The Romance of the One Night Stand - #ValentinesDay #Transience #Revelations

 Image by Robert Pastryk from Pixabay

After a solid week of roses and candy, hearts and flowers, I'm just starting to recover from Valentine's Day. When you write erotic romance as I do, you are more or less required to participate in the romantic frenzy. Every email I sent out to readers, every promotional message or invitation to my blog ended with the obligatory “Have a Happy Valentine's Day”. Every day I received notices of Valentine's release parties, Valentine's chats, Valentine's treasure hunts, special Valentine's prices, et cetera.

I'm exhausted. Not that I have anything against Cupid's Day, mind you. I enjoy a candle light dinner, a glass of wine, and the intimate aftermath as much as anyone. It's just that my notions about romance aren't exactly conventional. For example, in contrast to the Happily Ever After crowd, I tend to find one night stands deeply romantic.

I'm not talking about Erica Jong's zipless fuck here, a chance conjunction of bodies with physical pleasure, and perhaps the shattering of conventions, as its primary goal. I'm talking about the sense of erotic connection I've sometimes experienced in the arms of a stranger. The one night stands that live in my memory had a sense of rightness that amplified every sensation. Two individuals blundering through life, we collided by chance, and for a brief, beautiful time, we became one creature. Bound by lust, and perhaps loneliness, together we lit up the night.

Traditional romance celebrates the concept of soul mates. Some of the lovers who shared my bed just once seemed to know me so well, I was almost ready to believe in that sort of destiny. At the same time, bittersweet regret always lingered in the background, the specter of inevitable parting. The shadow of pending farewell threw the immediate pleasure and joy into sharp relief.

For me, one night stands are erotic exactly because they don't last forever. The transience heightens the intensity. Rationally, I understand that the magical feeling of connection may be an illusion. Relationships based on chemistry alone rarely survive. What if I'm not deluding myself, though? What if this man really was “the one”? How deliciously tragic to know that we'll go our separate ways! And how sweet to imagine an alternate, impossible future, a future of endless nights, equally incandescent. The fantasy thrills me exactly because I know it will never be fulfilled.

No wonder I have such trouble adjusting to the tropes of romance .

I've tried to capture the eroticism and transcendence of one night stands in some of my short stories (though reviewing my back list, I'm somewhat disappointed to realize how few). Perhaps the purest expression can be found in “Shades of Red”, currently out of print. (I should do something about that!) A young woman, fascinated by the red light district in Amsterdam, rents a window for herself. A stranger engages her services, seeking the discipline her costume seems to promise, and she discovers that indeed she does have a talent for dominance. The bond they share as she beats him is not at all what she expected.

***

He's shy and grateful afterward. I sit in the armchair, watching him as he dresses. He's definitely a handsome man. When he pulls his wallet from his pocket and tries to give me a hundred euros, I shake my head.

"Thirty. That's what we agreed."

"But you gave me so much – just what I needed."

"Never mind. Business is business."

"Please..."

"I said no. Are you going to start disobeying me?"

He smiles, puts most of the money away, and presses a ten and a twenty into my hand. "Thank you. Thank you so much." For a moment I think he's going to kiss me. I wish that he would. But that moment passes. He reaches for the door, squeezes past me in the crowded room and is gone, into the night.

I lean back in my hired chair staring at the bills in my hand. I'm sweaty. My hair has come loose from the clip and is tangled down my back. My arms ache.

When I unlace my corset, my breasts tumble out, the nipples as hard and sensitive as ever. I unsnap the leather panties, drenched and stained from my juices. They make a sticky noise as I pull them away from my pussy. The ripe smell of cunt rises, mingling with the bitter scent of semen. I reach for the vibrator, conveniently to hand in the tiny room. The cool stainless steel cylinder slides deliciously into my swollen cleft. I flip the switch to high and writhe helplessly as the vibrations trigger one ragged, ecstatic climax after another.

