Running the Fuck

By Big Ed Magusson (Guest Blogger)

“I like to run the fuck.”

I couldn’t help smiling at Master Patrick’s words. Around us, the dungeon throbbed and hummed. Most people stood in small clumps, talking as usual, but three of the flogging stations were in use and in the far corner some needle play was going on. Earlier, Master William had demonstrated the use of a single tail whip to the repeated shrieks of his sub, but now they were nowhere to be seen. They’d either gone home or locked themselves in the larger bathroom with the couch to screw.

I waved my fingers to indicate our surrounds. “So none of this does it for you?”

He shook his head. “This is window dressing. The only thing that matters is that my sub does what I say.”

* * *

One of the wonderful things about alternative sexual communities is that few people are offended by sexual questions. In my early thirties, my sexual explorations had taken me to the local bdsm community, and I asked a lot of questions. ‘How?’ ‘What?’ and most of all, ‘Why?’

‘Why’ was illuminating. I discovered that I fell on the Dom side of the spectrum because, frankly, I got bored when I subbed. Planning ‘the fuck’ was fun. Running ‘the fuck’ was fun. Lying back and receiving ‘the fuck,’ even from an eager and enthusiastic partner, was like waiting for my college chemistry class to end. Yeah, it was probably good for me, but it was hard to keep my mind on what was actually happening.

Furthermore, I learned to identify the true Dom’s in the club. They weren’t the same as the sadists, of course, who were often easy to spot. The window dressing of leather and black cloth all too often draped poseurs and beginners as well as the experienced and serious. The true Dom’s distinguished themselves by their energy, the way they carried themselves, the way they were deliberate in action and speech. This energy, this sense, could almost always be reduced to those simple few words: ‘running the fuck.’

As a consequence, this sense of ‘running the fuck’ is the biggest influence on my erotica that comes from my time learning to be a Dom. While it obviously is part of the bdsm erotica I write, it’s also present throughout my vanilla erotica. An early example is from my novel The Ugly One. The set-up for this excerpt is that the Nevada courtesan Tamara has arranged an orgy for the narrator, John. One of the invitees is Sherri, another courtesan whom John has only met briefly before.

***

“No,” I said. “I don’t want you doing this as a favor to Tamara. I know she’s your friend and you might be willing to screw me, but I’m not a charity case. No favors.”

Sherri looked at me. Slowly, a feral smile appeared on her lips.

“That’s fine,” she drawled. “There’s just one problem. I’m not Tamara’s friend.”

Sherri stretched and stood up, like a cat just waking.

“I just started here this month and I didn’t meet Tamara until three days ago. I like her, but we’re not friends.”

Sherri sauntered over in front of me. She planted her feet, shoulder width apart, with her hands on her hips.

“So if I fuck you,” she purred, “it’s because I want to fuck you.”

With that, Sherri bent over and grabbed my collar, pulling me up. I was on my feet before I could resist. Sherri was taller than I’d expected, so we were face to face. She wrapped her arms around me, placing one hand on my neck, directly below my scalp. I was too surprised and spellbound to stop her. She pulled my head in until our lips met. Then she shoved her tongue in my mouth. Shocked, I started to return her kiss on auto-pilot.

***

What follows is pretty standard sex--no whips, no ropes, no black leather. Sherri, however, is going to ‘run the fuck’ like Master Patrick back in the bdsm club. Or like I found I liked to do.

Now I’m not a sadist, nor do I particularly need to watch a submissive bend to my will. In fact, my primary kink is voyeurism, which domination enables in the most straightforward manner. I can get my desired rush by saying, “lift your skirt and let me see your pussy. Now, please.” That act might be simply voyeuristic in the bedroom, but in the middle of a library with other people around, it has rather strong Dom/sub energies that make it even more delicious (and for the record, she did, and the view was glorious).

These energies, I find, can infuse and alter many erotic scenes and give them greater depth. Consider a simple screwing between a man and a woman. If he bends her over the back of a piece of furniture and takes her from behind, the energy is completely different than if they’re entwined side by side on a bed. If she’s on top, is she riding him like a cowgirl racing for the stables, or just languorously posing while she squeezes her Kegels? Or consider other simple acts. Despite Sam’s singing in Casablanca, is a kiss just a kiss?

The following excerpt is from my story Two Minute Penalties. The premise is simple: the narrator Liz and her romantic interest Steve are betting on hockey games after having flirted for some time. The loser has to pay a ‘two minute penalty’ where the winner chooses what happens. In the scene below, Liz’s team has just lost.

***

“Do you want to pay up now, or save it until the end of the series?” Steve asked.

I caught my breath.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’m kind of nervous. Which would be better?”

“If you’re nervous, how about paying two minutes now and the rest later? You can get a taste and decide if you still want to continue the bet.”

