Consent and Complicity - #BDSM #consent #confessions

Photo by Artem Labunsky from Unsplash

A while ago, a writing colleague posted a biting critique of political correctness in publishing, especially in erotica. He cited a personal experience where an editor had labeled his climactic scene involving two people who had a sexual history as a rape because the woman had not explicitly given her consent to the encounter.

My friend was dumb-founded – and I would have been, too. Lovers don’t need to ask permission. Even in an erotic interlude between strangers, mutual attraction can often be assumed, signaled by behavioral cues. We are, after all, writing for adults, not children who need every detail spelled out.

Meanwhile, there are plenty of readers who enjoy stories involving dubious consent, or even completely non-consensual sex. You can wring your hands all you want, but survey after survey has documented the fact that many women have rape fantasies. Do these women actually want to be raped? Of course not. That doesn’t diminish the erotic charge associated with being “forced” to submit to sex.

One reason this fantasy is such a powerful aphrodisiac is that it relieves the woman of responsibility for sexual activity. If you’re coerced into having sex, nobody can label you as a slut. You can remain a good girl even as you’re enjoying the enormous cock (or cocks) pounding your holes.

Intellectually, I can understand the appeal of non-con fantasies, but this particular kink doesn’t really push my personal buttons. I can recall only one book I’ve written that had elements of dubious consent (Rajasthani Moon). The novel begins with the heroine being kidnapped, whipped and fucked by a sexy bandit. The whole scenario is intentionally very exaggerated, treated in a light-hearted manner. No one could possibly doubt that Cecily Harrowsmith, secret agent extraordinaire on a mission from Queen Victoria, is having an excellent time. In general, serious non-con does not float my boat.

On the contrary, you might say I have a consent fetish. There are few things I find as arousing as explicitly agreeing to do something naughty. Even in a vanilla relationship, saying “yes” to passion is exciting and empowering. There’s always an element of risk in sex, emotional if not physical. When you overcome the fear and claim the pleasure, you reap incredible rewards.

Consent is even more potent in the context of dominance and submission. Nothing turns me on like a submissive agreeing to be tormented and used by a dominant. Admitting your deviant desires—taking responsibility for your own fantasies, twisted and taboo though they might be—scenes featuring this sort of dynamic never fail to get me wet.

My very first published work included this sort of interaction:

He leaned closer. “I want to tie you here, hand and foot, so that you will be more completely at my disposal. I believe that you want that, too. But you must tell me so. I will not do this without your permission.”

Kate was silent. She had never been so unsure in her life. Fear, suspicion, shame, and distrust warred with curiosity and desire. In his arms she had felt both sheltered and helpless, and she longed for those feelings again. Yet he was essentially a stranger, she reminded herself—a stranger with a shady profession and an unsavory reputation.

When she looked at him, though, she saw attentive concern in his eyes, belying the fierce reality of the cock which pulsed hugely from his fly. The sight of his manhood sent a delicious weakness through her limbs. I must be crazy, she thought, as she nodded her assent.

“Do it,” she murmured, and did not trust herself to say anymore.

With expert skill, he bound her wrists with the silken braids. “Silk is a marvelous substance,” he commented. “So soft, but incredibly strong. Like you, my little Kate. I know that you can endure much. Much more than you would believe.”

~ from Raw Silk by Lisabet Sarai

In more recent work, I’ve continued to explore the same themes, in perhaps more subtle ways:

"Look at me." His tone was softer but no less firm. I raised my eyes to his, which were the startling blue of glacial ice. I shivered and burned. "You're new, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Yes, Sir," he corrected me. My nipples tightened inside my bra.

"Yes, Sir." Just his voice was enough to make me ache.

"What's your name?"

"Cassie, Sir. Cassie Leonard."

"Don't look away, Cassie. Look at me. Do you know who I am?"

"No, Sir. I just started at Lindenwood this week. Before that I was in the rehab department at Miriam Hospital."

"My slaves call me Master Jonathan."

