Let’s Get Real - #censorship #hormones #teensex

 Image by lisajules from Pixabay

A while ago, I received the welcome news that a short story of mine had been provisionally accepted into an anthology. The editor wrote:

“I love your story, but it will need a little bit of amending: we cannot have any mention of anyone under the age of eighteen having sexual thoughts or masturbating. (I know this is absolutely silly but we are not in a position to risk it.)”

Let me make it clear that this story (which would probably be categorized as literary erotica) does not feature underage sex. The main character has an unusual and rather dangerous fetish, which first appeared after an experience in his mid-teens. The story includes a flashback in which the protagonist describes those early events and how they shaped his current, adult sexuality. Like most teens, his reaction to arousal was to masturbate.

I didn’t fight with this editor, first of all because I really wanted to be part of the anthology and secondly because she recognized the ridiculous nature of the prohibition. However, this state of affairs still makes me fume. I mean, let’s get real. Nobody masturbates more often than teenage boys! And sexual thoughts? As I recall my high school years, it was pretty difficult to focus on anything else!

It’s hard for me to understand the logic behind this rule. We’re not talking about pedophilia here. We’re discussing private sexual stimulation. Who is being hurt? Why should this be a forbidden topic?

The first time I remember masturbating, I was four. I didn’t have any idea what I was doing, but I knew it felt good. I had erotic fantasies in grade school (about being kidnapped at the beach by a classmate who wanted to pull off my bathing suit). It’s an accepted scientific fact that children have sexual urges, and that in the years right after puberty, hormones run rampant. What purpose does it serve to pretend otherwise?

Does anyone still cling to the myth of childhood purity and innocence?

In fact, fetishes often have their roots in childhood experiences. Changing my story probably won’t do great violence to its main points, but it does reduce the authenticity of the tale.

People write, and read, erotica for many reasons. As for me, I’m simply fascinated by sex. My personal motivation in writing is to explore the way sexuality complicates, illumines and transforms human existence. I want to realistically portray the experience of desire and to show its varied impacts on the lives of my characters. If I can arouse my readers in the process, I’m pleased, but that’s a side effect rather than my primary goal.

It become quite difficult to achieve this goal when I’m forced to deny power and importance of teenage sex. Confusing, scary, wondrous, indescribably intense—our earliest encounters with sex strongly influence our adult fantasies and needs.

Anyone who says otherwise is either a liar, or out of touch with reality.

Sizzling Sunday: Putting on a Show - #SizzlingSunday #99cents #exhibitionism

Welcome to Sizzling Sunday! I have another intensely erotic excerpt for you from my recent release Miranda’s Masks. The book is on sale now at all outlets for only 99 cents—but the price goes up next week!

Buy Links

Amazon US - https://www.amazon.com/dp/B077J37RW6

Amazon UK – https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B077J37RW6

Barnes & Noble - https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/mirandas-masks-lisabet-sarai/1127499525?ean=2940158774584

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/760225

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/th/en/ebook/miranda-s-masks

Add to your Goodreads TBR list! https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/36622764-miranda-s-masks

A train finally pulled into the station. Miranda rode one stop then transferred to the Red Line at Downtown Crossing. The second train was even more deserted.

The car held one other passenger, a young Japanese businessman who sat across from her. His thick, shiny black hair was expertly styled. He wore fashionable wire-frame glasses and a beautifully-cut dark blue suit. He was reading a paperback. However, when she entered the car, he stuffed that in his jacket pocket and stared at her in a manner completely out of keeping with the reputed politeness of his culture.

Annoyed but somehow fascinated, Miranda stared back. The man’s eyes narrowed. A slow smile curved his surprisingly full lips. He deliberately removed his eyeglasses, folded them precisely, and deposited them in his expensive attaché case. Then he resumed his scrutiny of her.

The train stopped at Park Street and the doors creaked open then, after a few moments, they clattered shut. No one got on or off. The Japanese man remained focused on her.

Miranda recognized the sexual charge in his gaze. She knew her taut nipples were visible, poking out the fabric of her top. Her skirt was only half-buttoned, she noticed. The man was focusing now on the shadowy area where it fell open, just above her knees.

Suddenly she felt hot all over, her cheeks, her earlobes, her fingertips, her breasts all flushed with blood. The cotton of her panties bunched damply between her thighs. The young executive watched her reactions, stroking his own thighs with pale, well-manicured hands.

Without conscious thought, still holding him with her eyes, Miranda began to undo the other buttons on her skirt. She lingered over each one, building suspense. Her companion sat still, composed and patient, but Miranda sensed his underlying eagerness. Her own arousal grew each time she released one of the buttons. The Japanese stranger adjusted his position, moving his legs a bit, showing her the bulk in the crotch of his well-tailored trousers. Her own sex felt just as swollen, the need for stimulation almost painful.

Leaving the button at her waist still fastened, she slowly pulled the two halves of the skirt to each side. Now her white underwear was clearly visible. Her travelling companion sat entranced as she slipped her hand into her panties and lightly fingered her clit.

