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Writing

By: lady_macbeth_4711



In the early morning hours, when the sky is just beginning to lighten to grey and the birds begin their vocal practices, when the only thing which should logically be stirring in the streets are the night-shift workers and the dust, you wake, bleary-eyed, and glance over at the clock; 4:49 am. You roll back over and realize that you don't feel my familiar warmth in the bed next to you, nor can you detect the faintly vanilla scent of me, except where it resides in the sheets. You put out your hand, hoping maybe I've just rolled away, but I'm not there. And what's more, the sheets are cold where I usually lay, so you know I haven't merely gotten up to get a drink, or to use the facilities. You glance at the clock again. 4:51 am, and you're wondering where I am. 

You get up from the bed, intent on searching me out. But you know where you'll find me. You stumble out into the living room, where I always retreat when I can't sleep. Here, I sit either in front of the computer for hours, writing, rewriting, editing and perfecting my stories. Or I sit in front of the television, staring at the classics channel and crying. Tonight, I am sitting in front of the computer, staring intently at the screen as my fingers fly over the keyboard. I do not even hear you come out of the bedroom. I am caught up in a particularly gruesome scene in a bit of horror/erotica I am working on. I reach over to grab the mug of coffee I have sitting next to me. 

As my hand gropes for the mug, you grab it before I do and place it in my hand as you leave a swift kiss on the back of my exposed neck. "Morning love," I feel you purr. 

I rip my eyes from the screen and set the mug down before I drop it. Swiveling about in the chair, I say, "I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry. Did I wake you? I was trying to make sure you got enough sleep," It all comes pouring out of my mouth in a rush, and you just grin down at me. 

"No, lover," you kiss my forehead. "You didn't wake me. I woke myself. I woke up, looked at the clock and realized you weren't beside me. I was lonely, so I came out to join you."

" I was just trying to get this part of the story out of the way and slip back into bed before you woke up, so that you wouldn't wake up without me there. I'm sorry."

You growl softly at me. And I grin up at you. "Don't apologize," you say. "I don't mind. It's not like I have to work tomorrow- er, today, umn, this morning." You begin to laugh. "what are you working on that you're so intent about?" you ask, peering over my shoulder.

The text on the screen reads, 'It was a savage attack. Chris never knew what hit him, and after the carnage was done, the police were baffled to find the man's head sitting on the dresser, gazing down on the naked, bound and ravaged body of his young lover.'

"Feeling a little brutal tonight baby?" you grimace. 

I grin up at you. "No, just got caught up in the scene is all. Too much reading Stephen King, I suppose. Couldn't help myself. Just let me save this-"

" And what?" you ask, that special, evil smile spreading across your gorgeous face. "I think I should try to make you stop having those evil, violent thoughts before you go back to sleep. Maybe," you whisper, moving closer and running a hand up my silk-clad thigh, "just maybe I should help you convert them into just plain evil thoughts/. Your hand travels farther up my thigh and I moan. 

"Oh really?" I look at your still naked form. You are erect. Already. I lift my head and grin up at you. "Oooooh, really?" I say again and lean over to kiss the soft skin ont eh head of your cock. Just let me save this and turn off the computer." I swivel back around and save the piece by trying to hit alt-s and clicking on each window, but I can't seems to hit the buttons precisely, because you lean against me, and I can feel you hard against my back. Your hands wrap around my shoulders, your sweet hands caressing the cleavage you can clearly see from your vantage point. The pajamas I'm wearing are fashioned after men's pajamas, dark green silk, but sleeveless and not quite buttoned all the way. As your hands run across the tops of my breasts and I feel your hard cock against the soft skin just below my shoulder blades, I repeatedly forget just what it is I'm trying to do. 

My pajamas are swiftly feeling more confining, so I reach up to undo one more button. Your hands wander even farther down into my shirt and you lean down to kiss my ear. My hands have stopped moving over the keyboard. They rest lightly over the keys, but occasionally, when you hit a particularly pleasant spot with your hands or tongue, my hands strike random keys and I accidentally open a new screen, and it begins filling with random letters, until finally I take my hands from the keys and reach to undo more buttons.

One at a time, I extricate the large white buttons on the pajama tops, your hands following each one down until they finally have enough rooms to take one breast fully into each hand. Your tongue still trailing across my ear, you take the nipples lightly between index and thumb, I gasp and my back arches. You whisper, "Enjoying yourself?"

A gasp and a few murmured yeses are all I can really manage to get out. I love he feel of your hands on my flesh. No one's touch has ever burned the way yours does. It is almost orgasmic, just this, and then you release my right nipple and that hand moves farther down, to the loose pants, the band of which you slip your hand silently past. You gently run your fingertips across the soft hairs at the base of my stomach, and then down past that, where warmth and wetness reside. I am already so wet, so ready for you that you can feel me dripping. "Gonna have to wash those pajamas again, " you whisper, and I laugh, knowing that it is true. I had to wash them just today, because I was wearing them last night, when you- but thinking about that gets me going even more, just like you knew it would, and my back arches farther as you run one finger over my swollen clit.

You know you have brought me to the point where I will start to fight back, and so you trail your finger back up my stomach, around my nipple, and them you release me. Again, I swivel, and we stare challengingly at each other as the hunger rages inside of me. I slip the pajama tops silently off my shoulders and drop down to the floor. I crawl toward you, stalking you, as it were, and when I reach you, love brings you down. In the growing light of dawn, our passion burns brighter than the rising sun. The screen saver flips on and bounces erratically around on the monitor of the abandoned computer and where the brilliant light leave patterns across your skin I follow with tongue and teeth. Wherever the lights go, I go, until I reach your cock, which is standing at attention, and as I feel your hands wrap themselves tightly in my hair, I gently lick and kiss the head, down the shaft, teasing you a bit before I take the entirety of it into my mouth. It is your turn to arch your back as I tease the reaction I want out of you with my tongue. When I think you've had enough, you are right on the verge of cumming in my mouth, I release you and crawl slowly back up your body, until I come to rest at your side. I want to give you a chance to recuperate, before I continue.

Hey, you started it. 

You look down at me, my head resting against your shoulder, my eyes reflecting the half-light and you can clearly see the "who, me?" expression. You growl at me and swiftly duck your head and kiss me as you swivel your hips to meet mine. My leg automatically goes up over your hip, and we lie there, face to face, on our sides in the half-light on the living room carpet. I rock us just slightly, so that we roll and as my back comes into contact with the rough carpet, you slam into me. You pull out just slightly, teasing me, making me thrust my hips up to meet yours and I am begging, "please, lover, please-"

Suddenly you are all the way inside me again, feeling my muscles clamp down around you, trying to pull you farther into me, pull all of you inside. We rock together int eh early morning gloom, story coffee and bed all forgotten as we lose ourselves in each other. Our rhythm increases with the pounding of our hearts as we pull each other closer and closer to the point of orgasm. With each movement, you get closer and with each plunge, you get stiffer and longer inside me, until I feel your body clench and allow mine to respond in kind. My legs cinch down on your waist as we roll together into orgasm. You cry my name, and I answer incoherently. You drive me so wild. I want to lay like this forever, feel you pulsing deep inside of me while your love pours out of you. 

But now, as we disentangle ourselves and move hand in hand toward the bedroom, I can feel a full night of typing and thought come crashing down on my senses. I just want to lay tangled in a mess of limbs and sheets till I can't sleep anymore. With you beside me. So we crawl into bed and you pull me close as the first actual rays of dawn brighten the shades and I fall into my dreams of you.

Writing



Disclaimer

I am writing this short story in response to some feedback and requests I received since publishing 'Thank you god' some time ago.

It follows my thoughts; feelings, and writing process, while putting one of my fantasies into words. Though my other stories (which I am yet to write) are works of complete fiction, this short story is the exception. Everything in this story is fact. Nothing exaggerated and nothing a lie. I felt a little vulnerable and embarrassed writing it because of its nature, but ultimately, it has helped me become a little more confident overall.

I hope you enjoy.

Xoxo

Writing


I've always loved reading the stories on Literotica. They allow me to live out my fantasies through other people's eyes, which makes them all the more hot as I get the added feeling of being dominated that only feels artificial when it's only a product of my own mind.

I've read hundreds. I spend a lot of time wading through the thousands of stories. Using the 'Advanced search' function to find stories with tags like "gang bang", deep throat", "glory hole" and combinations of the three (among others). 

Until recently, I didn't know I could 'favorite' stories, much less authors. That was a happy afternoon, I can tell you!

I've always thought of putting fantasies on paper so one, not very interesting, afternoon I downloaded a free iPad writing app, and began.

I'm shy about sex, so I figured this would be the best way to see if anyone had the same fetishes as me, while remaining completely anonymous. And to be completely honest, I get a thrill and my heart thumps every time I see a new email with feedback on my other stories!

What will I call it? I thought. I want it to be witty, so people think I'm smart. But, it has to be mysterious, so it draws people in - or no one will read my story.

After debating the name for a half hour, I decided to come back to it. I wanted to get writing. 

I've mentioned before that I'm horny all the time. But right now, I wasn't. Writing a sex story when I'm not in 'the mood', seemed like it was doomed to fail. So, I figured a little internet porn (orsm.net usually has a few good amateur videos - it's updated every Friday, if anyone is interested) would sort that out pretty quick. It usually does, and this time was no exception. 

I found a great little four minute video of a couple having a quickie in a department store change room. The guy was standing and holding his cell, so they whole thing was shot from his point-of-view, which meant all I could see was his cute, large breasted, girlfriend swallowing his medium-size cock (7-8 inches I guessed). And he was circumcised (my favorite - but I know a few tricks with a 'hooded warrior', as my friend calls uncircumcised cocks), with a perfectly shaped head that you could see her lips curve around as she bobbed up and down - being careful not to let his head pop out.

I was wet after ten seconds of watching her, with fierce envy. If only I had a cock to suck whenever I wanted! My 'side-kick' just isn't the same as having a guy grab the back of your head and force his throbbing cock in your mouth, desperately trying to get it past your gag-reflex and down your throat. Alas, Dominos doesn't deliver dick. Note to self: write to Dominos customer feedback inbox. Being five in the afternoon, I was sitting around my dorm room in my cute little panties, which have pictures of little Koala bears on them, and a grey tank top. I have a single dorm room which suits me just fine, lets me have a lot of alone time.

The girl in the video was starting to moan. I wasn't sure if she was enjoying it as much as I would, if she was trying to make him cum so she could get a mouthful of his heavenly cum, or if she was just trying to make him cum so it would be over with. I didn't care either way, though if it were me I'd be losing my mind at the mere thought of sucking cock and the salty sweet taste of his cum would be a bonus! My left hand slid down into my panties. Using my middle finger, I lightly rubbed my pussy lips. Up and down slowly, teasing myself but never entering.

I was so frustrated now that all I wanted to do was grab my seven inch side-kick and spend the next ten minutes imagining myself being taken by three strong, well-hung men! But I didn't. I concentrated on what it would feel like to get off while I began writing the opening chapter of my fantasy.

Writing came easily, being in the frame of mind I now was. The first chapter was hot and raunchy - exactly what I was aiming for.

After getting through the first chapter, which by the way I was a little proud of, I wasn't sure where to go next. I had already got everyone interested (I hoped) but I didn't want it to end too quickly. So I went back, two days before the best night of my fantastic (I use this word for its literal meaning - fantasy) life... so far. 

It was late, around 11 p.m. so I turned off my iPad and got ready for bed. I was extremely horny now, not having got off while writing and watching porn. I was considering finishing myself off, when I thought of what it would be like to do the same thing tomorrow, and the next day and every day until I finished my story. By the end I'd be insatiable, hornier, and more frustrated than I'd ever been. I'd decided to do it. Deprive myself for as long as it took to finish. But not only depriving myself, also teasing myself to the verge of orgasm several times a session to ensure I'd write something really hot.

I went to bed that night and dreamed of being gang banged by a group of men. I awoke the next day sweating from the intense dream. To my dismay, it hadn't been a wet dream. I was both frustrated by the fact, and also pleased that I hadn't unintentionally broken the self-inflicted drought.

I got up, showered and went to class all day. It seemed like an eternity as all I wanted to do was get home to my new project.

Racing home from American history, I threw my bag down and stripped off to my just my panties, lying stomach-down on my bed and propping myself up on my elbows over my iPad. I didn't need porn this time. I had a lot of material running through my mind like a film strip, having all day to think about it. My 'highlights reel', I've heard my male friends talk about.

Using my left hand, I reached across and pinched my right nipple firmly. Twisting it lightly between thumb and index finger, moaning lightly as I closed my eyes and started my highlights reel. I 'watched' myself lying on top of a man as he fucked my pussy slowly, another on his knees behind me driving into my tight ass using my waist to steady himself, with a third (and my absolute, undeniably favorite thing) had his hands firmly around the back of my head, pumping my throat and slapping his heavy balls on my chin so that all 9 inches of his thick meat were down my throat.

As I twirled my right nipple; now sore, hard and very sensitive, my right hand snaked down between my stomach and the bed to my already slippery pussy lips. I was surprised that I hadn't already cum! My clit was sensitive so, the moment my fingertips brushed over it, a cold flush rushed through my body making me shiver. It had been only a couple of seconds but I was already about to cum. Reluctantly, I pulled both hands away, fluttering my eyelids to try and clear the haze in my head.

I was ready to continue writing. I'd read a lot of stories and had always favored the ones that were hot, but also believable. Don't get me wrong, a bit of exaggeration, like a thirteen inch black cock, always gets me going! But I like the ones that I can see myself in. Details about sitting in a boring class, or having a conversation, or the way a good game of beer pong makes a party much more fun. I wanted my story to have the same element of believability. So in chapter two, I went back to a couple days before my big date and based the character of my friend on one of my real friends.

She is pretty veracious and has been known to sleep with the better part of a football team's offensive line. A point I'm extremely jealous of, having only had sex twice in my life (fact. It was with the same guy and he was... unsatisfying. I often wonder if my lack of experience is why I am the way I am...). Nevertheless, she is a very close friend and regularly tries to include me in her (sometimes drunken) 'adventures' by texting me at two a.m. with something to the effect of "hey cutey, I found a couple strapping young football players who would looooooove to party with you and me! You can have your choice! They are both hung like horses haha!" She's yet to convince me, I'd be much too shy to actually have a gang bang, much less let her, or anyone else I know, see or participate with me!

So my next chapter was closer to home, a glimpse of my day-to-day at college, and talking to my bestie about my big date in a couple days. It helped me get into my own story and almost made me believe my own fantastic tale.

This process went on for the next couple of days. I'd come home, strip down to my bra and panties, panties, or nothing at all. I'd spend five to ten minutes getting as worked-up as I could handle before delving into my new erotic hobby. Each time, I'd get closer and closer to cumming. I'd gotten really good at working out where my threshold was so I was about to masturbate several times during a writing session, even including my dildo side-kick and a little bullet vibrator that I'd put in my ass and leave on vibrate while I wrote, sometimes for the whole session. It was an amazing feeling, to say the least, and made me feel like a very dirty girl.

I was almost finished. I was up to the point where I was being fucked, completely, from both ends. The men had gotten into their rhythms and it was bliss. I was Itching to finish the story that day. I'd had a very early start (by my standards) with an eight a.m. morning class, followed by history, English lit, bio and finishing with the most boring class in the world - calculus. It was six thirty in the evening and I was just getting in the door, I was hungry and exhausted, but all I wanted to do was finish the story. It meant not only the feeling of accomplishment, but more importantly, getting off for the first time in six days! 

I started my routine, taking all my clothes of and laying my toys out on the bed. It was colder than usual that night so I got under the covers to stay warm. I wanted tonight to be epic, for lack of a better word. I imagined cumming multiple times, harder than ever before. After all, it had been a while and the wait wasn't exactly a usual drought where I could ease my cravings at will.

I woke up my iPad and went to my usual source of material - porntube.com. "Bondage gang bang", "deep throat gang bang", "glory hole slave". These are some of the searches I regularly run to find what I'm looking for. 

I've already said that deep throat is my main fetish. I'm a BIG fan of ideepthroat - she is so amazingly talented. But if you're into deep throat the way I am i.e. above all else, then do a Google video search for "nasty19 deepthroat". It's the first 12 minute clip (exactly 12 minutes) you come to. There will be lots of copies; they're all the same, so pick any. It's unbelievable! Hot, nasty, elements of control in there and she is very good at what she does. Towards the end of the clip where he is trying to cum, she stays down for so long! This is what I crave. So if anyone out there has any suggestions for me? More fantastic material involving gang bangs with 1 girl, REAL deep throat like the one above, glory hole sluts or things of that sort, PLEASE send me your feedback! Please!

I propped the iPad up on my bedside table, playing the nast19 clip. Usually I queue it up to the end where she is down for over a minute - so I can cum as quickly as possible, but in light of the situation, I started it from the beginning. Taking my side-kick and the bullet vibrator under the covers, I slowly pushed the bullet into my ass, setting it to vibrate on HIGH. I've said it before, the feeling is amazing. The vibrations travel all the way up to my abdomen and through the wall of my pussy. 

I'm already wet from the scene on the iPad, he's just wrapped his hands under her arm and around her head - pushing his long cock down her throat. I spread my knees apart, touching my heels together, and trace my wet opening with the tip of my seven inch dildo. Using both hands at first, I push the head of the realistic cock inside me, twisting it like a corkscrew as I do. Bringing it slowly back out so I get the pop as my lips loses their grip from around the mushroom-shaped edge of its head. I do this again and again until I feel my clit start to swell and graze the head, sending a shudder through my body. 

Compounded by the constant vibrations in my tight asshole, the shudder tells me that I am getting close to cumming. I'm about half way through the video, so she hasn't even gotten to her best work yet. I stop teasing myself and push the cock inside me, talking half its length in one go. 

God, it feels so good! I pull it back out, keeping the head inside me, and slide it back in, taking its full seven inch length, so that I feel my wetness coat the tips of my fingers. I start a slow rhythm, in and out, taking the whole thing and twisting it from left to right as I do. This goes on for the next few minutes until I see nasty19 begin her finale. My pace quickens slightly and my left hand slides up to begin pinching my right nipple and kneading my firm c-cup breast. 

I begin to imagine myself in her position, having a large cock stuffed down my throat, unable to back off or breathe, knowing it won't end until he's done using me, dumping his load in my stomach. I start to squirm in frustration and bite my lower lip hard, willing myself not to cum. I start to shudder again as the twisting cock's veiny exterior in my pussy rubs my throbbing clit. Subconsciously, I've started moaning and squealing from the torment I'm inflicting on myself. Realizing how loud I've become, I am immediately brought sharply back to reality. Reluctantly pulling my toys out of my frustrated holes, I am just in time to see nasy19 slide her throat off a, now cum and saliva coated, softening cock, gasping for air and coughing up strings of cum as she does. I slap the covers with both hands in frustrations and reach over to start writing the end of my story, wired as I am.

I'm very horny at this point so I go back over my story and exaggerated certain parts. I change ten inches into thirteen, add an O-ring gag and make the men more dominant - things of that sort. I've wondered how my story would have turned out if I'd not had my little torturous abstinence stint. Boring I imagine. I wanted to keep everyone interested at the end, after everyone has cum and is no longer interested in fucking me or reading about me being fucked. So, in my not so right mind, I introduced the bachelor party. This would be a way of keeping the door open for future adventures, hopefully keep my readers (if there are any) interested and keep myself interested in the possibilities of real life encounters – though, sadly, I don't think I'll ever have the courage.

It was over. For the next two minutes (if that) I was on a mission. I threw back the covers, got on my knees and buried my face in the pillow. Putting my hands between my legs, I stuffed the bullet back up my ass; burying it deep with my finger and turning vibrate to HIGH once more. Again, I used my left hand to roughly fondle my left breast. Kneading, rubbing, pinching and twisting my nipple until it was firm and erect. With my right hand, I went to work between my legs, shoving the thick, mushroom head of my dildo as far inside me as I could without losing it. Thirty seconds of this and I was screaming and squealing into my pillow. I didn't know if the sound would carry into my neighbor's rooms, but at that point I didn't care. Then bang! I felt like my body was imploding. My head was dizzy, I was seeing stars in the pitch black and my legs turned to jelly, collapsing under the weight of my tiny 105 pound frame.

Lying there for at least five minutes, quivering and gently convulsing, I pressed my legs together, squeezing the two toys still deep inside me. I let a long soft sigh out as I smiled at the thought of being finished and the nervous excitement that came as I waited for people to read, comment and give feedback on my story.

My thoughts now turned to the bachelor party and all the raunchy fun and rough fucking I'd be forced to endure. More than twenty men. A whole weekend. If only fiction could be made into fact...



Writing a Story



My friend told me about this website -- literotica.com that is all stories people have written on all different topics, and that I should check it out. I did -- and I was hooked. 

My same friend dared me to see if I would write something to submit to the site. I have never been able to say no to a dare. So I sat down one night to try to write a story. This is my story about trying to write a story.

I had been thinking all day about what to write -- I had several ideas. But first I figured I had better get in the writing sort of mood.

I changed into my silky, peach nightgown, feeling it slide onto me, caressing my skin. I slide off my thong underwear. Walked barefoot, the living room hard wood floors cool under my naked soles. I dimmed the lights and lit my vanilla coconut candles. The flame from the candle made the light dance on the walls around me. I turned on my favorite sexy tunes CD, just playing softly enough in the background so as to not disturb my concentration.

I went to the kitchen, opened the fridge, feeling the cool air hit my silk covered nipples -- making them erect and brushing the material. I poured a glass of red wine, added some crushed ice and walked back to the living room. I sat on the couch and put my laptop on my lap. The white screen looked at me and the cursor blinking and blinking, taunting me. I decided to read some stories before I started mine.

I started reading and after a half an hour, I refilled my glass. My nipples were still ultra-sensitive after the breeze from the fridge. I brought the glass to my lips as the bead of water from the ice ran down the side of the cup and dripped on my chest, making an icy trail right between my breasts. The sensation of the cool wine as I swallowed and the bead of water running between my breasts made me realize how turned on I was from reading.

I haven't had any sexual contact with anyone for quite a while and hadn't realized that I badly needed a release. As I read another story, I felt the fan from the laptop blowing onto my lap. The fan cooled slightly the heat that had started there. I put the laptop onto the floor.

I shifted in my seat and the silk nightgown slide up my thighs. I cupped one breast in my hand, rolled the nipple between my thumb and finger. I slipped my other breast out of its restraints and brought the icy cup to it. The cold wine glass on one nipple and my gentle pinching on the other made me moan.

I was aching for something to be inside me, let me release my sexual pent up energy. I caressed my neck and shoulder and slowly moved my hand down my breast, over the hard nipple down my ribs, over my hip and pushed the silk between my legs. Slide two fingers up and down my slit, the silk becoming damp with my excitement.

I leaned forward a little bit and put my nipple into my wine glass. Watched as I pulled the glass away and my nipple was coated in red wine. As I brought the sweet, slick nipple to my mouth and clamped down on it, I slide my finger under the silk, between my throbbing lips and as far into me as I could. It wasn't enough, I needed more than a finger. I started sucking my own nipple harder, pulled the nightgown off my shoulders, dripped more wine onto the dry breast and eagerly sucked at that nipple also. I spread my legs and slide two and then three fingers into my wetness. Faster and faster fingering myself, sucking on one nipple and pinching the other one, harder and harder in time with the thrusting of my fingers until I climaxed, panting, feeling my juices coating my hand.

I brought my fingers to my mouth and licked and sucked my scent off of them. It still wasn't enough. I needed more.

I ran to my dresser drawer and pulled out my purple hummingbird, my favorite vibrator. As I always follow the instructions, I realized I had taken out the batteries last time I had used it.

Damn.

I ran down to the kitchen, tearing apart the drawers, looking for the batteries. I found two -- I needed four. Can't wait. I needed it right now. 

I licked the sides of the vibrator, sliding it up and down my slit. Teasing my clit on the walk back to the living room.

I changed the CD -- no longer in a sexy mood. I put on some Kid Rock and turned it up -- I just wanted to be fucked. I put my foot on the couch and slide the hummingbird into me, the entire shaft into me. I could feel its bumpy texture sliding against my insides, spreading me and filling me up. The hummingbird on the outside sliding between my lips and resting on my clit.