My earlobes, my nipples, my fingertips, all seemed to catch fire. I wanted to sink through the floor. I didn't want him to see how his words excited me.

But he did see. I stared at my hands, knuckles white from gripping the rail.

"You have a boyfriend, don't you?"

"Yes, Sir, I do." An image of Ryan rose in my mind, his brown curls and uneven grin, muscled chest and hard thighs. I did love him, truly I did, with his quirky humor, his gentle fingers and his boyish ardor. He was a fine young man. My mother approved of him.

"He doesn't satisfy you." It was a statement, not a question. Tears of remembered frustration pricked the corners of my eyes. "Why not, Cassie? Is his cock too small?"

I couldn't believe I was having this conversation with a stranger, a patient, a half-paralyzed man forty years older than I was. I stole a glance at Dr. Carver. His mouth was firm but his eyes sparkled with suppressed mirth.

"No, Sir. His cock is fine." Ryan was justifiably proud of his meaty hard-ons.

"What is it then? Is he a selfish lover? Does he come too quickly for you?"

Guilt washed over me. Ryan would happily spend hours licking my pussy and fingering me, trying to get me off. The only way I could manage it was to think about scenes from the kinky porn I hid from him. Whippings and spankings, gags and handcuffs, all the clichés that I couldn't stop myself from wanting.

"Well? Tell me, Cassie. What do you need that he doesn't provide? What do you want?"

My mouth filled with cotton. I couldn't speak. I was acutely aware of my rigid nipples pressing against the starched fabric of my uniform. My clit pulsed like a sore tooth inside my sodden panties.

"Cassie, I'm waiting." His sternness sent electricity shimmering through my limbs. "Don't disappoint me."

I dared a glance at his face. His left eyelid drooped slightly. His eyes snared mine. I couldn't look away. One eyebrow arched in an unspoken question.

"I—um—I want him to, uh, to do things to me. That he doesn't want to do.” I tried to break away from his gaze, but the force of his will held me.

“Things?” He sounded amused. A fresh wave of hot, wet shame swamped my body. “What sort of things?”

“Uh—tie me up. Spank me. Use me. Treat me like his slave.” It all came out in a rush, the desires I'd never shared with anyone except Ryan. Even then, I'd only shown him the tip of the iceberg, the least perverted of my needs. “He wouldn't, though. He was shocked when I told him. Disgusted. Said that I had a filthy mind.” The tears that had gathered earlier spilled out over my cheeks.

“I imagine that you do, little one, delightfully filthy.” His voice was a caress, soothing and seductive. “I knew that right away, just from your reactions to my voice. Your deepest desire is to submit to a strong master, isn't it?”

“Yes—Sir.” I felt relief, now that I'd admitted my secret. He at least didn't seem to condemn me.

“You want to be beaten and buggered, shackled to the bed and split open by a huge cock. You want to bath in your master's come, maybe even his piss. To be forced to service his friends.”

It was thrilling and horrible, listening to him enumerating my darkest fantasies out loud. My clit felt the size of a ripe plum, swollen and juicy, ready to burst. I nodded, still finding it difficult to expose myself so completely.

“I will do those things for you, if you'd like.”

~ from “Stroke” by Lisabet Sarai, originally published in Please Sir: Erotic Tales of Female Submission, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel.

Why do I find this scenario so exciting? Well, I’ve been there. I’ve stood in front of my master and been invited to admit that what he wanted to do to me, I wanted, too. I’ve consented to things I’d never dared to imagine. I’ve writhed under his blows, turned on despite the very real pain, recognizing in wonder that I’d asked for this. That realization raised the erotic temperature to an even more fevered level.

Certainly I wanted to please him. Knowing he truly appreciated my surrender made it all the sweeter. But the intensity of my arousal derived more from other aspects of our interaction. His vision, seeing through my good-girl persona to the twisted creature underneath, a woman I hardly knew existed. His whole-hearted acceptance of my deviance. My secret, shameful, delicious knowledge that I was complicit in my own debasement.

