arching into him, I wrapped my legs around his waist.
He gripped my ass and lifted me as he stood. Simon walked us backwards, kissing and licking and nipping at my lips.
I was mindlessly turned on. It wasn’t until I was lying on my back, with Simon between my legs, that I noticed I was in the middle of the canvas he’d prepared.
“So, this is how you paint,” I said. My voice sounded porny as hell. It was laughable, but I didn’t care. I felt fucking porny with him kneeling over me like that.
“Not always,” he replied, yanking off his shirt.
Malin James is an essayist, blogger, and short story writer. Her work has appeared in Electric Literature, Bust, MUTHA, Queen Mob’s Tea House and Medium, as well as in podcasts and anthologies for Cleis Press, Sweetmeats Press and Stupid Fish Productions. Her first collection, Roadhouse Blues, is now out with Go Deeper Press.
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with Janine Ashbless
Erotica is about people. And sex too, of course, but the characters are what make a story worth being told. Whether they’re moving through a simple, easy to consume plot or something that’s much more emotionally twisted and complicated, it’s the characters who travel through the story and enable tension and conflict to rise within us, the readers. If we don’t have ‘well-built’ characters, then there is no story. Storytelling happens through characters. A good Erotica writer considers who their characters are and how to best present them–from beginning to end–by creatively examining purpose, strengths, weaknesses, flaws, sexual drives, uniquenesses, and commonalities in such a way that the reader’s eyes don’t want to leave the page, all while encouraging a hand to wander.
The Sexy Librarian’s Dirty 30 Vol.2 is nearly here. To kick things off, I wanted to share a post geared mostly toward writers and aspiring writers–a little #WriterlyWisdom, if you will, regarding CHARACTER by Janine Ashbless. Janine is an author who consistently enthralls readers and amazes me with her marvelous characters. She’s written a whole slew of short stories and several novels. She’s clever, she’s witty, and she’s an incredible storyteller who’s turned me on and even made me laugh a time or two. It is with great pride that Stupid Fish Productions is publishing a new story by Janine Ashbless in our upcoming collection.
So, my tips for building believable characters in erotica are–
Hold on… Why would I want to write “believable” erotica characters? Aren’t we in the business of giving people fantasies? Aren’t we trying to get them off? Who wants an erotic story where the guy comes too soon and leaves in embarrassment, or the heroine accidentally farts mid-anal? We’re looking for ideals when we go to read one-handed fiction, aren’t we?
And isn’t “believable” subjective? If I hang out, say, with English tech-nerds, and you hang out with American truckers, our mental picture of what people are like is going to be very different.
Is Trump a believable character, come to that? Who wrote him?!
No, I’m not going to ask anyone to write believable characters. Instead, I’m going to urge y’all to write CONVINCING characters. Which is much less about appealing to a common denominator of lived experience between you and your readers, and a lot more about writing skills. If you can create the most extreme character, or the most unfamiliar, and still somehow persuade your reader to suspend disbelief and go along with your story, then you’re doing it right.
So here are my pointers. It’s all about giving your characters depth.
Erotic Romance has predominately been written and read by women, but today men want to read it, write it, and experience the benefits of erotica too. For The Men And The Women Who Love Them is an anthology that both acknowledges and embraces male and female authors. It’s a collection that highlights unique desires and points of view. We want men included in this creative, erotic space because they’ve been too long told that they shouldn’t. We want/need men writing and reading, thinking about and expressing their erotic selves. It’s how we, as couples and individuals can better understand and support one another. Erotica, and certainly Erotic Romance is for men and women both. In this week’s #WriterlyWisdom, here is For The Men’s contributing author, Spencer Dryden to offer a few words on his writing Erotic Romance from the male point of view.
The Importance of Being Earnest
Why the Male POV is Relevant in Erotic Romance
Hello. I’m Spencer Dryden one of the authors featured in the anthology, For the Men, edited by Rose Caraway. My story, MILF and Cookies, is a holiday M/F vanilla romance story suitable for the Hallmark Channel; if Hallmark did erotic romance. (Wouldn’t that be cool?)
