One woman's transformation - #Menage #Suspense #LGBTQ @AdrianaKraft

By Adriana Kraft (Guest Blogger)

Have you ever felt like life was passing you by? That shut-down feeling that separates you from everyone you see? They seem to be normal, happy, satisfied, and you just can’t connect. Worse yet, you don’t have the energy to do anything about it, to take even that first baby step toward making a change.

That’s what Merry Delaney is experiencing as the world turns toward the new millennium, New Year’s Eve 1999. She’s an accountant, for god’s sake. Her life consists of managing the math for other people’s lives. She’s been a widow for the past year, but something inside her died long before that, as she watched her husband’s MS take over his body and felt him withdraw from her.

My husband and I co-write erotic romance and romantic suspense under our pen name, Adriana Kraft. The Merry Widow combines both – intense eroticism with underlying suspense. But it is so much more than that. We wanted to capture a woman’s transition from that dark place and explore the process as she opens up and begins to say yes—slowly at first, and then pell-mell into the fast lane.

Especially, we wanted to explore the nuances of transformation: what is the moment, precisely, when a character makes an about face? When she’s passed (or we’ve passed, for that matter) the point of no return and can no longer continue as before? Is it an earth-shattering moment? Is it a moment so tiny it’s lost in the cacophony of choices and activities, only to be recognized much later, upon reflection? Does it happen not when the choice is first made, but when a character is confronted with something she wants very badly that flies in the face of what she’s become?

Naturally, in our story, Merry’s journey of self-discovery is filled with sexual adventure—we write erotic romance, after all. But it’s also filled with choices she must make as she samples new experiences and begins to fall in love at the same time. Will she settle for less than what she truly wants? We hope not—and we hope the same for you, our readers.

Blurb

So much for all the anticipation about the new millennium. Merry Delaney’s life is still in a rut and shows no signs of changing. Sex? A fading memory, gone long before her husband actually died. Excitement? Hardly the hallmark of an accountant’s life. At forty-two, what can she look forward to?

Until her best friend takes Merry’s predicament into her practiced hands. One passionate kiss unleashes possibilities Merry never dreamed of—and she wants to sample them all. Men? Women? Young? Old? Ménage? Toys? Yes, to all, to pleasure, to making up for lost time.

Enter Chicago Detective Jim Barnes, who solicits Merry’s help with a mob funds-skimming case. Can the scorching passion that soon smolders between Merry and Jim survive the escalating mob threats of exposure? Having discovered a zest for sex, will Merry ever again be satisfied with one man?

Buy Links

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B084PCH63T/

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/the-merry-widow-12

Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/1014270702?ean=2940163931583

Apple: https://books.apple.com/us/book/the-merry-widow/id1499352992

GooglePlay: https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Adriana_Kraft_THE_MERRY_WIDOW?id=nbPQDwAAQBAJ

Publisher: https://www.extasybooks.com/978-1-4874-2805-1-the-merry-widow/

GoodReads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/51242831-the-merry-widow

BookBub https://www.bookbub.com/books/the-merry-widow-by-adriana-kraft

Excerpt

Jim tried to breathe normally. That wasn’t going to happen as long as he stayed in this woman’s presence. Her lips started to move. He tried to focus on what she was saying.

“No apology required. If I remember correctly—my brain is still somewhat fried—I wasn’t holding back any. I don’t want another detective.” Merry gave him a sultry smile. “Your cock will do quite fine. I’ll gladly attest to that.”

He crossed the foyer in a flash and crushed her to his body. He kissed her hair, her forehead, her lips while her hands roamed across his back and buttocks. “Jesus,” he exclaimed, feeling himself harden again. “I’m not a twenty-year-old.”

“Thank God.”

He jerked himself from their embrace. “I don’t know what your game is, lady. I don’t know what you want. But I’m finding it damn hard to walk out of here.”

Merry laughed. She actually laughed at him.

She gripped his arousal. “You don’t seem to have much difficulty getting hard again.” She lowered her hand. “I’m not into games, Detective. Maybe I’m too old for that. I don’t have any particular wants other than some good, mind-blowing sex—which you’ve already demonstrated the capacity for. That’s all I ask. No strings. No commitments. No expectations. No nothing but hot sex.”

“Hmm. I’d be one of many if I sign on?”

