writingdirty

Dirty stories by Jack Stratton

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KFANYC2 – The Future of Online Sex Writing

I did a second presentation because there was some extra time and space left. I only got to a few of these points, but here is some more information about the topic.

The Future of Online Sex Writing – How Sex Writing is Changing and What We Would Like to Read

A. Mixed Media

1. Audio
Although the written word has always been the ideal medium for me, it is silly not to look at technology and all the ways it can bring erotic storytelling to the next level. To me the short story has always been a particularly good form for erotica writing. As well short stories lend themselves to audio very well. A short piece that can be recorded in 30-45 minutes and read by someone with a good voice and decent equipment can be amazing.
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Notes on my KinkForAllNYC2 presentation

This is a write up of my first presentation at KinkForAllNYC2 as well as a lot of peripheral information from my talk at Sex 2.0 DC.

See the KinkForAllNYC2 Schedule Grid for write-ups, video and pictures of other presentations.

You can see video of part of this presentation on YouTube (Part 1, Part 2)

Anonymity’s Effect on Online Sex Writing

I’ve been reading online erotica since there has been erotica online. Starting with BBS (Bulletin Board Systems), using a 2400 baud modem to dial up and log into places like Technet and The Unforgiven Board to scour the forums for hand transcribed copies of badly written stroke stories from magazines and pulp novels.
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KinkForAllNYC2

A while back I wrote about the first KinkForAll and how much I enjoyed it. I ask anyone who is anywhere near NYC to attend the second KinkForAll on August 8th. Trust me, it isn’t threatening, it isn’t boring and it isn’t like any conference you’ve ever been to. You will learn new things, you will meet new people, you will be exposed to new ideas. It’s free, in all senses and it is there for you to jump right in and help as much or as little as you want. One way to help is to donate.

KinkForAll is an ad-hoc informational unconference on sexuality for anyone and everyone. KinkForAll draws participants from an astounding range of sexuality-related communities. Anyone with the desire to learn or with something to contribute is welcome and invited to participate.

Vitals

What: The second no-limits sex-positive gender and sexuality unconference of New York City.

Why: To inspire a creative, interactive and open environment where everyone feels comfortable talking, learning, and being inspired by all kinds of sexuality.

When: August 8th, 2009

Where: The LGBT Center, 208 West 13th Street, New York.

Who: Everyone How much: Free (as in beer as well as freedom)

Details

KinkForAll is an ad-hoc gathering born from the desire for people of the kink, queer, sex-positive and related communities to share and learn in an open environment. It is an intense event with discussions, presentations, and interaction from all participants. (It is inspired by the BarCamp community.)

ANYONE WITH SOMETHING TO CONTRIBUTE OR WITH THE DESIRE TO LEARN IS WELCOME AND INVITED TO JOIN. When you attend, be prepared to share with others. When you leave, be prepared to share it with the world.

A KinkForAll is a special kind of gathering because there are no spectators, only participants. Attendees must give a talk or a presentation, help with one, or otherwise volunteer/contribute in some way to support the event. This is called sharing and we like it. All presentations are scheduled the day they happen—there are no pre-scheduled presentations or keynote addresses. The people present at the event will select the presentations they want to see.

Anyone can present, on any topic related to sexuality. You do not necessarily have to teach a new skill or idea. You might share an experience, review a product, or read a poem. The goal is to start a discussion, make connections, and exchange knowledge. Presentations promoting specific commercial products or companies are discouraged.

Learn more about what to expect at: http://kinkforall.pbwiki.com/WhatToExpect

Learn more about the event guidelines at: http://kinkforall.pbwiki.com/TheRulesOfKinkForAll

Get Involved!

Ménage à Text

Truth be told, Elise didn’t even really like him. That’s not to say she wasn’t already wet when she got off at his subway stop and climbed the familiar stairs into the lingering evening sun. She hadn’t been to his apartment in weeks. She hadn’t walked through the dirty streets of his neighborhood, next to the big school with the high metal fence and the little stores with the weird religious candles and the exotic smells.

All right, maybe she liked him in some weird way. He could be a good friend, in his own fashion, if he wanted to, but he was so very full of himself sometimes, so very Mark. They had dated for a while around two years ago, and maybe they were even in love for a couple of minutes, but Mark was an ass and that all disintegrated quickly. He was a much better fuck than he ever was a boyfriend.

Mark could be a good listener too, when he was in the mood. If he got interested in what you were saying and thought your little problem was entertaining he could set his mind to solving it. He was an egomaniac but sometimes that gave him the detachment to give you really insightful advice. Also he was really good in bed.

Sometimes you want to fuck someone you’re not in love with. It’s good to have someone like that who you can trust. And then there was the fact that Mark always had a way of making things dirty. Elise craved that sometimes. More than craved it, she needed it. As she walked down his block she knew that this was one of those times.

It was hard to ask someone new for those things. When you are falling for someone and you want everything to be perfect and so you can’t have the awkward conversations about how you needed to be held down or spanked or called a slut or more.

Mark knew all her boundaries, though. He read her like a book and said out loud all the dirty things that were in her head and made her blush. He made her blush! Elise was always the bold one, the brash one, but Mark could make her feel like a veritable prude sometimes. And as much of an asshole as he was, he never crossed her lines. He knew just from looking in her eyes what she needed and what was too much. That kind of connection could take years to create and there was no reason to waste it just because they couldn’t make a relationship work.

The truth was, she had met someone the day before. The truth was, every time she thought about this new guy she melted a little and her knees almost gave and her heart started pounding. This guy was serious, though, no one night stand. This guy was amazing.

Elise swooned as she pictured him. He was tall and handsome and so very gentlemanly. He worked for some kind of not-for-profit organization. He recycled. He was a genuinely nice person. He had good skin and a crooked smile and used big words and had a nice ass.

Her stomach dropped. There were things she needed though and she wasn’t sure someone so “nice” could give them to her. She thought about Mark, who certainly wasn’t a bad person. Mark who drank too much and make crude jokes about horrible tragedies. Mark who admitted to a somewhat criminal youth. There was also Mark with the bookshelf full of interesting things and his world-traveling past and there was the fact that his cockiness was all bullshit and he was actually very humble about how smart he really was.