Then she shut her eyes, overwhelmed by her body’s reaction to this barest of touches. Ripples of pleasure flowed out from that sensitive center, until she was tingling all over. Tentatively, she slipped a finger into her pussy, marveling at the wet heat she found there. He was watching every move, she knew. That knowledge magnified the pleasure a hundred fold.

The back of her hand brushed against damp cotton. Of course, he could not actually see what she was doing, in detail. Miranda felt sure that he would want to. She opened her eyes again and found that her partner’s gaze had not wavered. With the same deliberate pacing she had applied to the unbuttoning, she raised her bottom from the seat. She removed the obscuring panties, sliding them smoothly down her legs to her ankles, then bending as gracefully as she could to pick them up. Dangling them from one finger, she let them drop beside her on the bench.

Now the stranger opposite could see Miranda’s dark thatch, with the pink lips protruding, engorged and slick. Miranda spread her thighs wide. Using both hands, she parted the curls and began to frig herself in earnest. She slid the first two fingers of both hands into her vagina. Meanwhile her symmetric thumbs briskly massaged her clit.

She saw delight and disbelief on the face of the Japanese man. His suit trousers were hugely distorted by his erection. Miranda felt outrageous and powerful. She placed one sandaled foot on the seat, opening herself further to his view. His eyes never left her nimble fingers, sliding in and out of her cunt. Meanwhile, her gaze remained locked on his face as she edged ever closer to climax, the lust she saw there inflaming her beyond reason.

The train lurched to a stop, startling them both. Miranda realized that they had reached Charles Street station, her stop. Acting far more composed than she felt, she removed her hands from her crotch. She stood, picked up her purse, turned her back on the stranger, and walked out of the train without looking back.

Still, she was intensely aware of his presence. She knew he’d paused to retrieve her sodden panties. His breath caught as he slipped out of the car just before the doors closed. His footsteps echoed on the stairs behind her as she descended from the platform to ground level.

Creature of Pure Sensation (#fantasy #masturbation #Stimulation)

I'm a polymorphously-perverse humanist who believes that almost anything can be arousing, under the right circumstances. So in general, I don't have too much difficulty writing sex from the perspective of the “other”. I've written lesbian stories (but that's easy because I'm attracted to women myself) and gay male stories (more surprising since I have little or no experience with M/M sex, even with gay porn). A significant fraction of my stories are told from a man's point of view. I find I can inhabit the mind and body of my male characters and female characters with nearly equal facility.

Although I've created a number of secondary characters who were male-to-female transsexuals, thus far I haven't written any tales where the POV protagonist is transgendered. However, I've had one simmering on the back burner for a while, a story that looks at the world through the eyes of a pre-op transsexual Thai go-go dancer. Over the years, I've met a few. I can imagine the thrill my heroine would feel seeing her new, feminine body – not to mention the kick of being admired by the men in the audience. At the same time, there'd be fear and shame, worries about being rejected, a sense of inadequacy compared to the biological women she worked with. I'd really like to explore those emotions and see how they play out when I manage to get her into a hotel room alone with the guy who buys her out of the bar. Actually, this fledgling story is almost a rewrite of my tale “Butterfly”, with the point of view flipped. I wonder, though, whether it might end more happily.

I'm less confident that I could write a main character who was female-to-male – it's tough for me to think about chopping off my tits – but I'd be willing to give it a shot. I like an erotic challenge. In my smut-on-commission work for Custom Erotica Source, I've managed to crank up the heat writing scenarios that would never arouse me personally.

There's one sort of “other”, though, where I doubt I'd be successful. I don't think I could convincingly write a creature of pure sensation – a woman (or man) for whom physical stimulation is the primary focus of sexual experience. All my characters share one trait with one another – and with me. For all of them, arousal begins in the mind and flows out to the body.

My sex scenes concentrate on what's going on in my characters' heads. The circumstances and meaning of the sexual encounter, the emotional connection between the participants, the fantasies shared or held in secret, these are the elements that fuel my erotic writing. The physical actions involved are definitely secondary. The brush of a single fingertip along the sensitive side of a breast can evoke a reaction more intense than full penetration. Vibrating dildoes inserted front and rear won't do a thing to one of my heroines if her mind isn't engaged in the scene.

This mirrors my own sexual experience. I've been to swing parties and sex clubs, been fondled and fucked by strangers, and felt almost nothing, because my partner(s) just weren't pushing my psychological buttons. I can masturbate forever without coming, unless I envision a transgressive tableau to accompany my actions. When I replay my most cherished sexual memories, I can't really recall the details of what we did. But how I felt – that's still sweet, raw and precious.

I gather that many women experience sex in a similar manner. (That's probably one reason why I'm doing pretty well writing erotic romance.) I'm sure that at least some guys do, also. However, not everyone is wired that way. We've had discussions on the ERWA Writers list which made it clear that some women achieve orgasm from specific kinds of stimulation, without regard to context. Some people fuck for the pure physical pleasure of the act. They don't care about taboos, or power exchange, or whether their companion has a great sense of humor. A good hard cock, a hot wet cunt, is all they need to have fulfilling sex.