Epiphanies? Revelations? I don't think he'll forget this night. As for me, I know that the memory of his red-streaked buttocks and tear-stained face, my power and his surrender, will fuel intense orgasms long into the future.

I still feel high as I lock my door behind me and step into the street. I'm naked under my coat. Every sensation is frighteningly acute. A random breeze plays in my damp, bare sex. The smell of spilled beer mingles with the tang of autumn leaves.

The alleys are still crowded. I hear snatches of conversation in a dozen languages, riffs of jazz and rock and roll. I sense the beat of the men's hearts as they congregate around some red-lit rectangle of glass.

A lithe male figure in a turtleneck brushes past me and my breath catches in my throat. Images flood my mind, images of pale, pliant flesh, offering itself to me.

It occurs to me, as I make my way back to my five star hotel and my ordinary life, that perhaps I am the one who was marked this night.

***

I defy you to tell me that's not romantic.

Harder Than It Looks - #FlashFiction #BDSM #SlaveTraining #NaturalSubmissive

Again. He doesn't even bother to verbalize the command, merely gestures, palm up, signaling me to repeat the move, for what must surely be the fiftieth time.

My fatigued quadriceps scream in protest as I roll from a kneel back onto the balls of my feet, then rise to stand before him. My calves quiver, threatening to cramp. I inhale and release the air in a long, slow stream, willing the tension away as I've been taught. The pain ebbs a bit.

There's a puddle of sweat at the small of my back, where I hold my hands clasped, pretending I'm bound. Skin adheres to sticky skin, under my arms, under my breasts. My hair is a limp mess, plastered to my forehead.

I keep my eyes down, focused on my bare feet, looking, I hope, respectful and demure. His eyes rake over my naked body, noting every defect in my posture and demeanor. I straighten my spine and elevate my rib cage, to present my eager breasts.

“Better,” he says, in that deep, rich voice that feels so much like a caress. “Except for that wobble near the end. Keep your abdominals tucked, to help you balance. Imagine that you're about to be suspended, that the rope is pulling you up, up, irresistible. You don't need to do anything at all. Let go and let the energy draw you upwards.”

I cast a sidelong glance at Sylvie and Gloria, comfortably shackled on the sofa to my left. How I envy their effortless grace! But the simple, lovely ease in their movements is all illusion – the product of long hours of training. Those of us who crave discipline love to fantasize about being natural submissives – just waiting for our fated master to recognize us and make our fantasies real. In truth, there's nothing natural about being a slave. Every gesture and pose must be learned.

Still, I suppose some of us may have more aptitude than others. At this point, exhausted and frustrated, I feel like the class dunce.

“Down,” he orders. I think of water – fluid, yielding – as I lower myself once more to my knees. Every muscle hurts. This time I manage to avoid stumbling. Back arched, taut nipples offered to tempt his fingers, I let out the breath I've been holding. The scent of my pussy wafts from out from between my spread thighs. I'm amazed to realize that I find even this agonizing repetition arousing, when he's the one controlling it.

He circles my kneeling form. I bow my head, awaiting his verdict. How I crave even the smallest nugget of his praise! He's close enough to touch, but of course I resist that temptation. Instead, I watch the way he taps his riding crop against his leg. Is he pleased? Annoyed? I know he won't strike me with the crop, no matter how much I might want that fiery kiss. No, he understands the perversity that motivates a sub like me; I might perform less well, simply to invite his punishment.

“Again,” he says. “You're trying too hard, Lisa. Let the movement flow from the inside out. Imagine the slave you'd like to be. See yourself yielding to me, and let your body follow that image.”

I drag myself back to my feet, then, at his nod, sink to the floor once more. I'm almost too tired to care. My limbs tremble. I can hardly command them to move. He's so perceptive; can't he see that I'm close to the breaking point?

“Again.”

We repeat the exercise another half dozen times. I am desperate simply to get through this trial, more difficult to bear in its way than the tightest shibari, the hardest caning. Why doesn't he stop? I'm getting worse, not better.