She thought about the last time she saw Mark, his hand in her hair, his body on hers. There was something that pushed the moments in his apartment to hyperreality. The way he half-closed his red curtains which made the light from the street glow crimson on his white walls.

Half way to Mark’s apartment Elise’s phone vibrated. Pulling it out of her bag, her heart was beating hard. It was like being in high school again.

“It was cool meeting you. I’m kind of really excited about our date,” said the text message.

Elise stopped walking and let out a happy little noise. Then she looked around quickly to make sure no one heard her. Swooning she looked up to see Mark’s building, an old brownstone with a sort of ominous array of little angels and demons carved into the staircase and windowsills.

She texted back from Mark’s hallway. “I’m pretty excited too. Can’t wait. See you soon.”

She rang his bell twice without an answer. She knew he was home because he had buzzed her up. When he opened the door she saw his familiar face a bit stubbly, his graying hair a bit messy, the piercing blue eyes never focusing on her completely. He nodded hello to her, “give me like five minutes, okay?”

Elise stood confused at the door as he quickly walked back into the apartment and picked up a book on his big leather chair and started reading something intensely. She came in, looking around a little confused. The apartment was cool, with a fan in the window and the evening air flowing in. It was tidy, but cramped with stuff. Books, computer parts, a couple of leather floggers peeking out from under the Sunday Times.

Walking around the room she saw things she remembered. There had been three months when she was sleeping over every night. The salad days when she learned how badly he snored and how decadent his breakfasts were. She smiled at the little box of Peruvian Worry Dolls he’d told her the secrets of one summer night.

She jumped when she heard the thump of a book closing. Turning around she saw Mark get up from the couch and stretch.

“Okay. Sorry, I was in the middle of this… intense chapter.”

She shrugged, he was already smiling at her with that predatory smile.

He used to play this game where he made her admit why she came. He made her tell him that she needed to be beat up and fucked. That got old a while ago, but sometimes he just watched her. He watched her until she squirmed.

She fingered her phone, wondering if he would text her back, wanting to check, wanting to know more and tell him more. Mark eyed her, she was extra nervous and she knew he could tell.

Mark walked over and she backed up until she was against his bookshelf. He laughed, “I’m just saying hello.” She looked up with her big eyes. He had good lips, soft and expressive. He kissed her on the cheek and she tensed, unsure of what he was doing. Mark always changed the game, never wanted her the same way twice.

“I like it when you’re nervous,” he whispered, already husky-voiced.

“You’re an asshole.” But she couldn’t look up at him.

“You should take off your pants.”

She shook her head, “no.”

He pushed and pulled her, like a child getting out of her winter jacket. He pulled off her shoes and socks. He roughly unzipped her pants and pulled them down, bending her over and pulling each leg off.

When he was done she steadied herself on his bookshelf, her hair in her eyes and her legs looking extra naked with her only in a shirt. She didn’t wear underwear with jeans, Mark was never really sure why. Her cunt was bare, Mark could tell it was freshly shorn from the slight redness and complete smoothness.

He grabbed her arms and just moved her around. Shaking her a little and pushing her here and there like a rag doll. He liked how docile she got when she was like this; when she wanted to be hurt and controlled. So different than the Elise on the street. He pushed her over to his bed and slapped her ass once.

She growled, feminine but feral, when hit. The first time Mark hit her he had been a little surprised. It was lovely though, the way her bright eyes and smart mouth just vanished. This brilliant girl rendered dumb by nothing more than pulled hair and a spanked bottom.

She crawled up onto the bed and got on her knees in his sheets, her butt in the air, her chest against the bed, face buried in the blanket, trying to hide her red face and open mouth. The red lips of her cunt peeked out from between her closed legs in the way that made him aggressive. In the silence between smacks, the room was suddenly filled with the dull echo of a phone vibrating.

Mark watched as Elise’s head shot up. She was breathing hard and fast. She looked back at him and then to her handbag.

“Oh, I get why you are so nervous. It’s a boy, isn’t it? Is that him?”

She whined and buried her head in the blanket.

“What’s his name? Is he dreamy?” he mockingly fainted.

“I hate you so much. You’re such an asshole,” she said as she crawled away from him, trying to reach her phone.

Mark let her get up, then stood and looked down on her as she laid on the floor pulling out the Blackberry and reading the new message.

“What’sit say?”

“Fuck off.” She rolled her eyes and bit her lip as the little device blinked to life.

The first blow came to her ass, then it was followed by five more. He was on her, straddling her legs as he grabbed her hair and pushed her face against the floor.

“Tell me what it says.”

Her heart was pounding against her chest and against the hardwood floor. His weight on her legs and ass made her pubic bone press into the floor and she could feel the grain of the wood on her bare mound.

“It’s private,” she wanted to yell it but it came out a choked little whisper.

She wanted to tell him this was too personal, this wasn’t part of their game, but her sex throbbed at the intrusion and she knew he loved it.

His fingers snaked into her hair, closed on it and pulled. Elise let out a high whine as she pulled up the text.

“Ow! Wait, okay!” she paused — this was something different, there was a weird line that she couldn’t put her finger on. Mark’s hand tightened in her hair.

“I really…” she swallowed, her throat felt like it was closing — “enjoyed kissing you that night. Hopefully I…” his hand tensed in her hair, she felt individual strands being pulled out. “Hopefully we’ll get to do more of that next time.”

Mark’s laugh was a slow rumble. She could feel it on the back of his legs, the slight vibration of his body as he chuckled. Her face was hot and her hands were sweaty.

“Is he a nice boy? Is he going to bring you flowers?”

Elise tried to squirm away. “Shut up.”

Mark took her wrists and pulled her arms behind her back. In his struggle, his hardening cock pushed between her legs, not inside of her but rubbing, poised. She tensed.

“Is he gunna be your boyfriend?” Mark stretched out the word like a playground chiding.

He leaned down and whispered into her ear. “Are you gunna wait until the third date to put out? Why buy the cow when you can get the milk free, right? Are you going to marry him?”

“Shut up, shut up.”

