Author: Exhibit A

Sinful Sunday: Desk Job

I was looking for photographic inspiration the other day, and the lovely Oleander Plume was kind enough to email me three suggestions for shots I could take. This was the third of them:

‘3. You’re in an office, sitting on top of your desk, leaning back on both hands, arms straight. Your jacket, shirt and pants are all open, and your erect cock is pointing up. You are looking to the side with a small smile on your face.’

As it happens, this was my last week in the job I came out to do in Poland, so on Wednesday night I sneaked into work after hours. Our floor is open-plan, and the only people with offices of their own are the company President, and the CFO. Apparently the President doesn’t lock his door when he leaves at night, which made it very easy to slip inside and take this week’s Sinful Sunday photo.

I left my jacket at home, and the small smile was sacrificed on the altar of anonymity, but otherwise I think this just about satisfies the brief…

Sex

On women who like to watch

Post author By Exhibit A
Post date March 26, 2014
2 Comments on On women who like to watch

Last week I had a drink in a London pub I’d last visited a couple of years ago, with a woman I was seeing at the time. Her name was Nathalie, and although the relationship was both short and fairly casual, sitting in that pub immediately brought her face to mind.

We ended up there after dinner one night, on what must have been about our fourth date. We’d certainly already slept together a couple of times, because halfway through a very good bottle of red wine, it was the sex that we started to discuss. Both times we’d fucked, Nathalie had asked me to stop just as I was about to come, then had got me to peel off the condom, lie on my back, and jerk off all over myself (“Pretend I’m not even here”) while she knelt next to me and watched. Just watched, mind: she hadn’t wanted to touch either herself or me, and each time I came she gave a contented little sigh and snuggled down next to me with her head on my shoulder.

As far as I was concerned that was all just fine – I have no problem with being watched – but I’m nosy by nature, especially when it comes to sex, so I felt compelled to ask her about it. She told me that it was something she asked all her boyfriends to do for her: not as a power trip, nor because she disliked the sensation of someone coming inside her – it was purely a visual thing. When she was younger and still a virgin, she’d watched a porn clip in which the camera had hovered over a guy as he lay supine, then pulled back to film him masturbating from the same position she’d occupied each time we’d re-enacted that scenario. I tried to get her to describe what made it so hot, but she shook her head and told me that although it was the source of her fetish, it was no longer the clip itself that turned her on; instead it served as a visual prompt for the various memories she had of watching lovers wank for her like that.

Watching a guy touch himself made her wetter than anything, she said. Her voice got softer and lower as she described the sense of anticipation she felt when she sat back on her heels, post-orgasm, next to her lover’s thigh. She watched because she wanted to see how he gripped his cock, and whether he stroked it slowly or with short, urgent jerks; but most of all, she wanted to listen to his grunts, and watch his hips pump upwards, pushing his cock through his curled fist. She liked the way most dicks seemed to twitch just before orgasm, and she said that when she knew for certain that a guy was about to come, she could never decide whether to watch the spunk shooting out over his stomach and chest, or whether just to stare at his face as he lost himself in the moment.

At the time, Nathalie’s description of her voyeuristic fetish turned me on so much that 20 minutes later we were back at her place, fucking on her kitchen table. When I thought about it again the other day, I realised that although Nathalie’s devotion to that one specific image may have represented an extreme, her general interest in watching was something she shared with most of my other partners.

The “men like pictures, women prefer words” nonsense has been beaten down with far bigger sticks than mine, but what my sexual experiences over the last few years have shown me is just how varied, and clearly defined, our visual preferences can be. Even with something as simple as watching me masturbate, every woman who’s asked to do that has wanted something different.

One liked me to straddle her chest, so she could look up and see everything above her, all the way up to the look on my face as I touched myself. Another preferred me to kneel on the floor and do it, while she sat on the bed and stroked my hair: she would pull me forward just as I was getting close, so the cum would always end up all over my thighs and the floor in front of me.

I have one ex who sometimes asked me to wear her knickers while I wanked. She used to get me to put them on about half an hour beforehand, then tease me till I was so hard that the material stretched painfully around my cock. Only then would she let me touch it, standing in front of her with the knickers pulled down just far enough for me to wrap my hand around the shaft.

More recently, I was in bed with a woman who asked me to show her how I masturbate when I’m on my own. I lay on my side and she spooned me, her breasts squished against my back and her chin resting on my shoulder, so she could watch it from my perspective.

Different angles, different positions. Different power dynamics too, because sometimes I’m the one in charge, taking my pleasure and using the sight of her body to get myself off, while she just lies there and watches. Different ways of getting started, and different ways of finishing – on me, on her, or, with one lover, in her mouth…she used to swoop in just as I was about to come, and that would be the only time our bodies touched during the whole process.

Porn has its issues, but one positive thing it’s done for the way we fuck is to expand the library of hot visual images that we carry round in our heads – images that we can feed into what we do with our partners. A lot has rightly been written about the negative impact of porn on sexual expectations among young men, but with the women I’ve dated or talked to about it (especially those without much sexual experience of their own to fall back on), porn has helped to crystallize and enhance the specific visual triggers for their arousal. That, in turn, has given them the confidence to ask for what they want, and the clarity to describe it in detail.

I’m not sure there’s a wider point to this post. I started off with the intention of framing it in the context of routines, and how even when we’re watching someone else do something, we all have particular details or scenarios that turn us on. It irritates me that ‘routine’ is a word often used in a negative way, because as great – as bloody amazing – as variety can be, the reality is that most of us find comfort and an easy satisfaction in our sexual bread-and-butter, whatever that happens to involve.