My story, however, is a little different from the standard romance trope. Sure the protagonists eventually connect, but my story is completely from the point of view of the male character. The reader only learns about the woman though her dialogue and action. That’s how life is for us, guys. We aren’t party to the inner dialogue of the female character. As a result, we often miss or misinterpret their desires and intentions. Perhaps even more unconventional, my main character isn’t an alpha male, billionaire bad boy or self-destructive egomaniac. He’s just an ordinary guy, a handyman who is a little clueless about the romantic notions of his client—a woman he has strong feelings for, but thinks her beyond his reach. (In the Hallmark trope, it’s usually reversed.) It’s light hearted fun.
Beyond entertainment, which is all my story is intended to be, a male point of view offers the reader an opportunity to experience romance from a different perspective. The statistics tell us that women are the predominant consumers of romance, so understandably the vast majority of it is about female fantasies and desires. I wouldn’t want to imply that women can’t write from a male point of view, what I’d like to suggest is that a man’s experience of romance or a romantic encounter, told through authentic characters, is deserving of better labeling than “stroke.” We think differently, process differently, especially sexual triggers. An earnest portrayal of a straight man seen through a male lens might just open some doors of understanding, in the same way that M/M, F/F, BDSM—the whole alphabet soup of sub-genres—opens our understanding of others.
I hope the For the Men anthology will open the door to half of the adult population. As best I can tell, the most successful sub-genre of erotica is M/M. Much of it is written by women, but it is read by men and women, most likely because the male readers can identify with the characters and the stories. By and large, men don’t read M/F erotic romance. Maybe if they identified more with the characters and the story we’d all get a few more sales.
“MILF And Cookies”
by Spencer Dryden
From my dungeon beneath the kitchen sink, I could hear the water cascading down the pipes from the master bath above. The thought of the warm, gentle stream caressing Judy’s firm breasts and trickling between her thighs sent so much blood gushing to my cock; I thought I might get stuck under the cabinet. Thankfully, the work distracted me from my fantasies of barging into the shower, hoisting her onto my cock, pinning her against the wall and banging her hard.
I had just finished when she breezed into the kitchen, scrubbing her hair dry with a towel. Still in the loose fitting bathrobe, raising her arms for the task all but exposed her breasts. She caught me looking and gave me a knowing grin as I turned away, red-faced again, to flip the switch to the disposal and use the sprayer to demonstrate the repairs.
“Nice,” she said after the noise of the test run had faded. “Do the curtain rods next. I’m tired of living in a fish bowl.”
She walked over toward the large window on the west wall of the living room and sat at the edge of the couch. To hide my erection, I pulled my shirt tails over my belt. At the window, I scaled my three step, utility ladder. Once again, work cooled the savage lust. I turned toward her. I swear she was staring at my ass. “Hand me that little black box thing there, would you?” I pointed to the crowded tool box near her feet.
“This?” she asked, clutching the top of her robe as she bent to pick up the small device.
“What is it?”
“It’s a stud finder.”
“Really?” she asked in a teasing voice. “How does it work?” She started to hand the tool to me then pulled it back when she squeezed the sides, causing the indicator lights to fire. She held it to my leg and moved it around. “I think it’s working.”
She seemed delighted to see me blush. I shook my head as she handed the tool to me. I found the stud and had the curtain rod anchors solidly in place in a matter of minutes. I admit I was more than a little unnerved by her attentive gaze. I kept telling myself she was just curious about the work. The curtains in place, I stepped down from the ladder and directed her to the pull chord.
“Some privacy at last,” she said, smiling as the curtains closed out the afternoon sun. “Now, I want to loop some garland over the curtain rod.”
She scurried across the room and returned with a coil of neatly wound garland. She fed it to me while I weaved it along. As I stepped down to admire my work, she shook her head.
“I want more loop,” she said.
I gave her a puzzled look.
“I’ll do it,” she said turning the ladder sideways to the window.