It was stupid. He was making little kid jokes. It was such ridiculous teasing, but she felt cold in her chest. Her eyes were itching, maybe even wet. She whined, she shook her head but he kept talking.

“Maybe you’ll get drunk one night and ask him to spank you. What if he knew the girl I knew? What if he saw the little slut who sucked three boys off in a bathroom?”

The images flashed into her head. It had been a year ago. Mark had taken her to some event of some kind. Some kinky club, hidden entrance, secret password. They’d watched bodies writhe, they’d seen a boy hung up with rope. Mark had eyed two friends of his and when he’d pulled her into the bathroom, they had followed.

It was the most embarrassing memory in her head, and it was also the one her mind went to every time she couldn’t come and needed that little push. The dirtiness swirled in her belly, like their come had. Her tongue was thick.

“What if he knew even more? What if he knew about the parties? Will you tell him or should I?”

“No. Stop it. Shut up.” Her throat closed and the words came out as squeaks.

“What’s his name, Elise?”

“I… I don’t want to talk about him anymore.”

Mark laughed loud and let go of one of her arms. She felt him shift on her, reach for something, then the sharp pain of a leather crop on her ass. Then his hand because he couldn’t get the right angle with the crop.

“Okay! Okay. It’s…” she struggled, thinking maybe she should lie, but that was no use. “It’s Todd.”

The spanking stopped. The pressure on her wrist loosened.

“Todd?” he said with a much lighter voice. “Toooodd,” the chuckle was different, not dark and angry but silly. “Fucking Toooodd?” he laughed.

Elise squirmed from under him and pouted, folding her arms over her naked breasts.

“Fucking asshole, just stop,” she mumbled, getting up and going to his bed.

Then there was the look. She glared at him and he glared back with his wicked sarcastic gaze, but then it shifted. The questioning look. “Is this okay? Should I really stop?”

She swallowed. Was it okay? She shifted on the bed, a dark spot on the gray sheets where her dripping sex had rested. His eyes were light, gray and blue, but they seemed to change depending on the light.

Was it silly to see so many things in a look? How much of it was wishful thinking? She could have sworn she saw something else, behind the sadistic grin and the questions, some little hurt, some primordial jealousy.

He got off her and his grin wavered but didn’t fade.

She panted as she laid back on the bed looking up at him. He walked over to the window and looked out. He picked up the book he was reading when she came in and he licked his finger and then turned the page.

She waited. She knew this game even if it did have all sorts of new dimensions.

“Why do you have to make this so fucking hard?” she whined, her voice gone sad little girl.

He looked over the top of the book at her, his eyebrows raised. The tiny hurt hiding somewhere in those cool blue eyes was all she could see now. His big ego bruised because this was supposed to be their time, this was supposed to be their game, even if it was just a game it was all they had and she didn’t realize that was important.

The sadness of it made her feel small. She pulled her knees up to her chin and cradled her legs and gave Mark her puppy dog eyes.

“I’ll put my phone away,” she said meekly. “Can you come over here and cuddle with me?”

Mark put down his book and glared at her appraisingly.

“No. You brought your phone here and wanted to read the message, so now it’s fair game. If you don’t like it, you can leave.”

She bit her lip. This wasn’t turning out how she wanted, not at all. She liked it when he was mean, but not like this. She sighed, laughing at herself. She thought, “you can’t want someone to be an asshole to you and then complain that they aren’t being the right kind of asshole.”

On top of all of that, she was curious. What was he going to do? What could he do?

He walked over to her while she was thinking and picked up her phone on the way. He pulled her and pushed her around, pushing her face into the bed right next to the phone, pulling her legs so that she was up on her hand and knees, ass high and head low.

“I probably shouldn’t tell you this but all day I’ve been thinking about doing a lot more than kissing you,” his voice was flat and rough.

She looked back at him. He was taking off his shirt and then unbuckling his belt. He looked down at her and smiled.

“Type it,” he said sternly in that voice that made her reach for the phone before she knew what she was doing.

She stopped, though, and looked back at him.

“I probably shouldn’t tell you this but all day I’ve been thinking about doing a lot more than kissing you,” he said it slowly, enunciating each word.

Her fingers lingered on the little keyboard, her thumbs at the ready. She typed the first two words and then stopped, feeling him shift behind her, then his fingers, wet with his saliva, grazing her clit. He knew how to barely touch her so that her body whimpered and begged for more. He did it again so softly that she could swear she could feel his fingerprints like rough little Braille dots tormenting her most sensitive spot.

She typed a few more words. Her head was buzzing, her eyes were stinging, her cunt was itching with need.

He slipped two fingers into her, the way he always did. Fingers bending and finding the spots that made her stupid, made her make silly noises and do what ever he said. She pushed her ass back, wanting more of his fingers, more of his attention.

“Keep typing,” he growled, and then she felt the wet warmth of his tongue circling her asshole.

She should have been over the shame. After all, in all the time she’d been a sexual being, people had done all sorts of things to her ass, but there was something instinctually naughty about this little intimate act. As he rimmed her, his tongue pushing slightly into her, she blushed and hid her face in his sheets and groaned with pleasure. His fingers inside of her, his tongue playing with that secret, dirty place.

When she looked up, she saw the sentence he had told her to type. The nervousness and embarrassment and need and lust were all swirling in her stomach, crawling through her veins. She hit “send” and heard Mark chuckle low and quiet.

His fingers worked her harder now. She was so wet she took three of his thick fingers, she felt them press down, she felt filled up and overpowered. The orgasm was building, but she wasn’t sure she could get there because of all those damn emotions.

The phone buzzed and he slipped his fingers out of her. They both waited. She felt him leaning over her, looking over her shoulder at the little screen.

“To tell the truth, I’ve sort of been thinking the same thing for most of the day,” the tiny letters read.

She bit her lip. His cock rubbed against her ass, hard and hot.

She continued to stare at the screen as he slipped off of her and walked into his little office. Her body shuddered as she heard the familiar sounds of him opening his little toy drawer.

When he came back, she didn’t look at him. She knew she should have stopped this little scene of his, but somehow her hands were on her phone, thumbs waiting.