We shared the communion of outlaws, two souls with perfectly complementary fantasies. I’d stepped over that line deliberately, trusting him and myself.

He and I are still in touch, though separated by many thousands of miles. He recently sent me a video of “Wolf Like Me”, by the group TV on the Radio. I’d never encountered this song before, but now I can’t get it out of my mind.

Charge me your day rate
I'll turn you out in kind
When the moon is round and full
Gonna teach you tricks that'll blow your mongrel mind
Baby doll, I recognize
You're a hideous thing inside
If ever there were a lucky kind, it's
You, you, you, you

I know it's strange another way to get to know you
You'll never know unless we go so let me show you
I know it's strange another way to get to know you
We've got till noon; here comes the moon
So let it show you
Show you now

I concur with his suggestion that the lyrics hold many D/s echoes. We both understood it in the same way—as an invitation to venture beyond the bounds of convention and normalcy, into the fierce, hot, wild unknown of power exchange.

An invitation to consent.

Consent and Complicity - #BDSM #consent #kidnapfantasies

Image by Jonny Linder

 

In the #MeToo era, some publishers and editors have gone overboard. Some of my colleagues have had stories rejected because the woman in the tale did not explicitly give her consent to having sex. Never mind that this was in a crisis situation, where the sex was at least partly a reaction to the stress of fear and relief at having survived. No consent, no book contract.

I am of course not in favor of rape or forced sex in the real world. Every person has the right to say no. (Or yes...) However, requiring that every story include a negotiation and agreement is not realistic. Lovers don’t need to ask permission. Even in an erotic interlude between strangers, mutual attraction can often be assumed, signaled by behavioral cues. We are, after all, writing for adults, not children who need every detail spelled out.

Meanwhile, there are plenty of readers who enjoy stories involving dubious consent, or even completely non-consensual sex. You can wring your hands all you want, but survey after survey has documented the fact that many women have rape fantasies. Do these women actually want to be raped? Of course not. That doesn’t diminish the erotic charge associated with being “forced” to submit to sex.

One reason this fantasy is such a powerful aphrodisiac is that it relieves the woman of responsibility for sexual activity. If you’re coerced into having sex, nobody can label you as a slut. You can remain a good girl even as you’re enjoying the enormous cock (or cocks) pounding your holes.

Intellectually, I can understand the appeal of non-con fantasies, but this particular kink doesn’t really push my personal buttons. I can recall only one book I’ve written that had elements of dubious consent (Rajasthani Moon). The novel begins with the heroine being kidnapped, whipped and fucked by a sexy bandit. The whole scenario is intentionally very exaggerated, treated in a light-hearted manner. No one could possibly doubt that Cecily Harrowsmith, secret agent extraordinaire on a mission from Queen Victoria, is having an excellent time. In general, serious non-con does not float my boat.

On the contrary, you might say I have a consent fetish. There are few things I find as arousing as explicitly agreeing to do something naughty. Even in a vanilla relationship, saying “yes” to passion is exciting and empowering. There’s always an element of risk in sex, emotional if not physical. When you overcome the fear and claim the pleasure, you reap incredible rewards.

Consent is even more potent in the context of dominance and submission. Nothing turns me on like a submissive agreeing to be tormented and used by a dominant. Admitting your deviant desires—taking responsibility for your own fantasies, twisted and taboo though they might be—scenes featuring this sort of dynamic never fail to get me wet.

My very first published work included this sort of interaction:

He leaned closer. “I want to tie you here, hand and foot, so that you will be more completely at my disposal. I believe that you want that, too. But you must tell me so. I will not do this without your permission.”

Kate was silent. She had never been so unsure in her life. Fear, suspicion, shame, and distrust warred with curiosity and desire. In his arms she had felt both sheltered and helpless, and she longed for those feelings again. Yet he was essentially a stranger, she reminded herself—a stranger with a shady profession and an unsavory reputation.

When she looked at him, though, she saw attentive concern in his eyes, belying the fierce reality of the cock which pulsed hugely from his fly. The sight of his manhood sent a delicious weakness through her limbs. I must be crazy, she thought, as she nodded her assent.