“Probably.” She never hesitated. She never blinked.

“Never done it that way before,” he grunted.

Merry smiled. “Neither have I, but I’m learning it can be quite stimulating—quite invigorating, actually. And after so many years of abstinence, I’m not looking for a lovey-dovey relationship. Maybe someday, but not now. I’ve made a commitment to myself to be open to new sexual experiences, new opportunities.”

“Your commitment is to yourself?”

She shrugged. “Yes. And I don’t feel a bit guilty about that. I’ve sacrificed so much of myself because of commitment, I’m setting about to reclaim part of myself.”

“So I was merely part of that reclaiming.”

“Maybe. I enjoyed it. I think you did, too. Maybe that’s enough. Maybe once was enough. Or maybe you want to stay for coffee.”

Praise for Adriana Kraft Books

Wow, what an incredible book! Not only is The Merry Widow a gripping, romantic suspense but the heat level is hotter than Death Valley… The ending took me by surprise and I was a little sad to see it end. I grew attached to the characters and wanted to stay in their world a little bit longer. The Merry Widow will be on my keeper shelf and one I will be re-reading again and again. Highly recommend! N. N. Light

Their romance is hot in all the right places…If you love romance with more than two people, you’re going to love this book! Seducing Cat is a must read! The TBR Pile

Filled with warmth, blazing hot sex, well-developed characters and an interesting plot…not for the faint of heart.  If you are looking for an interesting story filled with scorching hot erotica, author Adriana Kraft's novel Vegas Gambler is the book for you. Romance Junkies

Ms. Kraft has a gift for pleasing the reader with vivid imagery and erotic language. Fasten your seat belts – Cherry Tune-Up is one hot ride that you don’t want to miss. Romance Junkies

Definitely recommended The Reunion sizzled as two incredibly sexy women and one gorgeous guy form a super hot triad, eventually. These three are by far and away the best smoldering trio I have read about. Oh, bring on more of this, but read this one first!  Rainbow Reviews

About Adriana Kraft

When it’s Time to Heat Things Up

Award winning author Adriana Kraft is a married couple writing Sizzling Romantic Suspense and Erotic Romance for Two, Three, or More. Whether readers open our romantic suspense or our erotic romance, they can expect characters they care about, hot sex scenes, and a compelling story. Our suspense stories deliver one man, one woman, danger and intrigue. Our erotic romance is edgier and nearly always includes ménage or polyamory, sometimes with two women and a man, sometimes with two (or more) couples. We write our Erotic Romance stories to entertain, of course, but most of all we write them because we believe in happy endings for all who fall in love, whatever their gender, sexual orientation or numerical combination.

Social Media Links

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Feasting upon “Feast of the Incarnations”

By Gayle C. Straun

An erotic story about intellectual piracy.

At least, that was my goal. Circlet Press, for which I had previously written some microfiction and full-length stories, had advertised a call for submissions for pirate-themed erotic tales, and the gears in the brain started spinning immediately. My partner loves anything which deals with pirates: Talk Like a Pirate Day, Errol Flynn, Cutthroat Island, the Polly and the Pirates comic books, the Dread Pirate board game, and so on. Anything to do with pirates—no exceptions.

Most writers are probably trying to impress someone close to them, rather than the vague and nebulous “audience” many professors implore us to remember—at least, I am, especially when writing erotica. And maybe most writers think to themselves, as did I, “How can I do something different?” After all, this was supposed to be a collection of pirate stories, and no doubt the editor would be swamped with the usual celebrations of a pirate’s life, albeit with a bit more sex and sci-fi than is the norm. But I wanted to play with the definition of piracy a little bit, craft a story that would stand out among all the iterations of yo-ho-ho and the endless buckling of swashes. Therefore, I thought to tackle intellectual piracy. (In my defense, the original call for submissions was pretty open as to what constituted a pirate story.)