He slipped something under her, then positioned her. Her breath was coming faster. When the vibrator started he pushed and pulled it under her until the head was pressed on her clit. Elise let out something between a gasp and a wail. Then she heard the rip of plastic; she knew he was putting on the condom, and soon he would be fucking her. She knew the vibrator and his cock would be almost too much.

“What have you been thinking, exactly? I shouldn’t tell you this, but I have some particular tastes,” he dictated in that commanding tone that told her she should type it word for word.

Worry flooded her again. Was this going too far? Would she scare Todd away? She should tell him these things about herself eventually, but like this?

Her eyes unfocused as the vibrator pounded her nerves and pleasure rang through her, spreading out from her clit and making every part of her body tingle.

As she typed his words she felt him pressing against her, the thickness of his cock meeting the wetness of her sex. He was just waiting, slipping the head in and out a little, holding her hips and pressing her down against the vibrator’s unrelenting buzzing.

“You sound like you’re in a frisky mood. I’m no prude, tell me about your intriguing particulars, please.”

Half of her brain was filled with elation about the text, imagining Todd, the boy she was so smitten with, also being potentially kinky. At the same time she was about to be fucked by Mark. Then there was the vibrator. Then there was the shame — she realized what a slut she was being. Then the embarrassment turning into that white-hot emotional pleasure in her head. At the same time, Mark slipped his cock into her with a smooth slow push.

Mark voice was straining to stay steady. “I like to be spanked.”

“Hard,” he added.

She started typing when the first orgasm came. She screamed into the mattress and balled her fists in the sheets.

“Type the fucking message!” he said, slowing down as she bucked and writhed under him, the vibrator suddenly far too much for her sensitive parts.

“I like to be spanked. Hard.” He repeated the massage and she typed it, her finger lingering over the “send” button.

He started fucking her seriously then, his legs on either side of her, pushing her legs closed so that her sex was almost painfully tight around him. As he fucked her he pressed his chest against her back , his mouth on her neck, biting the pale skin.

The phone buzzed as his thrusts started getting spastic and his grunts loud and animal.

“I think our next date is going to be very interesting.”

He let out a chuckle just before he came, grunting hard and punching the mattress and then throwing a pillow across the room. He always got like that, violent when he came.

He turned off the vibrator, dropping it on his night table. Elise was still trying to settle her body enough so that she could think. She felt a huge wet spot under her and her face flashed red. She hadn’t even felt herself squirt, but when she was forced to come like that it usually happened.

She looked at the phone, scrolling through the messages. She hadn’t really said anything that crazy. She could tell him she had too much wine with lunch.

When she looked up Mark was dressed in a t-shirt and boxers.

It always seemed to end up like this, him clothed, her naked. She pulled the sheets up to cover herself and then felt silly. He always seemed to do that, keep her dangling on the edge of aroused and ashamed.

“Hope that wasn’t out of line,” he said, pulling on a pair of jeans.

She didn’t know if it was or wasn’t, but she did know that she hadn’t come so hard in a long time.

“Let’s get something to eat. That was fun, but quick. Round two should take a while and I need food. We can talk about your boyfriend.”

She winced, but it faded into a smile.

“He’s not my boyfriend. We only went out once,” she complained as she pulled her jeans back on.

“We’ll talk about it at lunch. You know I don’t like you going out with boys I haven’t fucked first.”

Elise sighed, trying to make herself presentable.

“You can’t fuck him, Mark!” But the thought made her knees weak.

“We’ll see. We’ll see.”

Elise smiled to herself, remembering at once why she loved him and why she could never stay with him. She was happy to have these moments, though. She was happy to have a friend who could make her feel so deliciously dirty.

Following a Mouse, Part One

She seemed like a little mouse. That’s how I thought of her, what I called her in my head. My little mouse. Oh, how I was wrong.

That’s the way it is being a man sometimes. You see a woman and she can’t look you in the eyes. She is sweet and pretty and her cheeks go red when you joke with her and you think you know her. You imagine her small and innocent and you are tall and strong and can show her the world. In a way it is comforting. It makes you powerful. All the secrets of desire are yours to show her.

Real life is far more complex, and far more interesting.
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A Casual Beating

In this new life, I have slipped into a variety of completely new relationships. I’ve always been the kind of person who has a small circle of very close friends and I tended to shy away from the masses of acquaintances people seem to collect in this city. Now I seem to be joining ever-growing groups of interesting and open-minded people. This has led to months of fun, flirty and often fierce conversation. In some ways these connections are almost better than all the sex and exploration. (Almost, but not quite.)

I hadn’t considered my sadistic side very much until about a year ago. If anything, I had often thought that I was squeamish about really hurting someone and that might be a real hindrance to being a dom. After a few enthusiastic scenes and I found that the little seed of a sadist in me was starting to bloom. The key, I realized, was playing with masochists.

It’s funny how your personality changes in certain situations. I’ve noticed all these parts of myself that come out when I am doing certain things. The seducer, looking at sex as a challenge and an artform. The toppy boyfriend, with his sarcasm and teasing. The daddy, who is overprotective while being dirty. The aspiring rigger, with his knitted brow and stern focus. The sadist, who is almost constantly wearing an evil grin and always thinking of the next form of torture.

So as I was saying, besides the cadre of smart and sexy friends with whom I converse, there are a few smart and sexy girls that I beat up on a somewhat regular basis. It’s interesting, because in general these are not exactly sexual relationships, though certainly they all have sexual elements. Mostly, though, they are about administering pain.

For example, here is a tale of a girl – well not really one girl but sort of an amalgam of a few people I know. There are too many scenes in my head and writing about the important parts of each would take too long. But basically, this is what I’m talking about…

We had been on a few dates, after work drinks, talking and flirting and exchanging the social currency of anecdote and background.

In this time we used the complex mating language of eyes and subtext to explain our emotional availability. We danced around our proclivities. We ferreted out kinks and occasionally just came out and owned our desires.

Negotiation came later. By then we had reached that plateau of reasonable trust and adequate acquaintance. The fourth date would be at my apartment.

She was on her mid twenties, bright, educated, good job, interesting life. The city seems to either breed the complicated or pull them magnet like from all points of the compass.