“Do it,” she murmured, and did not trust herself to say anymore.

With expert skill, he bound her wrists with the silken braids. “Silk is a marvelous substance,” he commented. “So soft, but incredibly strong. Like you, my little Kate. I know that you can endure much. Much more than you would believe.”

~ from Raw Silk by Lisabet Sarai

In more recent work, I’ve continued to explore the same themes, in perhaps more subtle ways:

"Look at me." His tone was softer but no less firm. I raised my eyes to his, which were the startling blue of glacial ice. I shivered and burned. "You're new, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Yes, Sir," he corrected me. My nipples tightened inside my bra.

"Yes, Sir." Just his voice was enough to make me ache.

"What's your name?"

"Cassie, Sir. Cassie Leonard."

"Don't look away, Cassie. Look at me. Do you know who I am?"

"No, Sir. I just started at Lindenwood this week. Before that I was in the rehab department at Miriam Hospital."

"My slaves call me Master Jonathan."

My earlobes, my nipples, my fingertips, all seemed to catch fire. I wanted to sink through the floor. I didn't want him to see how his words excited me.

But he did see. I stared at my hands, knuckles white from gripping the rail.

"You have a boyfriend, don't you?"

"Yes, Sir, I do." An image of Ryan rose in my mind, his brown curls and uneven grin, muscled chest and hard thighs. I did love him, truly I did, with his quirky humor, his gentle fingers and his boyish ardor. He was a fine young man. My mother approved of him.

"He doesn't satisfy you." It was a statement, not a question. Tears of remembered frustration pricked the corners of my eyes. "Why not, Cassie? Is his cock too small?"

I couldn't believe I was having this conversation with a stranger, a patient, a half-paralyzed man forty years older than I was. I stole a glance at Dr. Carver. His mouth was firm but his eyes sparkled with suppressed mirth.

"No, Sir. His cock is fine." Ryan was justifiably proud of his meaty hard-ons.

"What is it then? Is he a selfish lover? Does he come too quickly for you?"

Guilt washed over me. Ryan would happily spend hours licking my pussy and fingering me, trying to get me off. The only way I could manage it was to think about scenes from the kinky porn I hid from him. Whippings and spankings, gags and handcuffs, all the clichés that I couldn't stop myself from wanting.

"Well? Tell me, Cassie. What do you need that he doesn't provide? What do you want?"

My mouth filled with cotton. I couldn't speak. I was acutely aware of my rigid nipples pressing against the starched fabric of my uniform. My clit pulsed like a sore tooth inside my sodden panties.

"Cassie, I'm waiting." His sternness sent electricity shimmering through my limbs. "Don't disappoint me."

I dared a glance at his face. His left eyelid drooped slightly. His eyes snared mine. I couldn't look away. One eyebrow arched in an unspoken question.

"I—um—I want him to, uh, to do things to me. That he doesn't want to do.” I tried to break away from his gaze, but the force of his will held me.

“Things?” He sounded amused. A fresh wave of hot, wet shame swamped my body. “What sort of things?”

“Uh—tie me up. Spank me. Use me. Treat me like his slave.” It all came out in a rush, the desires I'd never shared with anyone except Ryan. Even then, I'd only shown him the tip of the iceberg, the least perverted of my needs. “He wouldn't, though. He was shocked when I told him. Disgusted. Said that I had a filthy mind.” The tears that had gathered earlier spilled out over my cheeks.

“I imagine that you do, little one, delightfully filthy.” His voice was a caress, soothing and seductive. “I knew that right away, just from your reactions to my voice. Your deepest desire is to submit to a strong master, isn't it?”

“Yes—Sir.” I felt relief, now that I'd admitted my secret. He at least didn't seem to condemn me.

“You want to be beaten and buggered, shackled to the bed and split open by a huge cock. You want to bath in your master's come, maybe even his piss. To be forced to service his friends.”