She ascended the ladder, its broad bottom steps provided stability, but it was not tall enough for her to reach the top of the curtain rod. She stepped up onto the narrow top step. The ladder wobbled in protest.
“Hold on to me, okay?” She looked nervous, but determined, as she stood to her full height, still, just barely able to reach the top of the rod.
I think I moaned when I took hold of her, my hands on her firm middle, my nose almost against the knot of her red robe. My memory is a little fuzzy as something like a Christmas miracle happened. She adjusted the first of the loops then turned more toward me, while taking more of the garland, her hand brushed against the knot on the robe’s belt. The knot slipped, and the soft fabric opened like curtains to the Promised Land. There I was, my nose right in front of the most beautifully trimmed pussy I had seen in a long time. Her scent robbed me of any words, quickly boring its way into an ancient part of my sex-starved brain where there are no words, only savage urges.
I could feel her breath quicken as she gently stroked my hair. A tiny droplet of her nectar trickled down the inside of her thigh. There was an awkward silence. I don’t know which of us was trembling more as I ran my nose along the taut skin of her lower tummy and on through to the soft landing patch of reddish blonde hair.
That’s when I lost it. I lapped the succulent drop like a man dying of thirst. Instead of a slap or a scream, Judy moaned in delight.
“Oh yes,” she whispered as she pulled me closer.
I licked along the length of her shimmering pussy with a broad swipe of my tongue as if licking frosting from a spatula. She gasped. Her knees buckled, and I immediately clutched her butt and hips—she was as light as a feather and I guided her down to the floor with ease. She slipped from the robe and spread her legs wide, then tilted her hips to greet my craven tongue. Her milky smooth inner labia offered the sweetness of her juices, its aroma overtaking the fresh pine scent from the tree. Beneath the twinkling lights, her growing song of ecstasy was the sweetest Christmas music my ears had ever heard. Her groans were deep, and her breathing ragged as I pushed my tongue into her opening, lapping as a beggar at a trough of rare wine. Her scent enveloped me in a cloud of mental fog, my thoughts replaced by urges of thrusting and ramming.
It had been so long since I’d eaten pussy I’d all but forgotten the intoxicating power of it as I probed with my tongue, deeper between her smooth folds. I’d never seen an angel come before until I surrounded her swollen clit with my mouth. Her purrs grew louder, hard gasps flew from her circled lips. Her undulating hips stilled as her body tensed in an orgasm. Her soulful moan, like nothing I’d ever heard before, triggered a surge of pride in my mind while making my groin ache with lust.
#ComingSoon to #Audible!
It’s something that’s particularly important to me as a writer, reader, editor, and narrator. When I received Terrance Aldon Shaw‘s submission, Making Hay, I was quickly enthralled by his seemingly effortless use of dialogue and wanted his story to be a part of the, For The Men And The Women Who Love Them project. In addition to his rich scenery, and of course, Making Hay’s splendid plot, Terrance’s characters felt…real. They stood before me as living beings because they conversed. The natural, realistic aspect of dialogue is what makes, Making Hay feel truly genuine to me. There is no clunkiness, nothing is muddy, there aren’t any unnecessary utterances of breath, anywhere. I can’t tell you how exhilarating it is to witness dialogue that enriches a story. I believe that Terrance’s advice; LISTEN, really ought to be listened to. Dialogue isn’t easy, I know. But, we can all get better at writing it. If we spent a little less time worrying about silly periphery things, and instead, considered what our characters wanted/needed to say, our dialogue skills would automatically become better. Lately, I’ve noticed that too much dialogue is sadly being forced. It comes off as nonsensical, juvenile (yikes!), even uncharacteristic of the character. To be honest, shit shouldn’t be what’s coming out of our character’s mouths. If we honestly want to tell a good story–if we genuinely want our story to impact readers, we’ve got to be mindful of our characters and let them speak, thoughtfully. I commend Author Terrance Aldon Shaw for his lovely, heedful writing hand.
by Terrance Aldon Shaw
I love writing dialogue; it’s my favorite part of storytelling. Because I hear dialogue in my head the way composers hear music in their imaginations, conversation has always been one of the easiest paths into the world of story for me. But that doesn’t mean dialogue is always the easiest thing to write: often, the most natural-sounding dialogue is the end-product of a long, intense process of revising, editing, polishing, refining, and, most of all, listening.