Then I spied the remote for the TV. 

Batteries!!!

I grabbed the remote off the couch, still with the vibe slide inside me, and dumped the batteries out. I took off the cover, placed the last two batteries inside and pushed the button. The hummingbird started to vibrate against my swollen clit and the head of the vibrator began spinning and gyrating inside me.

I got on all fours on the couch, arching my back and fucking myself with the now humming hummingbird. I rocked back into it as my hand forced it forward, the tip of the hummingbird teasing my clit with every stroke. I fucked myself faster and faster until I felt the orgasm roll through me, collapsing on my belly as it hit me - the vibrator still rotating inside me, hummingbird still buzzing between my soaked lips. 

I rose from the couch. Turned off my toy and slide it out of me, taking a moment to lick that also. Heady from the orgasm and the taste of myself, I climbed into bed, exhausted and with nothing written. There is always tomorrow to write a story 



Writing a Story







Writing a Story



I opened the front door, and we went inside. We hadn't spoken much since the conversation with Brenda. We left the luggage where it was, and I asked her to sit by me for a moment.

"So, I am your fiancée now?" She reasoned.

"What's your driver's license say?"

"Jinny Lynn Murphy. Oh? You are Boothe Murphy. We don't need to be fiancées; we can be married, can't we?"

"Will you marry me?" I asked getting on a knee.

"I had wanted a big ceremony when I was a little girl, but now, I just want you! Yes, I will marry you."

I picked her up and took her to my room, with her giggling all along the way.

I dropped her on the bed. The look on her face went from being playful to a look of pure lust. She began to disrobe. I just watched as her fingers fumbled with her buttons.

Never had I ever thought of her sexually, until we were at the airport. I felt her tighten her grip around my waist when I first called her my fiancée. The kiss she placed on my lips was perfect. All of this time she must have been carrying a torch for me. I only hope that I can live up to her expectations.

I glanced back down to her, and she was topless ... my god! She is breathlessly beautiful. She broke into a smile as I quickly removed my shirts and kicked off my shoes.

She got up and asked, "Undo my skirt please?"

I was trembling as I saw her back. Her skin was so beautiful; she pulled her hair out of my way. Her long blonde hair went just below her waist.

Eventually, I had undone her skirt and let it drop showing her blue panties and her fine-looking ass.

It was at this point she turned and smiled at me. Without moving her eyes off mine, she dropped to her knees and undid my belt and my pants. I pushed everything down my legs and stepped out.

"What do you want from me?" she asked staying down on her knees.

"Have you ever done anything sexual with a boy?"

She shook her head 'No!'

I pulled her up off her knees, and we both got on my bed.

"So, you are a virgin?"

She broke into a perfectly marvelous smile and said, "Yes, Boothe. I am. I don't really know why I still am, but right now I can't think of a better place and time to learn how to make love. My handsome older brother is going to be my one and only lover, so I'm willing to learn whatever you want me to. Make love to me Boothe."

Her green eyes ... just bore through me on the way to my heart. I may have had expectations of loving and living with Brenda, but something magical interfered.

That something was my little sister, ten years younger than me, but my equal in many ways as well.

I climbed on my knees and spread hers. I moved my nose to just above her center and took a long wonderful sniff and inhaled her essence.

"Don't worry, I'm on the pill. When you want to begin, just do it!"

"I love you Jinny!"

"I know," she said blushing just a little.

"Can I kiss you?" I asked.

"Please do," she said quietly.

Our lips made contact. Oh dear god. She knew how to kiss, I don't want to know how, but we did. It was the best kiss of my life, possible because it was my little sister. I felt her hand on my dick, and she placed it where it was needed.

"This may hurt for a moment," I said.

"I know," she said. 

I pushed forward, past her virginity. The look on her face was quickly pleasure and need. 

"Fuck me, big brother!"

I did just that, watching her face as I thrust inside her. "Do you like it?" I asked.

"My girlfriends thought I was silly keeping my virginity. They have no clue that I'm going to be fucked every day by my handsome big brother. You will fuck me every day, won't you?"

"More than once a day, if you want. I can't think of any girl I've ever known that I love as much as I love you. This will be forever. I hope you are ready for this."

She was returning the fuck I was giving her. My erection was so hard and slick, and we pushed at the same time, and that caused me to cum and cum, more than I ever remembered.

I was just getting going and rolled her over, so she was on top. We barely stayed connected, but I pushed straight up and felt I was completely hard again. The look on her face was fabulous. "I love you, Boothe. I'm really going to like being married to you."

"Let's keep fucking until we can't any more?" I suggested.

"Sounds like a wonderful idea. I have an idea for a boy's name, when we decide to have children."

"Wonderful, what is it?"

"Richard King Murphy!"

The End

(Sorry, I just couldn't resist!)



Writing a Story for Literotica



Karla moved the little house a few inches, "How's that, dad?"

Ben was having a hard time concentrating on his model railroad. Karla's shirt was billowing out and he was getting a good look at her breasts. "Try it a little to your left."

Karla could feel her dad's eyes looking up her shirt as she bent over. She was trying to help him place his latest building on his train layout. She hadn't worn a bra; and she was also trying to make sure he had a good look as she flashed her nipples.

Haley heard her dad looking for her, "I'm in my room dad."

Greg poked his head in and saw his daughter at her laptop, "What are you doing?"

She got a huge smile on her face, "I have an idea for another story for Lit."

Greg walked over to her, "Mind if I peek?" He leaned over next to his daughter to read what she had written. "How big is she going to be on top?" She started to type.

Karla finally had 34C's with puffy nipples, and loved to place herself into any situation where she could show them to her dad. Her dad accidently felt them up during their horseplay tickling sessions, and her nipples would get rock hard.

Haley felt her dad's hands on her shoulders as he read what she had written. If she didn't know better, she would swear his breathing sounded funny. His hands reached around either side of her to the keyboard, his cheek touching hers.

"Here, see what you think of this."

Ben got on his knees beside her, making him eye level with the train layout and giving him a closer look at his daughter. Her breasts were nice, and the more he looked at them, the more he wanted to touch. He wondered how Karla would react if he did touched her there? "Try it a little to your left." He swallowed hard as her breast practically shoved itself in his face.

Haley could feel her dad's reaction to her story; his breathing was definitely different. She had published several stories on Literotica, with various story lines, but this was her first daughter and dad story. "I like it...," she thought for a minute, "...maybe this."

Karla had dated some, and even had sex twice, but it was her dad she thought about when she had sex with her boyfriend, or touched herself. It had started as a fantasy for her, but all she had to do was think about it, and she wanted him inside of her so bad she could taste him.

"I like that; it's developing the story and the sexual tension." He thought about it for a few seconds, "Mind if I help?"

Haley and her dad had always been close. He was a published author, when she expressed an interest in writing; he had encouraged her to try it. She had been nervous when he had discovered her attraction to erotic fiction, but he not only encouraged her, had actually liked it so much he wrote a few stories too. "I would love to co-author a story with you." She had never thought about them writing a story together, she liked the idea, it sounded like fun. "Maybe we should add this to that last paragraph."

Karla had wanted her dad for a long, long time, but didn't know how to go from teasing to pleasing. How could she make her dad see how badly she wanted him?

Greg swallowed as he had second thoughts, and wondered if this was a good idea. Writing these stories always turned him on. He usually let it build up until he practically raped his wife. She didn't seem to mind. He didn't say anything though, just typed.

Ben moved his hand to point where he wanted her to move the building, and accidently brushed against her breast. "Try moving it back a little." Karla sucked in her breath as she felt her nipple react to his touch.

Haley gave him a sideways glance, "Dad, I know this is fiction, but it has to be believable." His cheek was still pressed against hers so she felt him talk as well as heard him.

"What's not believable?"

Haley pointed at what they had written, "I put, her dad accidently felt them up during their horseplay tickling sessions, and you put, he accidently brushed against her breast? How can you accidently do those things?"

Greg felt odd defending what he had written to his daughter, "I just figured if you talked with your hands, you could casually touch a woman there."

Haley loved her dad but sometimes he was pretty naïve, "I don't think you can." She moved to erase the lines and found herself stopped by her dad's hand on hers. "What?"

Greg felt an odd giddiness in his stomach, "We could try it, to find out?" He wasn't sure where that had come from?

Haley suddenly felt light headed; her dad's cheek against hers sent a shiver through her. Her mom and dad had a healthy sex life. She knew they did because normally they were very quiet, but occasionally they got carried away. She had been in her bed and had listened to them a few times. Then without even consciously realizing it, she had started to play with herself as she listened. His hand was still on hers and it tingled, "I guess we could do that."

Greg watched as she got up, went to her closet, and rummaged through her tops. Finally, he saw her turn holding one up. "Is that going to puff out like Karla's?"

Haley bit her lip as she examined the shirt, "No, I don't think so." She went back to looking in her closet until she found one she thought would work. She held it up for her dad to see, "This one should do, it's a little big on me."

Dan watched his daughter turn away from him to take her shirt off. "You're sure you want to do this?" He could tell she was nervous, hell for that matter so was he, and he thought he would give her an out.

Haley couldn't believe she was doing this. She could feel his eyes on her as she stripped off her shirt and bra. The shirt was easy, the bra wasn't. As she reached behind her to undo it, she felt a thrill of excitement. All he was seeing was her bare back, but she liked the idea that he was looking.

Dan saw her put the large shirt on and turn back to him. She walked over, but didn't make eye contact. "Look you obviously don't want to do this, so let's just stop?"

Her dad was wrong, she did want to, and it bothered her. Did she lust for her dad? No, she scolded herself, she wasn't like that. Why did the idea of being naughty with her dad feel so exciting? Haley put her arms around her dad and hugged him, "I love you daddy."

She straightened up and placed her hands on her desk chair. "Let see, Karla is bending over to fuss with her dad's train layout," Haley got into the position she thought was right and glanced at her dad, "Do you think this is O.K.?"

"Yeah, I guess so." Greg tried to picture the story, "You need to bend over more, and make your shirt show more."

Haley moved to another angle and fluffed her shirt out, so that her breasts could be seen. "Her dad was more behind her, so that he could see." She heard him moving around. She felt her face turn red, "Can you see anything up my shirt?"

Could he see anything, damn! He hadn't realized how grown up his little girl had gotten. He knew she was a freshman in college, but to him Haley would always be his little girl. Her breasts hung down and were very inviting, but he couldn't see the darker aureoles and nipples. His voice cracked as he answered, "Yes baby I can, almost like the story."

"Now get next to me and kneel."

Greg got down next to her, "Try it a little to your left, like the story." Greg shook his head, "So much for that part."

"What's happened?"

"Nothing is what happened, your breast was supposed to be shoved in my face."

Haley thought a minute, "Maybe that part is just the shirt." A shiver ran through her as she just moved the material out of the way. She positively tingled all over, "Is this better, Daddy?"

Greg never thought his daughter would do these things. He was inches from her magnificent breast, the nipple and aureole was absolutely the pinkest her had ever seen. His voice cracked, "That's good."

Haley smiled to herself, her dad was seeing her breast, and he liked what he saw. Her eyes bulged out and she sucked in her breath, as she felt his hand lightly rub across her. Her nipple went instant hard.

Greg slid his hand over her breast and felt her stiffen. His fingers slid from back to front, and before they slid the other way her nipple was poking his hand. "Was that accidently enough?"

She knew her dad expected her to answer his question, but her mouth didn't work. Haley shook her head and mumbled, "Um-huh." She took a deep breath and started to stand up but was instantly grabbed and pushed to the floor. For a split second she was scared....

"I believe tickling is next."

Haley screamed and laughed as his fingers tortured her. She squirmed and wriggled, but couldn't get away from the relentless fingers ticking her. This lasted for several minutes, when it was over she had tears of laughter coming from her blue eyes. Her head was resting on his legs and she looked into her dad's eyes. She could have seen lust or desire, but the love she saw in her dad's face made her feel that this was right.

Greg smiled, and reached for his daughter's nipples that poked against her shirt, "Well I guess that part of the story is all right."

Haley felt her dad rub his fingers lightly across both of her clothed nipples. She closed her eyes as electricity went through her, and then he moved his hand up to run his fingers through her hair. She opened her eyes and smiled up at him, "The hair thing isn't in the story." She got up and held her hand to him noticing he had gotten hard.

Greg grinned at her, "Then you better put it in. I only want us to do what's in your story." He grabbed her hand and let her help him to his feet.

She sat back down at her laptop; it took a few minutes for her brain to get back into the story. Her dad stood next to her, waiting for her type, and the bulge in his jeans was distracting as it made contact with her arm.

Karla felt her dad's fingers run through her hair, and it felt nice.



Greg ran his fingers through her hair, he liked the way it felt, "You haven't said what she looks like other than her breast size."

Haley could feel the electricity from his touch. She retyped the sentence.

Karla felt her dad's fingers run through her long blonde hair and it felt nice. At 18 and active in track, she was tanned and toned all over. She saw his free hand just hanging there and moved so that her breast was rubbing against it. She closed her eyes as she felt him gently caress her nipple.

Greg bent down and laid his hands on hers. They stayed that way for a few seconds, and then she moved her hands and he typed.

Ben could feel his daughter's nipple getting hard as he continued to play. He felt her brush against the front of his pants, and he moved his other hand from his daughter's hair to play with her other breast.

Ben wondered how long Karla had wanted him. He hadn't realized that he was sexually attracted to her until now.

Greg stopped typing, his mouth suddenly dry, "Do you want to try doing what they are doing?"

Haley's mouth was having trouble forming words, so she just nodded. She got back into position by bending over and holding onto the back of the chair. She felt his fingers run through her hair. Her hair wasn't as long as Karla's, but it was blonde and shined as it reflected the light. Her nipple was in her dad's fingers and it felt wonderful.

Greg whispered in his daughter's ear, "I can only play with one until you brush against me."

Haley wanted to shout "Screw the story," but didn't. Instead her fingers drifted to her dad and felt how hard he had gotten through the material of his pants. He was playing with both of her hard nipples; she closed her eyes as the pleasure spread through her. She could have told him to stop, she could simply stand up, put her other clothes back on, but instead she just stayed there and enjoyed what he was doing. She wanted this.

Trapping her nipples between the thumb and forefinger on each hand, Greg rolled them back and forth. Her shirt was pushed up out of the way, and Haley was letting him do whatever he wanted. He had her nipples standing out from her breasts, "We need to write some more, don't you think?"

Haley felt him stop and softly moaned, "No." Her dad had moved away from her so she reluctantly got up, got into the chair and started to type.

Karla wanted him and didn't know how much more teasing she could handle. She decided to get her dad hot enough to actually have sex with her. Turning to him, she asked, "Why don't you lay down and look under the layout and see if there are any wires in the way of putting the house there."

Ben did as his daughter suggested and felt her hands fumbling with his zipper. She freed his penis and it stood out from him.

Karla wrapped her slim fingers around her dad and started to stroke him. She took a peek at his face, and saw that her dad was enjoying her touch.

He watched in fascination as she lowered her lips to it. The shaft disappeared into her mouth sending him wonderful sensations.

Greg saw what his daughter had typed and straitened up. He moved near the desk, lay down on the carpet, and waited.

Haley got down next to her dad and opened his belt and pants. She reached in under his underwear and pulled out him out. She just stared at his hard cock, took it in her hand. She watched his face as her hand moved. He was enjoying this as much as she did. She wanted him, her mouth watered at the thought of sucking him.

Greg saw her mouth open, she bent down, and her tongue slid past her lips to lick his cockhead. A moan escaped from him.

She stopped and smiled as she fussed at him, "Ben didn't make any noises, daddy."

As Haley went back to sucking him, Greg moaned, "Karla isn't doing this to me."

Haley was seriously trying to please her dad. This was their first time and she wanted more, much more. Her head bobbed up and down as she accepted him into her mouth. She felt him hit the back of her throat.

Greg watched her suck him, and it was amazing to watch his cock disappear past her lips. Finally, she stopped and just licked his cock and balls all over. He watched his daughter play; she was enjoying doing this to him, almost as much as he was having her do it. As he felt her tongue slide over him, he wondered why he had never known she wanted him. "I don't remember Karla licking him."

Haley licked him a few more times, smiled and stood up, "I better write that in."

He groaned and realized he probably should have shut up. Kicking his shoes off, he slid his pants and underwear off and stood up. He heard his daughter typing, leaned over and saw she had written how Karla had licked Ben's penis and balls. Greg placed his hands on hers, and she gently moved them away so he could access the keyboard.

Ben wanted his daughter. He didn't know how long he had felt that way, but he loved her and wanted desperately to share this with her. He loved having his mouth to a woman's pussy and he just had to taste her. He kissed his daughter, not a father-daughter kiss, but a kiss filled with passion. He pulled at Karla's jeans but he was at an awkward angle and her clothes would not cooperate.

Karla realized what he wanted, returned his kiss and took off her clothes for him. Soon all of her clothes were in a pile on the floor. He had removed his shirt at the same time and now both father and daughter were lying naked on the floor.

Ben used his hands to get Karla to place her legs on either side of his face and stuck his tongue in her young pussy.

Greg stood without saying a word and lay back down on the floor.

Haley read what her dad had written, then read it again. She had never experienced getting oral sex before, to her oral sex was getting a guy hard so they could have sex. She knelt beside her dad and kissed him like he had written, her lips parted and the tip of his tongue touched hers in her mouth. The kiss continued, slowly getting more passionate. Finally, she rose up and took her clothes off, keeping her eyes on him watching her; she hoped he liked what he saw.

Trying to place herself like in the story, her movements were a little awkward having never been in this position before. She had never even done it being on top, or on her hands and knees. She felt her dad's strong hands pushing her forward. Her breath escaped her as she felt his tongue slide into her. "Aaahhh" escaped her sounding almost like an animal sound.

Greg took in the aroma of his daughter. The musk scent of her being aroused blended with the smell of flowers on her skin, it was intoxicating. His tongue slid past her blonde pubic hair and he felt her shudder, each time he came into contact with her clit, he would press the flat of his tongue hard against her.

Haley had never felt anything like this. No wonder her mom and dad did as much as they could. Her experience was limited, and her mind started making plans for everything she wanted to do with her dad. She realized she was close to having an orgasm and moved off of him.

Haley sat at the computer and her fingers flew across the keyboard. Dan reluctantly got behind her to see what she typed.



Karla felt his tongue in her and it was incredible! Her dad's tongue sent shivers through her body each time it touched her sensitive parts. Her experience with boys could never compare to what her dad made her feel. The pleasurable sensation he was creating in her was unbelievable. She had wanted her dad inside her, and knowing it was going to happen felt like a dream come true.

Greg put his hands on the keyboard. His daughter was reluctant to use certain words, he wasn't.



Ben moved Karla down him until she was straddling him, her pussy just inches from his hard cock. He used his hand to guide himself into her. When he felt his cock enter her wet, warm pussy, he placed his hands on her hips and pushed her down on him.

Karla felt lightheaded as her young body slid down on his hard cock. She bent to kiss him again as her dad filled her up.

Haley took over the keyboard again; she had no intention of stopping once she and her dad finally started, just so they could write about Karla and Ben.

Ben's hard cock was surrounded by Karla's smooth, silky, wet pussy. Damn his daughter was tight! He realized by her awkward movements that she wasn't very experienced, and he used his hands to help guide her hips.

Feeling him moving her back and forth on his cock so that it slid in and out, it didn't take her long to get a hang of the rhythm and they started to fuck. Her dad's cock inside her felt like everything she had fantasized about and more. 

Greg decided to take over, realizing that his daughter had to be in a high state of passion to use those words. He also wanted the fiction to end and the fucking between him and Haley to begin.

Karla was bouncing on top of her dad. His cock was hitting different places inside of her as she moved about. Sensation followed sensation, as waves of pleasure crashed though her young body.

She exploded into an intense orgasm; her entire body was rocked by passion. She kept on fucking her dad harder, wanting him deeper. She desperately wanted to get her dad off.

Ben suddenly grabbed her and held on, as he shot load after load of hot cum into his daughter!

Greg kissed Haley who responded, and kissed him back. She whispered breathlessly, "They didn't kiss like that until they were on the floor."

Greg was horse with passion, "I don't care," and he kissed her again. Finally, he pulled her after him and they got down to the floor. He had her move over him.

Haley closed her eyes and moaned as he entered her, "Oh, dad...mmm!" When he was all the way in, she leaned forward to kiss him which made his cock feel wonderful inside of her.




Writing a Story for Literotica



Greg was amazed. His writing about how tight Karla was didn't do his daughter justice. It was amazing how it felt, plus being incredibly hot. It was soft and silky-smooth and totally incredible as he slid in and out of her. He felt her legs holding him in a tight vise as she fucked him. She really was awkward, but that only lasted a few minutes. He couldn't have held onto her if wanted to.

Haley bounced on him realizing that she liked being in control of where he hit inside of her, and how deep her dad's hard cock went in. Her movements speeded up as she got closer to her orgasm. She gritted her teeth, her eyes bulged, and her breathing was forced as her body greedily welcomed her dad's hard cock in her. Her eyes wanted to close because the feelings her pussy was sending, but she forced them to stay open, wanting to watch her dad's face as they did this.

Her mouth fell open and her steady moan rolled over her parted lips, the contractions of her orgasm reverberated through her body. It was mind shattering. Haley gripped her dad with her legs and ground herself into him, sending even more sensations through her.

Greg had never felt anything like his daughter; the inside of her body caressed and grabbed his cock. The sensation was like she was on fire. His hard cock was buried in flesh that was impossibly hot, absolutely scorching. He arched his back and his cum exploded from him.

Haley felt her dad's cock jerking inside of her, "Yes daddy, cum in me." She made little grinding motions keeping his cock buried deep inside of her, yet trying to get him even deeper.

Greg moaned a steady "Agghh" as he shot load after load into his daughter.

Haley loved the way her dad looked as he pumped his cum into her. Her tongue licked her lips as feelings of love gripped her heart. This was better than she could have fantasized. She saw him smile up at her. She waited until she felt him start to get soft and bent down to kiss him. Her lips on his felt so good to her. Knowing that she had gotten him off was amazing.

"Daddy, that was wonderful." She continued to kiss him, "How can I ever describe in a story how that feels?"

Greg had a naughty smile, "You just get this story to Literotica. You'll need to start another one later this week, and any part you have trouble with, I will help you do all the research you want."



Writing Assignments



Writing assignment 1:

"...I'd love to hear, in your words, what you imagine it will feel like when you finally have my cock on your hands. Where would you like to feel my cum: in your hands, mouth, pussy, ass, or elsewhere? Please tell me what you imagine it will feel like when I do cum for you..."

By necessity, I begin my tale not at the beginning, but somewhere near the end. I may lurch backwards in an attempt to backflash adequately, although I can never guarantee quite how effective that will be.

However, with such specific requirements, a middle-beginning is de rigeur. I cannot help myself.

Funnily enough, that's more or less the sentiment I expect to hear you express at some point during these proceedings.

It seems like so very long a time that we have merely communicated, and not been in each other's presence. In exquisite detail we have described how aroused we feel; and this? This is the moment of truth.

In a literal sense, I don't expect that your cock will be on or in my hands when first you come for me, in front of me. I rather think it will be in my mouth; my hands being occupied in palpating and caressing your ball sac, and possibly sliding into, and probing your anus and prostate.

The one thing i wish to experience more than any other at that moment, is to hear you. I want to hear the relief with which you gush into my throat the rivers of cum you are storing for me. I want to hear the same divine anguish that you wailed as you splashed your cum across a bathroom stall when my recent letters had brought you to a fearful climax. I want to hear the powerful arousal from you, enough for us both since my vocal chords will be otherwise occupied. Cry out, scream your ecstasy.

Say my name, over and over.

I must confess, i'm hoping to have you in my mouth and be able to feel my cunt pulsate and tingle at the memory of a recent cataclysmic orgasm.

Your fingers will have opened me to your probing lips and tongue, and joined them to explore the depths of the inner parts of me that I only show to those deserving. Could you feel how hot i felt? How wet I was? How aroused? Didn't you want to slide your whole hand inside me and mercilessly beat a tattoo on my G-Spot until I was the one who gushed forth like an overflowing mountain brook?