I blushed. I certainly wanted more than a taste! But Steve had this… presence. It was reassuring and frightening at the same time. I suspected he could give me a bigger “taste” than I could handle.

I nodded. Steve stood up and took my hand and led me into his bedroom. It was clean and Spartan—other than his computer and several bookcases, it was pretty bare. He shut the door behind us and turned to me.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

I did.

“Two minutes can be a long time,” he said.

I snorted, remembering some power plays that would never end.

“It’s now 3:55 pm. When it’s 3:56, I’ll begin.”

I waited.

“Now. Please keep your eyes closed.”

Steve placed his hands on my shoulders, then slowly ran them down my arms, to the tips of my fingers. I could sense him walking around behind me. He placed his hands on my shoulders again and slowly ran them down to my fingers. This time, he pulled my arms behind me until my palms touched.

“Clasp your hands, please.” His voice was still very gentle while firm.

I quickly complied.

I sensed him moving in front of me. I started to crack my eyelids and he paused.

“Please keep your eyes closed.”

I squinched them shut.

Steve stepped in close. I could feel his breath on my cheek. His hand came up and rested on my shoulder again. This time he slowly slid it up, to the nape of my neck, and then onto my cheek. He paused, just holding me, lightly caressing my skin. Then he swept his hand back until he caught my hair and pushed it out behind my ear. There he paused, his thumb making small circles just underneath my earlobe.

Oh God, this felt good! My breath was getting shallow, though I was still nervous about what might come next. I could also feel my body begin to respond to his touch.

Steve leaned in, and his breath warmed my ear. I could almost feel him, though only his hand still touched me.

Then he kissed me behind the ear. My knees nearly buckled as he nuzzled my flesh. I started to bring my hands up to hold him, but he caught my arms and pushed them back behind me.

I acquiesced.

Steve pulled back and then audibly stepped away.

***

It was a kiss, a simple kiss, and not even on the lips. Yet is there any doubt as to what may come if Liz allows Steve to continue to ‘run the fuck’?

Now that said, I often use a dance metaphor when I write about sex. Often, like in ballroom dancing, one person is leading and keeps the lead throughout. However, tap dancing is replete with routines where the lead bounces back and forth. One dancer does a few showy steps, the other copies. Then the second shows off, and the first copies. In other dance styles, it’s not clear at all who the lead is. Who’s in charge in the mosh pit?

In the bdsm community, this change most obviously appears with those who identify as switches and can Dom or sub as the mood or scene fits them. I knew one transvestite who perfectly manifested this. When he showed up at the club dressed as a man, we knew ‘John’ was feeling dominant. When he showed up as ‘Joanna,’ in his dress and pigtails, we knew he was looking for someone to give him a spanking. Most switches didn’t contain such visual cues, though, and thus one has to sensing their body language and energy to know their mood.

This change of lead also sometimes shows up in ‘topping from below’ where the nominal submissive is actually running the fuck. I played with this in my tentacle sex story, Irie No Kaubutsu. Both characters are experienced bdsm’ers and switches. In the excerpt below, the narrator is nominally the Dom, but Michiko is really the one running the fuck.

***

“Please… Please,” Michiko said. “May we move to the bed?”

“Hmmm. I think we can do that. But only if you’re a good girl.”

She vigorously nodded, so I pulled back. She turned and we kissed passionately before she twirled around the bedpost and sank onto the mattress. She smiled, languid and feline, as she stretched out and held her wrists above her head.

I put on my best evil leer as I moved to her side.

“Tie me,” she said and then closed her eyes. “I want to be tied.”

I blinked. We hadn’t packed our cuffs and rope, since I had been afraid of dealing with customs, and I wasn’t sure what to use as a replacement.

“Please.” Michiko slid one hand down to her breasts and then down to her mound. “I want to feel your tongue all over my body while I am helpless.” She started fingering her clit.

I let out a low breath. I loved watching her writhe in pleasure, which she well knew. I kept my eyes on her as best I could as I rummaged through our bags. One of my neckties and the sash from Michiko’s robe quickly became makeshift bonds.

Michiko whimpered when I pulled her hand away from her pussy, but purred when I fixed it to one of the posts in the headboard. I tied the other wrist and then blanketed her body with my own.

“Tongue,” she said.

I sighed and rolled my eyes. Who’s the Dom here? I wondered.

***

All three of these excerpts are from stories that aren’t considered bdsm erotica. The Ugly One is a personal growth story, Two Minute Penalties is a traditional romance, and Irie No Kaubutsu is a monster story. Yet all three have benefitted from the insight I gained from Master Patrick. Who ‘runs the fuck’ is important, and it’s something I’ve tried to be conscious of throughout my writing.

The Ugly One, Two Minute Penalties, Irie No Kaubutsu can all be found on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Smashwords. The Ugly One and Two Minute Penalties are also available for free at www.besplace.com.