“Again.” The same instruction, but I think, this time, that I detect a hint of sympathy in his tone. He sees what this costs, what he's asking from me – but he doesn't hold back. “Up now. Again.”

Suddenly the truth breaks through my fog of fatigue, like afternoon sun slicing through thunderheads. This isn't about the way I move, kneel, hold myself. He's not just training my body so that I won't disgrace him when he takes his slaves out to play in public.

No, this is itself as much a surrender as opening my mouth to his cock, my ass to his fist, my mind to the products of his obscene imagination. Stand, kneel, stand, kneel – I've honored him with my devotion, promised my obedience, and now he's showing me what that means. I must trust him in all things, comply with all orders, no matter how banal or unerotic they may seem.

He's testing me. He doesn't care how clumsy I am. As long as I honestly try to obey, I'm passing the test.

New energy ripples through my weary body. It crackles up my spine, raising me to my feet in one swift, fluid motion. I feel as though it would take very little for me to rise further, soaring and wheeling above my master and my fellow slaves, while they gazed up in wonder.

“Perfect.” He draws his fingers through my tangled locks then cradles my cheek with his palm. Unutterable joy swells my chest. “I knew you could do it, Lisa. I'll be proud to have you wearing my collar this weekend.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I think you deserve a reward for all your hard work. Maybe I'll have Gloria fuck you with her strap-on, while you eat Sylvie's cunt. And I'll whip all three of you.”

“Whatever you like, sir,” I reply, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice though I know he can smell my fresh-flowing juices. Sometimes he takes cruel delight in arousing, then denying us.

“But first - let's practice the move a few times more.”

I crumble to my knees, grateful, horny, ready to give him my last ounce of strength - if that's what he requires.

Review Tuesday: Heaven's Brides by Jessica Mandella -- #LGBTQ #spirituality #ReviewTuesday

Heaven’s Brides by Jessica Mandella

Excessica, 2017

When popular TV pastor Max Johnson discovers his wife Gloria has a female lover, he is simultaneously shocked, hurt and aroused. He can’t help following her to the club where she’s meeting her paramour Sylvia. Then someone slips him some bad drugs and he ends up dead—at least temporarily.

The epiphany he experiences on the other side of the veil changes him forever. Brought back to life, perhaps by his wife’s uncanny powers, he dumps his old sponsors who encouraged him to preach anti-sex, anti-gay, fire-and-brimstone lessons, hires a dyke motorcycle gang to provide security, dons a rainbow-colored suit, and gives his flock an eye-opening sermon claiming the Bible has been misinterpreted and mistranslated. According to the wisdom he received during his temporary stint in the afterlife, God does not condemn sex, including LGBTQ sex. Nor does the Bible prohibit plural marriage. All believers are free to become brides of heaven, loving one another (including in the most carnal ways imaginable) as long as they do so in a spirit of worship, respect and mutual pleasure.

Max, Gloria, their new wife Sylvia, the motorcycle gang members, and various parishioners then proceed to practice what he has preached.

Heaven’s Brides by Jessica Mandella is a wild, gender-bending, funny, touching, over-the-top book that is totally original in its mingling of extreme sex and sincere spirituality. The bewilderingly large cast of characters all have a role to play in revealing the Truth about humans, angels, demons and nature of reality. In Ms. Mandella’s universe, spiritual power is more than just a phrase. As Max, Gloria, Sylvia and their fellow “brides” develop and grow, their supernatural abilities (including telepathy, telekinesis and the ability to manipulate the flow of time) grow also.

For those of you looking for erotic content, this novel includes so many sex scenes you’ll be gasping for breath. Telepathic orgasms have an intensity that ordinary climaxes can’t match. There’s lots of lesbian activity, but plenty of hetero interactions as well. One message I took away was that the genitals really don’t matter. The best sex is a meeting of kindred spirits.

You can read Heaven’s Brides purely as erotica. What I enjoyed most, though, was the warmth and tolerance that glow on every page. If everyone lived like Max and his brides, the world would be a far better, happier and more humane place.