Another admission: I'm not very good at soixante-neuf, Monsieur... I'm afraid I cannot adequately concentrate on the (blow) job at hand if my body is joyfully convulsing as orgasmic explosions rip through it. I will do my best to have both events as close in timing as possible, though, since the idea of regarding you lazily through a post-orgasmic haze, as you return the look, is a necessary part of the proceedings as far as I am concerned.

Of course, it doesn't have to be this way. You don't have to pour streams of cum into my mouth. (Not that you perceive it as any kind of obligation...) I'd be just as happy if you splashed it across my face. At some point, I'd also like to feel you slide into my ass, and fuck it into oblivion. This is not to mention the myriad positions and contortions that I want to try with your cock throbbing inside my pussy: filling me, stretching me, and fucking me like the slut I crave to be.

Now all that's required is for the distance between us to narrow somewhat.

Writing assignment 2: ---------------------

"..Now tell me what you want me to do..."

You promised me you'd give me your cock. Wherever i wanted it, my cunt, my mouth, my ass. you write it good, baby... there's only one thing that wasn't entirely accurate.

In your description of how you'd waken me...

The one where you told me, in intimate detail, how you started rubbing your cock, thinking of me. Imagining me laying there and you sliding up behind me, whispering in my ear. Letting me feel your hard cock slide against my butt, up and down the crack... gently, not forcefully, but enough so that i knew you were there, and that you had definite plans. For me. For my ass.

Reaching down between my legs and feeling me, slick and slippery, as my hips ground back against you. Gently prying my legs apart, so that you can rub the head of your cock against my highly sensitive and swollen clit.

Then when you think I'm ready, giving me a couple of inches.... before pushing it all the way in......nice and deep. Just holding it in there while you hold and massage my breasts....and continue exploring my pussy with your fingers, pulling my fingers down to join yours and feel it too....how wet it is....how your cock feels inside me.

How you'd slowly start to fuck me nice and deep; slow lazy thrusts, letting me just lie there and enjoy the thickness and how good it feels inside me for long, idyllic minutes.

And then, with you still inside me, how you'd roll me over onto my stomach, with you on top of me, so that you can excavate deeper and pound it harder; really hitting my G-spot with each stroke.

How at this point you'd feel the sensitivity in your cock growing more and more intense; the head full and swollen, ready to erupt inside me.... pounding.... pounding.... then screaming as you cum deep inside me... all your hot cum deep into me. How you'd hold it in there, and stay hard, holding me close as you panted and caught your breath... and even beyond then.

The only inaccuracy in that description, is this.

I never. Never. NEVER just lie there...

Believe me, I'd give it back to you as good as i got it. Hold that wonderful thick cock inside me. Fuck you back with each thrust. Telling you to fuck me harder.. deeper... harder still.

Feeling your skin against mine as you pump into me. Your hands placed over mine, supporting your weight. Your breath in my ear, whispering extremely dirty nothings.

How you love the feel of my pussy around you.

How the way my cunt muscles squeeze and hold you is driving you wild.

How it reminds you of how my throat muscles felt, when i took you into my mouth, and down my throat. Deeper, further, and even deeper.... till the tip of your cock hit the back of my throat.

How my tongue, flattened at that point, lapped at you. My lips contained you. My teeth teased you. How my hands cuddled and caressed your balls, a well-lubed finger or two having slid joyfully into your ass.

As for the rest... well, I think you can guess. Just come here and claim your prize.... 



Writing Erotica for Fun & Profit



To begin my little essay, let me say that you will be much more successful and contented as an author if you concentrate more on the former than on the latter.

Good day. My name is BrettJ, as you can see from the header. If any of you are new to my work, I am a prolific writer of erotica. On this site alone, I have accomplished the authorship of nearly 500 pieces. Elsewhere, under a different name, there are nearly 200 more. To date, I have written and sold nearly 1600 pieces of erotica fiction. I would say that does qualify me to give advice to fledgling erotic authors or even those whose "batteries" might need recharging. Sadly, it does indeed happen to the best of us.

I hope that his essay can offer advice, a bit of humor and some insight. I'm going to try and be thoughtful and offer some perspective on what it is like to be an author of erotic fiction and how to keep going at it after years of work.

An acquaintance of mine is a very successful author. His name is Mark Evanier and if that name is familiar to some of you, there is good reason. Mark has worked on such TV series as Roseanne and was Story Editor / Producer on both Garfield and Friends and the current Garfield Show. He has written books on such luminaries as Jack Kirby and voice actress June Foray and contributed several articles to magazines on animation and comics. He has been a prolific author for over 40 years.

Mark and I share one viewpoint -- writers must write. Don't make writing for pay a goal and not write a word until you are paid to do so -- write. Write as much as you can as often as you can. Have fun with the process, share your work and write, write, write until your words flow freely.

I think sites like LITEROTICA are a great thing, although some may disagree. I was "discovered" here after a few months of writing. I am now going to contradict some of my own advice as well as some of Mark's.

DO NOT let yourself be conned by publishers offering to get you work if you send them "samples". Don't work for free. Send A sample, sure -- or even just a few pages of something you consider a worthy example of your work. That is a reasonable request. If you are worth publishing, someone will want to pay you. That is the bottom line, except in my case. You may feel free to laugh, but the company for which I've worked this past 8 years asked to "borrow" some of my writing with the promise of future employment if they liked what they saw. In those days, I never would have believed I would ever be a professional author, I thought it was a pipe dream. They were offering free magazines in exchange for stories, I thought I'd end up with some free reading material. I said sure and thought nothing more of it.

Except that I lucked out. My company turned out to be wholly legit, even if the woman I originally dealt with was not. I sent them some material and heard nothing. Six months later, I got an E-Mail from the company asking why I had not sent them any new material. I responded that I had not been paid for the new material I had sent. Not Dime One. Within minutes, I had another E-Mail with an apology attached. They told me in no uncertain terms that they had no intention of cheating me and were apologetic and were going to make immediate restitution. I was to invoice them and a check would be sent out that day. I didn't have a full accounting to the original material I had sent, but did manage to cobble something together. I think it was for 15 stories, if memory serves. I got another mail and was told the check had been sent that day. To their credit, it arrived the following week. I later learned that there were some shenanigans going on behind the scenes and I was dealing with a new person as opposed to the initial contact. The second person left after another year passed and I now deal with either my "liaison" or the publisher himself.

Moving on we come to more business. In the early days, I was a freelance author, as most of you will likely be in the beginning or for the duration of your careers. Nothing wrong with that, but there are a few pitfalls. In my freelance career, I learned a hard lesson. Don't count on the cash until it is in your hands. My company had a "pay upon publication" policy at that time. At one point, they had about 50 of my stories and I had not seen a penny. I was very nearly broke and needed the money. Luckily, I hit a streak where they needed material and not only did I get paid, they needed more ASAP.

Be willing to walk away if the money isn't good. Erotic novels don't necessarily pay well. I earn more writing short stories than I would for two full novels per month. It isn't a high-paying field, rather, it is based on volume. If you are prolific like myself, you can earn a nice secondary income. You have to decide what makes you comfortable.

One good thing began to happen and that was, I established a reputation. I delivered the material as asked, to the themes they wanted and I delivered on time. Until two years ago, due to family circumstances and a serious, unexpected illness, I had never missed a deadline. That led them to offering me a contract. I was their first contracted employee.

Here is another business point -- you do need to know when to stand up for yourself and be willing to walk away. They were stalling on signing the contract, so I gave them an ultimatum -- sign before two more weeks were up or there would be no further material from me. I had nothing to lose -- they did. What they were asking from me was 300 new pieces a year -- nearly a million words.

Yes, you read that right -- but I believed I could do it. In fact, I knew that I could. I was prolific and to this day, I have more stories in my head than I have time to write. 

So they signed -- and then, they made a mistake I urge all of you to avoid. They did not read the very contract they had signed. I you wonder how that could happen, it was because they had never had a contracted employee before, remember? They had nothing to go on, so I, with the aid of a (very cute ~ sigh) friend wrote the contract myself. It spelled out what they got and what I got and I was beyond fair. When an issue arose six months in, I could stand my ground. "It's not in the contract," was my simple answer. In fact, it was not. I didn't have to do as they asked, which was an unreasonable demand at the time. We have amended the contract a few times since then, once with a demand they held firm, once on a term I refused to budge on -- direct deposit pay.

I cannot stress this enough -- understand the terms of your payment and employment. In plain English -- what am I giving you and what are you giving me?

Other important things to remember -- keep a copy of everything you write and make sure you can prove it's yours. I use many pseudonyms because I write a lot of material. Everything on LIT and elsewhere holds my copyright. My publishers once found someone on the Internet ripping us off, as did LIT. We put a stop to it (it turned out not to be the website, but someone claiming he had my permission to use my material -- he did not).

Other tips now, including this one -- a lesson I had to learn the hard way -- twice, in fact. Know your limitations. If a company is offering you a thousand dollars for 40 stories a month, that might sound great -- but if you can only write 20, be realistic. Don't overdo. Your reputation will suffer if you can't deliver. A few years ago, my company and I came into dispute over my quota. They wanted a change which would have cost me a fair chunk of money. I wasn't thrilled. My liaison stood her ground and I had some years with the company, so I did something I didn't want to do -- I went over her head. With the assistance of an outside mediator and my publisher himself, we reached an agreement that ended up netting me $10 more a month for 3 less stories -- ten thousand words, in fact. It ended up making life easier until life kicked me in the unmentionables two years back.

Here is where my reputation and honesty saved my ass, for those of you still with me. They knew I'd deliver. Even last year, when it became apparent something was wrong, they trusted me. I was not fired for being so behind, I was "suspended". I intend to deliver everything I was paid for and work towards rebuilding my career. Wish me luck, all right?

Now comes the fun and intriguing part. I said it before, but it truly bears restating. Writers need to write. Erotica is as valid a genre as anything else and I believe I write erotica, not merely "porn". I don't try to crank it out, I do try to put thought into each and every piece. I've earned myself a nice following on LIT and at one point, was in their Top 100 most-read authors. I try to have fun when I am writing and I do think it shows in the work.

My first story was just a one-off and it took me a few days to write. A little science-fiction erotic piece (entitled "Programmed For Love" if anyone wants to search for it). It was based on a story I'd read years earlier and I did my own take on it. To my surprise, it earned me my first "H" (for Hot) on LITEROTICA. I have several hundred now. I believe that's because I try to have fun and think of the readers while writing each piece, while not letting them limit me. I don't ever pander to them, although I do to myself. I try to be funny, erotic and romantic or raunchy, depending on the style of the story.

In the early days, I was just thrilled to be writing again. I'd had a few medical issues that took away my creativity. 100% gone. When I got it back, it was with a zeal I had not enjoyed since my 20's. I loved writing erotica and I dearly loved getting fan mail (I still do) especially from women who liked my work. I've got several female fans who tell me one of the reasons they like my work is my dialog and I never write weak women characters.

Dialog is essential to good erotica, in my opinion. Don't write just a string of epithets and "fuck me" wordage. Have your characters talk like real people. Hear the conversations in your head. Be witty and funny. Use slang when appropriate but do NOT use Smartphone short forms unless pertinent to the story.

Lord, oh dear Lord of all that is kinky, please use some kind of spell check and watch your grammar. Your "grammer" is your mother's mom. Learn the difference between "you're" and "your". Add to that list "two / to / too" and "they're / there / their". There are several others that creep in. Learn when to end a paragraph. Check for run-on sentences.

I generally avoid the stories that read like a Phone Sex scenario and so do most publishers. By those, I mean as in "You entered the room wearing your shortest skirt and high heels. I had chosen to wear my navy blazer and gray slacks." Give your characters names (first and laugh) and back stories. If you know who they are as people, it will come across to the readers. I've even found myself revisiting characters because I thought of new ideas for them. It has happened several times. I have also thought of an idea for a supporting character that might only have appeared in a paragraph or two. Ideas come from everywhere.

So, when those ideas DO arrive -- write them down. Or, if you're at the computer as I am now, create an "idea file" and write as much into that as comes to you at that moment. I have several stories in inventory that I will get around to. I know from experience that if I don't put them somewhere, they will sometimes fade. At times, even the title will jog my memory. Other times, I need more. I have had an "idea" spew out of me that turned into 3 or 4 pages of material before I stopped typing. I fleshed it out later and those stories are often my best because I took the time to jot it all down while it was still fresh and naughty in my fevered imagination.

There is no easy answer to the question "where do you get all of your ideas?" because there is no hard answer. It just -- is. The answer is -- everywhere. On the bus, in conversations, from another story, from reading Playboy to the silliest of things. One fan challenged me to write a story about pinball. Look for it. Another wanted me to write a story involving Peanut Butter. Wrote that one too.

Don't forget to have fun. Good erotica is, in my opinion, fun erotica. Whether it's romantic, raunchy or perverted, it should be fun for the author and for the reader.

I don't believe you have to have more than the germ of an idea to start writing. I've even started a story with just a title or the name of the female lead. I look upon it as a journey, I've started out and I know where the end is when I get there. At other times, I have the beginning and ending in mind. The sex is the middle, like the filling in an Oreo.

Other ideas from me, once again -- fun. Believe it or not, nice Catholic girls and boys can write erotica. It isn't usually real, so go a little hog wild. I entered the LITEROTICA Survivor Contest last year to expand my horizons. I wrote in a few categories I hadn't before. I won one of the prizes. I entered again this year, much for the same reason. This very essay is part of that. I regret that LIT is ending them as of this year because I do believe the challenge made me a better author. Writers, challenge yourself. If you can write hardcore porn, write something with romance. If you tend to be a bit on the flowery side, go for the nasty stuff. Think like a gentleman or lady in the day to day world, be a bit of a whore on the printed page.

As I said, I get inspiration from a lot of places and one of those is photos. Almost all of my characters have a real-life visual counterpart. In my "Heather and Bryan" series, there are two real-life Heathers I use as templates, both from Playboy. So I know how their bodies look in certain positions, the color of their eyes, all of it. I even hear some of their voices based on videos. I don't advise using their real names, although real first names are usually okay. In a few situations, I got permission from actual women (Linn Thomas, Erin Fox and adult film actress Angela Sommers) to use them as characters in my story. All of those ladies approved.

Set the scene. What does the room look like? How is each character dressed and in the case of the women, made up? High heels, bare feet or slippers? Shaved, trimmed or au naturel? You might not think it matters to the readers -- but it does.

Now that you have some of the basics down, get writing. If you have a talent for writing, it shouldn't be like pulling teeth. That does happen, even to someone like me. With my illness, I had the ideas, the process was just excruciating for a time. A friend offered me good advice. He had no idea how much I'd written and when I told him, he was astonished. "That much?" He gasped when I answered. When I told him how much per month, his eyes went wild. "No wonder you're tired," he admonished me. "Stop beating yourself up, you need a break." He was right. It is okay to take a break, although sometimes, you can't afford to. In my case, my health won out over commerce.

You're writing now -- having fun? Good, is it a short story or a novella or a full-on novel? Sometimes it can start out as one and move into the second and eventually, the third. Or a series of stories. Some publishers don't want series, so know who buys what in advance if you can.

I can say that the current erotic fiction market is in a state of flux. Novels sell, but usually by established writers like Opal Carew. Short story markets are still fairly good, although the E-Book / Kindle market is opening up. Even Amazon offers self-publishing, well worth exploring. Of course, you don't have to choose one over the other, you can market yourself as many ways as you would like, providing you remember the time factor.

I also suggest writing to your comfort level. Don't write something that you know would make you very uncomfortable. I don't like rape / non-consent material or anything degrading. I know I could write Gay erotica, but it isn't my genre. I write good lesbian fiction and a few other odd categories that some might find off-putting. I have fun, remember it is all a fantasy and that bills must get paid. Commerce does matter. Again, I stress -- do NOT let a publisher con you into writing for "free". Yes, get your work out there -- LIT and other sites can do that for you, or you can create your own site. Sometimes, a fledgling company will offer to publish a story of yours in an anthology, with a copy of the book as your recompense unless the sales go over a certain number. I've done that once, as I thought it fair enough for a novice writer. The book was fun, although badly edited. Spelling, grammatical and layout errors were abundant. It wasn't too difficult to see why the book didn't sell huge numbers.

Here's one thought as I wrap up -- decide for yourself if you want to tell friends and family what you do. It was about 4 years before I told my family and they weren't thrilled. They still aren't, although now that they see what I earned, it's a bit more acceptable. Most of my friends know. Some still don't. The stigma remains. I'm proud of my accomplishments and the volume of work I have achieved. Still, I don't want everyone knowing I'm a "pornographer". I certainly am not Larry Flynt.

Write. If you have computer skills, you've got another tool to use in furthering your career. Before you find a publisher, have something to show them. Have a few somethings because lots of publishers (mine included) publish several genres.

The work is out there if you pursue it, it's fun and it's challenging.

If anyone wishes to ask me further questions, I'm usually on my thread in the Forums or PM me. I'm willing to help out anyone.

In summation, I stick by this -- write because it's something you love to do.

BrettJ

December 31, 2014 



Writing FETISH Fiction



-----Original Message----- "Could you do a guide on how to make a decent PWP revolving around Fetishes with things like 'Add detail,' and 'Don't make it choppy?' -- Furry Fan

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

What makes Fetish fiction unique from any other kind of Erotic fiction? 

What makes ANY genre of fiction unique from any other? The DETAILS or more specifically, what is being detailed. 

~ In a Romance, the Drama is detailed. 

~ In a Mystery, the Puzzle, or rather the clues to the puzzle are detailed. 

~ In a Sci-Fi, the underlying Theory or Technology is detailed. 

~ In Erotica, the Sex is detailed. 

~ In Pulp Fiction, the Adventure is detailed. 

~ In Fetish Fiction, the featured FETISH is detailed. 

Okay, that seems rather simple -- until you realize that not only does the key element to each genre need to be detailed, it needs to turn the PLOT too! That key element must not only be there and detailed, it must be what makes your story HAPPEN. 

Why?

To forward any story's plot you need Dramatic Tension. If all the dramatic tension in your Fetish story comes from somewhere OTHER than the Fetish scenes, then the Fetish scenes aren't necessary to tell the story. If the Fetish scenes aren't necessary to tell the story then you're NOT writing FETISH fiction, you're writing whatever else is turning your plot. 

In fact, if the Fetish scenes aren't necessary to tell the story then they don't belong in the story. ANYTHING that isn't necessary to tell the story doesn't belong in the story! 





Writing from Phoenix



Hey Lisa, it's me RJ. I'm currently sitting in the Phoenix International Airport typing on my laptop. I got here way too early since my flight is about three hours away, but thought I'd send you an e-mail to get you caught up on all that's happened. I have a horrible hangover, but boy do I have so much to tell you about.

Girlfriend, this has been one wild week. The conference was boring although I put on a good show and didn't miss any of my meetings. I still learned some things and will have a good report back to my bossman by Monday. The food was great but I barely ate...I drank my meals the entire week. I think I've lost about five pounds. I've talked and laughed so much my voice is hoarse. Lack of sleep isn't helping either. But it has been great. I had so much fun I don't really want to come back home.

Did you know it is currently 110 degrees at 9 a.m. in the morning? Phoenix in September...gotta love it!

Oh before I forget, can you believe I managed to cram all seven days worth of clothes into one carry-on? Wearing skimpy stuff all the time helps you know! I'm wearing my new blouse now. Remember the one I told you about? The spandex top with the turquoise and blue and black shapes that is dangerously low-cut? It matches my spandex skirt that I've had forever. Love it!

You won't believe what happened to me last night. But before I go there, I need to tell you about the rest of the week. I'm such a slut, Lisa. But damn, I can't help it.

Well, it all started at the airport. I got there early too. Just following the rules...911 screwed up everything about flying. So I had a couple of hours to waste before my flight out. You can't smoke anywhere except this one bar all the way through the terminal where you first walk in. So of course I headed back that way after finding my terminal.

I noticed this guy sort of following me. Not really following me, but staring at me, and going in the same direction. So I got to the bar and sat down. And here he comes. I ordered a drink. Yes, I realize it was only 8 a.m. but what the hell! You know I'm a nervous flier. He ordered a drink too and sat right beside me!

Well it turns out we had the same flight. He kept looking at me and letting his eyes drift to my cleavage. I kept smiling and drinking. I gave him a once over too. You could tell he flew often and was some sort of salesman. You know, khakis with a button up shirt, looking comfortable but yet professional. He did have amazing blue eyes. He wasn't all that but I was enjoying his attention.

He was marketing some type of water invention that he had patented -- oh I don't remember what the significance was -- but you could tell he was excited about it. We small talked until it was time for our flight and guess what? His seat was next to mine! I wonder if somehow he made that happen by requesting a seat change. Can you even do that? Or was this just a stroke of good luck?

We were both buzzed from the drinks so early in the morning and he started leaning into me. He was literally all over me. I think he was trying to get a better look at my boobs. But hell, half of those 36Ds were already showing! We started talking after the plane took off. He already knew I was not a good flier, so he started telling me what all the noises were to try to keep me calm. Like, "That's just the wheels going back up in the plane", or, "Those are just the engine thrusters,"...or whatever he called them. He even said, "Did you know a plane landing is really just a controlled crash?" 

OK, that scared me and my eyes got big and then I leaned into him. I told him he shouldn't say things like that to me. That I would end up in his lap. (wink) So he ordered me another drink. We drank a LOT. And we talked a LOT. You can imagine how bummed -- and a little pissed off -- I was when he fessed up that he was married. He even pulled the family picture out of his wallet. Two kids, hot petite blonde wife. I asked him if he flirted like this very often. He goes into this story that his marriage is not a happy one, and his wife never gives it up. At that point I was cocky from the drinks, and I think I really did roll my eyes at him. 

You know, Lisa, I learned my lesson with my first -- and last -- married man. I don't go there. Although that bastard knew how to fuck...whew! Do you remember him? Kenny? Or "K" as you nicknamed him. I love how we nickname all of our men. Remember Chris the "trucker boy", or Jay the "chiller guy", or that guy I met in Nashville...what was his real name? Oh well, we named him "Army guy". He was the guy I fucked before he went off to Iraq. Hey, a woman's gotta do what a woman's gotta do. Just supporting my country.

It was a short flight anyhow as I had a stopover in Memphis. So we parted ways there. However, I did give him my pen name at Literotica just in case he ever wanted to chat.

By the way, I loved the Memphis Airport. It was small and quaint and easy to get around in the terminal. I prefer smaller airports. Of course it seemed on every surface there was something about music. It had a bar, and that's where I headed. The Blue Note Café. I sat my half-drunk ass up there and guess what! Another man sat beside me.

Hey don't laugh...I haven't fucked any of them...yet.

I don't remember his name. He was an older man who was retired from the military. I don't remember which branch of the military either. But I ran a tab because yet again I had a layover. He was a very polite man. You know I really do like older men. The chivalry, the manners, the old-school approach to how they treat women.

He ended up paying for my drinks when I had to leave. He held my chair when I stood to leave, those tall bar stools I have a hard time getting on and off of because I'm a little short, especially with a few drinks in me. He was a sweet guy though. He flat out told me I was sexy. He even said, "Oh if I was only younger." It was a sweet diversion to a busy airport.

So I got on the plane. And just my freaking luck, a very large man was in the aisle seat next to me and this tiny woman by the window. I was worried I would have an uncomfortable flight with his girth up against me. But you know how I am, I'm going to have a good time wherever I go. I swear this man was the funniest fellow I've met in a long time. His son was in the row across the aisle. Everybody was laughing at him carrying on. His voice carried is all I can say. He told the best jokes though.

Anyway, I arrived in Phoenix and got shuttle bussed to the hotel. When I stepped out of the air-conditioned SUV the heat slapped me squarely in the face. My God Phoenix is hot! I'm not talking humid or warm or a little bit muggy like home...I mean it's get-out-the-tank-top-and-find-me-a-pool-and-a-cool-drink HOT! On every corner and on every overhang possible the hotel had these water jets spraying out this fine mist of water. At first I thought, "Man this shit is going to put my hair in complete frizz mode." You know how my curly hair is...a perfect barometer for humidity. It turns into this long brown mass of frizz ball. But when your shoes start sizzling on the sidewalk you WELCOME that mist. I could have BATHED in that mist. You start worshipping those suckers when you walk through them.