If I were to offer a set of guidelines for writing good dialogue, the first four would be: (1) Listen. (2) Listen. (3) Listen. (4) Listen.
First: Listen for, and learn to appreciate the music of speech, its melodies and its rhythms, those tiny, almost imperceptible variations of inflection, pitch, tempo. You can always tell when somebody has a tin ear for dialogue; it falls flat, stilted, lifeless, artificial, like a robot singing a single note perpetually off-key. Good, pitch-perfect dialogue has a vibrancy about it—a sense of style, euphony, and flow.
Second: Listen not only to what’s being said, but, more importantly, to how it’s being said. It’s no longer fashionable simply to tack an adverb onto a dialogue attribution “he said sarcastically”; a writer needs to convey mood and emotion in the dialogue itself: “Oh really?” he said, “I never would’ve guessed.” (I’m not against the occasional adverb if context calls for it.) In the end, dialogue isn’t about dumping freight-loads of plot information in the reader’s lap; it’s about gradually, subtly revealing unique individual characters.
Third: Listen for things that are out of the ordinary, the idiosyncrasies and quirks of conversation: the way people sometimes talk past each other, the way they interrupt or overrun each other’s words. The way they’re not always talking about the same things at the same time. The way they never tell you everything all at once—the way they often never speak in complete sentences. Listen, especially, to the significant silences between words—the pauses: it’s this space between the characters’ words where deeper meanings often emerge.
by Terrance Aldon Shaw
Her brothers called me Blindy because of the patch over where my left eye used to be. Little berserkers were always pestering me, following me around the farm like month-old puppies chasing their own tails, watching without lending a hand, leaning on the fence-rail as I cleaned out the hog pens or tinkered with one piece of machinery or another.
“Blindy’s sweet on Gunni!” The oldest made kissing noises, and the other two joined in on the chorus, trying to get a rise out of me.
“Your sister’s one mighty fine filly,” I allowed. “Don’t know how she ended up being related to you homely little mouth-breathers.”
“Told ya he was sweet on ‘er!”
“Yeah! When’s the weddin’ gonna be, Blindy?”
“Who needs a wedding?” I pitched a shovelful of muck in their direction just to keep them on their toes. “Besides, a good little worker like Gunni could do herself a lot better’n some old one-eyed rambler.”
“So how’d you lose that eye anyway?” the youngest brother piped up.
“What else?” I said. “Got into a fight over a woman.”
“Bull! That’s not what you told us last time!”
“Oh? And what did I tell you?”
“Said a crow come and ate it right out o’ your head—”
“‘Nother time you told us you lost it in a dice game—”
“Other fellow cheated,” I said, half under my breath.
“—time ‘fore that you said it got shot out in the war—”
“Naw! I swear fellas, this time, I’m tellin’ ya true. It was in a knock-down drag-out over the finest pair o’ jugs anybody ever saw.” Except maybe for your sister’s, I thought.
“Oh boy! For real, Blindy?”
“Would I go pullin’ your legs now, fellas?”
“Were they nice big ‘uns?”
“Sure were! Like this—” I moved my hands apart to show them. “Good two or three mouthfuls apiece, all sweet and firm like juicy apples in the fall.”
“Ho boy!” They imagined it the way young whelps always will. I was doing some imagining of my own.
“So, d’you win the fight, Blindy?” the middle one wanted to know. “D’you get the girl?”
“Yeah,” the eldest wondered, “you get to suck on them tits?”
“What do you think?” I laughed at their foolishness as I turned back to my work.
“Was it worth it?” the youngest one asked.
“Oh ja.” I was serious for a moment. “One good eye’s a small price to pay for knowin’ better. Talkin’ ‘bout that, ain’t you monkeys got chores to finish?”