Dark hair with severe bangs and thick glasses. She had a wealth of interests which showed her curiosity, which to me is the most important virtue. She was cute if not pretty but her style brought her look up. She knew how to wear clothes. She was an artist through and through, but more than that she was an artist who could make a living which was certainly a precious thing in this city.

“I’m a masochist,” she said rather plainly. “I had a boyfriend who I finally convinced to spank me, but he never hit hard enough and it always just left me unsatisfied.”

“‘I don’t want to hurt you, baby, I love you,’ is what he’d say.” she quoted in mocking a luggish tone.

I understood very well. The spanking was the gateway from vanilla to kink in many ways. It was still socially acceptable, if a bit risky by Cosmo standards. Still for many it was a glimpse of that new world we wanted to explore a lot more thoroughly.

Back at my apartment we had giddy grins and drinks. A conversation on the couch about work and the world, while both of us shifted closer and thought about how to start things.

“So, you liked that last story I wrote, hm?” It’s a way to gain a little control and bend the conversation towards where we both want to take it.

“Yeah, you could say that. I think I came six times. I soaked my sheets.”

I watched her eyes, there was some instinctual shame, but she actively fought it. She wanted to be bold, she wanted to own it.

“Well, I guess you owe me.” I said, reaching over and caressing her breasts, finding the nipple, pinching it roughly as I watch her reaction.

It was silly, really, but nothing is better than a little ego-stroking to build one’s confidence. I moved in and kissed her, then my hand moved up to her hair and pulled her head back so I could drag my teeth across her naked neck.

I’ll skip the rest of the beginning. I’ve certainly told the tale of a girl being bent over the arm of my couch and spanked far too many times. I will say this: While spanking her and getting her warmed up I did what I always do to partners in this situation. I progress quickly at first to find that line, how much they can take. There is always that level when they start squirming away from the blows. Some of them say “ouch” or the ones who are more experienced in more formal scenes even say “yellow”.

I kept hitting her and measuring and there was no yellow point. Harder and harder I spanked, but she gritted her teeth and took it. The few times I leaned over her body and whispered my little check-up questions into her ear, she just nodded. She was fine, I should keep going, harder.

That’s when I knew I was going to get to cane someone for real.

I only have one cane, though I am looking to remedy this. It is long and black and thin, sting-y and direct.

It’s sad, but I have to chide myself and force myself to start slow. I knew she had to be warmed up. I knew I had to be patient and calculating.

She is obedient and follows my every direction perfectly. Frankly it was all really more sensation play than dominance. A beating, not a punishment. I don’t want her to call me “sir,” I just want her to do what I say and take every stinging lash.

When I start, it is just a little bounce of the cane on her naked ass. Her skin is red from the spanking and flogging, with a circle of light purple where I had hit her the hardest, but the cane makes fresh and crisper red marks. Lines form, even from this light bouncing.

That first real hit, that first time the cane cuts through the air, is perfect. When the first blow lands her back arches. She takes it, but it is a lot even for her. She has only ever really had hands spanking her. I hit her three more times, once on each cheek and then once across both. Her hands don’t come up to protect her tender flesh the way other girls’ have, but she is suddenly still. I let the pain reverberate. I let her feel it and process it. I put my hand on her back and steady her, let her know I understand that it hurts and I am letting her deal with it.

Each time leaves three lines, red, then white, then red again. As I bounce the cane on her skin again I see that the four hard hits have started to bruise already. It makes me hard. It makes me giddy. I want to ruin her. I want to mark her. I want her to feel these marks all week and get wet every time she sits down and winces.

I go to work on her, bouncing the cane harder, making little syncopated rhythms that I remember my drummer friend taught me. I wait until the skin is red and hungry and then I hit her hard a few times, relishing each. I hit her harder, pulling my hand back farther and taking full swings that turn purple immediately.

She finally breaks a little and lets out an “ouch.” She doesn’t block me, though, she just slumps forward a little. I soothe her, I continue the bouncing as I pull her back into place. I place medium hits on spots that aren’t bruised. There is some minute change in her reaction and I take it as a sign we should move on for a bit.

When I pulled her up, her legs don’t respond properly and I am holding her. I laugh and push her against the wall. She gasps and smiles. I know the white wall is hard and cold.

My hand moved down her body and slips between her thighs. She is so wet her thighs are slick. She buries her head in my shoulder as the pleasure overtakes her for a moment. I push her away. It’s not cuddling time. It’s not pleasure time. Those will come.

I slapped her breast hard. Her eyes flash open. I cup each one and slap it down. She looks unsure how to take this. She is squirming.

“Do you like that?”

She nodded quickly, eagerly.

“Has anyone done this before?”

She shook her head. It’s hard for her to talk when she gets in this space. Important to note and damn adorable. I slap her harder, focusing on her nipples. Slap, slap, waiting for her wince, measuring out the limits of this new activity.

“Why do you like it?”

“It hurts.” She has that sort of look in her eyes that tell me that this was once something she was ashamed of, but now she was proud, or at least comfortable. Her tongue is thick in her mouth and it is hard for her to create sentences now, but she tried to continue.

“I also like it because I can see it. Usually it’s my ass and I can’t see it happen.”

I devour the flush in her face when she says this. This is useful information. Information means I can hurt her in more complicated ways.

I hit her breasts a few more times and relished her winces. She is so tough when I am spanking her, but her breasts are a lot more tender and she isn’t used to the sensations.

I was thinking of how else I could hurt her while she watched it happen. I like the idea of that. I remembered back at a sex conference when I watched a guy give a caning demo. It was really the first time I had ever seen someone get caned and the first time it really clicked that hitting someone and making marks on them was something I needed to do.

The top had his demo bottom sit on a table and he caned her lap. Talking to all of us as his rattan cane bounced up and down on her thighs. Progressing from tapping to hitting as she squirmed and moaned. That seemed perfect now. I got a towel and put it down on the cushion and then had her sit on said towel.

Probably my most powerful urge, one that’s been around a lot longer than sadistic desires, it to make a woman have an orgasm. Not help, not assist, but make. To force her to come. To have control over her body and her pleasure and to use a significant and powerful human reaction as nothing more than a tool for my amusement.