I had just finished reading Stanley Payne’s The Franco Regime, 1936–1975, and there quickly formed in my mind a skeleton of narrative about a dictator who tries to keep his regime together by having himself and his councilors download their consciousness, each evening, so that their minds could be implanted into robot forms in case of any assassination—ensure continuity, forever and always, world without end. In fact, I fashioned much of the world in “Feast of the Incarnations” after Franco’s Spain, including the marriage of Church and State he perfected, represented by the literal marriage of the General, the main character, and the High Priestess, who fulfills a pontiff-life role here. (I must also credit philosopher Steven Lecce, whose Against Perfectionism: Defending Liberal Neutrality proved an immense thematic inspiration.) So, very clearly, the act of piracy would entail the act of illegally downloading these consciousness files and putting them to some nefarious, anti-regime purpose, and since this was supposed to be an erotic anthology, you can well imagine to what purposes they were put. (Oh, sorry, was I supposed to write “Spoiler Alert” somewhere before this?) Certainly, one of the challenges of writing erotica is attempting to integrate the sex into the plot, making it a cornerstone without which the story would not make sense, rather than simply inserting some vivid insertion into a story that could actually stand without it. The advent of various pornographic versions of YouTube, combined with the endless parade of politicians and preachers succumbing to sex scandals, gave me the very inspiration for pulling that off.

The problem was that, when I finished my story, I didn’t really have a pirate story anymore, even accounting for loose definitions of the word. Sure, acts of piracy took place, and I even dubbed the anti-regime forces “Pirates,” but anyone who might be called such a pirate did not appear at all in the story, and any acts of piracy took place outside the narrative, which followed the General rather than those opposed to his rule. The arc of the story was much more tragic, more King Lear than Captain Blood, and there was simply no escaping that fact. (For full disclosure, my partner said, “That’s one of the best stories you’ve written. But it’s not a pirate story.”) So I cast about for places where it might fit until I came upon the Coming Together: In Flux call for stories centering the transformation of body or mind. (While bodies certainly do transform in this story, I was prepared to defend it on the basis of the somewhat more metaphorical transformation of the body politic, if it came to that.) Having this story of creative challenges to oppression accepted into an anthology that would benefit the Woodhull Sexual Freedom Alliance—which fights for the right to “privacy and consensual sexual expression without societal or governmental interference, coercion or stigmatization”—was too perfect by half.

Not that many years ago, science fiction and fantasy were not considered respectable pursuits for “serious” authors, but that has since changed. Philip K. Dick’s works are being reprinted by the Library of America, Dorris Lessing won a Nobel Prize for Literature, and Salman Rushdie is reportedly working on a screenplay for a sci-fi television series. The same might be said for fantasy, especially in the wake of motion picture and television adaptations of the works of J. R. R. Tolkein and George R. R. Martin, respectively. Genres once derided as the stuff of children and nerds now are recognized for their ability to analyze the human condition as thoroughly as acknowledged works of literature. A similar transformation awaits the genre erotica. The more we learn about the sexual side of human nature, the more we understand our life as sexual beings twenty-four hours a day, from birth to death, then the more we will turn to erotica for enlightenment and enjoyment, for the means of understanding ourselves and the world around us. That is why I write erotica, and that is why I am proud that this anthology benefits the Woodhull Sexual Freedom Alliance.

One day, none of this will be cutting edge. Let’s make that day come sooner.

For your enjoyment now, I offer the first few pages of “Feast of the Incarnations.”

****

The camera clicks to life pointed at a pair of feet, and it takes just a moment for the operator to bring those feet into focus so that all can see the little toes curled up, as if snuggling together for warmth. But then it slowly starts to creep upward, up smooth calves that glisten with a slight rub of oil, up thighs that might belong to an experienced horseman, and then here it lingers where those two magnificent legs come together, a point crowned with the kind of penis Renaissance sculptors never graced their subjects with: not the discrete nubbin of endless Davids but something rather more befitting that ancient king’s most notorious foe. The camera pulls back just briefly from that erect and fleshy spear, and a hand reaches out, from the viewer’s direction, to run delicate fingertips down its length, down to the very bottom where that hand cups those two balls before so softly sliding upward again, circling the pink tip before retracting again into the void behind the viewscreen. And now the camera is impatient. It skirts up his chest quickly to rest upon the face of a man who—whatever his irregularities below—is pure David here, the kind of man gods, women, and men could so easily fall in love with at first sight. The curl of his hair. The gleam in his eyes. The curve of a smile that could melt lead. And now the camera takes itself from the bed upon which this man is resting and, with some fidgeting and tinkering, comes to rest at a point in the room from which it can see the full length of the man, toes up to head. He looks this way expectantly, his expectations finally manifesting themselves in the body of another who moves into the line of sight. From this angle, the head of the second man cannot be seen, so he is just another body, another average nakedness, his skin pale, his features not quite as chiseled. But the first man does not mind. As the second man stops near the head of the bed, the first man looks up into a face that cannot be seen, as if seeking permission, and then leans over, taking the other’s cock in hand and then mouth. He opens wide and buries himself full upon the member, moaning satisfaction, moaning as if he had been waiting his entire life to enjoy this very moment.