It's tough for me to wrap my mind around that concept. I mean, I can understand it intellectually, but it's so distant from my own sexuality, I'm not sure I could write about it. Furthermore, I have to admit the notion of reading stories about such people doesn't interest me much, either. I realize that sounds judgmental. It's not meant to be. Sometimes, in fact, I regret that I'm not more present in my body during sex. I suspect I'm missing a lot.

At this point in my life, though, I'm not likely to change. I guess I have to accept that there are limits to my perversity - though that very notion makes me want to try and push the envelope. Still, is it possible to write a character who's driven entirely by physical sensation, and still have the story be erotic? My definition of erotic fiction is fiction that explores the experience and nature of desire. Can desire be totally physical? I'd love to hear others' opinions.

Masturbation Monday - "It will never fit." (#anal #dildo #fantasy)

Most Mondays I have “sneak peek” posts, but for some reason, this Monday was free. So I decided to join in Kayla Lord’s Masturbation Monday meme.

Here’s a very nasty self-pleasuring excerpt from my BDSM ménage erotic romance The Ingredients of Bliss.

I interrupted my fantasy just long enough to strip off the shirt and jeans. I was nude underneath. Pulling open the drawer of the bedside table, I retrieved a black velvet drawstring bag and extracted its contents. Harry had hidden it somewhere in his luggage and handed it to me with a triumphant grin the first night in Paris.

Though I was alone, I couldn’t help blushing at the sight of the massive dildo. Fashioned of jet black silicon, it was nine inches long and a full two inches in diameter. Harry had insisted I buy it. He’d stood laughing in the background at the adult store while I’d stuttered and fumbled with my credit card, unable to meet the clerk’s eyes.

“It will never fit,” I’d protested, after I’d obeyed his order.

We’d strolled arm in arm down Market Street, my cheeks still hot with embarrassment. I’d felt as though every passerby knew what I carried in the plain brown paper bag.

“Oh, you’re wrong, love. It will fit perfectly—not just in your pussy, but in your ass too.”

He was right of course. If I was sufficiently aroused—and I was always that way, around Harry—it slid right in. The first time he’d commanded me to fuck myself with the obscene object, I’d had one of the most intense orgasms in my life. He hadn’t inserted it into my anus yet—nor forced me to bugger myself—but I knew he would eventually.

How would that feel? My rear hole tightened at the mere thought of such an invasion.

Stretched out on the bed again, I feathered my hands over my bare breasts, across my belly and down to my cunt. The lips were slick and swollen under my fingertips. Spreading them with my left hand, I rubbed the toy over my inner folds, gathering wetness. My clit screamed for attention, but I held off, as I knew Harry would, building the tension. Instead, I eased the first inch or so of the artificial cock into my channel, pretending it was Harry’s cock.

As always, going farther felt impossible. The silicone rod was too big, too hard. My poor, tight pussy could never accommodate such a bulk. Pain flickered through the haze of my arousal as my flesh protested. “I can’t,” I moaned out load.

‘Of course you can. You will. For me.’

For Harry, I’d do anything. I released my labia, grabbed the dildo in both hands and pushed. A few more inches disappeared into my cleft. My thumb grazed my clit, triggering a bolt of pleasure that spiraled deep into my core. The pain faded, replaced by extreme sensations of fullness, sensations that pumped energy into my gathering climax.

‘Fuck yourself. Ram it in.’

I drew my knees up that I could tilt my pelvis to a better angle. With all the force I possessed, I drove the phallus into my cunt. The tip hit my cervix. I gasped in sudden agony. Then pleasure welled up, drenching me and spilling over, washing away even the memory of discomfort.

I pulled the toy part way out then slammed it back in, using the same sort of rough, fast strokes Harry favored. Incredible! Of course, the lifeless hunk of silicone couldn’t begin to match my lover’s hot supple flesh, melding with my own.

But the sense of transgression was thrilling—the knowledge that I was fucking myself with a huge toy at the orders of my Master.

‘Good girl.’

Eyes closed, I summoned my lover. I wanted the dildo to be Harry’s cock, but stubbornly, I could only picture him watching, a delighted grin lighting his face.

‘That’s right, love. You keep working on your pussy. Meanwhile, I’m going to bury my cock in your ass.’

Oh, by the Wise Ones! He’d been threatening to take my rear hole for months. So far he’d done no more than talk, knowing how the notion both scared and thrilled me.

I thrust the dildo in and out with my left hand, my right toying with my clit. Just a week before we’d left for France, he’d drizzled massage oil down my crack and worked three fingers into my anus, fighting my resistant muscles. I’d thought I’d faint from the perverse pleasure of that intrusion. At the same time, I’d almost been ready to use my safe word. It was just too private, too embarrassing. I felt unbearably filthy—all the more so because I liked the feeling so very much.