It was thrilling and horrible, listening to him enumerating my darkest fantasies out loud. My clit felt the size of a ripe plum, swollen and juicy, ready to burst. I nodded, still finding it difficult to expose myself so completely.

“I will do those things for you, if you'd like.”

~ from “Stroke” by Lisabet Sarai, originally published in Please Sir: Erotic Tales of Female Submission, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel.

Why do I find this scenario so exciting? Well, I’ve been there. I’ve stood in front of my master and been invited to admit that what he wanted to do to me, I wanted, too. I’ve consented to things I’d never dared to imagine. I’ve writhed under his blows, turned on despite the very real pain, recognizing in wonder that I’d asked for this. That realization raised the erotic temperature to an even more fevered level.

Certainly I wanted to please him. Knowing he truly appreciated my surrender made it all the sweeter. But the intensity of my arousal derived more from other aspects of our interaction. His vision, seeing through my good-girl persona to the twisted creature underneath, a woman I hardly knew existed. His whole-hearted acceptance of my deviance. My secret, shameful, delicious knowledge that I was complicit in my own debasement.

We shared the communion of outlaws, two souls with perfectly complementary fantasies. I’d stepped over that line deliberately, trusting him and myself.

He and I are still in touch, though separated by many thousands of miles. He recently sent me a video of “Wolf Like Me”, by the group TV on the Radio. I’d never encountered this song before, but now I can’t get it out of my mind.

Charge me your day rate
I'll turn you out in kind
When the moon is round and full
Gonna teach you tricks that'll blow your mongrel mind
Baby doll, I recognize
You're a hideous thing inside
If ever there were a lucky kind, it's
You, you, you, you

I know it's strange another way to get to know you
You'll never know unless we go so let me show you
I know it's strange another way to get to know you
We've got till noon; here comes the moon
So let it show you
Show you now

I concur with his suggestion that the lyrics hold many D/s echoes. We both understood it in the same way—as an invitation to venture beyond the bounds of convention and normalcy, into the fierce, hot, wild unknown of power exchange.

An invitation to consent.

Lawyers in Love! @SeelieKay #KinkyBriefs #OnSale #Lawyers

By Seelie Kay (Guest Blogger)

It is truly amazing how events of long ago suddenly leak into your consciousness and permit you to create characters and stories that have depth and a strong sense of reality.

After more than 30 years in the legal world, I must confess that the wickedness flowing from my pen is inspired by the men and women with whom I have worked or otherwise associated. Some I loved, some I despised, and still others, I barely noticed. As a former journalist, my powers of observation are strong, and many times I unwittingly catalog strange events and people, character flaws, and personality quirks only to have them reborn, but more pleasantly modified, in my stories.

Unfortunately, a singular observation does not translate into a full story or antagonist. Indeed, it takes a whole lot of idiosyncrasies and bizarre occurrences to craft a tale. And of course, to make things a bit more interesting, I throw in a dash of kink. Kink to me is not necessarily the whips, chains, blindfolds, and handcuffs popularized in recent tomes. I define kink as behavior outside the norm, proclivities that may fall on a spectrum that begins on the cusp of the vanilla world and extends deep into BDSM. However, my stories reflect my belief that the sexual aspect of any relationship should be pleasurable. 

That’s why my kinky lawyers are playful, inquisitive, willing, and open to exploration.

Most importantly, their behavior is consensual. What two or more people do behind closed doors is their business. It is not incumbent on any of us to judge or criticize. My stories may make you blush, they may even make you uncomfortable. My hope is that in the end, they will also make you think, and yes, make you smile. And if after reading this book, you feel compelled to run out and buy a set of handcuffs, I say go for it!

You only live once. Why not permit your imagination to occasionally run wild and intrude on your reality?

Blurb

Take another kinky voyage through Lawyerland!