* * *
Gunni’s pa had a still hidden in the middle of the ash grove out back behind the house. “Sure would like me a taste,” I’d tease her when we were working together, detasseling corn, milking the cows, or putting up bales in the haymow.
“I ain’t supposed to talk about that.” Gunni’d blush, and I’d give her a wink with my one good eye—like maybe I wasn’t just talking about the moonshine. It got to be a friendly sort of joke between the two of us—our own little secret on top of the one she was keeping for the old man.
Every day about noon, Gunni would walk down the lane past my shack to the mailbox beside the road. She’d bring me my mail on her way back to the house. A few auction fliers, a parts catalog or two, some magazines in plain brown wrappers—I could tell she was curious about those.
“F. Jon Geldnir—that your name?” she’d asked me that first time.
“People in these parts can’t say my real name right,” I told her. “Fjölnir’s a tad much to get the tongue around. Just thought I’d make it easy on folks.”
“Where you from—I mean, originally—Jon?”
“Long ways away from here, honey, that’s for sure.”
“Where? Like Chicago? Where the music comes from at night?”
“Ever been there?”
“Oh, gods, no!” Gunni got a faraway look in her lovely blue eyes—dreamy and sad all at the same time. “Hardly ever been off the farm. Even then, never much further than the county seat.”
“You ought to venture out and see the world,” I told her. “The world would surely appreciate the sight of your pretty little seat.”
“Now you’re bein’ silly, F. Jon Geldnir.” She pretended to be outraged as if I’d sullied her virtue or called the family honor into question. But that day and from then on, Gunni always gave me a nod and a sly hint of a smile from over her shoulder as she started back up the lane.
I never got tired of watching her walk away. I may only have one good eye, but I know what I like. And Gunni had it all, like a beautiful Viking princess in one of the old stories. She was well-formed, tall and graceful, not fat by any stretch of the imagination, nor what most would consider lean or skinny, but just enough of something in-between to make the mouth water. From the fetchingly decisive set of her jaw to those strong, gorgeously arcing shoulders and everything below, all the way to the prettiest, most pertly-girlish pair of feet I’d ever laid that one good eye upon.
I’d admired her strength right from the beginning, her subtly muscled limbs grown taut and capable from years of good hard work. She could’ve arm wrestled any city boy twice her size and taken him—easy. But I liked her soft, girly side, too, the way she always went bare-legged on the hottest days, her fine long gams, tanned every inch of the way before disappearing into a pair of short cut-off jeans, shamelessly revealing the shape of that roundly scrumptious rump.
And her hair! Such a sight to behold, falling down her back in a long braid like a golden windrow. At night I’d dream of how it would look if she ever let it loose, spreading out all fine and free. Oh! The visions I had of plunging my cock into that sweet maelstrom, wrapping those soft strands around my girth like dripping honey on a stick.
I’d wanted the farmer’s daughter from the moment I saw her, furtively taking her in from head to toe as I nodded in greeting. Since then, the thought of her had kept me awake on many a night. The vision of her naked body all spread out beneath me, jiggling, bouncing, and squirming in time to my amorous tune. Her coos and sighs and whimpers, and all the other sounds of rising delight before the full-throated howls and hollers of release. I like a mortal woman who’s not afraid to make some noise—if only to praise my name ever so often. Even a god needs a bit of encouragement from time to time.
#ComingSoon to #Audible!
Today’s #WriterlyWisdom features lovely contributing author, Adrea Kore. She’s here to elaborate on her inspiration and erotic intent behind her story, Dance For Me as featured in For The Men And The Women Who Love Them. AND following that, we’ve also got one steamy, #SexySnippet! Enjoy!
“Exploration, Inspiration & Intent”
with Adrea Kore
In Dance for Me, I’m exploring the “dance” between two intimately linked states – the desire to be seen and displayed as a sexually desirable being, and the desire to see, be seduced and be the recipient of that performance. I sometimes begin writing with a particular idea or premise in mind and continue writing to more deeply discover the layers and intricacies of the idea. What if? This makes me sound plot-driven, but often the idea is located in a character’s sexual or emotional psychology.