**

“They call themselves rebels,” the General thundered to his audience of thousands below, “and yet we know that they are nothing of the kind! We know this from their insignia, that most ancient of symbols—the skull and crossbones, the flag of the Pirates who roamed the high seas of legend in their endless quest for plunder and adventure. Or so the stories tell us. But the stories lie!” And here, the General hammered down upon the podium, and in the two, bigger-than-life screens on either side of the stage, his immense image, twice replicated, made the same movement with the same clenched fists. “Yes, I tell you, they lie. The Pirates of old were not the agents of independence. They were not the sentinels of freedom and liberty. Rather, they were hirelings, the base mercenaries of competing empires, thieving their way across the wide oceans. And so we know today that the people who operate under the flag of piracy cannot be called rebels. They cannot be called freedom fighters. We know them for what they are—the hired thugs of other nations, nations envious of our shining successes. And because they are mere goons, bought and paid for, we owe them no quarter, no mercy whatsoever!”

The audience cheered faithfully, enthusiastically, as the General stepped back and raised his arm in a stiff salute, as if it were a blade. The swell of voices, all one voice now, rang upon the air so loud that it seemed the stars were about to shake down from their posts high above. He savored the great swell of zeal but did not let it drag out for too long, finally stepping back to the podium and signaling the audience to let him speak yet again. And now, he took a more solemn tone as he said, “My people, you know that, this very morning, these… Pirates”—and he spat out the word—“tried to assassinate Chancellor Briggs.” Here, the crowd tried to boo and hiss, but the General cut them short. “As you might guess, they failed in this, as they shall fail in all their attempts to tear down our glorious nation. Chancellor Briggs is being treated at Ford Hospital for only the most minor of wounds and shall likely be released today, if we can pull him away from the nurses.” He lets the audience chuckle just a bit. “The lesson from this is that money can never overwhelm the power of love—the love all your leaders feel toward our people, and the love we all have for our country. Love is the weapon with which we shall destroy all our oppressors!”

The General could still hear the roar of the crowd even as the engines of his personal ornithopter roared to life and lifted him and his entourage from the stadium, high into the air above, and they cheered all the more as the whoosh of his take-off blew across them like the visitation of some ancient storm god. Soon, the aircraft was deep into the late afternoon sky, and everything below was just geography again. The General always liked this view of the world: high up enough, and it all magically became clean and ordered, a veritable map across which one could move troops and armor, if need be, or place new housing settlements, a dam, a power plant. Whatever the people required. But too close, and it all descended into chaos because the people didn’t understand their own needs well enough, could not see their lives from his vantage point, how it all worked together like the gears of a machine. Up here, removed from all the flesh and dirt, the machine worked.

*****

Gayle C. Straun has published microfiction and book reviews for the website of Circlet Press and has stories forthcoming in two anthologies by that publisher. In addition to her story in Coming Together: In Flux, she has also published the stand-alone story “Gravity” as part of the “Occupy Coming Together” series, which benefits the Occupy Wall Street movement across the nation.

A Valentine for One Person, and the World

By Nobilis Reed

There’s a truism among authors: “Write to please yourself first.” It works, as far as it goes, but for me, it’s not enough. What I find works best for me, is to have one particular reader in mind, and write to please both of us, aiming for the spot in the Venn diagram intersection between another’s desires and my own. There’s connection there, a link between me and that one specific reader that gives the story a heart right from the first draft.

“Actual Size” was written for a woman who goes by the name of “Cunning Minx” online. She’s a podcaster like me, host of “Polyamory Weekly” and an avowed ‘boobiesexual.’ She has revealed that one of her favorite scenes is to have her face buried in a woman’s bountiful bosom while a strong man gives her a round spanking. I thought the scene was interesting, so I decided to give it some fictional context.