Indulge in a walk on the wild side with these sizzling short stories about lawyers in love, with a dash of kink. From painting well-hung nudes at a networking event or thwarting terrorists intent on harm to finding love despite a chronic illness or exploring kink on a train, these lawyers pursue love with a vengeance. And while affairs of the heart may come in all shapes and sizes—a law school ménage a trois, a middle-aged A.G. and a law firm associate, and a new marriage suddenly threatened by a spouse long believed dead—these relationships thrive despite the odds. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, and yes, the resultant loin heating might even make you blush, but in the end, you’ll run out and buy a set of handcuffs. Because that’s the only way to defuse the sizzle created by these hot, sexy stories.

Buy Link: https://www.extasybooks.com/978-1-4874-1734-5-kinky-briefs-quatro/

Coming soon from all major booksellers!

About Seelie Kay

Seelie Kay writes about lawyers in love, with a dash of kink.

Writing under a nom de plume, the former lawyer and journalist draws her stories from more than 30 years in the legal world. Seelie’s wicked pen has resulted in six works of fiction, all released in 2017, including Kinky Briefs, Kinky Briefs, Too, The Garage Dweller, Kinky Briefs, Thrice, and A Touchdown to Remember, as well as the romance anthology, Pieces of Us.

When not spinning her kinky tales, Seelie ghostwrites nonfiction for lawyers and other professionals. Currently, she resides in a bucolic exurb outside Milwaukee, WI, where she shares a home with her son and enjoys opera, the Green Bay Packers, gourmet cooking, organic gardening, and an occasional bottle of red wine.

Seelie is an MS warrior and ruthlessly battles the disease on a daily basis. Her message to those diagnosed with MS: Never give up. You define MS, it does not define you!

Author links:

www.seeliekay.com

www.seeliekay.blogspot.com

Twitter: @SeelieKay

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/seelie.kay.77

Amazon author page: https://www.amazon.com/Seelie-Kay/e/B074RDRWNZ/

The Line of Consent

By Teresa Noelle Roberts (Guest Blogger)

Maybe you’ve caught some of the buzz recently about romance novels and feminism. My most recent release, Knowing the Ropes, was used as an example in this ongoing discussion, and I’m proud of that. I’ve read a lot of romances over the years, and I have to agree that some of them are problematic from a feminist point of view. I’m not talking about the dubious consent fantasies I see played out in some of them. Sexual fantasies aren’t always politically correct. Hell, sex itself isn’t necessarily politically correct. And that’s fine. The way I see it, as long as everyone involved is of age and consenting to the activities, have fun—even if they involve pain, power play, humiliation, age-play, consensual non-consent or other practices that make many people uncomfortable. Even if they involve clown suits or the end products of digestion, which make me uncomfortable, and I’m pretty damn open-minded when it comes to sex.

The key word is consent. My emphasis on informed consent in Knowing the Ropes is probably why it was used in talking about BDSM and feminism in romance novels. My heroine, Selene, is a domestic violence counselor who happens to be kinky. She’s working to reconcile her sexuality with her professional passion, and consent proves to be the answer to that dilemma. Nick, the hero, is a dom I created after reading a few too many fictional doms (and alpha male heroes who were almost pathologically dominant, if not strictly speaking practicing BDSM or D/s) who blurred the line of consent* with abandon that can be hot in fiction, but would be dangerous, not to mention illegal, in real life. In contrast, I wanted Nick to be the kind of dominant partner I’d want a younger, less experienced friend to meet. A good human being who happens to be kinky. A dom who talks things through when necessary, who knows the difference between hurt and harm, and who understands that informed consent is critical to kink. In contrast, Nick’s ex Natalie finds herself with a dom who pushes her far beyond her limits (which are basically “don’t do anything likely to kill me”—she’s an extreme player) and beyond the bounds of harm. I think of consent as basic human decency. It shouldn’t have to be a feminist issue, just something that sane people take for granted as a base line for sexual interactions.

The fact that it needs to be an issue is part of why I’m a feminist.

Who writes erotica and romance, much of it kinky.