This whole time I was fully dressed. That was part of the scene, though I didn’t realize that for a while. She was a plaything, being stripped and used and played with. I was playing and amused by her arousal and entertained by her pain. She was naked because she is a slut and I am dressed because I am above the base needs she is tormented by, or so the game goes.

I got out some toys, fresh from ziplock bags, sterile and ready.

Some girls go into a dreamy place when they are being beaten. Some get feisty and fight back, kicking and cursing. This girl smiled, eyes just out of focus, and she giggled as she was hurt.

I plugged into the wall my favorite vibrating implement and shoved it between her half closed legs. I pushed her back a bit, manhandling her, and got the head of the condom covered toy against her clit. I closed her legs against it, letting the towel and her thighs hold it in position. As I turned it on I struck the tops of her thighs again with my cane.

She bit her lip, she ground against the vibrator and then winced as the cane left thin marks on her legs.

I switched to the riding crop, taking it to her breasts, the only place so far I was able to get a real reaction. I hit the tender bottoms of each breast, then the sides, the quick snaps on the nipples that made her cry out.

When I flipped her around, her knees on my couch and her arms and head hanging over the arm she was starting to get disoriented. I liked it when the pain and pleasure made them stupid. It is the point when you can really start to have fun.

I let loose with the cane a few times, the marks I had left before now a sharp violet. I crossed those line with fresh red and that made her jump. She wasn’t so tough anymore and when she pulled away from the cane I went to work on her with the vibrator.

This cycle started, cries and yelps followed by moans and whimpers. The cane and then the vibrator until she whined every time I pulled the vibrator away. I hit her a few more times and then held her down and pressed the vibrator on high against her sopping sex.

She mewed and tensed and came hard against me, pulling at my arm. When she was done pulled the vibrator away and just as she sighed in relief I pushed it back against her now over sensitive clit.

She fought against the overstimulation, but I held it to her, I let her ride it out until her hips were bucking again and she came even harder.

When she came down this time, I sank into the couch next to her and held her as she gasped for air and shivered. I petted her hair and smiled at her and soothed her, careful not to touch her still hot and stinging ass.

When we finally got up I saw something spectacular. It was my first real masterpiece. Her ass was almost uniformly purple with lines of wine red and angry pink and speckles of her pale skin showing through. I spun her around and marveled at it. Her thighs had a few scattered lines but nothing like her ass.

It was perfect. She kept touching the raised marks and smiling at her little prize. She was just as happy as I was, because this was the first time she’d gone this far and gotten when she’d been fantasizing about.

Through that next week I emailed her, checking in on the progress. The bruises lasted weeks. Those first few days she could hardly sit and she had to go to the bathroom of her office and finger herself because the pain was so intense and the memories so inescapable.

Sex 2.0 ver 2, DC

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The last time I talked about a kink conference was the first KinkForAll back in March. I wrote then how I hadn’t been to many events of this nature. Well, having one kinky unconference under my belt I headed out to our nation’s capital to see what Sex 2.0 was all about.

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A Meal of You

 

 

A story influenced by Alice in Wonderland. A young girl slips into a daydream world and is thrown into a frightening adventure. WARNING! Don’t read this if you are offended by fairy tale type characters of indeterminate age, very questionable consent, attempted cannibalism(?!), obscene cutlery, mammoth root vegetables and/or the misuse of butter.
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Mister McIntyre’s Secret, Part Nine

Mister McIntyre’s Secret, Part Nine

I’ve been given a notebook and a pen and I’ve been told to write down everything. Everything? If I am going to do that I guess I need to give you a little background, after all, who knows who might be reading this?

My name is Abigail. I’m twenty-two, boring and not very pretty. I don’t have fancy dresses or lots of makeup, but somehow I am in a lavish mansion sitting in a room full of interesting people watching a beautiful woman about to get–well, I’m getting ahead of myself.
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Betty the Bruiser

I came home to find the apartment in disarray. A lamp, which was still on, was laying on the floor, shining a spotlight on the half empty bookshelf. The books were strewn about floor and one was soaking up the water that a vase once held, the violets having been trampled.

My Betty was a bruiser, a broad shouldered girl, too tall to ever be comfortable in her own skin. She’d been beaten into shape as a kid by her step-father, that was until she was old enough to kick his ass.

She sat on the kitchen floor with the last of my good bourbon. Unlaced roller-skates, a black skirt, and one of my old white t-shirts. Her tattoos were nothing but shadows under the white cotton, thick black and red lines peeking out.

“We lost,” she slurred and gave me a particularly petulant glare.

I poured myself a glass of water and leaned on the counter of the small kitchen, looking down at her as she rocked the bottle of amber liquid on the black and white tiled floor.

I looked over to the living room and then back at her.

“I couldn’t find a book,” she shrugged.

She took one roller-skate and tried to push off the other with it, failing miserably.

“I couldn’t find a book and I can’t get these stupid things off,” she said, and kicked at the floor with her skate.

At 25, with a messy black bob, a cut lip, and the beginnings of a black eye, she did her best to pout like a little girl. Roller derby was good for her because she needed a healthy outlet for her violent nature. Plus I was there to pick up the pieces after a match.

“Help me get ‘em off?”

Kneeling, I took one of the black leathery boots by the thick front wheel and pulled. She winced as the skate slipped off her sore foot. Her shin looked purple and yellow, she had a scrape on her knee. My eyes lingered up higher to the edge of her skirt, then abruptly back to her other skate. I pulled the second one off and I stood up, holding out my hand to help her up.

She groaned as her sore and swollen joints creaked and then she was holding on to me with both hands on my shoulders, her cheeks red, her eyes glazed by the bourbon, but still shining. Our eyes met and there she was, smelling like whiskey and sweat, the Betty I fell in love with. We were about to kiss, but her knees gave out and she almost pulled me down to the floor with her.

“I’ll put you in bed,” I groaned as I lifted her back up.

“Tuck me in, too?” she teased, smiling and limping with one arm around my shoulder, “you can be the big spoon.”

“I’m sleeping on the couch, Bette.”

“Pshh, I bet you ten bucks you’ll be in bed in ten minutes. And don’t fucking call me Bette, you know I hate that.”