Yep, you guessed it. When I got everything situated in my room, I headed straight to the bar. I spent lots of time in this bar over this past week. Too much time...and too much money. But I was free for the first time in a long time. No job to rush to, no traffic to drive in, no home to maintain, no child to attend to, no cat to feed. I had a suitcase full of cigarettes and clean clothes, and time on my hands for once in a very long time. I know that sounds bad...but damn, I felt like a rabid lioness just let loose from a small cage. Freedom. Sweet freedom. I took advantage of it let me tell you.

I became great friends with the bartenders over the last seven days. One in particular. His name was David, although I kept calling him James for some reason. Embarrassingly, night after night, I called him by the wrong name. Even with him having a name tag. Wrong after wrong after wrong. I figured it out though. He was Native American and looked just like a guy in my classes named James. David didn't seem to mind. I deduced it was possibly because I was a big tipper. Or I thought maybe he was accustomed to freed "cougars" by working in a bar all the time. But I realized he began to enjoy my banter, and possibly my boobies too which always seemed to be hanging slightly out of my blouse. I winked at him a lot too. I became quite enamored with him as well.

David was ten years younger than me I found out. So that put him at 30 years old. Had one young son like me. Divorced. He was not fat, but was a tall and large man nonetheless. He had black hair perfectly combed back with hair spray. His demeanor was calm and slow but yet he was very attentive to my needs. Soft spoken always. When he leaned over the bar to hear what I was saying amongst the loud music and rowdy voices, I smelled his cologne. He smelled good. And even when I was speaking with other passersby from my classes or other bar patrons that happened to sit by me, we always maintained a seemingly innocent eye contact every few minutes. I made it a point to always sit in his section. I found him incredibly sexy. I have to admit, he gave me the warm and fuzzies. You know? That feeling in the pit of your stomach...butterflies if you will. Or maybe horniness.

Night after night, after long boring days of seminars and speakers and meeting people in the conference, I always went to my David. Now that's not to say I didn't have other kinds of fun. Let me tell you, I had loads of fun this week. For some reason I attracted a lot of men. I think they can smell a horny woman a mile away. And I was happy! It was almost like one big party. Everyone was getting to know one another and the camaraderie among all the attendees became stronger and stronger.

A few nights I hung out with another guy. His name was Tim. Always in public, except for once when we went to his room. David had already warned me not to stray from the hotel grounds alone ever, so I stayed close. I already knew Tim was married and I wasn't going "there" although I think he wanted to. We sat a few nights at the outside bar letting the jets of mist fall over us and drinking to oblivion and talking about everything we could come up with. It was an easy friendship. We spilled guts to each other about all of our naughty and sundry and honest and innocent lives, and became fast friends. He invited me to his room. Of course I went...I needed some air-conditioning. You won't believe what we did!

His room was nearly at the top of this high rise hotel and when I walked into his room I was immediately drawn to the window. All of the curtains were pulled back. The mountains in Phoenix are absolutely breathtaking! The colors are fabulous. The clays and the blues and the browns and the oranges of the mountains are stunning. He had the perfect view...much better than mine...I had the damn pool as my backdrop. The day was nearing sunset and I believe I audibly gasped as the beautiful sight. I was looking out of the window holding my Budweiser and surprisingly I felt his body pressing into my backside. His hands lightly stroked my arms and he kissed the back of my head. So sweet. I have to admit, it was a very nice feeling. It gave me the tingles.

My body immediately loosened up and my ass made slight movements against his groin. He kissed my neck and I laid my head on his shoulder so he could get closer. His hot breath on my chest felt nice. Very nice.

I turned around and he asked me if I wanted to do a line. I was completely thrown off. A line? I mean what does a line have to do with kisses and hugs and stroking? I looked around and noticed he had cocaine perfectly lined up on the top of the dresser. Four long lines. What? Cocaine? Hell yeah! I was tired from the jet lag, lack of sleep, drinking, and long days. Cocaine sounded like a good plan. He handed me a straw and I snorted my two...one in each nostril. I immediately started to feel its effects and held back the urge to sneeze. My tongue and face became incredibly numb. My heart started racing in my chest. He actually brought cocaine from North Carolina, through two airports, without getting caught. I asked him if he had balls of steel or something. I mean damn! That's brave and stupid all at the same time.

So we sat down in the two chairs by the large picture window and talked and talked and talked and talked. I started warming up to him and began thinking about breaking my rule of no fucking married men. Our knees kept rubbing together. So we talked about it. And talked some more. We were buzzed. We did two more lines each. My hands were shaking so wildly from the drugs that I screwed up the lines and he had to redo them.

He's a grandfather for God's sake and had been married to the same woman for 25 freaking years. Then he told me he can't get it up anyway...that he may be able to with me because he found me incredibly sexy and sweet and cuddly...but there was no guarantee. Poor thing. I'm flattered, I'm buzzed, I'm drunk, I'm frustrated. There is no other way of saying it. So I just took the pressure off and told him it's not happening. It was getting a little too deep if you know what I mean. I was too fucked up to think straight, much less contemplate the fall back of my actions.

So we headed back down to the bar. At this point we were having trouble keeping still. I haven't done cocaine in years. The entire ride down the elevator we were groping...it was just fun. But we didn't do the deed and ended up drinking until the bar closed sometime that morning. I think that night is what made me incredibly hoarse with all the talking going on. The next day was HELL. I hardly slept at all. I felt like death warmed over. I'm getting too old for this shit.

Oh and there was this other guy. Quit laughing Lisa...just stop it right now!

It got a little more heated with him. His name was Scott. Scott actually sat with Tim and me one night. Yes, I was sitting with two men in a strange town in a strange bar far far away from home. For some reason I kept getting free beer sent to me. I wasn't sure where they were coming from but I kept drinking them. I decided earlier in the week I would stick with beer. Whiskey makes me too wild. Beer is safer. And my two acquaintances were nice enough to keep them coming as well. We were toasted. I enjoyed the conversation though.

So I guess Tim was coked out again that night and retired early. I gave it the old girl scout try to stay up and see what Scott had to offer. Well I ended up offering him more than what I got. To change scenery we went to the pool. It was well after midnight and nobody was around. We sat down facing each other with our knees almost touching. I felt sorry for him in a way because earlier he had told me he was working near the Virginia Tech massacre a few years earlier. He told a great story about the entire murder and how it made him feel and how it all went down. Sad story.

Scott looked at me all of a sudden and starts talking in his low outside voice. Several rooms faced the pool and we didn't want to get loud and rowdy and wake anybody up. He had a very sexy voice. He looked sort of boyish with blonde hair and had a boy-next-door demeanor about him. He wasn't my type really, but I still felt a connection to him. It got very deep, very sexy, very fast. I mean the entire conversation was low and nervous and sort of electric at the same time.

He said, "You are so hot...just beautiful." His eyes were staring straight at mine. They never wavered. And then I got a shock when he blurted, "I would strip you down right now and fuck you." That's when I looked away and down, for some reason that statement embarrassed me. I felt a blush forming high on my cheeks. And a blush came over my pussy at the same time.

I asked him if he had a hard on. He said yes. He asked me if I was horny. I said yes. His next question was, "Is your pussy wet?" I told him it was very wet...and throbbing. He shifted in his seat at that comment, but his eyes continued to bore into mine. The conversation continued like this, almost like a tennis match with the back and forth, until we were worked up into a slather. Both of us were squirming now.

I stood up and motioned for him to follow me. I swayed on my feet from the beer and the heat and he placed his hand on the small of my back to steady me, and we looked at each other again and smiled. My room was right there, through the pool doors and to the left. The temperature inside the room felt almost icy compared to the smothering heat we just walked out of. We started kissing and groping each other. Our breaths were heavy and deep and we were just balls of horniness. He removed my top, then my bra, and they crumpled to the floor. He began sucking my hardened nipples while stroking my back and hair. I couldn't help but moan, and my knees got weak and chill bumps raced down my stomach. I sat on the bed. I told him to remove his pants so I could see his hard dick. Down went his pants in a heap at his ankles. It was a nice one, hard as a rock, with a slight curve. He was just a young frisky fellow. And I made up my mind that I was going to give him the best blowjob he's ever gotten in his life.

When I saw it standing at attention I couldn't help falling to me knees and licking the end. I looked back up at him as I placed his head inside my mouth. My tongue slinked around on his underside moistening his girth. I felt the blood vessels all over it and my tongue kept up its task. Inch by inch I took him slowly into my eager mouth. I was watching him with my upturned eyes and his head lulled backward. His knees were bending with each slurp I took.

I made him sit down on the bed and stretch out to be comfortable with his legs over the edge and his feet touching the carpet. I never left my knees. His cock slipped back into my drooling mouth and he gasped. His thighs quivered. My mouth slid all the way down on his shaft until I felt my chin on his balls. My face was buried in his groin.

It was on. I wasn't going to let up. I was going to make him come and I was going to suck every last drop. You haven't lived until you've had an RJ blowjob.

My mouth was full of spit. I never swallow any built up spit. I use it to my advantage. I hold it all in my mouth and spread it around and build it up some more. I love it when a big fat hard cock gags me. The spittle really flows then. And it's the good slick stuff. So that's what I did. I plunged down on his dick until I felt it hitting the back of my throat and then pressed forward even more. I could feel it sliding in my inner throat, and I made my throat close over his hardness. I made swallowing motions making it go even further down. Gulp...gulp...gulp. I closed my throat around him over and over as hard as I could. By this time, Scott was moaning fairly loudly. And I gagged big time when he rammed his hips forward and then released. There it comes! My mouth immediately filled with more spit.

Mmmm...that's what I like. Cram your fucking cock into my mouth. Fuck my face...make me take all of you. Take what you fucking want. Make me feel like a fucking fuck face slut.

Although my mouth was filled with hard cock, my tongue shot out and licked his balls whenever it could. One of my favorite things to do, and men love it. Cram and lick, cram and lick. Mmmm.

Scott grabbed the sides of my head, entwined his hands into my long hair, stood up while yanking my head back, and began fucking my willing pie hole. Ram, ram, ram. Oh yeah baby, he liked the fuck hole under my nose. He was holding me by my hair and thrusting in and out now. He was in control of this situation.




Writing from Phoenix



And from that point things happened very quickly. He was thrashing his body against my face, ramming as fast as he could. He slowed for a second or two, groaned deep, and came in my throat. I think he pulled out clumps of my hair, but you know I love hair pulling. That man was enjoying himself. He mumbled, "Oh goddammit...oh goddamn..." as the last of his squirts entered my mouth. 

He finally let go of my hair and pulled out. The entire episode lasted under three minutes. I'm good...I'm real good. He pulled up his pants and headed for the door. What the fuck? You mean I get nothing! Yep. I got nothing. Maybe he was embarrassed because he came so fast? Maybe it was just so late? I'm not sure but I felt used in a way, I didn't get anything out of him. Not one fingering, not one lick. Miss Pussy wasn't happy...but I was too tired to care. I slept sort of fitfully that night, after humping the sheets for a while of course. Scott slept well I'm sure. I chalked that one up to a sympathy blow job for a guy who looked like he really needed one and left it at that. I wasn't going to let him get me down.

The next day during one of our seminars together he hardly looked at me. But I did manage to walk by him, look him squarely in the eyes and wink at him. That got a smile out of him. But of course, I was done with him. Not fair...not fair at all.

But David the bartender always made me happy with his nice smile and beer in a glass ready for me. I promised him on my last night in Phoenix he could fix me some Wild Turkey and coke, my favorite drink. We'd have us a mini blowout party together. And that we did.

I had to go to the final ceremony last night with the fancy dinner and all. I wore my black split skirt with my low cut white and black flowery, netted blouse. I had my dangerously high sandal heels on. So high that it made my back automatically arch and my ass stick up and out. I was looking good. I took extra time to primp up.

I arrived in the large dinner room and fancy tables were scattered about. Tim, the cocaine man, was there with his buzzed out high self. He was actually very sweet and made sure I sat on his table with his friends. There was a power point presentation showing on the wall behind the stage of pictures taken throughout the week. It was fun to watch and my mug was in quite a few. I ate a few bites of my prime rib. Of course he didn't eat a bite and kept leaving to go to his room. I started feeling sorry for him. He obviously had a drug problem. But on the surface nobody would be able to tell. Of course I had some insight to it all.

Did I tell you I sort of had a stalker all week? Another guy from the conference, married, and kind of weird. He also sat at our dinner table. He was almost puppy-ish, following me around like a loyal slave all week. He was mild-mannered and nervous acting around me. But every time I turned around there he was. Harmless I suppose.

I left everyone behind to finish their dinner and I freshened up in my room and headed to the bar and to David. The nights had been fun, talking to him and getting a buzz on before gallivanting around with these other men. David and I spent a lot of time together while he worked the bar of course.

My first drink was strong. He put two straws in the glass. A sweet thought considering I told him earlier in the week it was a habit of mine, drinking Wild Turkey and coke with a straw so I could stir every few seconds. The second drink was strong again. I motioned him over and asked him what the hell he was doing to me. He gave me a paranoid look and whispered that he was doubling them. He then said shhh, it was our secret. I began to tell him I couldn't afford doubles but he again said shhh, he had it covered. It made me smile and I asked him was he trying to get me drunk or something. He said he might be.

The liquor went straight to my mouth and we joked and talked and it was a good time. A fixture at the bar is what I had become. I made friends with all the bartenders this week. The manager, a black man with a deep voice - who I would do right then and there - talked to me about being a bartender. He said I would be a perfect one because I didn't take any shit from anyone and I could keep a conversation going with the best of them. He watched me chat with all sorts of people through the week and I never met a stranger. I've always wanted to be a bartender, make extra money on the side.

Another younger bartender told me all about his experience as a professional gamer. He said he went to the national finals once and a 14 year old girl kicked his ass in Halo. I thought that was hilariously funny. David didn't seem to like him giving me attention. I thought that was sweet. Whenever the young dude would come over to speak to me, David would come over and wipe the bar in front of me or hand me another drink. I could just tell he was being protective and maybe a bit jealous. And I think the others knew I was smitten with David. I had flirted relentlessly with him all week.

David even brought me some homemade salsa someone had brought in for the employees. They were eating chips in the food preparation area of the bar in the back. David came out once all choked up. He told me the salsa was so hot he almost couldn't stand it. Well of course I love hot food so he brought me some on a chip. He literally hand fed me and told me to be careful. He laughed when I coughed after eating it. That shit was HOT! A lot of things are hot in Phoenix.

We were all just having a blast. I felt special. I felt like I belonged there. I felt enclosed in their circle.

The night got later. I got drunker. But you know I can handle hard liquor better than anything else. David started looking at me weird. I looked back. He finally leaned over and whispered in my ear and asked me if I wanted to go out with him after he got off work. I just nodded. I knew he had to keep all this on the down low and I didn't want him getting into any trouble.

Later he leaned over again and told me he asked to leave a little early and they approved it. He instructed me to leave the bar about ten minutes after him. He said to make it look like I was going to my room. Make it look believable. I kept nodding. He told me which door of the hotel to exit, and to turn right, and walk to him, that he would be waiting on the sidewalk at another bar down the street. That gave me butterflies. My stomach was filled with excitement.

He left. I waited.

I was paying my tab, a small charge for the amount I drank -- David took care of me -- and telling everyone I enjoyed their company and that tonight would be the last time I saw them before I flew home, when stalker guy sat down and started drooling over me. I couldn't believe the snag in my plans. I chatted for a bit and then sort of rudely left. I had other things on my mind.

I left and followed the directions David gave me. When I exited the hotel and turned right, there he was, waiting on me as he promised, about two blocks down. I walked quickly to him. We hugged...finally! He said the bar had closed already and asked me if I wanted to find another one. I said sure, of course. Intensity was high for me. I had been literally teased all week, and finally the one man whom I adored was there for me.

We walked to his car hand in hand. He was such a gentleman and opened the car door for me. Jolts of electricity shot through me when he placed his hand on my lower back as I sat down in the passenger seat. I really liked him. The car started and we were on our way. Where we were going I had no clue. He drove by another bar and muttered that it had just closed too. Do you know where we ended up? At a gay bar! It was the only place in town still rocking!

We walked in and it was as if all eyes were on us. There were probably three guys and three girls in the entire place. The first thing I noticed was the music. It was so loud I couldn't hear myself think. Dance music. Sexy music. My hips started moving to the beat. We ordered drinks and I began drinking beer. Bad choice. Whiskey on beer never fear, beer on whiskey is very risky. But it was cold and good. We sat at the bar. The guy behind the bar was leery of us I think. New people at an obvious hole in the wall bar where only regulars attended.

The only reason I knew it was a gay bar was...get this...a cross dresser was staring at me. He was a muscular black man, in a pink flowery dress, sitting beside the entry door. He even had a cute little purse. I had missed him upon our entry. And before I knew it this other guy in leather garb, I mean serious leather garb, looked at me as he walked from a room behind the bar. I noticed his bare ass and dick...he was sporting black leather draped all over him in thin strips. A full body setup. A gay outfit for sure. He stopped dead in his tracks and I managed to give him a huge grin as he turned around and quickly retreated back to his hidden room. I noticed his striped ass...obviously from a whipping he had received earlier. He was the resident slave I think. That made me hot. I must admit.

I was nervous. David seemed very calm. He didn't seem to notice all the action around him. I was very aware of my surroundings. I kept my hand on his thigh. And I kept speaking to him in his ear. I loved his smell. Every now and then I would get into the music -- one couldn't help but move to it because it was so loud -- and dance towards him and near him...rubbing my shoulders and boobs against his arm. I was turned on. This was my kind of place. I knew exactly what was going on.

I told the bartender -- and I actually said this, I'm not dumb -- that the slave didn't have to leave so quickly...that I didn't bite. Unless I wanted to. I gave him a wicked grin and winked and I think he immediately liked me. He grinned back.

The beer kicked in eventually and I asked where the little ladies' room was located and the bartender told me the way. I passed the three girls, they stared at me interestingly and apprehensively all at the same time. Cross dressed guy stared me down. I completed my business and when I was passing the same group of people, cross dress guy held out his arm and took my hand in his. He said, "Girl, you are so HOT!" That made me smile. I noticed he was all sweaty. I asked him why he was all sweaty in such a freezing place and he stood up. He whispered into my ear, "Girl you got me all hot for you...I love that outfit you have on." He was looking at me up and down, checking me out, his eyes drifting from my boobs to my ass and up again. He said, "I want to do you right now, please let me fuck you!"

I laughed out loud and I told him he was sweet and he -- seriously -- twirled me around like a ballerina and hugged me. He was holding my hand pretty tightly...I think I got to him. I suspect he was on drugs. I told him my eyes, tonight, were on that fine specimen of a man at the bar. I went on to tell him he intrigued me, and any other night I would be interested. I'm not sure why I said that, except I was turned on by everything. I'm telling you, I made an impression on these people. The girls even changed their expressions when I glanced at them. They smiled big at me. They must have been HIS slaves. I told him to wish me luck that I got fucked. My tongue was loose, and my pussy was tight. I meant every word I said.

I made my way back to David, who was chuckling under his breath and slowly chugging his beer as if nothing had just transpired. I liked that. He wasn't bothered by any of it. The bartender looked more pleasant. I think I had left my mark. I was accepted.

I drank one more beer and I was about over my limit for the night. I asked David if he was ready to leave. I also asked him if he wanted to fuck me in a very forward way. That got his attention and he stared at me. He nodded. I asked him if he had any condoms and he shook his head no. I asked him if he knew where we could get some and he again shook his head no. I said well, there has to be a way. We were going there and at this point I didn't care where we had to go to buy some. I finally told David to ask the bartender where the closest place was to get some condoms. He looked so embarrassed. I wasn't. So I motioned the bartender over to me and asked him myself. He grinned at me, turned slightly to his left, reached up on the shelving behind him and promptly brought a wicker basket down on the bar all in one swift motion. He knew his way around those kinds of requests.

The variety of condoms shifted and jumped in the basket with his motions and the comedy of it all got to me. I howled with laughter. I stood up on the lower rungs of the barstool and high-fived him, the entire time cracking up and covering my mouth with screeching hilarity. It turned my giggle box over for sure. Such irony...a gay bar...and someone asking for condoms. Oh my! I haven't laughed so hard in a long, long time. David grabbed one and I told him to get two more...and I laughed out loud much harder. As I got down off the barstool to leave, I gave the bartender five bucks and told him to spank that fucking slave in the back twice for me. He nodded and winked his approval.

David paid our tab and we left. As I was walking by crossed dressed guy, I stopped and kissed him on the cheek and winked at him. He smiled back knowing I was on my way to get fucked. He mouthed the words as we passed by, "Lucky fucking bastard..."

The car turned over and so did my stomach. Back to quiet reality. My hands roamed over David's neck and shoulders. I'm turned towards him. He drove like a man on a mission. I asked him if we were going to his apartment and he shook his head no. I asked if we were going to my room at my hotel and he adamantly said no...that he couldn't be seen there at all. I'm turned on. And he was too. There was a sense of urgency between both of us. He informed me he had no idea where we were going. I said a park? He said no. I said a parking lot? He said no.

We were driving in the middle of this subdivision with houses neatly placed close to each other and he abruptly stopped right then and there at the nearest curb right in front of a dark house. I said do you know who lives here. He turned to me and said, "No, but this is where I'm going to fuck your sexy ass..."

Whew! I was blown away. He literally stopped when he couldn't stand it any longer. We got out of the car, I was whispering to him asking him what the hell? A large dog started barking in the neighbor's fence not fifteen feet away. Loud barks...like wake the neighborhood up barks. But we didn't hesitate. He gently led me to the crispy grass just inches away from my opened car door. I swear this was the only grass I saw in Phoenix. It was brown and dead but it was actual grass. The ONLY grass around. 

I began shishing the dog in my low voice and it only enticed the dog more. The barks got louder. David told me to be quiet and motioned for me to get down. He shut my car door. I tried to protest but I followed his orders. I laid down not two feet from the car, wanting to screw him and also trying to shield us from the public. My heart was racing. I got down on my back on the brown grass by the road, right in front of the front door of this strange house, and pulled my skirt up. The slivers of hardened grass stuck into my backside. David immediately was over me...his large body covered the moonlight casting its glow on my body. The dog kept barking. I told David if we got arrested to remember my name so he could help get me out of jail, that I had a plane to catch in the morning. It was such a turn on.

David fumbled with his pants. I was ready with my bare pussy waiting. Literally wiggling underneath him. I could hear him tear open the condom package and I couldn't help but giggle at the thought that the condom was given to us free from a gay bar. It was a moment in my life that I would never forget. He chuckled for a moment too. I was close to a complete giggle-fest but I held my emotions in check. I could hear his breaths as he rolled the condom on his hard dick. I couldn't see a thing. I was too scared of the dog, the cops pulling up, the neighbors waking up from sleep at one in the morning, and just everything that was about to transpire.

I whispered to him, "Yeah, baby, I'm ready..." I wiggled my ass and reached out my hands so I could touch him. "...ahhh yeah...been waiting for you all week...mmmmm...fuck me...fuck me...oh God please fuck me."

And he did. He placed his cock at my opening and slowly thrust his length into my wet pussy. His skin was hot...it was blazing outside...but we were hotter than the air. I knew I had to be quiet, and you know that's hard for me. But I moaned quietly as I felt his length engulf my hole and fill me with its hardness. So so quiet.

I arched my back to meet his thrust. And he stayed there for just a moment...and that was the only moment he was still.

He pulled out, all the way, and thrust forward again. His plunges stayed that way, a constant rhythm in my pussy. It was slow...and sweet. Oh so slow. David pushed into me and out, in and out, in and out. His cock reaching my outer limits, his entire length pulling out, and then pushing back in. He held his body over mine by his strong arms, but our hips met each time he pressed into me. I felt his balls. Oh God his balls. They were heavy and thick and hot. They bumped my ass with each forward motion. I held his ass and squeezed his cheeks as they grew firm from his muscular motions. His ass would quiver as he slowly moved into me and firmly held there for a few seconds.