The words “exhibitionism” and “voyeurism” are thrown about – but they actually describe pathological conditions. Yet these desires – to watch, or be watched – exist on a spectrum in the sexual psyche naturally for almost everyone. And can be explored as both metaphor and a narrative of experiencing desire and desirability.
The trope of humiliation holds very little charge for me – it doesn’t arouse me sexually, and also I see it over-used and depicted in clichéd ways in erotic fiction exploring BDSM. However, I realise I do sometimes sexually humiliate my male characters. (Is that the Femme-dom in me showing itself?)
My stories aren’t always based on my own experiences – but this one is. I have a background in theatre, but have also studied and performed as a dancer, and have revelled in dancing – from clubs to outdoor raves to Burlesque classes – all my life. The first half of this story re-visits my second night out at a kink club. I was provocatively dressed for my date, and ended up in a cage, dancing for the pleasure of the man I was with, who identified as a Dom. I don’t particularly identify as a sub, but I enjoyed dancing for him immensely, with the internal fantasy that I absolutely had to wow him, or he wouldn’t release me. It certainly upped the stakes for my “performance”.
What I also like to uncover in my writing is what makes a sexual dynamic unique; in this story the submissive feels moments of enormous power, just as the Dom feels vulnerability.
“I’m in the cage, but he’s the one ensnared.”
The sexual charge for the female character comes not only from being exposed, but in a way that “plugs in” to her own long-held fantasies. This Dom has taken the time to know her – to know she loves to dance. The eroticism for her, comes from being both exposed and framed (by the ornate cage, and later by her Dom’s body) as a highly desirable woman; even an object of desire. For him, and for the admiration of strangers. Her Dom expands her limits around what she believes she’d feel comfortable doing publicly in terms of sexual display. She has moments of shyness, but her Dom enables her confidence and her pleasure.
For him, the charge comes from orchestrating and then receiving her dance as a gift, and a seduction.
I’ve always been interested in the inherent theatricality in sex. To truly see or be seen in a heightened moment – don’t we all desire this?
“Dance For Me”
by Adrea Kore
So this is what he meant by a challenge of submission.
I’m standing in this cage. In the center of a fetish club dance floor. In a leopard-skin corselet. It could look like I planned this, but I didn’t. It’s my first time here, my first play session with this dark-suited Dom, after several intense online interactions. The decisive click of his handcuffs securing the cage door. Ensnaring me in his scene of submission. Arms folded, smiling at my indignation.
“Dance for me.”
I look around at the club full of diversely dressed and undressed people. Bodies poured into and spilling out of latex, leather and fishnets. Unexpected revelations of flesh, piercings and tattoos. Some have stopped their conversations or caresses or are looking over their drinks, surveying my predicament with interest.
“Please me, and I shall ensure your…release…in more ways than one.”
Cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment, I try to focus on the music, washing over me in waves. Try to focus on his beguiling promise of release. The effect this has on my body. This slow burn, beginning already in my clitoris.
“Disappoint me, and I might make you spend the evening in there.” He kisses my hand, wound around the elegantly-crafted iron bars, and closer to me, whispers, “But I doubt you’ll disappoint.” He steps back, swirls his scotch, withdraws to a velvet couch at the dance floor’s edge. Best seat in the house, I think.
I feel too exposed, like a naked mannequin in a shop window. But my hips are swaying in spite of myself. Vulnerability and arousal pair in a double trapeze act, somersaulting through my stomach. Eyes closed, I begin to breathe in the seductive trance-like music, weaving my body into the melody. Flashes of memory and fantasy flicker through my mind.
Aged nineteen. My fantasy of being a striptease dancer at a men’s club. At twenty-four. Memories of dancing on a podium at a nightclub, feisty-hipped and pouty-lipped. Twenty-eight. Burlesque dance classes, learning the art of tease. And as the lights strobe through my eyelids, flash-images of the numerous men I had smoothly seduced from dance-floor to bedroom—via a lewdly-named cocktail or four. To create some cock tales of my own…
I can do this.