Much of my own interests lie in the worlds of various transformation kinks; that’s why I used transformation as the theme of my Coming Together anthology, “In Flux.” I found the scene that Minx had in mind to be a natural fit for the ‘breast expansion’ subset of the transformation fetish.

‘Breast Expansion’ is one of those little fetishes that has grown (so to speak) in the fertile ground of the Internet age, now that people can share and express their desires without having to worry too much about what outsiders will think. It’s a simple fetish, just what it says on the tin; boobs getting bigger--MUCH bigger. There are a few websites devoted to it, here and there, and on any forum devoted to sexual transformation you’ll likely find discussions of this particular subset. The very first story I ever sold, “The Nefarious Plot of Professor Bolster,” was published at a website devoted to breast expansion. It’s not my only kink by a long stretch, but it’s one I like to return to once in a while.

When the story was done, and my beta readers and I had fine-tuned it, I asked Minx to give her voice to the story in my podcast. To my delight she agreed, and found the story much to her liking. To this day I find it one of my listener favorites, and I believe that this connection between myself and this one particular reader to be the foundation of the appeal of the story. Because of this connection I believe it transcends interest in the breast expansion fetish, and becomes something that many people can enjoy.

An excerpt from “Actual Size” from Coming Together: In Flux:

Diane's apartment was in a luxury high-rise in Crystal City, just around the corner from the metro station. When I got to the lobby, Diane was waiting for me, dressed in a floral print sun-dress. She waved me over to the elevators.

"Aren't I supposed to sign in?" I asked, as the doors closed.

"Not this time."

"Why all this secrecy?"

The elevator stopped and a teenage kid with a telescope stepped on. He smiled nervously and turned toward the doors. Diane said nothing. When the doors opened at Diane's floor, she hurried down the hall to her door and let us in. With the door closed and locked behind us, Diane relaxed visibly.

"Is everything okay? Is Drake having you followed?"

Diane crossed the room and pulled the curtains across the floor-to-ceiling windows and their view of the Washington skyline. "No, just wait. You won't believe me until I show you, anyways." Diane looked like she was on a stage, standing on the proscenium. She closed her eyes, tilted her head back, and took a slow, deep breath.

At first, I couldn't tell what was happening. but after a few seconds, it became clear. Diane's chest was swelling. It wasn't just her chest expanding with the air she was pulling in. Her breasts were actually getting bigger. Flesh appeared at the sides of the long triangles that made up the top of her dress. The waist rose as the volume underneath pushed out on the top of the dress. Cleavage occurred.

They surpassed any size I could call 'normal', reaching well into the ranges found only among porn stars. I stepped forward, mesmerized. "How did you do that? Some kind of...inflatable implant?"

"No implants. All natural. All me."

"Can I touch them?"

Diane nodded.

I pressed on them with my fingers, on top, on the sides, underneath. Even a gentle squeeze yielded no clue of artifice. "These are real!"

"I think I need a glass of wine," said Diane, suddenly.

"Sorry." I disengaged and ran my hands over my skirt.

"No, it's okay. I'd probably do the same myself. Actually, I did. Rather a lot, actually."

I couldn't help noticing how Diane's chest bobbed and swayed as she walked over to a wine rack and selected a bottle. Every movement seemed to echo in her massive bosom. Diane came back with two very full goblets, and handed one to me.

"So how is this possible?"

"I don't know...exactly. Drake is a stage magician. He also does hypnosis. We were playing around with it one night, making me think I had really big boobs, and, well, this happened."

"So why all the secrecy?"

"Could you imagine what would happen anyone found out? I'd be locked up in a lab somewhere."

"You're probably right." I took a long drink of the wine, draining nearly half the glass.

"I think it might be magic," said Diane. "My grandmother said one of our ancestors was a swan-maiden. I wonder now if she might have been right."

"Swan-maiden...you mean she could become a swan? Like in Swan Lake?"

"Yes. A kind of a shape-shifter, like a werewolf." Diane looked down at her chest and smirked. "And swans do have rather large chests."

I took another drink of wine. My curiosity was getting the better of me. "So how big can you make them?"

"Pretty big."

I finished the wine and looked Diane in the eye. I spoke softly, too nervous to speak any louder. "Show me?"