I moaned...mmmm...and I groaned...mmm hmmm. There was no rush to come, no rush to reach my inner spot. Just slow, constant, pumping of his dick into my pussy. I don't think I've ever seen such control in a man. No dash to the finish line. No hurried response to my thrashing. He was a man on a mission. That mission was to fuck me slowly but firmly, until I couldn't stand it any longer.

We heard a car approaching, I saw the headlights through the shrubs behind us. We both turned our heads in that direction, but the car turned left before it reached our half-naked bodies right in the middle of this yard for all to see. It didn't matter. I'm not sure either one of us could have quit fucking.

He had a thick cock. It was long and thick, but his balls...oh my ...his large and hot balls thumping my ass were absolutely turning me on. The heat from his scrotum was almost burning my cheeks. The brown grass being the only somewhat cool thing on my body.

I forgot about the nervousness, the yelping dog, the cars, the cops, and the heat. I focused all of my energy on his throbbing cock in my wet pussy. It actually turned me on that possibly the neighbors were strumming their clits or stroking their dicks while watching us. We deserved this. We deserved a good fucking after all the flirting this week, after all the conversation, after all the drinks, after all the preparation for this moment. Oh yeah, I deserved every last inch of him. Every last glorious inch.

And his balls...oh God...his thick luscious balls...pounding my backside.

He was relentless...his mission clear. It felt like one slow stroke that moved deliciously through my core. He was touching my inner sensitivities, over and over and over. One push and one yank after another. No slowing or speeding. A methodical synchronization. My head began moving back and my lower back arching more and more. My hushed moans were coming more heavily now. My entire body moving liquidly with his movements. And oh God his balls...were slapping my ass...were bumping me over and over. Their thickness and heaviness were driving me crazy.

My orgasm kept building to a crescendo. I refused to give in too soon. I wanted to milk the situation to my advantage...to take it all in stride. To take what I so deserved. I have to admit, it was hard to hold back. I held back the urge to grind him, to come at the height of my arousal. But instead, I let him lead me into oblivion. To lead me into a passionate overload.




Writing from Phoenix



His groans were so quiet, not matching my more heavily grunted tones. But I felt his breath on my face, his lips just inches away from mine.

I leaned into his face and our lips met. Our tongues thrashed against themselves...until we needed more oxygen. He kept his movements slow and solid. My hands were feeling his ass, his back, his head. I was reaching my peak and I grabbed onto the crumbling grass beside my head. I felt I needed an anchor, a hand hold. I kept groaning...ohhhhh...ohhhh...and pulling at the grass.

I was yanking the crisp grass out by its dead roots, over and over and over. My frenzied hips were meeting his firm thrusts. My eyes would squint shut and open and look towards him. They were tearing up and rolling from side to side. All I saw was the outline of his darkened body in the moonlit sky. His large and manly figure, fucking me, on top of me. The moon firmly planted its shine on my wrinkled brow. A look of passion. A look of ecstasy. I felt my eyes rolling back into my head. Muted groans were coming from my opened lips. Deep rumblings from my small opened mouth.

I could hear the wetness of our combined bodies making friction against each other. "Oh baby, this feels so good, " I moaned to him. "You are mine...ohhh...this pussy is yours baby. Mmmm...ohhh...ohhh...ohhhhhhh...yeah...oh yeahhh..."

"Oh goddamn...ssssss...ahhhhh....sssss...ahhhhh...ohhh", my mouth kept saying over and over matching his lingering thrusts with slithering sounds from between my lips.

"Please come closer,,," as I pushed his body onto mine. His heaviness started to smother me, but also turned me on even more. "Oh yeah, you are such a man, such a sexy goddamned man."

He never stalled, his dick thrusting in and out of me. I inhaled one last time and I orgasmed into the Phoenix early morning, my legs wrapped around his back and my ass thrust forward. My endless moan echoing into the hot night. I shuddered against his sweating body as I held on to the dewless grass and the last of my orgasm slid out of my arched body. I was shivering despite the intense heat of the air. I grabbed onto his buttocks and squeezed the last bit of moisture onto his quivering cock.

He never came. He was saving up for me, so I could reach my frothing end. But I knew the encounter was over. We reluctantly released each other from our panting embrace. Oh God how I loved Phoenix.

He drove me back to the hotel and dropped me off at the corner. I hugged him one last time. Told him if I ever came back I would look him up at this same exact hotel.

I awoke that morning in my hotel room. It was time for me to leave and go back home. As I packed my clothing, I realized I was covered in bits and pieces of grass. It was falling out of my hair and out of my skirt as I picked it off of the floor. I showered with a smile on my face. I also placed some of that dried, dead grass in my luggage so I could instantly remember him when I unpacked. Mmm...

And here I am...waiting for my flight. I'm almost as turned on now writing this to you as I was last night. But not really. This is too hard to explain to make it real. I'll never forget my encounters in Phoenix. I'll never forget fucking David in the middle of nowhere in the middle of homes in the middle of Phoenix.

As a matter of fact, I never could find earrings to match my new blouse. But when I walked into the store in this airport, I found what I was looking for. These turquoise earrings were perfect for this blouse. They were made my Native Americans from Arizona and had all the colors to match my new blouse. I immediately put them on. They will always remind me of David.

Do you think we can call him David instead of "Indian guy". (wink) I'll call you when I get home.



Writing Healthy Relationships



I love written pornography. From the time I first discovered the written pornography in magazines when I was young, the written word has always been my favourite way to get off. And perhaps that should have been a clue to me, because I found out later that supposedly boys and men prefer visual material, but at the time I didn't much care. I only cared that reading about sex was far more exciting to me than looking at it. I like a good movie as much as the next girl, but the fact of the matter is that when you make visual media, you necessarily fix a character's appearance in a concrete fashion, and since I'm a child of multiple heritages, I don't get very many opportunities to see characters on screen who resemble me, characters in whom I can invest my emotions, with whom I can identify. And too, there's other things elsewise unusual about me. I'm trans. I'm also lesbian.

You see, when you're trans, when you're a trans woman, when you're a trans lesbian, the probability that you're going to see anything resembling a character anything like you in any way on the screen in anything even remotely resembling a dignified, non-dehumanising role approaches zero. If you're looking at pornography, if it features a trans woman, she's almost certainly going to be a fetish object, not a person, and if you're looking at lesbian pornography, you're not very likely to see a trans woman, at all. 

Even in the forms of pornography that do regularly feature trans women, it's very rare that you're going to see a trans woman whose body is representative of the reality of most trans women's bodies. There is a preference is our culture for women's bodies to conform to certain standards of shape that only a very small proportion of women have any genetic hope of attaining. These standards are set by men for their own enjoyment, for their own reward, and have very little to do with the reality of most women's bodies, much less the pleasure or even satisfaction of the women they objectify. This is why, for instance, Bailey Jay is a trans porn star, and I am decidedly not so much. I doubt anyone would pay money to look at me, and believe me, I've had so much trouble finding someone to hire me even for jobs well below my qualifications that I'd gladly take money from people who want to look at me naked and laugh all the way to the bank, did I only believe that scenario was likely to prove lucrative. I am told that people do actually find me attractive, and I've had no dearth of men propositioning me even when I'm wearing clearly lesbian regalia, but it's difficult for me to see.

Discovering online written pornography was a revelation for me, as I'm sure it was for a lot of people, because it meant that I never had to contemplate buying pornographic reading material in public. It's also probably no accident that with the rise of the Internet has occurred a concomitant increase in the visibility of transsexual and/or transgender people, because information about transsexuality was so difficult to acquire in the days before the Internet. The voices of actual trans people about our experiences of ourselves and our lives was virtually unknown, save perhaps for a handful of highly public trans women, such as Renée Richards, the first trans woman of whom I had ever heard, and who was the only trans woman of whom I heard anything at all, until I learned that the musician Wendy Carlos, whose work I so deeply admired, had once been Walter Carlos. But although I knew by my late teens that I was probably trans and definitely wanted to be a woman, because I didn't have access to accurate and compassionate information about being trans and about transition, it wouldn't be until years later that I actually fully realised my need and ability to successfully transition, and did so.

The vast majority of pornography is generated by men for their own gratification, not for the pleasure of the women, cis or trans, upon whom they bestow their objectification. Even purportedly lesbian pornography and pornography written from the point of view of a woman is nearly always written by men. It is so utterly obvious in the vast majority of cases where a man is pretending to be a woman, because their writing betrays them. Most men simply do not understand what it is that women find interesting to note. Women, for one thing, do not particularly care to read precise details of a woman's body, because things like bra size simply aren't that important to us, much less do we go about comparing our bust, waist, and hip measurements as a matter of pointed interest. This is not to say that women do not have criteria about what they do and do not prefer in their own bodies and in the bodies of their sexual partners, only that women's criteria are not the same as men's. It should also be recognised that a large part of what attracts men to pornography in the first place is a feeling of impotence in their own lives, whether literal or metaphorical. Pornography often represents something that make a man feel powerful when in his life he feels, or even is, powerless. For women, pornography is more likely to fulfill an absence of excitement or intimacy in our lives.

Women do not for the most part really care how big your cock is, we care about whether or not you have any skill employing what you do have. While I would not go so far as to say that size doesn't matter, at all, the fact is that most penises simply aren't that big or that interesting. In pornography, the smallest penis most men will admit to having is 7" long, but the truth is that the average penis is more like 5-5.5" long, and a 7" long penis is quite rare, statistically speaking. But again, that's by-the-by; women are far more concerned with the person attached to the penis than the penis, in and of itself. There is a certain amount of truth to the old saw that men use love to get sex and women use sex to get love.

Talking about bra size is a dead giveaway that what you're reading was written by a man. I read one story recently where the author, writing from the point of view of a woman, described a character's height, weight, and bra size in numerical terms, and described her 30C breasts as "large". Now, aside from the fact that women simply don't think like that in the vast majority of cases, if you know anything about bra sizes, then you know that a 30C bra cup is approximately the same volume as a 34A bra cup, which I doubt very many people would describe as "large". I ought to know, since I usually wear a 34A bra, and my breasts are barely even noticeable, unless I'm wearing something very close-fitting. A woman is far more likely to concern herself with the shape of her lover's breasts, their colour, and the texture, smell, and taste of her lover's skin, rather than some arbitrary numerical size.

The sad fact is that men simply do not particularly bother themselves with the facts of female anatomy, even when they believe they have had extensive first-hand experience of many women's bodies, and as a result, the things which they choose to write about are too often implausible in the extreme, if not extremely dangerous for a woman. Partly, this is because men have a tendency, as I have said, to objectify women and to degrade women, so we get things like anal sex without a condom immediately followed by oral or vaginal contact without thorough cleaning of the penis in-between, when men are writing. You would be hard-pressed to find a woman in real life who would admit to having willingly engaged in such activity, because it results in an extremely high probability of infection and illness. What happens in a pornography film is not real life, and film editing hides a multitude of sins, as it were. 

I am reminded of the infamous video, "Two Girls, One Cup". To any person with even a modicum of film experience, such a scene would be extremely simply to reconstruct without putting any of the performers in any danger of oral contact with fecal matter, and yet, it is obvious from people's reactions that they honestly believe that the women in the video are partaking in behaviour so disgusting as to be actually titillating. I assure you, it's not real, any more than professional wrestling is real or "mixed martial arts" has anything to do with what happens in a real-life fight.

In any case, when one is a lesbian trans woman, it is very rare indeed to find any pornography to which you can relate. Firstly, the vast majority of the stories in the "Transsexuals & Crossdressers" category is utterly demeaning to trans woman, portraying us as if we are "sissies" or submissive/subservient creatures, just dying to be humiliated. This happens because most men believe deep down that being a woman, being female, being feminine, is degrading, weak, and inferior, and some women are so well indoctrinated by our patriarchal culture that they adopt the same attitude. People in our culture commonly use feminine terminology to refer disparagingly to anyone perceived to be male who fails for whatever reason to meet our culture's ideals of masculinity. We use words like "pussy" and phrases in the vein of "like a girl" to put people down, while we glorify things as "having balls" and we tell people to "man up".

Almost all pornography written by men that involves trans women is rife with terminology that we trans women find objectionable, demeaning, degrading, disrespectful, and dehumanising. While the life experiences of trans women run the same gamut as the life experiences of all people, for the most part, we simply do not refer to each other seriously as "trannies" or "shemales", we do not say "he-she", do not refer to ourselves as "it" or as "him", much less "chicks with dicks". These are, in fact, considered extremely offensive terms to trans women, and we just don't use them. Now, whenever a trans women dares to say this, inevitably, she is met with a chorus of denial, and a plethora of anecdotal evidence that she is wrong, that in fact, many trans women do use these terms and others. 

What you should know is first of all that, to a large extent, such terminology may have been common in the past among a subset of trans people, particularly those who "came up" through gay men's nightclubs and the drag and ballroom scenes, but it is deprecated in the modern era and disappearing from progressive usage, if not already entirely disappeared. It is not considered respectful discourse, and should be discontinued immediately. Second of all, like some people of colour using words that would in the mouths of white people be racist epithets, there is a world of difference between a trans woman referring to herself and her friends in an ironic fashion as a means of reclaiming these words in order to lessen the pain we feel when others use them, and people who are not trans women using those terms, even when they do so in an attempt to display solidarity. The lives of trans people in our world, particularly those of trans women, are in large part unimaginably awful, even in 2015, and no one who has not walked in our shoes has any right at all to claim kinship.

If you have any objection to my words here, I invite you to fuck right off and go find something else to jerk off to, because you clearly have no interest in according to an actual woman, an actual trans woman, an actual lesbian, the dignity and earned wisdom of her lived experience. But, if you want to know what trans women's lives are really like, and how to write respectfully about women of all kinds, I encourage you to stick around, because you just might learn something that will make you a better lover, more desirable to women, a better parent, a better writer, and a better person, overall.

Rules for Writing Healthy Sex (and a Healthy Life, too):

Don't use numerical measurements to describe people's bodies. Ever. Avoid in all ways being overly descriptive, particularly about people's bodies. Part of the joy of the written word is that it allows each person to visualise in a way which suits their personal preference. Be realistic! Yes, some of us fantasise about huge cocks or huge tits or huge asses, or just huge bodies overall—perhaps all of us fantasise about these things *some* of the time—and some of us fantastise about the diminutive, but most people fall within a fairly narrow range of sizes, and when the unusual becomes the usual, it loses its ability to amaze. 

If you ever find yourself just dying to write into your story a character's exact height, weight, bust size, waist size, bra size, shoe size, hip size or penis size, stop what you are doing, put down your pen, close your laptop, and go make yourself a cocktail. Relax. Watch some TV. Go for a walk. Come back to your writing when the urge passes, and not until. There are so many more and better ways of describing bodies than numbers, and so many more and better ways of describing people than by their appearance.

Don't use degrading and objectifying terminology, much less degrade and objectify any of your characters. Treat all characters as fully-formed, dignified human beings in their own right, with their own motivations and allow them fulfillment from *their* perspective. Healthy relationships aren't based on unbalanced power dynamics. Consent is sexy, and consent can *only* happen when people are equal in dignity and free to choose! Women cis and trans alike enjoy sex, too, but our enjoyment is based on different, equally valid and not necessarily competing or contradictory criteria than men.

The importance of proper, and perhaps more importantly, self-consistent, spelling and grammar cannot be overstated. When authors decide to change the name of a character, and don't change all the references in their story, so that partway through the story, the reader is jolted out of the story world back into the real world in confusion about whom the author is writing. I have seen this occur several times in the same story.

Learn about women's anatomy and psychology before you write about it, by listening to women speak in their own words about their lived experiences of their own bodies. If you insist on pretending to be a woman in your writing when you are not a woman in real life—and I am not saying that you should not in any circumstances try to write from a different perspective—at least do women the service of learning from them what interests them about their own bodies and lives and those of others. Trans women don't really get turned on by wearing lacy lingerie. It's just underwear that's pretty. Much less do we get off on being infantilised merely because we happen not to be men. Sorry to disappoint. 

Practice safe(r) sex. Ass to mouth isn't realistic. Ass to vagina isn't realistic. Yes, there are people in this world who can and do engage in extremely risky behaviours, including the ones I've mentioned, but again, be realistic. Trans women with penises spraying gobs of cum like a fountain isn't realistic. 

You should be aware that undergoing gender transition related hormone replacement therapy dramatically reduces ejaculatory output in most cases, often to zero, not to mention changing color, texture, and taste. For most American trans women, transition related hormone replacement therapy involves two drugs, an anti-androgen, to block the production and effects of testosterone, and an estrogen, typically estradiol. The most common anti-androgen used in the US is spironolactone, which is primarily an antihypertensive drug, but which has the side effect of being an anti-androgen. 

Many trans women have undergone orchiectomy (removal of the testes) or vaginoplasty (construction of a neovagina, usually from the flesh of the penis and scrotum); in both of these cases, a trans woman's body will produce zero testosterone, since testosterone is only secreted by the testes, in which case she will no longer need an anti-androgen. For those receiving anti-androgen therapy, testosterone levels are typically so low as to be undetectable, while cis women will have low but significant levels of testosterone, and this plays a very big role in libido.

As a result, most trans women have less testosterone in their blood than most cis women, have a generally very low libido, and have very low semen production, if any at all. Trans women's ejaculatory fluid, if any, generally does not contain sperm, and is often entirely clear, being similar in composition to what most people might describe as "pre-cum". It feels different, it smells difference, and it tastes different. After about six months on spironolactone, it is not uncommon for trans women to be infertile, perhaps even permanently, though this is not always the case. The testicles shrink quite a lot, the penis shrinks a bit, and spontaneous erections simply don't happen, because if they do, it's a sure sign that you need to up your dosage of anti-androgen. Most trans women who have undergone vaginoplasty do not self-lubricate, but some do.

Trans women aren't always visibly detectable as trans. Human bodies vary widely, and in the modern era, trans girls are able to access transition-realted medical therapy at younger ages. If medical intervention commences prior to puberty, a trans woman's body will develop nearly identically to a cis woman's body, skeletal structure and all. Even without transition-related medical or surgical therapies, many young trans women are sufficiently able to conform to patriarchal ideals that they do not appear remarkably different from cis women. That being said, under no circumstances should the dignity of a trans woman character be conditional or dependent upon her "passing". "Passing" is a fucked up and broken concept that should be disposed of by all people immediately. Trans women are women, real women, not impostors or impersonators or drag queens (even if some trans women perform drag or were drag performers in the past), not pretenders, not "really men", not mentally ill, not pathetic, not "failed men", not weak, not ridiculous, not ugly—just a little different. The penis is not a magic wand, even if it is treated as such in our patriarchal culture. 

I know it's difficult for a lot of people to accept, but sex and gender are far more complicated than the best of medical science understood even ten years ago. Sex and gender aren't absolutely determined by chromosomes, genes, genitals, fertility, internal organs, socialisation, or any other single criteria. There are people born with an otherwise normal 46, XY genetic karyotype that develop unremarkably female due to a condition known as "androgen insensitivity syndrome", which has many forms from mild to complete. Women who exhibit complete androgen insensitivity are often unusually tall and unusually pretty, with fashion supermodel-like proportions, and their condition isn't usually detected until their late teens, when they start wondering why they haven't gotten their period, yet, and go to a gynaecologist. 

There are 46, XX women who exhibit congenital adrenal hyperplasia, who have testosterone levels so high during fetal development that they grow penises. These are just two of the types of situations that can occur. There are people out there who are walking around with 47,XXY chromosomes and are perfectly healthy. Are they men or women, simply because of this one fact? Don't be ridiculous, you'd have to know a whole lot more about their lives to know the answer to that, and the only reliable answers come from asking people who they perceive themselves to be. Nature is an amazing thing, and the natural variation of humanity is astounding. Medicine and Science and Psychiatry all agree on these points. Just because most people are "male or female", "men or women", doesn't mean that there's only two distinct alternatives. Reality is a continuous curve.

Trans women weren't "born men" or even "born male". We didn't "used to be men". We're women, we're female, we were girls, even if we didn't understand ourselves that way, and we always were. We *do* become women, just like every other girl, it's just that our path to womanhood is slightly different.




Writing Healthy Relationships



I hope you've learned something, if you've bothered to read all the way through. I hope that if you are a fan of pornography that features women of any kind, you will take my suggestions to heart and put them into practice in your own life, for your own good and mine. 

I will leave you with a little levity. There's an old joke in the trans community: "What's the difference between a transvestite and a transsexual? When a transvestite gets home from work, he puts his bra on. When a transsexual comes home from work, she takes her bra off." There's a another similar old joke in the trans community: "What's the difference between a cross-dresser and a trans woman? About two years."

With Love,

yumeko, the little dreamer girl



Writing His Own Happy Ending



Terrance Madison looked around the crowded ballroom, hoping for a glimpse of her, not seeing her anywhere. For a brief moment, all his old insecurities came flooding back to him.

Terrance pushed them back down -- way, way down, because there was no logical reason to have them any more. At 43, he looked great -- better than he had some 25 years earlier. He was rich and successful, having written 4 best-selling novels [and his publisher assured him, a fifth was likely on the horizon], he had on a tux that hugged him like a second skin and he was in phenomenal physical shape -- even if he did curse his trainer at every available opportunity. He hadn't been physical years ago -- he wasn't overweight, but the overall package hadn't been impressive either. He'd been tall -- nearly 6'4" -- and clumsy, not very graceful. What he had been was creative and funny and that had served him well. He saved himself from a lot of torment by writing great essays, helping others with theirs and by being the Class Clown. 

It had kept him out of trouble and it also attracted attention -- including Kelly's attention. Long legged, green-eyed, brunette, sweet and loving Kelly -- the great love of Terrance's life.

She had asked for help with an English essay -- he'd completed his a week prior, so he had time and no breathing man could have resisted those green eyes of hers. He helped her out to the best of his abilities and she asked him out as a "Thank You" -- never dreaming she'd find someone who got her in so many ways, who could make her laugh and think and feel good about herself. Most guys just looked at Kelly's boobs or legs or thought about ways to get her in bed -- not Terrance. He was attracted to her physically, of course -- but he engaged her mind, he asked about her day, he cared about her. Kelly was smitten and their first date turned into several. Kelly found herself falling for him, she was sure she'd found her soul-mate, she told Terrance that -- he felt the same.

Then the axe fell.

Kelly came to him, sobbing hysterically, she hugged him until she could calm herself down. There was "NO WAY", her parents had told her, that she was going to get serious about a "goddamned writer with his head in the clouds". They wanted her to marry one of the football players she had dated before Terrance, someone with NFL prospects who could keep her in a nice lifestyle, nice home with all the amenities. Kelly was crushed -- she'd fallen for Terrance, fallen hard, and he felt the same way about her.

She looked at him, her green eyes full of love, stood up and let her tiny denim skirt and halter drop to the ground. "I want us to have a memory of this night Terrance, one we can cherish forever and will bring us both a happy smile in later years. I want you to be my first -- and I will be yours, please?"

There, in the pretty alcove by their favorite meeting place, the lake on the outskirts of town, they made love. Terrance had never in his life felt such warmth, such heat, such passion. Kelly was sensual beyond her years and he felt a confidence he had never known. They stayed out all night, hugged goodbye and the next time they saw each other was a week later, at the Graduation Ceremonies. He saw her eyes, full of tears, looking over at him. He gave her a weak nod and moved on with his life.

Or, he tried to. Terrance moved on with that life and he was far from celibate -- being a best-selling author attracted lots of lovely women and he bedded many, having short-term relationships and one near-miss. But it wasn't in his nature to give his heart away -- he had done that years earlier and Kelly still had it. He wanted to see her again, to see if time had served her well.

He looked around and found an old friend, one of the guys he had helped tutor. "Hey Jake -- have you seen Kelly Ryan?" He'd done some research and found out that she'd married John Ryan Jr., who was one year ahead of them in school and an All-Star running back in college.

Jake looked at him for a second and then it hit him. "Terrance Madison? Wow pal, didn't recognize you. Kelly Ryan -- not sure I know who -- oh, you mean Kelly Jackson? She's outside with a friend."