So I commit to my role. This cage is my stage. This leopard-skin corselet hugging every curve of me, my costume. Like a courtesan from another era, I must dance for the pleasure of my Dom. Dance for his pleasure and his favour.
Eyes on him, I move my hands down the sides of my body, watching him take in my long legs in dark stockings, garters accentuating my thighs. I realize he’s never seen me this exposed. The music courses through me as I widen my legs in a defiant stance, then writhe down into a feline crouch, feeling his eyes on my breasts, cupped firmly by the corselet. I prowl back up the bars, holding his eyes with mine, and cat-hiss at him, scarlet-nailed, clawing through the bars. Then I do it again.
No longer reclining back on the couch, he’s leaning forward. Glass empty, he’s drinking me in.
Just breathe in the music.
Yellow glow of the spotlight turns my skin into warm pelt. I’m a restless cat in a cage. Tossing my mane of tawny hair, the sensual layers of rhythms are fusing with my limbs, my hips. My dance becomes part of the music. Sure now of my movements, I throw myself lightly from side to side of the cage, writhing down and up, sometimes facing my Dom, mock-imploring him for my release. Sometimes I show him my back, the curves of my ass emphasized by black garters; teasing him with a coquettish glance over one shoulder. At one point, I suspend myself from above, using one hand to take most of my weight, weaving my torso to and fro with languorous, feline movements. I use the cage bars to propel me, turning on one leg in tight circles, freezing at certain moments like an animal caught in headlights, then whirling in the opposite direction. A man in a black leather vest eyes me hungrily over his drink.
I turn my attention to my Dom again. He’s mesmerized as I hook a high heel up to the bar, exposing black satin panties, the soft underside of my thigh. I start to rotate my hips, imagining I’m reeling him in with the desire emanating from my sex.
I’m in the cage, but he’s the one ensnared.
Tilting my head and hair back, I let the bars take my body weight, as I arch into a deep backbend. Swaying there, I imagine my Dom has me around my waist, pulling my hips to his, running his hands over my breasts. A delicious heat ebbs through my cunt, and I can almost feel the solidity of his erection against me. As I pull myself up again, he is suddenly there, in front of me. Breath quickening, I reach my hands through to touch him, stroking down his chest. His face draws nearer, and we are kissing through the bars of the cage, his tongue attempting to delve deeper into my mouth. I pull away subtly, pretending it’s the steel bars that hinder him from getting closer.
“Something getting in the way of what you want, Sir?”
The amount of writerly talent out there is immeasurable. With an endless sea of writers, each bringing with them their own individual styles and personalities, I was particularly struck by Landon Dixon’s…unusual language. His contributing tale, Breasted made me laugh until my face cracked. (I may have even cackled.) Today, I want to highlight Landon Dixon’s ability to make me laugh, snort, and smile ridiculously big as he clearly revels in disrupting the literary norm with his use of elaborate, artistic, knee-slapping erotic prose. I hope you enjoy today’s #SexySnippet, and this dab of #WriterlyWisdom by Landon Dixon.
“Make A List”
by Landon Dixon
This is how I always write, and talk, and act.
Just kidding. Breasted was originally written for a magazine that specialized in women’s large breasts; but, unfortunately, they’d stopped using fiction by the time I sent in the story. Since I’d sold other stories to this magazine, and other bra-busters like it, I’d, yes, actually compiled a three-page list of synonyms for breasts, about 100 or more in total; everything from ‘lung warts’ to ‘laden saddlebags’. The style of story-telling reflects my love of pulp magazines and paperback hardboiled crime fiction, as well, and the prose used therein. Frankly, I enjoy writing in this style, with a tongue-in-cheek (and between bazongas) humorous slant, and find it very easy to do so.
by Landon Dixon
I clutched Samantha’s huge, creamy-white tits. Squeezed them. Kneaded them. Sucked on the rigidly pointing pink nipples—filled my hands and my face. The babe was stretched flat on her back, on the bed—me on top of her, all over her tits. I’ve got a raging penchant for stacked broads, and this one was double-decker material.