Diane plucked at the fabric of her dress. "I won't be able to stay in this."

My heartbeat threatened to deafen me. "I don't mind if you don't." I could feel a flush coming to my face, embarrassment but also arousal.

"What the hell. I've never been able to show anyone. Might as well show off." Diane sat down on the sofa, downed the rest of her wine, and set the glass aside. The knot holding up the top of her sun-dress came open with a moment of fiddling, and the fabric fell down around her waist. Her breasts were full and round, not the way badly-implanted breasts looked, with that unnatural curve across the top, but they didn't droop either. These were impossibly perky without looking fake. She stroked her breasts idly, and smiled at me. "I take it you... like... women?"

"I tried it once, in college. It was nice, but I'm pretty sure I'm straight."

Diane's eyes sparkled as she smiled, running her hands underneath her breasts and lifting them, as if making them an offering. "You don't look straight right now."

I realized that my hands had strayed to my own breasts, and that I could feel dampness growing between my thighs. I longed to bury my face between those orbs of flesh, stroke their soft skin, and lose myself in the cleavage. A tingle ran through my body. I swallowed and tried to smile. "I know vegetarians who say pepperoni is a vegetable."

"Well then, my hungry vegetarian, let's not wait any longer." Diane leaned back, closed her eyes, and cupped her breasts with both hands. Once again, there was a kind of thickening in the air, an electric scent, and the skin under her hands swelled. Her complexion got paler as her breasts slowly grew beyond any size I had ever seen before, beyond anything I had ever even imagined. A minute passed, two, and they became bigger and bigger, until they came down below her ribs, and then her navel, and finally touched her thighs. Diane's pink nipples, which had become easily an inch thick and two inches long, were almost out of the woman's reach, and her skin had turned nearly completely white.

I could hardly breathe. It felt like my heart was beating a hundred times a minute. I knew I wasn't supposed to feel this way. The display was supposed to be absurd, even grotesque, but I was more turned on than I had felt in months.

"Touch me," said Diane. "You want to. I can see it."

-----

The spanking comes a bit later in the story. If you would like to see how that turns out, pick up Coming Together: In Flux from All Romance Ebooks. It includes stories by Shanna Germain and Angela Caperton, among many others. It has superheroes, steampunk androids, transhumanism, werewolves and immortality clones. Even if this particular excerpt doesn’t spin your bottle, the sheer diversity of this anthology should leave you with something that will touch you in a way you never expected.

Bio: A few years ago Nobilis Reed decided to start sharing the naughty little stories he scribbled out in hidden notebooks. To his surprise, people actually liked them! Now, he can’t stop. The poor man is addicted. His wife, teenage children, and even the cats just look on this wretch of a man, hunched over his computer and shake their heads. Clearly, there is no hope for him. The best that can be hoped for is to just make him as comfortable as his condition will allow. Symptoms of his condition include two novels, several novellas, numerous short stories, and the longest-running erotica podcast in the history of the world.

On the Edge

By Xan West

I’ve been on a motorcycle once in my life.

I was 17, and for a few minutes, I tasted exhilaration riding on the back of this guy’s bike. Then, my best friend got her turn on the back of the bike, and within moments, they got into an accident, and she was seriously injured. I haven’t been on a bike since.

When an editor asked me to write a biker story for a new gay anthology (Biker Boys) three years ago, I wasn’t sure I could do it. I brainstormed, imagining a bootblack greasing well-worn leathers on the deck of the San Francisco Eagle, envisioning a biker cuffed to his motorcycle getting fucked. In the end, I couldn’t deepen those characters and make them real, bring them from jack-off archetype to complex humanity.

I set them aside to go for what I knew. I couldn’t tell a story about bikers that didn’t have something broken in it, that wasn’t touched by trauma. Because my relationship with motorcycles is steeped in it. So I went in another direction. I went into the trauma. This would be the latest (and most intense) in a line of stories about cathartic play (this line includes “Dancing for Daddy”, “My Will”, “My Precious Whore”, and “Facing the Dark”).

I imagined a long time biker Daddy who didn’t ride anymore, but loved bikes so much that he still worked on them. His last ride ended in an accident, which left him newly disabled. He kept his wrecked bike and used it to make something beautiful, reclaimed it for himself. That was how “Ready” started, with this vision of a wrecked bike reshaped into a sling, one he could tie his boy to, force him to lick chrome as he fucked him on it, and unleash his rage and cruelty, transform them into pleasure.