Terrance's heart lurched a bit -- what kind of friend? He was surprised to hear she was answering to Jackson again -- what about her husband? He made his way through the crowd; the only person he really cared about tonight was Kelly. He got to the terrace and there she was -- holding a glass of wine and talking with a very attractive blonde he didn't recognize. She was wearing a greenish, metallic full-length dress, cut low in front and she looked more beautiful than any of his memories. Despite all his success, he was hesitant to approach her and he felt his voice tremor as she said "Kelly?"

She turned around and there were those eyes -- still shining. She saw him and nearly dropped her drink; Kelly ran to Terrance, wrapped her arms around him and gave him a kiss that nearly took his breath away.

Terrance had no idea of the passage of time until the blonde tapped Kelly on the shoulder and smiled. "Come up for air, you two!" She said as Terrance and Kelly broke apart.

Both of them grinned sheepishly at the blonde, Kelly laughed. "I guess we were making a spectacle, sorry Ally."

"It's no big deal."

Terrance held out his hand to the curvy blonde in the form-fitting, silver metallic dress. "Hi, I'm Terrance Madison."

The blonde laughed. "I know that -- you're one of the more famous alumni and even if you weren't, Kelly has talked non-stop about you all the way here. Even if she hadn't, I went to school with both of you."

Terrance had a puzzled look, Kelly, who was still hugging him close, said "Terrance, that's Allyson Stern."

Terrance was shocked. "Scrawny, little unassuming Allie Stern? Wow -- okay, I wouldn't have known you."

"See Terrance, you aren't the only person who has changed since High School," Allyson said, laughing. She noticed that Terrance and Kelly had still not stopped holding hands. "You two were the talk of the school -- hey Kel, you can let go of his hand, you know," Allyson smiled.

"I am never letting go of him again," Kelly said seriously. She turned to Terrance and smiled. "I made that mistake once -- not again. I'm divorced Terrance -- free and clear. I make my own rules now and if you want me, I want to be with you. I'll understand if you have someone in your life, but ..."

Terrance kissed her hard again; he didn't care if Allyson was watching. "There has never been anyone for me but you -- and never will be. We'll figure it out -- right now, why don't we go inside and mingle a bit, don't want to be rude to the others."

"Others? There are others?" Kelly said with a lazy smile.

They mingled around, Kelly never left Terrance's side, Allyson wasn't far behind them at any time. When they finally were able to sit down and have a bite to eat, in between Terrance signing copies of his books for the impressed alumni, they were able to play catch-up. Kelly had kept abreast of Terrance's progress, of course, but he knew little of hers.

She told him that she had married John Ryan Jr, who had not only cheated on her, but been nearly impotent most of the time. All he was good for was a paycheck and when his pro football career had tanked; he wasn't good for much beyond that. They had no children, which broke Kelly's heart -- she loved kids. Slowly, the couple drifted apart -- Jack had been fair in their divorce settlement and Kelly was able to move on with her life. She had dated -- she'd had affairs -- but was lonely and when she confessed to her friend Ally how miserable she was, the girls bought a nice-sized Condo together and kept each other company.

"Do you have to go back to your Condo tonight?" Terrance whispered in Kelly's ear.

"No -- I think Allyson can find her way home tonight," Kelly smiled as she leaned in and kissed his cheek. "What did you have in mind?"

"A different type of reunion," Terrance smiled. Kelly took both his hands and kissed them.

"Where are you staying?"

"The Park Plaza Hotel. I have a suite."

Kelly took a drink of wine and smiled. "I can't think of anything I want more than to spend the night with you. Let's dance a bit -- say our goodnights -- and then I'll go home and pick up a few things and meet you back there a bit after 1 AM. How does that sound?"

"Like a dream come true."

Terrance hung up his tuxedo jacket and looked around the room. He knew no matter what he did, he couldn't make everything perfect -- it would go -- how it went. He had wine ready and chilling, had made arrangements with Room Service for breakfast in the morning and had flowers sent up -- but it was up to him and Kelly and their desire for each other to make it all magical. If this night had all the passion he hoped for, he wasn't letting her go either -- they'd work it out, he had more than enough for the two of them. He was glad she'd had a friend like Allyson to keep her company, even with his success, it was lonely at times.

There was a knock on the door and there she was, beautiful -- long auburn hair, the eyes that would always mesmerize, and a long coat -- it wasn't that chilly out, but he found out the reason in a moment. Kelly was wearing a cream-colored negligee and matching thong, white stilettos, she was the vision of absolute perfection. She walked over to him and took his face in her hands and pressed her lips hard against his, her tongue moving in. Terrance wasn't even sure if he was still breathing, time had stood still -- this moment was perfect.

"Worth waiting 25 years for?" Kelly said as she broke the kiss. Terrance knew he was just standing there with a dopey grin on his face.

"I think I would have waited the rest of my life for you," Terrance said as the sat on the bed. She began unbuttoning his shirt, running her hands over his skin. "You're even more handsome than you were all those years ago -- I was so in love with you!" Kelly said wistfully.

"You made me feel confident -- like I could do anything," Terrance told her. They kissed again and Terrance's shirt was off, his body pressed against Kelly's. 

"Stand up," Kelly said. He did and she unzipped his pants, once he had stepped out of them, she placed them on the back of a chair and turned back to him. Without a word, she took his cock from his boxers and began to lick and suck it. Kelly's eyes looked up at him, she grinned as she fellated him, he was almost out of his mind with desire. He'd fantasized about this more times than he could count and this beat it all. She ...

There was a knock at the door. Kelly stood up and walked to the door and opened it. There was Allyson, in a coat similar to Kelly's. The girls kissed and Allyson removed her coat, she had on a negligee like Kelly's, only black. Terrance was struck dumb.

"Kelly, didn't you explain to this lovely man ...?"

Kelly shook her head. "There wasn't time, baby-doll. You got here a bit sooner than expected." The girls kissed again and Allyson sat by a confused Terrance on the bed.

"Terrance, when Kelly and her husband split, she came to live with me. I was recently split up as well -- from my girlfriend, Tara. We were getting goofy one night, Kelly asked me what it was like to sleep with a girl and ... she was drunk enough to try it and ..."

"I liked it. A lot."

Allyson nodded. "We've shared a bed every night since -- but I made her promise if you ever came back, she'd go for it. Then she told me if you ever did come back, she'd let me see why she was so over-the-moon in love with you. I saw it tonight." 

Kelly smiled. "When I went back to our Condo to put on this little thing, I had a brainstorm -- I thought perhaps you might like to have two women in bed tonight, and maybe you could see why I'm also nuts about Allie. What do you say, lover?" 

Terrance, who wrote for a living -- was at a loss for words. He could only nod, Allyson kissed his face while he felt Kelly tugging at his boxers. He wasn't about to tell either of them that 3-somes weren't entirely new to him -- but having the love of his life and her -- lover -- in bed with him was a new twist. He just lay back and let them work him over.

Kelly moved back from the bed while her girlfriend licked Terrance's cock and balls. She dropped her negligee to the floor and placed it beside Terrance's jacket and she stood before him. She was as beautiful as ever, hard-bodied, with nary a blemish on her skin and those beautiful long legs, that perfect ass. She moved beside Terrance and took him in her mouth and Allie stood away, removing her black lingerie. She was bustier than Kelly, her skin paler, but her legs were nice and her blonde hair fell in ringlets to her shoulders. She joined them in the bed and moved between Kelly's legs. Despite all his success, this would have been the thing his 18-year old self would have found hard to believe would be in his future -- being in bed with two of the hottest women in the world.

"Come here darling, I want you so much," Terrance begged, holding out his arms. Kelly complied, leaving him once again in the more-than-competent lips of Allyson, while she straddled his face and he ate her nearly-bare cunt. Both she and Allie enjoyed shaving each other and having fun after. Kelly would have bet Terrance would have enjoyed seeing that -- she'd make sure he did sometime in the very-near future.

Kelly's pussy was soaked and she wasn't waiting any longer -- 25 years of frustration was enough, she moved on top of his cock and lowered her cunt around it, wriggled and twisted until she was as far down as she could go. Allie's nimble tongue was now licking them both, but only for an instant, her lover moved to replace her on Terrance's tongue. They were making love again, not only that, but the other person she loved most in the world was with them? For Kelly, life at that moment could not have gotten any better.

Kelly's pussy tried to milked Terrance dry and she could feel her own body tense, she threw back her head, her eyes closed and she came like she had never cum before..

"You've got to try him luv, you have to!" Kelly panted, kissing her best friend. Allie merely nodded and got on all fours, she wanted a pussy-cock combo -- a rarity for her, she usually didn't like to share Kelly and especially not with men. Kelly was right though -- this wonderful man was a giving lover and a true sweetheart, she could easily see why Kelly had fallen so hard and never completely gotten over him.

"Hard baby -- I want it hard while I eat Kelly's juicy cunt, give it to me like a bitch Terrance, I can take it!" the blonde said. When she'd been younger, she'd had a secret crush on him -- but the then-skinny, somewhat nerdy blonde didn't have a chance and besides, he only had eyes for Kelly. Now they were all together and Allyson was being screwed better than anyone had ever fucked her.

"Oh yeah baby, fuck my slutty cunt, give it to me, see your man Kelly, god, he's a good fucker!" Allyson groaned. Kelly just smiled.

"I'm glad you like him, you blonde slut!" Kelly groaned as Allie buried her face in her pussy again. "I'm glad you like him, because this time, I'm keeping him!"

That declaration sent Terrance over the edge -- he pulled out of Allie, she and Kelly grabbed his cock and sucked it dry. The trio fell back on the bed, exhausted, noting the time to be nearly 4 AM.

"Anyone hungry?" Terrance said, putting on one of the robes the hotel provided and handing Kelly the other. He grinned sheepishly at Allyson. "Sorry -- didn't know about you, I'll get another one."

"No worries," Allyson grinned. "I could eat something, but Terrance, it's after 4 AM."

"She's right, darling," Kelly said, leaning on his shoulder as he dialed Room Service.

"One of the perks of having money ladies, you can check into a hotel with kitchens that never close. Hello? Yes -- it's Terrance Madison in the Deluxe Suite. Can you send up a nice platter of fruits and cheeses and little deserts? How long? 30 minutes will be fine. Oh, and some coffee too. Thank You."

Terrance hung up and Kelly snuggled close. "I meant what I said -- I am not letting you get away again, Terrance Madison. However you want me -- fling, mistress, whore or girlfriend -- that's what I'll be."

"What if I want wife?" Terrance asked.

Kelly's green eyes went wide and her mouth opened wide, but nothing came out.

"I think that means yes!" Allyson giggled as Kelly threw her arms around Terrance.

"Y-yes, it does, yes, yes, YES!" Kelly squealed, sounding almost like she had 25 years ago. "But Allie -- I hate to leave you alone, I love you dearly and ..."

Allyson was about to speak, but Terrance beat her to it. "Who says you have to leave anyone? Allyson, how big is your Condo?"

"Pretty big -- 4 bedrooms, why?"

"Paid for?"

"Almost, we owe around 25 Grand."

"Okay -- so if I move in with you, Allyson can stay put. I can use one of the bedrooms for an office and when I'm on the road promoting my books, you and Allie can -- ahem -- keep each other company. What do you say, ladies?"

"Sounds perfect to me Terrance. Allie?"

Allyson nodded -- she liked Terrance and she knew she might even grow to love him -- he could grow on a girl very fast. "I think it might work, but what if you and Kelly want -- you know -- to be alone?"

"We might. So might you and Kelly. Or even ..." Terrance winked "...you and I. I know we'll work it out, my little loves. I'm a writer -- I'll just use my imagination."



Writing Horror



An undead fiend slumbers in her ancient tomb, waiting for a foolish mortal to awaken her so she can return to haunt the living once more. On a dark, stormy night, a mad scientist is playing God, trying to create new life out of a blasphemous mixture of alchemy and science. And somewhere in the void of deep space, an alien horror that should not exist waits and watches with a thousand eyes.

These are the standard tropes of the horror genre.

Not that many people on this site actually know it, but I originally started out writing short horror stories. Some of them have seen print, others were published online in digital format, and still others linger on my computer, waiting to be re-written in some form or another. And while I may try my hand at other styles of writing, I always find myself returning to my beloved horror stories when the inspiration moves me.

But what is horror? How can you write truly scary works? I'm not going to lie to you. Just reading this brief essay probably won't make you into a horror writer, so don't get any delusions that you are the next Stephen King or Clive Barker. Instead, what I hope to do is inspire you to write your own ideas - what comes from within. That is far more terrifying than any ghost, ghoul or long-legged beastie that I could imagine. So if you would like to write horror, then please, read onward.

First, let's start out by defining what horror is in the first place. It's a genre of literature aimed at scaring, frightening and entertaining an audience. It's a very broad category, including everything from urban legends and ghost stories you used to tell around Halloween, all the way up to the classics of Gothic horror like Bram Stoker's 'Dracula' and Mary Shelley's 'Frankenstein.' Horror goes well beyond storytelling and literature, though. It also includes countless movies about serial killers, vampires, and other monsters.

As any good, self-proclaimed nerd could tell you, horror is closely related to science fiction and fantasy. In fact, the genres can (and do) overlap to a certain extent. 'Frankenstein,' for instance, was a science fiction story by the very definition of the word! Mary Shelley had Victor Frankenstein using a mixture of alchemy and pseudo-science to resurrect the dead. In a similar vein, the film 'Alien' takes place in space and involves an extraterrestrial life form. Lovecraft used similar ideas in his writings.

One can also find plenty of examples of 'dark fantasy' and 'Gothic fantasy' in literature, film, television, comics and gaming. The Dungeons & Dragons setting of Ravenloft would be a good example of this, being replete with vampires, necromancers, witches and the like.

A bit further afield, horror is also related to suspense and mystery. Although nobody would say that police procedurals like 'Law & Order' or 'CSI' are "horror" in any sense of the word, there are plenty of examples of horror that do rely on serial killers. 'Silence of the Lambs' springs to mind immediately. Not all monsters are literal. Serial killers like John Wayne Gacy, David Berkowitz, Ed Gein and Jeffrey Dahmer were far worse than any fictional vampire or werewolf.

But none of that really tells us what horror is, does it? Horror can have monsters, yes, but nobody in their right mind would say Count Chocula or 'Casper the Friendly Ghost' count as "horror." Nor does horror need a monster to be scary, as we've established that human killers can be perfectly within genre. The same applies to wild animals (like, say, being hunted down by a grizzly bear), natural situations (being lost in uncaring wilderness), or just strange phenomena with no intellect or being driving them whatsoever (a man walking out into a field and just disappearing). And yes, all of those examples have been done in one way or another.

So what is horror? True horror is fear... Fear of the unknown, fear of death, fear of being harmed, fear of being alone, etc. That is what horror boils down to. Horror fascinates us and moves us because it provides a safe outlet for our most primal fears.

And that is the secret to writing great horror.

First, start with what scares you. It doesn't matter if you're afraid of clowns, spiders, water, the number thirteen, darkness or something more exotic. Ask yourself what you are afraid and then think about it for a while. Don't over analyze things, just think about why you feel that way and try and capture it in such a fashion that other people can relate to. Even if we can't understand your fear, at least we will be entertained by it.

I know, that sounds rather paradoxical, but it's a good first step. Scare yourself, then try to scare other people. Exaggerate and distort that fear. Make it into something that is just close enough to reality that it can spook us.

Now, while you ponder over what I've written, allow me to expand upon some further points of interest.

Here Be Dragons

In olden days, when knowledge of geography beyond the major population centers was sketchy at best, mapmakers would mark the unknown corners of the world with the ominous phrase 'Here be Dragons.' Even before that, primitive tribes huddled around their campfires at night, trying to stave off the depredations of nocturnal carnivores. And even today, mothers tell their children not to wander too far when they play.

The unknown is scary, and that fear extends to our very perceptions of geography. Keep this in mind when you write. If your protagonist is dropped off in a hostile and unfamiliar territory, everything becomes much scarier for him. For example, for many of us city-dwellers, rural settings like those in 'Deliverance,' 'Wrong Turn' and 'The Hills Have Eyes' embody our fears about breaking down on the interstate, miles from any trace of civilization.

Play up on those fears. Exaggerate the dangers of the terrain and make it scary, whether we are talking about swamps filled with quicksand and tropical diseases, unforgiving Arctic wastes, or even the most crime-ridden parts of inner city ghettoes. If you can make it scary, then write about it. And it's even better if you've been to those areas and know something about them.

Traditional Monsters

Despite what I wrote earlier, monsters are still a big part of horror. Everyone knows Dracula, Frankenstein, the Creature from the Black Lagoon, Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde, the Phantom of the Opera, King Kong, and so forth. These are undeniable icons of horror, and have been used and re-used in countless adaptations. There are countless movies and books written about vampires, zombies, werewolves, ghosts, sea monsters, and other mainstays of horror.

The trick with using these monsters, though, is to make them unique and original. Everyone knows what a vampire is. It's an undead being who drinks blood, can turn into a bat, and is repulsed by garlic. Right? And werewolves are vulnerable to silver, and zombies need to eat brains, and so forth. The thing is, the lore is so vast that authors can pick and choose which elements to use when writing these more familiar creatures. Everyone has seen Gothed out vampires bedecked in Victorian finery. But vampires in cowboy boots and western wear, or urban vampires with gangsta style are a little more unique.

This extends beyond the superficial. The vampires, werewolves, zombies and so forth that appear in popular culture bear little resemblance to their origins in folklore. In some stories vampires can come out during the day. In others they loose all their powers in sunlight, but are otherwise just fine. And, of course, in many stories they die in sunlight. With that in mind, you can easily change around 'traditional' monsters and make them interesting and different.

Non-Traditional Monsters

Then there's the rest of the world beyond Europe and North America. Other cultures have their own folklore and mythology that is just as rich and can provide aspiring authors with new sources of inspiration. Arabian lore has flesh-eating ghuls and malicious jinn. The Filipinos have the aswang, which preys on children and pregnant women. In Mexico there are stories of witches called civatateo. The Algonquin Indians spoke of the cannibalistic windigo, and Russians have tales of rusalka that pull men to their deaths in the river.

Any or all of these creatures can serve as an excellent source of ideas for writers, especially if you were raised with those stories in your background. But, we need not go half-way across the world in search of horror, because there are plenty of homegrown ideas right here. Urban legends are a form of folklore that has saturated into popular culture. Think about it... the serial killer with the hooked hand, gang members killing people who flash their brights as an initiation, albino alligators living in the sewer. All of these familiar cautionary tales can be used by creative writers.

Once again, these stories should be updated, changed or re-invented to better suit the modern world. Even if a western audience has no awareness of Japanese gaki, Inuit tupilaq, or Balinese leyak, just a few small changes can make it into an entirely different creature. After all, you are (hopefully) interested in crafting your own tales instead of just repeating someone else's.

What Was That Thing

Not all monsters fall into these convenient (albeit admittedly artificial) categories. Some truly bizarre creatures are one-of-a-kind horrors that have no mythology behind them. Think of the Stay Puff Marshmallow Man from 'Ghostbusters' or the giant monster from 'Cloverfield.' That sort of unique, one-shot monster is the sort of thing really creative writers can come up with on a good night. While all of your creations should be unique, creating an entirely new (and fictitious) creature is an especially challenging exercise.

Still, the basic concept is the same. Come up with a creature, write in the details and run with it. What does your monster do? Does it tear people apart at night? Does it take control of their bodies and make them do things against their will? Something else entirely? The only real trick is that you don't have any folklore, mythology or previous stories to inspire you. But then, that's part of what makes it so fun in the fir

Consistency

When telling a story, the most basic rule is to always be consistent. This is even more true when you are writing fiction. You don't need to spell out what sort of things are going on in your story, but you (as the writer) should have a clear idea of what is happening when you write it. You don't need to tell it to your audience, and in fact, it's far scary if you keep us in the dark. But leaving some mysterious element that serves no other purpose than to get our attention is just annoying. You need to be consistent in your horror.

This applies to all other aspects of writing as well. Keep a consistently dark and ominous mood when you are writing horror. Surprise endings can be fun if they are executed properly, but far too often it just annoys your readers. If I am reading a story about a zombie apocalypse, I don't want some sort of deus ex machina at the end that involves an alien invasion. You can mix monsters, elements, and genres, but do so in a way that doesn't break the mood. Otherwise things just get kind of silly, and you don't want that.

Scream Queens and Token Victims

Another subject that I feel I should touch upon, however briefly, is character development. One thing that sets apart horror from other genres is the potential for relatively high casualty rates. In fact, its so common that the phenomena has become something of a trope or in-joke, with many movies using stereotypical 'stock characters' who are slowly picked off, one by one, until only the main protagonists are left. Examples of this are so numerous that it barely merits any mention.

Like any stereotypes, there is some grain of truth in this, but it's also a very dangerous trap to fall into. Especially for writers, who have to ply the fertile depths of the imagination instead of relying upon bloody visuals like film-makers do. If you want a death to be meaningful - to shock and disturb your audience - then you have to either make it really gory, or make the character someone interesting enough that the audience cares about them. Or, better yet, both.

On the other hand, you also have your stereotypical stock characters... Big breasted scream queens, brooding Goths, grizzled survivors of the zombie apocalypse, token minorities, nerds without 'street smarts,' dumb jocks or frat boys, and so forth. These are characters who are practically made to be thrown away, aside from the stereotypical grizzled monster hunter/survivor/loner type. They usually wind up going out in a blaze of glory, taking the monster with them in the process.

Just to surprise your audience, I say switch things around a little. Write standard 'stock character' types with interesting backgrounds to set them apart. A frat boy who enjoys chess and can quote ancient Greek poetry, or a big breasted scientist, or a token minority character from a comfortable suburban background. Those are different enough that your audience might actually care about those characters. In fact, they very well could become protagonists in their own right, and the (supposed) 'hero' becomes monster fodder.

Do Your Homework

Let's face it, there have been a lot of horror writers before you. Do yourself a favor and read some of their works. Steven King, Clive Barker, H.P. Lovecraft, Edgar Allen Poe, Ambrose Bierce, Robert Bloch, Chuck Palahniuk, Anne Rice, Poppy Z. Brite, Bram Stoker, and a dozen others. All of them wrote things which you should be reading, and enjoying. Don't try to copy their style. After all, you want to find your own voice. Instead, try and figure out what about their writing moves and inspires you. Appreciate their work for what it is and you will be good.

Don't limit yourself to books either. Even as much as I may decry the decline in literary interests here, I am not going to act like some sort of elitist snob either. There are plenty of comics, movies, video games, television shows and other media that convey horror just as well as any writer. In fact, many of them are adaptations of books or stories written by the authors above. Universal and Hammer influenced how entire generations saw classic movie monsters, not to mention the way that Japanese films have re-interpreted monsters. And then there are great shows like 'Twilight Zone,' 'Outer Limits,' 'One Step Beyond,' and 'The X-Files.'

Do yourself a favor and reacquaint yourselves with classic slashers like Jason, Freddie Krueger, Michael Myers, Norman Bates, Pinhead and (for the more recent generation) Jigsaw. They won't hurt you... much.

The Unknown IS Scary

One final thing to bear in mind, which I've repeated many times throughout here, is that the unknown is scary. Use that to your advantage. Simply saying that a vampire kills someone, or that a man is really a killer. But keeping your audience guessing is much more fun, both for you and the reader. In fact, a really creative author can be so ambiguous as to have nothing really happen in his story, while still making the reader question it. So by all means, keep us in the dark. Use descriptions to set the mood, but not to reveal what is really happening, right up until the end.

After all has been said and done, you should be able to use these simple pieces of advice to inspire your own horror writing. Hopefully you've learned something about the fine art of scaring people. I look forward to seeing your stories, so please let me know if you found this (all too brief) essay helpful.

Mwahahaha.



Writing Humor Dos and Don'ts



Other than those I've written, humorous essays concerning sex are often neither (a) humorous nor (b) sexy. It's a lot harder (pun intended) to write about sex than one might suppose. Boobs, cunts, cocks, balls, and buttocks, to say nothing of nipples, areolas, labia, clitorises, uteruses, scrotums, anuses, and rectums, or, for that matter, semen, sperm, or milady's lubricating "juices," are not all that amusing in themselves. Therefore, to paraphrase William Shakespeare (or, actually, Sir John Falstaff), they're not apt to cause amusement in others as well, not without a little (or, in most cases, a lot) of help.