I sighed. I was too old for this.

I was sleeping on the couch because this whole thing just wasn’t working and we knew it. She was all rough and tumble, late night at rock clubs and drunk five nights a week. I was in a PhD program, I had a full time job. My punk youth was long over, though not forgotten. That’s not to say I grew up and became boring, but I just wasn’t in the same world she was in.

That’s one of the many things that can happen when you date a girl who’s ten years younger than you. Even if she is taller than you.

It was more than that, though, and we knew it. We just didn’t click anymore. I was a city boy, through and through and deep down she was a Midwestern farm girl.

She put her weight on my shoulder as I led her to the bedroom. The only light was street lamps coming in from the window. It illuminated tangled sheets and books all over the floor and nightstand.

I sat her down on the bed and she put her arms around my neck.

“I miss you,” she whispered. It made my throat tighten and my heart ache.

“Just get some sleep, Bette, we can talk tomorrow.”

She kissed my chin.

“Don’t you think I’m pretty anymore?” she said kissing my cheek, catching just the edge of my lip.

“I think you’re drunk and sweaty and you have a black eye and probably a sprained ankle,” I said trying to untangle myself from her arms, but she was already pulling me in for another kiss.

“You used to give me black and blues, remember?” her voice was rough, she gave a throaty chuckle, sad and dirty.

“You always end up getting bruised, one way or another,” I started, but she kissed me.

It had been a while, probably three months. She was depressed and her sex drive disappeared. The roller derby brought it back a little, but this was something else. This was goodbye.

I eased her onto the bed, hovering over her. I kissed her bruised face. I kissed her chapped lips. She rubbed her cheek against my stubble. She pulled her shirt off.

It’s superficial, but I’d miss her tattoos most of all. It was the main physical trait that would define her in my mind. As I kissed her shoulders, my lips traces the minute raised skin of the thick black letters and all the little symbols and secrets. I remembered every story, every detail. I still remember the why and where of all of them.

Her kisses grew wilder and so I held her down. Given time every action turns cliche, but just then it seemed more like nostalgia. That was until she started to fight. This wasn’t a little wilting flower, this was a tough girl who could take most people I know in fight. This wasn’t submission, this was making me earning it. I held her down by the wrists with all my strength and all my weight.

I pushed her legs open with my own and pressed against her. She writhed, she bit my lip when I tried to kiss her again. I let go of one of her wrists and she immediately pushed at my chest with her free hand. I pulled the cups of her bra down and sucked at her thick brown nipples, I bit down just enough to make her yelp. Her hand was in my hair, pulling me to her and pushing me away at the same time.

The haze of a long day at work and the sadness of the whole situation were gone for a moment. I was strong and she was hungry. I reached down, pushing away her skirt. I found her panties and pulled hard, ripping them, but not enough. She raised her ass, trying to push me away and trying to get more of her clothes off. I pulled again and came away with most of the fabric.

She was gasping and moaning. This wasn’t playful roughness, this was the death throws of our love. This was the only thing keeping us from crying. I pulled at my belt, I pilled at my zipper, I pulled out my cock. I had to concentrate on her, I had to bury my face in her tits and kiss her copper tasting lips just to get hard. I had to do anything but think.

Still reality was there, in the background, and as I held her down, my fingers moved to the bedside table. There was a little ceremony in that motion, in the creak of the drawer. Familiar squares of foil right where I left them. I remembered these same motions a hundred other times, in the salad days, in the laughing midnights.

She eyed me, ceasing the fight long enough to let me me slip the condom on. Then she smiled as she arched her back in my moan and my cock pressed against the coarse hairs of her sex.

She was wet, I could smell it, strong and tart. It smelled like Betty. She was fighting again, but her hips were bucking up, her legs open, her moans turning into needy whimpers. I rubbed against her, I slipped against her, and then I pushing into her.

Sex with Betty was always a quick affair for some reason. Maybe that was one of reasons it was going to end. I liked to draw things out. I liked to tease and play. She was impatient and deep down very ashamed of it all. All that wanting went to waste with her.

She needed to be hit and be needed to be held down, but she could never talk about it. Those secret moments of violence, when she pulled my hands to her neck. Electric and forbidden and lost once they ended.

All I ever wanted to do was remember and record it all, but that was me. I over-thought it, or so she said. If I tried to make her beg she would grow cold, and really, for me, the begging was the best part.

All that fluttered through my mind as I fucked her. Looking down, her eyes were closed and she bit her lip. She was wet to the point that I could feel it on my thighs. The muscles of her sex were tight; her powerful legs were wrapping around me and pulling me in.

She didn’t want foreplay and she didn’t like her clit played with. It all bored her, she would slap my fingers away. Going down on her was occasional and for my benefit. She just wanted to fuck and she wanted it to hurt.

As I fucked her I remembered that first time in a motel. She was strong and wild, so different from other women I’d been with. It was awkward, because I didn’t know how to top her the way she needed to be topped, I didn’t know if I was strong enough physically or emotionally, at least not in that moment, in that motel room, both of us drunk and high from a concert.

As I fucked her that last time, I felt myself grow more and more detached. She was lost in it, though, and I watched as her body went through the motions and cycles. Her blush spreading down her chest, her breath growing faster. When she came she came hard and punched and then clawing at my shoulder, needed something to hold on to as I fucked her through it.

After the waves of her pleasure broke, I lost my drive. The moment had passed and I grew soft. I just pulled myself off of her and she didn’t seem to notice that I hadn’t come. She rolled onto her side, our bodies no longer touching. I couldn’t tell if she was asleep or crying. I crawled off the bed and pulled the blanket onto of her.

I cleaned up the mess in the living room and wrote through the night, knowing the next day she would leave, and knowing I had to get the memories down before they were tainted or gone.

After that it was all packing and crying and the long days of uncertainty. I came out better in the end. She moved back west and found another boy to hurt her, one way or another.

Kink for All Rundown

I have a lot of thoughts floating around in my head. I went to the Kink for All NYC (KFANYC) today and although I was unable to present due to a rather serious family crisis I did catch the last few hours of the “unconference” and I enjoyed it a lot. Then again I was probably part of the minority who had never been to a “proper” sex conference so I don’t have much to compare it to, but I liked what I saw and heard.