It was important to me that the first character I wrote with an apparent physical disability was a top. The image of a top in BDSM community is non-disabled; tops are imagined to have immense physical and psychological capacity and stamina, with no pain or needs of their own. This image is destructive and dehumanizing, and fucks with tops like me, who are disabled. I can count on one hand the number of kinky stories I have read where any character is disabled, and cannot think of one where a top is disabled. So I wanted to create a top who was disabled, to include him into the story as an intensely erotic figure, create a counter image.

I want the tops in my stories to have their own wounds and fears. This is something I build in again and again (most notably in “First Time Since”, “Nervous Boy” and “Strong”), partly because it is so rare in kinky fiction. I create mirrors of myself as a top—a complex being with vulnerabilities and strengths, with my own pain to work through and manage. I want readers to contend with that kind of complexity, to see what it might be like to connect with tops in that deep way.

So, the story began with a reclaimed bike-sling and a disabled Daddy bike mechanic. He needed a good match, a boy who brought as much need, woundedness, and baggage as he did. I wanted them to transform pain from the past, together—to reach the intensity and pleasure that can come from facing demons together, from ordeal-based cathartic play. I pictured them both as matched adrenaline junkies going for visceral edgy frightening play that would shift how they saw themselves and each other. I imagined that this Daddy and boy wanted to create a space together where they could touch some of their deepest pain, and ride it through, holding each other, becoming closer in the process. I dreamed up the kind of boy that would ache for this Daddy, and what he needed, the kind of pain and fear he would reach for, the kind of surrender that could be a balm for him.

“Ready” involves core elements of my own eroticism, ones that keep popping up in my erotica: Daddies with filthy mouths, bottoms being pushed to name desires and own queerness, fear, tears, knives, belts, begging bottoms, possessive tops. These elements are there because I find them hot, but there is more to it. They are there to keep me present, and anchor me in my body, my desire. I needed that. Because it hurt to write this. My writing experience mirrored the intensity that electrifies the erotic encounter between these characters. When I was in the middle of it, I wrote this in my journal:

“I am getting this sick feeling in my stomach, the one that comes with impending edgeplay that I'm getting a vibe will be really risky. I have a feeling this story will take a lot out of me, and be really hard to write. Each time I try to decide that I'm going to play it safe, I get nudged that it won't write itself that way. I can tell that this is going to be an ordeal, and I just don't know if I am up to it.

It wants to be written, though. I can feel it coursing through me, aching to be put to the page. Will I do it?”

When I write ordeal stories, they often feel like my own ordeal. Part of what fuels my work is breathing through fear and pain of my own. This story is a perfect example of that. I dared myself to do it, pushed myself as hard as the boy in the story was being pushed by his Daddy. And I made it through to the other side.

When I saw the call for Coming Together: In Flux, I knew that this story was a match—it has transformation at its core. I am honored to have it included, and to contribute to a book raising money for the Woodhull Foundation.

Here is a taste of “Ready”, which was printed in Coming Together: In Flux:

Daddy said I was ready for this. I trusted him, and yet…I didn’t feel ready. I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel ready. But I showed up anyway, knowing that part of what would get me through it was obedience, choosing to give myself to his will.

Some scenes change you. Sometimes you don’t know they will until they have. Sometimes you can tell beforehand. I knew I would walk out changed that night. If I could just get through it. I could taste self-doubt in the back of my throat as I approached the garage. Could I do this, for real?

I was dressed as he told me to be, in my father’s old clothes, a worn pair of boots that used to be his, which I had painstakingly restored, his old jeans, the belt that he had left hanging on the wall, and his old Harley t-shirt, faded and worn until it was a soft whisper of comfort on my skin. When my father left us, I pulled his belt off the wall, grabbed his old boots that he had left in the back of the closet, and went searching through the laundry for his clothes. I can still hear the sound of his Harley driving away, can still see his long hair streaming behind him. I slept holding his clothes for six months; when I turned 13 I hid them away until I was old enough to wear them.