To write humorous pieces (yes, pun intended again), about sex (no pun intended), a guy, a gal or, in the case of shemales, a guy-gal, has to know all the techniques of the humorist: burlesque, exaggeration, irony, punning, understatement, and the rest. He, she, or he-she must also recognize what's funny or potentially so. In other words, to be a humorist, a person has to have a sense of humor. (Duh!) Mostly, funny stuff is stuff that (a) is absurd, (b) happens to people other than oneself, (c) both of the above, or (d) none of the above. (It also helps to remember that what's funny to one person, the rhino-hided, may not be funny to another, the thin-skinned, and, unless you're David Letterman, it's best not to go after underage children if your "joke" is in any way risqué.)

Butt (pun intended) this essay's not so much about how to write humorous essays concerning sex as it is about how not to do so. More specifically, it's about (a) how to avoid clichés and (b) how to avoid techniques that may work for you on film, if a motion picture producer or director happens to be your (a) parent, (b) sibling, (c) lover, or (d) all of the above, but won't likely work for you in print, unless a book publisher or editor happens to be your (a) parent, (b) sibling, (c) lover, or (d) all of the above and vice (pun intended) verse (no pun intended). Printed sleaze and projected sleaze both have their own rules, regulations, tropes, and conventions; and it's best not to mix them, even if one is bisexual.

Some things shouldn't be done in any case, for any reason. For example, Hollywood filmmakers, even the G-, PG, PG-13, and R-rated, as opposed to the X-rated, ones, seem to think that it's sexy as hell for a man to be bare-chested as long as his female partner, also naked, covers her breasts with a blanket, a pillow, a sex manual, the family dog, or some other prop (the more absurd, the better). Mostly just gay men would agree, but, then, again, a lot of gays are among the Hollywood glitterati, so maybe that explains the ubiquitous use of this trope. For heterosexual (and some bisexual) folks, this situation is apt to strike one as rather absurd and, therefore, potentially amusing, rather than arousing.

Some motion pictures, including a few of the X-rated variety, aspiring, perhaps, to be "artistic," symbolize ejaculation by having a launched rocket substitute, as a metaphor, for the convulsive cock's "launching" of semen. This is sexy, maybe, for the adolescent-minded and those of an artistic bent (pun intended), but regular guys don't understand poetry, or even figures of speech, and they're apt to be confused when the camera shifts from a suck-and-fuck scene to show footage cribbed from Cape Canaveral. Plus, they're likely to wonder where the hell the damned rocket came (pun intended) from, anyway.

Instead of rockets, some filmmakers substitute fireworks, which is "clever," perhaps, but raises the question as to whether one of the lovers keeps fireworks in his bedside table to celebrate "the moment." If so, he's either exceptionally patriotic or he rarely scores.

For women, most of whom do not ejaculate, orgasm is sometimes represented by a babbling brook. Since we're talking women here, the babbling brook actually makes a pretty decent metaphor, both because women (let's be honest) do tend to babble, even during sex, and, even if they're faking it, they usually get more than a little wet from their vaginal secretions. But is a brook, babbling or otherwise, really all that sexy in the middle of a steamy sex scene? For women (and shemales), maybe. For guys, no way; real men want to see their partners squirm, writhe, quiver, and moan. They can visit the babbling brook to get in a little fishing afterward.

The ejaculation = a rocket launch metaphor and the orgasm = a babbling brook metaphor are pretty lame, but the cutaway scene is even worse. Two lovers are shown making love--sort of. They're lying beside one another or one on top of the other, kissing and caressing (and probably slobbering quite a bit), and suddenly, as things get intense, instead of a close-up shot of the guy's cock penetrating his partner's cunt or asshole, the fucking cameraman shows the voyeur--I mean, the viewer (pun intended)--a picture of a full moon between the tops of trees or passing into or out of a bank of clouds, and, by "full moon" (pun intended), I don't mean a bare ass.

Gay men apparently find wearing ankle-high work boots sexy, especially if they are (a) otherwise naked and (b) sucking cock or ass fucking. Think about it. To get naked, the guy would have to take off his boots and socks. Then, after he got naked, he'd have to put his socks and boots back on. By then, it's a wonder that he's still interested in (a) sucking or being sucked or (b) fucking or being fucked. Cum (pun intended) to think of it, maybe that's why his wearing just his socks and his work boots is sexy to the handful (pun intended) of gay guys (and maybe some bisexual) men who actually think such pictures are sexy: the fact that, after removing his socks and boots, then finishing undressing, and then donning his socks and boots again, all while maintaining a raging erection, proves his commitment to his lover, something rare among gay men.

Sometimes, to show their boyfriends how committed they are, some gay guys even wear a jockstrap instead of boxers or briefs, and leave their athletic supporters on with their socks and boots. If you're (a) gay and (b) find a guy who does this for you, keep him; you've found your Mr. Right.

Clearly, what works visually may not work linguistically. But what about the other medium, the printed one, which (except for Literotica readers, of course), no one reads anymore. What works there that may not, and probably won't, work in film? Adjectives and adverbs. There's no way to film modifiers, really, except ones that relate to speed (a camera can be sped up or slowed down). How the hell is a cameraman supposed to film something like "his anus fluttered recklessly" or "her moans had a feline quality" or "her touch was galvanic"? For the same reason, superlatives, which are like adjectives on steroids, are more or less unacceptable even in printed porn, and they're absolutely so on film. There's no way to film the "most beautiful" boobs, the "tightest" twat, a shemale's "prettier" prick, or the "most awesome" or "most amazing" ass. Don't go there.

I could go on (and on and on), but you get the idea. Don't make the mistake of thinking that, if it's sexy on the big screen or in a magazine picture, it will also be sexy in text (or vice--pun intended--versa--no pun intended). Most likely, it won't be, and, instead, you'll have created a "sex scene" that's more hilarious than it is sexy.



Writing Humorous Erotica



Unfortunately, too many readers judge erotica strictly by how hard they get (men) or how wet they get (women) or, in general, how horny it makes them. While erotica, by definition, must produce such an effect, to be esteemed as a superior, or even a good, representative of its peculiar genre, the erotic story should accomplish more than the mere production of penile erection or vaginal secretions. It should offer a reason, beyond itself, for its being.

In ancient Greece's comedies, erotica was a means of social, political, and familial satire. In medieval European fabliaux, erotica was a way of criticizing the absurdities of artificial social class distinctions, the abuses of the nobility, and the hypocrisy of the clergy. In contemporary situation comedies, or sitcoms, comedy is often a means of identifying, censuring, and reforming the peccadilloes, follies, and foibles of individuals, especially members of families, nuclear, extended, and otherwise, or factory and office coworkers.

My own forays, to date, into humorous erotica, "Dream Girls" and "Do Boobs Prove Intelligent Design?," are, to my mind, qualitative pieces. The former lampoons the fantasies of the solitary, middle-age male who masturbates to a new type of "Dream Girl," the digitized damsel who consists not of flesh and blood, or even of the ivory out of which the ancient Greek sculptor Pygmalion sculpted his dream girl, Galatea, but of pixels of light on a computer screen. The latter offers a witty, rather risqué, take on the age-old cosmological argument for God's existence.

My satire is lighthearted and gentle, not sharp and biting, but, it is, nevertheless, meant to reprove solitary sex--that is, masturbation--as at least slightly absurd and as ultimately unfulfilling except in the most fleeting and momentary manner of providing, as might be said, instant gratification and to poke good-natured fun at high-sounding theological premises. I believe both to be first-rate examples of the gentler form of satire, but, alas!, they have not fared well among some readers.

I think these humorous essays have not garnered some readers' approval not because the pieces themselves fails to be humorous, but because the don't correspond with the somewhat puerile expectations of the typical reader of low-quality erotica, who, not only above all, but in lieu of anything else, wants merely titillation. Even in humorous erotica, for such a reader, the humor is a secondary consideration at best. What counts is the penile penetration of anus, mouth, or vagina and a thrusting therein until the occurrence of orgasm (and, for men, ejaculation). Such limited expectations do not bode well for qualitative literature, although, as any who peruse the sheer volume of contributions to such a website as Literotica can readily see, these expectations certainly result in a great quantity of submissions.

With regard to commercial enterprises, one must be prepared to take the good with the bad and to separate the wheat from the chaff. With televised fare, we must take the commercials along with the shows; with submissions to Literotica and its ilk, we must separate the gold from the fool's gold. The dregs make possible the tea, so let us not complain unduly.

Instead, for those who are interested in writing (and reading) not only titillation but also humor (and, when possible, humor in service to a higher cause, such as social, political, familial, or other important forms of criticism), I set forth this essay to detail three sure-fire means of producing humorous erotica. It is up to the writers themselves to produce the quality (and to readers to demand it).

The first way is the way of analogy. An analogy is an extended comparison between two things that are otherwise dissimilar; while the analogy admits such comparisons, it also admits differences. Usually, an analogy has an instructive purpose, hoping to make clear something that is less familiar by comparing it to something similar that is better known and understood. An analogy differs from a metaphor or a simile, because a metaphor or a simile offers a comparison of two unlike things in regard to only one feature or characteristic. In addition, metaphors and similes stress the similarity without admitting the differences between the things compared to one another, and have a figurative, or poetic, purpose, rather than an instructive one.

William Shakespeare wrote, "All the world's a stage," comparing the world, as an arena of natural activity, to a stage, an arena of activity that is said merely to imitate nature. An extended analogy further develops the figure of speech, as Shakespeare does in continuing his own metaphor by comparing the men and women of the world to actors upon a stage and the births and deaths of men and women of the world to actors' entrances and exits upon the stage. 

Public school biology classes used to use, and may still use, an analogy that compares the human body to a factory. Ore (food) is crushed (masticated) before being conveyed (swallowed) to a processing vat (stomach) in which it is processed (digested), the usable material (nutrients) being extracted (absorbed) from the dross (waste products), the latter of which is then discarded (eliminated); the usable material (nutrients) is then used to manufacture (build) products (proteins, fats, and so forth) for distribution (circulation, respiration, and other bodily processes).

Shakespeare's extended metaphor consists of three individual metaphors, each of which creates a single comparison. The three are related, but they are not, even taken together, sufficiently complex to create an analogy.

Although many humorists use analogies, those who write humorous erotica employ this strategy far less often, it seems, than others of their ilk. Therefore, after explaining the method, I will also give it rather short shrift in this essay.

Michael Savage's modern bestiary, The Political Zoo, is a good example of the humorous use of an analogy. It compares human behavior to that of animals, with the result that his political animals usually fare far worse in the comparisons than the actual animals to which he compares them.

Analogies concerning sex are used more often by scientists than by humorists, the former intending them as a means by which to elucidate the sexual impulse itself. For example, sex has been likened to the pleasures that mother and child experience during the act of breastfeeding. In this analogy, the mother and child bond as the erect nipple (a metaphorical penis) enters the warm, wet mouth (a metaphorical vagina), and milk (metaphorical semen) is thereby deposited within. Scientists have also employed analogies that compare sex to the perceived need to evacuate the bowels and thereby relieve stress and to eating; orgasm has, likewise, been likened to epileptic seizure.

Social scientists have also employed the analogy of the test driving of an automobile that the driver is considering for purchase to represent two single partners' living together without benefit of marriage. Their relationship, such thinkers contend, resembles a test drive during which the prospective automobile buyer can measure the performance of the vehicle: the male or female partner can likewise evaluate his or her potential spouse's behavior, sexual and otherwise, before buying (marrying) the other person. (An older version of this analogy is implicit in the statement, "Why buy the cow if you can get the milk for free?")

However, except for the familiar baseball analogy, in which various sexual activities are compared to reaching first, second, or third base and home plate, humorists don't often use analogies as bases for erotica. (The activities that are associated with each base vary, but reaching home plate is almost always understood as representing sexual intercourse. First base may represent kissing or French kissing; second base, the caressing of the breasts or mutual masturbation while clothed; and third base, fondling the labia, clitoris, or vagina or engaging in mutual masturbation while naked. In another interpretation, kissing = first base; petting = second base; masturbation or oral sex = third base; and sexual intercourse = home plate.)

Where analogies are used as the bases for humor, they are usually the foundations for essays, rather than stories, and, since humorists seldom use analogies as the bases for erotic stories, I shall move on to the two techniques that much more frequently underlie erotic anecdotes, sketches, jokes, situations, and longer narrative plots.

The first is the use of stock characters. A stock character is one that is familiar to readers or audiences because such a character has been used many times within a specific genre by its writers. Various genres typically develop their own types of stock characters. For example, readers or moviegoers who enjoy Westerns are apt to find in this type of story such stock characters as the cowboy, the dancehall girl, the piano player, the gunfighter, the Indian, the merchant, the saloonkeeper, the schoolmarm, the sheriff and his deputy, the outlaw, and the preacher. Likewise, science fiction has produced such stock charters as the astronaut, the cyborg, the extraterrestrial or alien, the mad scientist and his monster, the robot, the Starfleet commander, and the space colonist.

Comedy has also developed quite a cast of recurring stock characters. Among them are the absentminded man, the braggart, the con artist, the confidant or confidante (feminine), the country bumpkin, the deadbeat, the displaced person, the egghead, the faultfinder, the feminist, the femme fatale, the flatterer, the geek, the geezer, the miser, the sidekick, and the talker. Some of these characters were born, as it were, of erotic comedy; others are merely especially well-suited to such comedy. Among these are the exhibitionist, the flaming faggot, the tease, the virgin, the voyeur, and the whore with a heart of gold.

To make use of such stock characters in writing humorous erotica, I would suggest that you first create a biographical sketch, as it were, of each of the ones you intend to use in your story, and then devise a tagline that can suggest a humorous storyline. As you write more stories, with different stock characters, extend your catalogue of sketches to include them. Eventually, you will have a long list of sketches which define various stock characters. As you use these characters in your stories, you can add appropriate taglines to suggest humorous plots, keeping track, of course, of these taglines as well as the evolving character sketches.

Here is an example of a possible autobiographical sketch for defining the character of the braggart soldier, who appears in many ancient Greek comedies, and is represented especially well, many critics agree, by Plautus' hero, Pyrgopolynices. 

Pyrgopolynices: The beginning of the play in which he is featured indicates his nature, as he is shown feeling sorry for his weapons, for, during this time of peace, his sword and shield are denied glorious battles during which they can experience his heroic use of them against enemy warriors. He boasts about everything he does and goes even those who praise him one better, claiming lineage from Venus, the goddess of love, herself, when he is told, by a flatterer, that every woman naturally falls in love with him at first sight and claiming he should earn an extravagant stud fee for siring a child, for any offspring he fathers will be so robust as to live for a thousand years, just as Pyrgopolynices himself was born the day after the universe appeared.

Your braggart need not be a soldier like Pyrgopolynices. He may be, instead, a lecher, a pedant, an artist, a scientist, or some other type of character. Indeed, he need not even be a male; the braggart can as easily assume the form of a woman if a female character is needed to advance your plot.

A tagline, as I have indicated in my essay on "X-rated Movie Taglines," is a clever, pithy one-line slogan or storyline summary, often involving alliteration or a play on words, meant to promote a film. A tagline can also promote a book or even a story. In fact, Literotica employs taglines to promote its writers' short stories and novels. (The tagline for my essay on "X-Rated Movie Taglines" is "tagging the audience," and the tagline for this article is "Three Techniques for Plotting Laughable Fiction.")

"X--rated Movie Taglines" not only defines the term "tagline," but it also provides many examples. I repeat a few here for the benefit of those who are too lame or lazy to read the article itself. In these examples, the title of the movie occurs first, followed by the tagline, from which the title is separated by a colon.

Debbie Does Dallas: Everyone on the team scores when her pom-poms fly!

Hot Lunch: This main course is finger-licking great!

Stuck on You: You'll come unglued with laughter!

The tagline (and title) often indicates the genre of the story, the types of characters who will most likely appear in the story, the setting of the story, and even, in some cases, the type of conflict or the theme of the story. For example, "Debbie Does Dallas: Everyone on the team scores when her pom-poms fly!" suggests that the story will be erotic, that Debbie and a football team will be featured as characters, that the story will take place in Dallas (and, presumably, in the team's locker room, on the playing field, on the team's bus, and elsewhere), and that the conflict will be sexual and, perhaps, sports related. For example, a possible plotline for this story would be its debunking of the myth that athletes play better when they refrain from having sex. Perhaps the team's coach prohibits his players from indulging in sex before a game until, defying his order, the players show him that their performance on the field is enhanced, not hampered, by their pre-game performances in bed with Debbie.

Any of the stock characters I identified can be used in a humorous tale of erotica, especially when their biological sketch is coupled with a tagline that suggests a storyline. These taglines indicate just some of the many, many possibilities:

Absentminded man: a man forgets to put on a condom, thinking he has done so

Braggart: a man brags about his sexual prowess or cock size

Con artist: a man sells what he claims are aphrodisiacs or contraceptives

Confidante: a woman listens to her best friend's sexual exploits

Country bumpkin: a country girl bests a city slicker

Deadbeat: a pimp lives by whoring

Egghead: a sex researcher discovers a new erogenous zone

Exhibitionist: a girl puts everything she has on a horse

Faultfinder: even the perfect woman isn't good enough for him

Feminist: a man-hating women's libber has a tryst with a transsexual

Femme fatale: a modern medusa turns men to stone--or parts of them, anyway

Fish out of water: a displaced person makes the best of his new 

environment--an all-female habitat

Flaming faggot: a flamboyant homosexual learns the limits of social tolerance

Flatterer: flattery gets her everything!

Geek: a guy makes a pass at a girl who wears glasses, and is glad he did

Geezer: an old fart reminisces about the good old days

Lolita: good things come in small packages

Miser: being too cheap can cost more than it saves

Sidekick: being a sidekick has an advantage: one gets the hero's leftovers

Talker: actions speak louder than words

Tease: if you tease, be prepared to please

Virgin: she'd never been with a man; he would be her first

Voyeur: strutting her stuff was just her way of showing off 

Whore with a heart of gold: fools rush in where miners fear to pan

Finally, the third technique for writing humorous erotica is the use of stock situations. A stock situation is one that is familiar to readers or audiences because they have been used many times within a specific genre by its writers. Various genres typically develop their own types of stock situations. For example, readers or moviegoers who enjoy Westerns are apt to find in this type of story such stock situations as cattle rustling or range wars, a sheriff's taming of a wild town, a bounty hunter's or posse's hunting down and capturing or killing of an outlaw or an outlaw band, pioneers' peaceful or violent clash with Native Americans, wagon trains traveling West, and townspeople's extension of civilization by their building and developing their town. Likewise, science fiction has produced such stock situations as the colonization of moons and planets, the mining of asteroids, the exploration of space, invasions of Earth by extraterrestrial aliens, the creation of monsters by mad scientists, and evolution or genetic engineering run amuck.

Comedy has also developed several stock situations. Among them are the glimpse of a birthmark that discloses kinship, girl meets boy, mistaken identity, rags to riches, the spoiling of virginity, the taming of a shrew, and the liberation of a sexually repressed woman. Many are subject to variation. For example, as I argue in "Thank Heaven For Girly Boys," the girl-meets-boy plot has been revamped to include both girl-meets-girl and boy-meets-boy storylines, and the introduction of the shemale (that is, the chick with a dick) has further expanded the variety of sex partners with which writers of erotica can people their fiction.

By way of concluding, let me pause to reiterate this essay's main points. Too narrowly limiting humorous erotica to stories which merely titillate through descriptions of sexual activity is not only puerile but it also restricts the genre severely and unnecessarily and, at the same time, degrades its quality. Instead, such stories should be permitted the same possibilities as those that existed for earlier writers of humorous erotica. In ancient Greece's comedies, erotica was a means of social, political, and familial satire. In medieval European fabliaux, erotica was a way of criticizing the absurdities of artificial social class distinctions, the abuses of the nobility, and the hypocrisy of the clergy. In contemporary situation comedies, or sitcoms, comedy is often a means of identifying, censuring, and reforming the peccadilloes, follies, and foibles of individuals, especially members of families, nuclear, extended, and otherwise, or factory and office coworkers. This same latitude, allowed by the readers of Literotica, for humorous erotica would likewise enrich and expand the genre for them and this venue, for which reasons I strongly advocate readers' adoption of this attitude. The sex will still be there; it just might not be the sole or primary reason for the stories' existence. For writers who desire to write qualitative humorous erotica, the use of analogies, stock characters, and stock situations are three techniques for developing familiar storylines that can result in innovative and amusing adaptations, innovations, parodies, and pastiches. 



Writing Hurts



1/23/13

Sometimes it feels like the only thing worse than getting caught doing something bad is getting away from serving your punishment for it. The guilt itself is enough to kill you. Your stomach turns a little every time you see him from a distance, having completely forgotten about your betrayal or misdemeanour, making little flips every time you get pulled into his lap affectionately and each rare kiss turns into a curse. Nothing is worse than guilt. Or at least, that's what you sometimes feel.

And then you have my Master. And he makes you forget that silly notion.

My name is Kanni, I have a small tattoo on my right wrist that marks me as his, and he named me when I was a good puppy. Do you know what a good Kanni gets to do with her Master? She gets to wake up in the morning and make breakfast for him. Waffles. Sometimes he likes omelettes. He always has bacon or sausage, or something or other else that "once had a face." He isn't the perkiest Master when he first wakes up.

He grumpily stomps out of bed and grumpily brushes his teeth and grumpily takes his seat before grumpily eating breakfast and stalking off to take a grumpy shower of grumpiness. He has an uncanny ability of running late on the mornings when he needs to be on time as well. In any case, whether he's late or on time or early, Kanni always has to clean the house. I never liked doing yard work, and my Master has always been kind in that respect. Most of my chores are boring. Laundry, cooking, dusting, mopping, bathrooms... But then... Then there's the last one: my journal. 

My journal and I have a bittersweet relationship. Master comes home from work. He sits on the couch tired and I keep my mouth shut wisely for a few minutes while I get him water and if he's hungry, a snack. He eats and watches television with his favourite puppy under his feet. Sometimes he doesn't like her posture and corrects it, tapping the insides of her thighs to make her widen her stance or when he's happy with her, he'll pat her tail with his foot, driving the plug in further playfully. Sometimes he'd pull me closer to him afterwards with my collar and mock scold me for a while until I turned beet red. 

After he was relaxed and we had eaten dinner, we'd play fetch. Master finds it entertaining when he throws me the ball and it rolls under furniture or somewhere else where my rear ends up high in the air as I struggle to reach it. My belt jingles as I crawl back to him; I think we're both rather amused by the bells. After fetch, I write my journal, and if he feels like it, he asks me to read it to him as I sit at his feet. Then he pulls me into his lap, playing with me or talking to me softly. If he was really tired that night, he'd send me to bed and come in to turn out my light. If not, he'd let me fall asleep with my head in his lap, head swimming with dreams of a wonderful Master and another wonderful day.

My undoing came when Master started to give me leash on my journal entries. He'd stopped asking me to read them to him every night. I know I shouldn't have done it, take advantage of the freedom he gave me but... But those journal entries are just so hard to write sometimes... 

The short of it all is quite simply that luck favoured me for a while. If I didn't have my journal finished, I could simply stand as I read to him; with my eyes lowered and the book held away from his view, he could never tell that the page was blank. But I think my game was over when he realised that I hadn't needed to buy a journal in about three months. I should have pieced it together the morning before he played checkmate. "Puppy?" he said, halfway through the door to work.

"Yes, Master?" I said, peeking my head out of the kitchen to answer. 

"Kanni, you know that I do not enjoy games, right?" 

His voice dripped with artificial curiosity. His words were redefining the dictionary, though I didn't know it just yet: Kanni, you know I do not "mess around." Do not challenge me. "Of course, Master."

There was a pause. I would say the silence was "icy cold" or use some other such cliché, but the boiling water on the stove was more than enough of a reminder that it was quite a different kind of cliché: it was getting hotter in the room, and good puppies do not play with fire. Or at least smart ones don't. "Good girl," he said, and then he promptly left. 