I have been to a mix variety of kink related outings. Pleasure Salon and the such. Some more private little meet ups as well, but this was probably the biggest kink event I have been to. Surprisingly I felt very comfortable. In fact I would say I felt very much at home and very confident. I listened to intelligent people speak intelligently about gender, identity, sexuality, kink, BDSM, media and everything in-between. I saw a caning demo which was far more intriguing then I expected it to be. I was in general very enthralled with everything and everyone. It was exciting.

It left me with a lot of questions though. As much as I felt like I belonged there seemed to be a part of me that felt like an outsider. Almost everyone there was in some way queer and although I don’t know if I am exactly “straight” in every sense I don’t know if I am far enough from binary male/masculine to consider myself queer. There seems to be a large gap in the talks about the place of straight men in kink society other than johns, pornography consumers or roadblocks. I’m sure I am generalizing a lot, but that’s mostly how it felt.

I grew up in a feminist household with various types of queer folk around me, but I’m heterosexual or at least heteroflexible. At the same time I’ve read and researched a lot of gender theory and queer theory, so at times I find myself examining my masculinity in ways that butches might, but often other straight men don’t. At least not any I know, that is. I would go as far as to say that I have fetishized my straightness. Does that make sense?

Anyhow, just some thought that were floating around. Also thanks to any and all who read this blog and I apologize for it going unattended for a while. I have a lot of very hot stories on the burner, but life has been getting in the way. The economy and various unforeseen crises tend to suck out the drive to create. Of course let me repost an old message so as to remind my dear readers of how they can help inspire:

An Immodest Proposal

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Well, in that case aren’t a thousand words worth a picture? If you like my stories, anecdotes, reviews and fiction then get out a camera and take a dirty picture for me. You can be as anonymous as you like, I don’t mind, I just ask that the picture be graphic. I need fuel for dirty stories, you know. Don’t worry, I’ll never show anyone. After all, I’m greedy and they are my payment for all these dirty words. Email them or comment with a link.

Shameless Self Promotion

love_notes_antho_498a09e122b68Part of being a decadent hedonist with no spiritual beliefs or moral compass is that I feel no compunction about self promotion. This is, after all, my blog.

My first piece of commercially published erotica is now available in ebook format!

You can get it at Ravenous Romance for only $4.99!

BUT THAT’S NOT ALL! Oh wait. Yes it is.

There are stories by other sex bloggers who are nearly as famous and talented as I am, like Rachel Kramer Bussel (who also edited the anthology), Greydancer and NookieNotes.

Synopsis
Our favorite music inspires us to move, dance and, yes, get busy in more intimate ways. Love Notes celebrates dancing queens, rock stars, groupies, anthems and more as the characters stroke each other to the sounds that make them soar. One woman masturbates to her favorite song while a stripper slinks her way into a man’s life. From Madonna to Shania Twain to Led Zeppelin and beyond, they channel their favorite music to make love to.

Love Notes celebrates the erotic power of music to move us, whether it’s listening to a lover rock out, fantasizing about your rock star crush, or making the sweetest and sexiest of music together. Singers, sirens and dancing queens get busy to a sex soundtrack ranging from heavy metal to classical and beyond. Get ready to get serenaded, seduced, and smitten with Love Notes.

Contributing Authors:

  • Jocelyn Bringas
  • Eve Carpenter
  • Heidi Champa
  • Jeremy Edwards
  • Mark Farley
  • Greydancer
  • Delilah T. Jones
  • Shanna Katz
  • Janne Lewis
  • Zach Lindley
  • Jincey Lumpkin, Esg.
  • Madlyn March
  • Mia
  • NookieNotes
  • J. M. Snyder
  • Craig Sorensen
  • Jack Stratton
  • Elizabeth St John
  • Mariana Tolentino
  • Brandi Woodlawn
  • Rachel Kramer Bussel

Published

I’m going to be published in an upcoming anthology called “Love Notes” which is about sex and music for Ravenous Romance. My story is a previously unpublished kind of angsty story about a band.

More details as I get them!

Review – The Maven

544There are a lot of things in my life that can use improvement, I freely admit this. One thing, dare I say the only thing, in my life that I thought I had perfected it was masturbation.

Unlike many women I know most men have it down pat. Sure the female sex blogging community are usually able to get themselves off easily, but a lot of girls I know have trouble. Every guy I know can make themselves come in a good minute and a half. Why would we need to masturbatory toy?

Well, there is the prostate, given, but that is a whole different catagory. There are a variety of new sensation that a dude can explore, but we surely don’t need help with the actual jerking off part, do we?

I’m a “masturbator” n00b, obviously. I’ve never used a sleeve of any kind. No fleshlight for me. What do I need with that?

Enter, The Maven. No seriously, enter one, they rock.

I’d never heard of elastomer, but apparently is it this silky cushy soft polymer that is phthalate-free and hypoallergenic. It’s porous, so it’s pretty much just a toy for one… though I’m not sure why you would want to share it unless you were putting on a show for someone.

I like the material, but it sort of never gets totally dry once you use lube and wash it off. It is very easy to clean, though. You just use it and then flip it inside out and wash it with soap and water. I keep it wrapped in paper towels between uses.

I use a little Astroglide, but any water based lube will do.

Ok, so how does it feel? Well, it certainly isn’t as good as sex, but it is better than your hand. The softness is interesting, like a blow job from someone with soft lips. That sounded a lot creepier than I wanted it to.

We are men, we don’t need pretty adjectives. The thing is affordable as sex toys go and it lasts a long time and it feel really good and it also reduces cleanup. You use it and then you take it to the bathroom and turn it inside out and wash it out. Fun!

I put a little dress on mine and I am planning on introducing it to my mom soon.

The Maven is not going to change your life, but it may change the way you masturbate or at least give you an interesting change of pace.

Three and a half stars!

HNXMas

What to do while you wait for Santa? Practice your rope skills!

A half naked Christmas present from someone who is putting off taking the long train ride out to his family.

It’s a pretty decent double column!

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