“Fuck me, Jake!” she pleaded, writhing her blonde head around on the pillow. “Please, stick your cock inside me and fuck me!”
We were both naked, my molten rod branding her sodden pussy fur. “Not yet, baby!” I gritted. “Not ‘til I’ve worked over your luscious boobs to my heart’s content.”
I’ve been a breast man since my days back in the orphanage with the volunteer wet nurses, and Samantha had two of the biggest, boldest, firmest jugs I’d ever laid eyes or hands or lips on.
I slammed Samantha’s knockers together so that her chest and the bed shook. Then I splayed my tongue across both of her rubbery jutters at once, clenching the meat and teasing the tips.
She moaned, squirmed. Her giant breasts were sensitive as I dug my fingernails into the thick, hot masses and sucked on the pressurized caps—mouthing one nipple and tugging the other. They tasted just as delicious as they looked, I realized then that the woman’s pink pebbled areolas spanned as wide as my four fingers.
Her eyelids fluttered and her mouth gaped open. “Please, Jake! Fuck my pussy!”
My dick was more than willing and able. But it needed a little more greasing than the grinding her moist, matted pussy fur was providing. I jumped up onto my knees, straddled her heaving, heaped chest and sat down on her wet, handled tits. I rode high, soft and hot, teetering as she sucked air into her overdeveloped lungs in large gasps. Then I tilted downwards and stuck my cock into her mouth.
Samantha’s squirming red lips sealed tight around my swollen veined shaft quickly, and she started sucking. She eagerly bobbed her beautiful head forward, gobbling up more of my prong. I was stretched out and pointed downward, throbbing to my full length, and she fully consumed me with an appetite as big as her jugs.
I reveled in the wanton wet heat of her mouth and throat for a while, staring down at her bulged cheeks and flared nostrils, the wild look in her eyes. Then I pulled out. “Easy, baby,” I said, dripping into her canyonesque cleavage. “Give me a chance to get a good seat on your knockers.”
Angry impatience, rapacious hunger filled her glaring blue eyes. As I adjusted my bare butt on her more than ample chest cushions, wholly enjoying the velvety feel of the rounded smooth jug skins against my bristled buttocks, her over-engorged nipples tickled against my big, hairy, hanging balls. I found the sweet prop spot, settled in, riding high on her hooters, cock pronging skyward.
“Back in the saddle,” I sang. Then angled my thick rope of dick downward again, reentering the plush, heated confines of the babe’s mouth.
She instantly sucked, ravenously, wet-vaccing my dong like she’d bite it off if I dared try to jerk it out of her mouth again. I thrust my hips back and forth, helping her take me still deeper, along her wet, budded tongue and down past her fat tonsils. I grabbed onto her hair to steady myself, riding her tits at a trot, canting cock down her throat, using her silky blonde strands as a bridle.
She urgently sucked forward and back, shoved her mountainous mambas together so that I shot up still higher, her ultra-stiff nipples pressing into either side of my sack. I bucked, yelped, flung my head back, riding roughshod.
The woman’s maw was wet wanton heaven, her tongue a smooth sliding snake. My nipple-teased balls boiled with tension.
#ComingSoon to #Audible!
Come Again: Sex Toy Erotica
Edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel
Narrated by Rose Caraway
We are celebrating the release of our latest audiobook!
Rachel Kramer Bussel’s, “Come Again: Sex Toy Erotica“. There’s a new episode up on the podcast. Malin James returns to the KMQ with her contributing story, “The Prototype”.
Come Again #Giveaway
If you want to enter the drawing to win either a copy of the “Come Again” anthology, autographed by editor Rachel Kramer Bussel, or the audiobook, narrated by me, just email me at: thekissmequicks (at) gmail (dot) com. Type ‘Come Again Giveaway‘ in the subject line, and let us know which you’d like to win! *This giveaway ends October 24th.