Confused, I had gone back and finished my chores. When he came home that night, after dinner, we did not play fetch. Instead, he watched television. At first though, I believed his ennui was finally starting to seep into his soul. And then he called to me from the couch as I did the dished in the kitchen, "Kanni, who do you think is worse: Nathan Wallace for lying, or Rotti for lying to himself?" I looked over the divider at my Master. For the first time that day, I did not simply notice him but honestly saw him. His face was studying me carefully and his lips were pursed; he was thinking, not bored. 

"Well, Master I do not know. They are both lying. Has something been bothering you?" I asked, the last part turning my mouth to cotton as I said it. 

"Yes."

There was another pause as I realised this was his command for me to ask further. "Master, what has been bothering you?"

"I have been lied to, and I have been lying to myself." My stomach made a little flip. I began to ask him what he meant, but he quickly recollected himself. Shaking his head, he stood up and turned off the TV. "Bedtime, Kanni," he said, smiling warmly again. Finishing the last dish, I put it away and obediently came out from the kitchen on all fours. Master chuckled and leaned down, pulling me up so I could walk on two's rather than four's and gently pushed me towards our room. 

I got into our bed giggling and watched him as he laid the blanket on top of his puppy. He went to the closet, opened it, showing me the only monster in our room was him, and smiling turned off the light. He came to her bedside and gently stroked her cheek. Yawning, I looked up at him through the dark and smiled. "Master?"

"Yes, puppy?"

"Master, what were you lying to yourself about?" 

He chuckled softly and leaned down, kissing my forehead then cheek. His hand rested in my hair for a second, and stroking my cheek gently, he answered with two words to break my heart. "Good girl." 

The next morning, I woke up as usual. I had decided that was it. I would start writing my journals like a good girl. When he left for work, I was very good about his breakfast; he had a large one. Everything I could think of, I made: pancakes with blueberries, waffles with cinnamon, farmers' omelette, sausage, bacon, hash browns. He ate and one his way out, Master ruffled my hair. The rest of the day went on, but somewhere among the chores, time began to fly. Before I knew it, it was five thirty, and my Master's key would soon be turning the lock. 

I ran to the dining table and pulled open the drawer there; I had a half hour. I could finish a good entry if I tried. My heart sank to my stomach as I saw inside rested no journal. Where was it? What had I done with it? I could hear my heart pounding into my ears as I hopelessly searched every room in the house. Minutes turned into milliseconds in my panic, and soon, my fleeting time was gone. I heard my Master open the door and step into the living room. That was it. I was done. There would be a spanking. Perhaps I wouldn't be allowed to sleep in my bed. Maybe even he wouldn't talk to me for a while. And thus, my mind was off.

The evening went on as normally as it possibly could. I performed duties as usual. I spent more time than usual on all fours, simply trying to keep my Master happy for a while longer. I won't ever admit it, but I might have been on all fours also to check under the couch for the damned, backstabbing binding. Dinner went by with a more talkative Master. He asked me questions, but I couldn't muster a word in my panic; I spent most of dinner nodding or shaking my head. 

I was immersed in doing the dishes when his voice broke into the haze of my distraction. "Kanni. Here girl." 

Putting the unfinished dishes into the sink and washing my hands, I came out drying them. "Y-yes Master?" I asked softly. 

"Kanni, journal time," he said, a small grin playing mischievously at the corners of his mouth. 

"I... Master I do not have one tonight..." I said, my head bowed as I came to stand in front of h

This grin deepened, openly mocking me. "It should prove no hindrance. 'Read' me your journal, girl," he said, a warmth in his voice hot enough to scorch Satan. I nodded, words caught somewhere in nonexistence, when he said, "Kanni, here," pointing to the ground in front of him. 

I knelt at his feet and started quietly. "Friday, May the Third. Today my Master..." And thus I went through an entire entry. I never once did manage to look up at him. 

Once I finished, I heard a small rustling and looked in time to see a black, leather journal drop into my lap. My black, leather journal. I looked up, tears forming in my eyes. "Master... Master I meant to..." 

He shushed me gently, his hand stroking my cheek softly. "Kanni, girl, why didn't you write your journal today?" His eyes blazing, my lower lip quivered as I started shaking my head. He gently slapped my cheek, no more than a tap, for every word, "Answer me, girl." I finally gave in, starting to cry. 

"Master, I'm sorry. I was going to tonight... I was..." 

"Do you understand what this means?" he asked, grabbing my right wrist and pulling it up. The small lettering mocked me. Kanni it said. I nodded, biting my lower lip as I looked up at him, a small "I do, Master" squeaking through. He smiled an awful smile. "You do not. But you will." 

He slapped me once more, not more than a tap like the others, but his fingers still left my face burning. "Get to bed." And with that the television was on again. 

I tucked myself in that night. 

The next day, I did not awaken to my alarm clock. I awoke to a fantastic smell wafting through the air. What was it? Was it... It couldn't be... I got out of bed and came outside. It was. On the table, my Master was sitting, apple and cinnamon pancakes resting on two plates across from each other. He smiled happily at me. "Kanni! Go brush! I'm starved!" he called, eyes lit up. I nodded confusedly, freshening up before returning to the table and taking my seat hesitantly. Master watched me for a while before laughing. "Kanni get started! I made your favourites!" 

"But... Master..." 

He laughed and shook his head. "Get started you silly girl!" And that was all the encouragement a very confused puppy needed to get to eating her wonderful breakfast. 

My Master did the dishes that morning. He took me out to have ice cream. Noticing that my eyes were fixated on an upcoming Starbucks though, he changed his mind and took me for coffee instead. My Master bought me a cappuccino and bought some tea for himself; my Master does not enjoy coffee. He sat me down at a table and we drank coffee. This wasn't too unusual as he sometimes did take me out for coffee when I was exceptionally good. We drank out tea and or coffee and chatted. 

Master took me everywhere that day. That afternoon he took his puppy for a walk in the park on a leash as a puppy should, and that evening he took her to a movie. He even let her pick which one. He bought her the largest popcorn and the gummy worms she so loved. On the way home, he even bought her dinner, freeing her from her cooking responsibility for the evening as well. 

When they got home, she was on all fours with his feet on her back as he watched the television. "Did you enjoy yourself today, puppy?" he asked, smiling. A genuine warmth had emanated from him all day, giving his puppy a fantastic sense of security and love. 

She nodded. "Of course I did, Master. Thank you, Master," she said, eagerly.

Master chuckled. Soon, I felt his foot rubbing the back of my thighs and I tensed. "I do my best, puppy," I heard him say a while later, but my toes were already curling as his foot patted my pussy gently, panties soaked through. There was no way I could reply with anything other than a moan, and so that is precisely what I replied with. I could hear a small laugh as he pulled my panties aside, starting to prod at my pussy, wet and hot and begging for more. "You're just a little slut aren't you?" 

I felt my cheeks turn bright red, but could muster no response. After a few seconds passed, I heard the couch rustle and felt a fair hit on my pussy. A moan escaped me as his foot hit my pussy again. "What was that, girl? I didn't hear anything..."

"Oh Master, yes.. Yes I'm a slut."

"Whose?"

"Yours. I'm your useless, worthless, shameful slut."


"That?" Another hit. 

"That would love nothing more than to please her Master."

"Her who?" Another hit.

"Her kind, wonderful, understanding Master who is so very very good to her." 

And then she felt him oblige her, prodding into her gently. Soon, she was a quivering mess, and that was precisely when he stopped, coming in front of her and kneeling. Master stroked my cheek gently and smiled, kissing my forehead. "Puppy, do you know what to do next?" he asked, standing up after he asked. 

And indeed I did. I cleaned his foot thankfully, sitting up and kneeling in front of him right after. 

"What does puppy want?" he asked, a smirk spread across his face. There was silence before he repeated himself, this time more forcefully.

"Her Master..." I answered quickly, shyly. Master smiled down at me and ruffled my hair. 

"Beg." 

And soon, we both had carpet burn. He took me harder and stronger than any other night. My Master pinned my arms down as he ground hard into my pussy, his pussy. Biting at my neck, he cooed me into submission to his powerful thrusts. And he did not take me once; over and over, the moon in the sky was dipping farther and farther away from existence and my Master spoilt his puppy in every way imaginable. 

By the time he finished with me, the television's useless babble had left it hoarse in the background.

My Master carried me into bed that night. Gently placing me into the comfortable cloud of feather, he kissed my forehead. The light was turned off and he came back, sitting next to me and singing gently. "Close your eyes and I'll kiss you... Tomorrow I'll miss you..." His words melted somewhere into my closed eyes. As I passed quietly from his lap to the lap of blissful, content, happy sleep, I heard him lean over me and whisper gently, "That is what Kanni means."

He kissed my head softly and left.



Writing in Love



Love is silly.

This is not to say that love is laughable, or funny; it's neither. Love is not trivial. It is sublime, life-altering. Love changes. 

But love, especially new love, makes us act silly, makes us think differently. We do things out of character for us, we say things we normally wouldn't say and almost immediately the changes begin. The playboy doesn't go out anymore, he only wants one person. The strong woman is weak for her love and cannot stand against it, doesn't want to. When they are apart, each feels the void of the other's absence, and when they are together, they are completed.

Those of us lucky enough to be in love, or that have ever been in love, know the changes it brings to us. When writing about love between characters, the contrast between who they are and who they were can be explored in detail, and can resonate with the reader in a way that mere sex cannot. Sex as a whole is enhanced by love and if a character should have sex with someone else the contrast should be felt. It feels empty, meaningless. It's a form of masturbation.

But get with your lover...the one you truly love...and the sparks fly. Sex transcends physicality and moves into the realm of the spiritual, a connection with another, a synergy. It's become 'making love' and has the power to shift the world.

Real people are usually surprised and may be shocked by the contrast. When writing of a character falling in love, the reader may want to see that difference and remember it. A good way to do this is the way a reader would do it: compare the two experiences and explore them. 

Suppose Jack parties a lot with his buddies, goes to bars, picks up a bunch of superficial 'chicks' that he takes home and 'bangs out'. These liaisons mean nothing to Jack. He gains the respect of his friends with his ability to get the women he finds attractive into bed, and demonstrates his power over them by his ability to forget they ever exist. In his way, Jack is a happy man.

And then he meets Jill and falls in love, and his world is changed. He doesn't go out with his friends anymore. They call him 'pussy-whipped' and he doesn't care; his life has become Jill, being with Jill, and after making love to Jill he realizes that he's been a fool. He recognizes that all the women he's loved and left may have hurt like he hurts when Jill leaves him for Bill. He regrets; he will never see his life and his world the same way again.

Or suppose Jill is a successful businesswoman, on her way up; she has no time for sex, or love. She avoids situations that may complicate her life and focuses on her career. She has the occasional lover as a distraction, but afterward he goes home and she goes to bed and the sun will dawn on the same day tomorrow.

And then she meets her new client Jack and she feels a click with him, a connection she has never felt before. He distracts her. She thinks of him all the time. Her work falls off. She feels most alive when he is near her and when he is gone she feels his absence, she hears the ticking of the clock and feels her own mortality. She realizes her life is empty and broken. And when Jack and Jill finally make love...she is whole.

By exploring the changes within our characters, we can demonstrate the vast power this emotion has over us to make us different than we were--maybe better, maybe not, but not the same. Love transcends everything. Racial and social boundaries are meaningless; mores become laughable. Love permeates life and lives beyond death. It transcends education, station, and gender. It makes people run gladly from safety into chaos. The characters we create will stop at nothing to be with the people they love. They will tear through everybody in their way, breach any wall. We who have been in love know this feeling and recognize it, those who have never been may be confused by how different one becomes and catch a glimpse of what they've missed thus far.

Interactions between characters are not always about love. It could be about sex, desire, fantasy, lifestyle, etc. But love--real love--is an all-consuming flame and a new person is born from the ashes.

Older love is different, a flame between two people that warms them and makes finding someone else out of the question. That's not who they are anymore. They may have affairs, but they cannot see living apart from the one they have been with. Jill might like to be caned before sex, and Jack just won't. Jack might secretly want sex with men and Jill just won't do for that. But they know they are in love and cannot live without their partner.

Unless they fall in love with their lover.

They may share the experience with their spouse or significant other, seeking threesomes or exhibition; but love cleaves them together. This type of experience might lead to insecurity on the part of one or the other, for what if the person they adore likes the third person more? Then one character will see it as an invasion of something that is sacred to them.

Exploring the differences in who characters were and who they are now is the surest yardstick for the depth of their love. Some will agree to stop wearing corduroy pants because their partner can't stand the swishing sound when they walk. Some might throw their whole life away and travel halfway across the globe to be with someone they have never seen. The depth, the differences are dependent on the love, the character, and of course the author's view of who that character is and what they need.

In the end, love is the most powerful emotion we can feel, and so it should transform a character, make them see the world differently, think differently and act differently. And stories are about the story, and if the story is about love, it should be realistic and demonstrate the power of this killing and saving emotion in order to make the reader more fully aware of a character's depth of feeling.

If you've never been in love, there's plenty here to give you an idea of its strength. If you have been or you are, draw on your own experience--what was it like for you, and how deeply did you feel it? And would your characters, if they should somehow become real, act on the emotion as portrayed, in the way they are portrayed as acting? Would you act on a one-dimensional emotion?



Writing Lessons



Jennifer left her desk at lunchtime. She did not plan to eat today; rather she wanted to write another story for her lover. She wanted to wander the hallways of her school to let her mind jump with ideas. She had done so many things to him when they were in school together she thought the hallways would kindle memories that would help. Idly she slipped into the backstage area, sitting behind the closed curtains, mind going back to when she was in school. 

The plays flooded back to her, a smile slyly starting. She was about to go when she head whispers, a girls giggling. Silently she stood and peered around the corner. She could see two students entwined in a passionate kiss, tongues probing. They clutched at each other as only someone feeling arousal for the first time can. Naturally she started to raise her voice and let them know she was here. She did not plan to punish them, just send them back to class.

Jennifer opened her mouth then stopped, her eyes drawn to the girl's hand as it slipped down his lean body. With no prompting from the boy she latched her small hand on his cock, outlined clearly in his jeans. Fascinated Jennifer saw his head snap down, hands reach for her breasts. She watched as they ground their hips harder and harder, dry humping, his hands now on her ass. Without thought her fingers were at her own crotch, pressing thru her clothes that hard pebble, the moistness apparent even now. His hands slipped under her skirt. In the darkness their profile was clear, his hands now kneading her cheeks, then his hand slipping to the front. 

Jennifer could make out the bulge in the girls panties as his fist pleasured her, his fingers slipping in and out. The girls head was laid on his chest, eyes closed as she purred her desire, hips pistoning, faster and faster. He pulled his hand out suddenly, her eyes darting open in surprise. He then slipped to his knees, hands raking the panties to her ankles. He plunged his head between her stretched legs, her hands holding his hair as she rode his lips to orgasm, her legs straddling his shoulders, hi Jennifer now had her own hand in her cunt, her left hand holding her skirt up, her right now fucking herself, the wet sounds of her fingers sawing in and out causing her to tremble. 

She tried to remain silent but as her own orgasm crested just after the girls she saw the teenagers eyes lock onto her. She started to scream and jump but his face was still buried in her pussy, hands locking her down. She also then noticed Jennifer's hand, now shiny wet in her own pussy. Eyes still bound to each other the girl relaxed a little, then began to smile as she rode his face harder and harder. Jennifer now heard her urging him on, telling him she loved him, how good he was making her feel, harder...faster. 

She peaked again, falling to her own knees, kissing his face, licking her juices from him. She leaned in, whispered in his ear. Jennifer saw her pull his jeans off, placing him where he could not see her but he was plain to her eyes. The girl's hands supporting her she leaned over, her eyes now never leaving Jennifer, opened her mouth and licked his throbbing cock. She stroked him, drawing out his pre-cum, eyes burning Jennifer as she cleaned him, Jennifer's own mouth now open, watering for her own taste, fingers back in her cunt. She had three fingers buried in, her left hand now rubbing her clit, slapping at it.

The girl now bobbed her head up and down on the cock, tongue stopping to swirl over the head sometimes, her small hand barely reaching around his shaft. Jennifer watched her cheeks balloon out as he shot his sticky cum in her mouth, watched her eyes now close as she drank his cum. Jennifer wondered what he tasted like, ...had she done this before,... or was this her first time feeling that thick load sliding down her throat...? Her hands still stroked him up and down, his hardon never waning. The girl now stood, feet on either side of his hips. She reached under her skirt, sliding her panties down slowly, teasing him. As she reached her feet she leaned over, knees still locked and kissed him, her ass high in the air. The globes of her ass were so tan, no lines Jennifer noted, realizing this display was for her. The boy fumbled with the condom he had pulled from his pants, finally slipping it over his now painfully hard again cock.

Not breathing now, hands still, Jennifer watched as the girl squatted down, legs bending at the knees. Her legs spread so far apart. She stopped as Jennifer zeroed in on her lips, now just touching the head of the prick. Slowly, so slowly she settled on him. Jennifer watched her mouth open in a smile as she sucked him in, her labia spreading apart, his cock filling her. Finally full she started fucking him. Her pace was slow at first, then more frantic as she got closer. 

Jennifer again dug her fingers in, the fourth finger now easily sliding into her greased slit, her hunger deep, deep... She pumped her sloppy cunt in the same time as her hips, both women reaching orgasm at the same time, cries now intermingled. The girl collapsed on his chest, breathing fast, Jennifer settled back farther in the darkness, tears sliding down her cheeks. The boy stood, condom still attached to his prick, now full of his semen. Giggling again she reached for him and slid it off with a snap! Jennifer saw her carefully lay it down, nothing spilled as they dressed in a hurry. Their eyes locked one last time as they parted, the pair rushing off to class, Jennifer now walking to the spot where they had just lain. Jennifer went to her knees, still able to smell their sex. 

She picked up the rubber carefully, looking at the pool of cum still contained in. She could smell her so clearly. She tilted her head back, open mouthed like a bird, tongue outstretched, spilling the still hot contents in her mouth. She held it there, tasting him, rolling the semen around her tongue, cumming once more as she felt it slide bit by bit down her throat, sharing this most intimate act with a girl she did not even know. Sated she now had her story for him, but would he believe her?



Writing Lines



The familiar smells of her house did little to reassure Ellie Sadler, as she crawled in a world of darkness and lust. He had her by her hair, dragging her along. Before he'd put the blindfold on her, Master had put a plug up her arse with a pink, protruding handle that curved upward like a pig's tail.

She felt the plug pressing against her inner walls with each shuffle of her knees, reminding her of its presence, reminding her how ridiculous she must look.

Every fibre of Ellie's naked body should be rebelling against the humiliation. Instead, the thrill of it ran straight to the nerves of her cunt. Her clit throbbed and her breathing came in shallow gasps.

Finally, a stronger jerk of her long hair came, and she fell onto her side.

His voice rang in her ears. His calm baritone, so capable of warmth and humour, sank now into dispassionate cruelty:

'In position, now.'

She clambered onto her knees, hands on her head, chest pushed forward.

Listening keenly, she tried to make out where she was. She heard the low whir of a computer's hard drive. Her study then?

His fingertips dug back into her hair, twisting her head back and around. His lips met hers hard, his tongue pushing forward for a savage, invasive kiss.

'Stay kneeling,' he said, breaking away, 'and press your filthy face into the floor.'

Obeying quickly, she knelt with her back arched and the left side of her face pressed into the rough fibres of the carpet. She knew the view he would be getting: arse cheeks spread, cunt visible, her arsehole lewdly gripped around the obscene curves of a butt plug.

Without warning, she felt the thing being eased outward with a constant, unrelenting pressure. She gasped as it pressed at the tight ring of muscle and groaned as it popped free of her body.

'Return to position, little slut.'

Something new pressed against her lips. Before she'd even realised it was a ball gag, the thing was jammed between her teeth, the straps fixed around the back of her head. Only then was the blindfold released.

It was her study. Her computer whirred away happily in standby, and she could just make out pen and paper on the desk, next to the big yellow copy of the Writer's Handbook. This was her sanctuary. Her escape.

Then she noticed something that didn't fit. On the floor, in the shadow by her desk, rested a red and white dog bowl. She stared at it with something like dread.

'Interested, whore?'

She glanced up. His smile gleamed with savagery.

'Want to see what's inside?'

He nudged it forward with his foot. She still couldn't quite see. His shoe – immaculate suede leather – pushed it forward another inch. Ellie frowned. Inside the red and white plastic dog bowl were two dozen pieces of folded up paper.

'Think you're a writer, do you, Ellie?'

She looked up in confusion. He picked up the fountain pen from her desk and dropped it at her knees.

'You will learn, bitch, that everything you are belongs to me: your mind, your skin, your pen.'

A shudder danced a cruel waltz along her spine.

His voice turned soft, like he was speaking to a little child. 'Pick up the pen, Ellie. We're going to play a little game.'

She obeyed, the cool metal feeling foreign in her fingertips, so out of place with her current situation.

'It goes like this,' he said, talking with slow care. 'You pick a piece of paper. I tell you a body part. And you write what it says, where I've told you to write it. Understand?'

Ellie nodded.

He slapped her. Then grabbed her by the throat. 'I didn't hear that, cunt!'

'Guhh, gur-guhhh!'

'Better,' he said, and laughed. 'Start now.'

The hand was gone from Ellie's throat. She leaned down and picked up one folded piece. As she opened it he ordered, 'stomach - to the left of your navel'.

The words were type-written, as cold and dispassionate as his voice.

She took off the top of the pen and dipped it onto her skin. Again, his hand lashed forward, but this time it landed gently, stroking at her hair.

'My left, sweetie, not yours.'

Switching sides, and twisting awkwardly, she wrote the words that he had prepared for her:

I am Master's dirty little fuck-slut.

The blue ink stained her skin. He kept stroking her hair and whispered in her ear, 'mind and skin'. Without waiting for an order, she picked up another piece. Her fingers shuddered as she unfolded.

'Right breast,' he said.

She had to cup her breast with her free hand, as she wrote:

I am a piece of shit on my Master's shoe.

Behind her, he stood. A few seconds later, the blow struck her back. The pain from the whip released the dam of emotion. She groaned into her ball gag, heart pounding, as reality struck her in a euphoric rush: he was making her defile her own body, demeaning herself with each stroke of ink.

'Mind and skin, little girl.'

Sobbing gently, she picked the next piece of paper and then the next. Humiliation flowed out of her pen, saturating every inch of her flesh.

My body is nothing but a sex toy.

This slave is not worthy to lick Master's arsehole.

I deserve to be beaten.

I'm a worthless whore who lives only for my Master's cum.

As the pen rolled over her legs, her inner-thighs, her chest, Master's whip dug into the skin of her back, punctuating each sentence with an extra dose of pain.

Tears rolled out of her eyes and down her cheeks, but Ellie knew she couldn't deny the arousal that dripped down her thigh. Master would see it when he looked and her degradation would be complete.

As if thinking the same, Master's foot connected with her back, shoving Ellie forward onto hands and knees. Yet instead of inspecting her, he used the new position to deliver five whip-blows to her arse with merciless speed.

A scream ripped from Ellie's mouth.

'What a dirty, useless little bitch. You need to look at yourself.'

With that, he grabbed her once more by her hair.

'Walk!'

She staggered after him, as he dragged her into her own bathroom, facing the wall-length mirror.

'Lean against it with your hands - arse out.'

Once she'd obeyed, his fingers pushed inside her cunt, without pause or subtlety. He toyed with that little slip of ridged skin an inch or so inside and another scream slipped out from her lungs.

'So wet,' he said. 'Such a whore.'

He laughed loudly.

'Now, look into the mirror.' His fingers didn't stop. 'I have someone I'd like you to meet. She's called Ellie Sadler and she's a dirty fucking little slut. Just look at the filth she's written all over herself.'

Even as pleasure swarmed her head, Ellie couldn't help but look. Her skin was covered in obscenity, drenched in a humiliation she had scrawled all over herself. Shame rose in her heart. For she knew the reality. She knew the worst of it. Beneath the obscenity and the dirty words, Ellie was covered in truth.

She was her Master's fuck-slut. She was everything she had written and would be till the day she died. Released by the shame and the truth, and shuddering under the ecstasy of his invading fingers, Ellie gave it all up.

And when she fell, knees weak from her orgasm, his strong arms caught her.

Like they always would.