Teresa Noelle Roberts writes erotica and romance—“doing what comes (super)naturally.” She loves slightly writing more than gardening, but can’t survive without either. Learn more at www.teresanoelleroberts.com or follow her on Twitter, where she’s @TeresNoeRoberts

Knowing the Ropes

They’ve got the sex factor in spades. But can love survive the “ex” factor?

Selene has harbored kinky, submissive fantasies most of her life, but her experience as a domestic abuse counselor leaves her leery of giving up that much control. Case in point: the ex-fiancé she didn’t love quite enough to test the limits of trust.

At a BDSM meet and greet, she sets out to learn how far is too far. Nick seems like the ideal dom to show her the ins and outs of ropes, floggers, and paddles—with no commitment clause.

After losing a sub he loved too much, Selene’s country girl common sense and smoking sensuality is like a dream that Nick never dared to have—a perfect blend of kink and long-term domestic bliss.

Yet it’s tough to figure out just how far they can push their limits when they’ve both agreed to a no-strings affair. Especially when an ex needs Nick’s muscle and Selene’s newly discovered skills to get out of a dangerous situation. And it may be too late for love to survive all the things they’re afraid to say.

Warning: Sexy, kinky, geeky dominant guy. Smart submissive woman. Crazy ex. A little experimentation between girlfriends. And lots and lots of kinky sex.

Buy links:

Samhain: http://bit.ly/VAyjd8

Amazon: http://amzn.to/Zi02F1

Barnes and Noble: http://bit.ly/RvCvwO

Kobo: http://bit.ly/X9ju1f

Excerpt

Mesmerized, Selene reached around and started to unzip her dress. He reached behind her, caught her wrists. “Oh, I’m glad you’re as eager as I am, but we need to talk a little more—with our clothes on. Things we should have talked about before, really, but dammit, woman, you make it hard to think.” Another devouring kiss, and then he steered her toward the couch.

“Pull up your skirt before you sit,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Being naked would distract us both too much—but a little distraction will keep you honest.”

And then he proceeded to ask her a series of no-holds-barred questions that made her squirm on the leather couch in a combination of embarrassment and lust.

After they’d gone over her experiences (fairly varied in the vanilla area, but limited in the kink department to light, playful spankings and a few experiments with silk-scarf bondage) and the things that were absolutely off-limits (she asked about his absolutely nots as well and was relieved to hear they agreed on the things they’d never, ever want to do), the subject turned to her fantasies.

“What draws you to BDSM?” he asked.

“I’m not sure I can put it into words. There’s so much… It’s always been part of my fantasies, ever since I was little and made my brother’s GI Joe do unspecified evil things to my Barbie.”

That cracked him up, but once he stopped laughing, he encouraged her to go on.

“Part of it is the idea of giving up control. The couple of times I’ve been tied up were heavenly, even though the guy who did it to me was probably a bigger sub than I am. He was just doing it so I’d tie him up and have my wicked way with him the next night. I’d love to be restrained more, more severely.” And how. She was getting wetter simply talking about it, imagining Nick spread-eagling her on the bed or putting her into some of the exotic rope-bondage positions she’d drooled over while surfing the Net. “And I’d like to take that further, to give up mental control once in a while, to put myself into good hands and say, ‘You’re in charge now.’ To please you if that’s what you want, or to take what you give me, your choice.”

“How far are you willing to go with letting someone else make the decisions for you? How about…erotic dares, maybe? Like would you want to be told to have sex with someone else?”

“Maybe. Depending on the circumstances. Especially if it’s a woman. I’ve had my bi fantasies, and I’ve kissed women before. The idea turns me on, but it never seemed like the right time go further than kissing. So being ‘ordered’ to do it…might be hot, as long as it was something she’d do anyway.” She grinned and felt herself flushing.

“Consent’s definitely key, even if we’re all pretending we’re forcing you. How about erotic pain—my flogger or cane or paddle against your skin, alternating with caresses? Because I know I’d love to redden your ass before I bent you over and fucked you.”

The words touched her core like skilled fingers. She squirmed, the leather couch tantalizing on her ass, but she couldn’t form words to answer.

“I take it that’s a yes?”