I wore only my father’s clothes that night, because that was what Daddy asked me to do. I tried to stand tall and stop trembling as I stood in front of him in them. Daddy walked slowly around me, and the sound of his uneven gait on the concrete calmed me in its familiarity. His hand snaked out and unbuckled my belt, whipping it from my jeans, and he wrapped it around my wrists and forearms, securing me. I began to breathe, slow and even, my father’s belt wrapped around me. Daddy knew exactly how to calm me, and how to scare me, he made a delicious dance of it, and that dance was just beginning.

Daddy shoved me onto a chair, and attached the belt to it. There is nothing that feels safer to me than bondage. Even if the rest is scary, if I concentrate on the sensation of being bound, I can make my way through it.

Daddy was looming over me, his large belly brushing against my head. He smelled so good, a musky sweaty scent mixed with oil and metal. That smell alone gets my dick hard, the smell that tells me a man has been working hard on a bike. It was clear he had; he was dirty as only a mechanic can get dirty, and I ached to suck the grease off his thick fingers.

Sometimes I think about Daddy and get so giddy knowing that I get to be his boy, that a scrawny faggot like me is lucky enough to be claimed by this big tough bear of a man. This was one of those times, as he rested a paw on my head and pressed my mouth against his stomach. Daddy was big enough to keep me safe, strong enough to hold all of me, cruel enough to give me exactly what I needed, and scary enough to keep me coming back for more.

At the moment when I relaxed into feeling safe, I heard it. That unmistakable buzzing noise that only clippers produce. I swallowed, lifted my eyes to his, and began begging.

“Please Daddy. No, please don’t do this. I can’t take it Daddy.”

I began to shake my head, frantic, until his grip tightened in my hair. I stared up at him, whimpering softly.

“You have to let go, boy. It’s time. You are carrying so much in your hair, boy. I know it’s hard; you’ve been growing it since your father left. But it’s time to let go of it. Ten years is long enough.”

“I don’t think I can do it, Daddy.”

“You are ready, boy. And I’m right here with you. Daddy’s right here. He’s not going anywhere. You can do this.”

I took a deep breath, staring into his eyes. They were resolute. He was not going to let me get out of this without safewording.

“Yes, Sir,” I whispered.

The buzzing against my head was all I could hear as my hair began to fall. His hand was gripped in my hair tightly, holding me still, the clippers moving firmly across my scalp, as tears rolled down my face. I could feel his dick pressed against my neck, and then he moved around me, resting his knee on my cock as he pressed into me, shaving the front of my head. I sobbed into his belly, gripping him tightly, overwhelmed. It seemed like it was excruciatingly slow, and I closed my eyes tight, willing myself to breathe through it, trembling. Finally it stopped. Daddy ran his hand along my head, and groaned.

“You feel so good, boy.”

He pulled out his dick, and began rubbing it all over my head, growling.

“Damn, boy, you sure do get me hard. Just feeling that stubble against my dick makes me want to shoot.”

Then Daddy rubbed his cock against my cheeks, soaking in my tears.

“That’s my good boy. Get my dick wet with your tears.”

He moved behind me, and forced my head down, covering my mouth and nose with his greasy hand, taking my breath, as he thrust his dick along my head, groaning. My heart started racing. My head was filled with the scent of motor oil. I was trembling, desperate to please Daddy, struggling to breathe. He growled as he came, his cum drooling onto my face, covering my head, and then he released my breath.

“Thank you, Daddy,” escaped my lips within seconds. It felt so right to say it.

There was a click by my ear, and I went still. I knew that noise. It was Daddy’s knife. It touched my lips, and they pursed to kiss the blade. Then I felt cold steel against my throat. My eyes were blurry, my head full of fog, and I was frozen.

“Time to let go, boy.”

Bio and Links:

Xan West is the nom de plume of an NYC based BDSM/sex educator and writer. Xan’s story “First Time Since”, won honorable mention for the 2008 National Leather Association’s John Preston Short Fiction Award. Xan's erotica can be found in Best SM Erotica 2 & 3, Hurts So Good, Love at First Sting, Best Women’s Erotica 2008 & 2009, Best Gay Erotica 2009, Best Lesbian Erotica 2011 & 2012, and Hot Daddies.

Blog: http://tgstonebutch.livejournal.com/

Twitter: http://twitter.com/TGStoneButch

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