In the end though, it wasn’t routine I thought about as I typed. Instead I thought about each of the women who’ve asked me to wank for them, and about how hot it is to have a specific scenario described or requested. It’s hot because in asking for something in that much detail, the other person is not only showing that they’re confident and positive in their own sexuality (a real turn-on in itself), they’re also opening up a part of their brain – a really fucking sexy part of their brain – and letting me peek inside. I get to see exactly what she fantasizes about, and I get to know that when I masturbate with her eyes on me, I’m tapping directly into one of those fantasies – tapping into it, and creating more images for her to file away and use at some point in the future. It basically makes me think about her wanking, and desperate, frenzied girlwanking is a whole other level of hotness.

Uncategorized

My suit

Shortly after Eroticon, the otherwise brilliant and lovely @DomSigns tweeted something about men in suits:

“Men that wear suits are so very seldom at the top of the food chain… it is the people that dress like they have only £10 in their pockets that are the people with the real power… to me a suit is a sign of submission to the corporate world”

There’s a certain nobility to the sentiment behind the first part of that, but the last bit, addressed in a separate reply to @sexblogofsorts, had me itching to jump in and join the argument. I bit my tongue at the time, but that tweet floated back into my head this morning, as I was settling down in my seat for the flight back to London. I disagree with his point-of-view, but that’s neither interesting nor uncommon: I disagree with lots of people over lots of things, and life would be very dull if that wasn’t the case. It was when I started trying to figure out why I disagree with it, and what that says about me, that I decided to write something.

When I was a teenager, I didn’t care about clothes at all. Even when I reached 16, and no longer had to wear a school uniform, I was always happiest in an old t-shirt and jeans or cords, or even tracksuit trousers. Between April and September, the latter were switched most days for shorts, regardless of how ridiculous my skinny white legs looked in the corridor or around town: I prioritised comfort over appearance, basically, at all times.

The thing is, that’s still true now – it’s just that as I’ve changed, my notion of comfort has changed too, and become more complex. If something looks great but feels restrictive, or unpleasant against my skin, I won’t wear it. Equally, I have plenty of clothes that other people find hideous, but which feel good on my body, or make me think of a particular place or person. I can go for months at a time without buying new clothes, because I’m generally happy with what I’ve got. I value comfort and familiarity over fashion. Or maybe I’m just lazy: for years now, I’ve worn Burberry Touch aftershave, put Pantene shampoo on my hair, cleaned my teeth with Sensodyne Pronamel, and sprayed unscented Right Guard under my arms – I have no emotional attachment to the brands, but there’s a limit to the number of things I can think about in any one day, and I’d rather not have to squeeze ‘choosing toiletries’ into the mix, so once I find something I like, I stick with it. Makes shopping much easier.

It does have to be something that I like though. In a way that was never the case in my teens, comfort now also means being happy with the way I look, feel and smell. That’s a personal thing: I was quite unhappy and insecure for a while in my mid-20s, partly because I’d started to worry far too much about how other people saw me; it’s only more recently that I’ve learned to focus on how I see myself, and on what I think looks good.

Clothing is a part of that. I have a favourite shirt. It’s got very thin blue and white vertical stripes, and my Dad bought it in the Far East six or seven years ago – it was too small for him, so he gave it to me. I couldn’t tell you who made it, nor do I have any idea what it cost, but I know that I can wear it with jeans, chinos or a suit, and every time I put it on I feel happy. The same is true of my Tintin socks, and my black-and-white Calvin Klein boxers, and my t-shirt with a picture of the Vitruvian Man on the front, and…well, and so on. It’s not that I would feel anxious if I lost them, but having them clean and ready in my drawer is comforting, in a way that an endless stream of new clothes wouldn’t be.

When I feel relaxed and comfortable, I also feel sexy. It’s why I no longer go on dates wearing something that I think the other person will like – I dress in a way that makes me feel good about my body. It kind of goes back to something I wrote about lingerie a couple of months ago – as far as I’m concerned the aesthetic value of clothing lies in how it makes us feel about ourselves, not in what other people think of it. When I look in the mirror and like what I see, I feel better about life in general.

I don’t wear a suit to fit in, or to mask my insecurities. I don’t wear it as a way of swinging my dick around, but I also don’t feel like a corporate stooge when I take it off the hanger. I wear a suit because it looks and feels really good. It’s the one thing in my wardrobe that was made specifically to fit my body. The jacket neither hangs loose around my shoulders nor pulls tight across them. I don’t have to tug at the sleeves to stop them riding up my arms, nor do I have to keep fishing my shirt cuffs out from under them. The trousers feel soft, both under my fingers when I rest a hand on my thigh, and against my skin as I walk around. If I wear them without underwear, I end up in a constant state of arousal, just from the way the silky smooth lining hugs and caresses my dick.

I’ll always be a t-shirt and jeans man at heart, and I’ll never stop exposing the world to my pasty white calves whenever the sun is shining. I wouldn’t want to put my suit on every day, because then it wouldn’t feel special. I’m sure I’d still enjoy the way it fits me, but I wouldn’t get that little jolt of energy – the tingle that runs straight to my cock when I pull the jacket across my chest.

For the first time in my adult life, I’m truly comfortable in my own skin, and part of that comes from being happy with the clothes I use to cover it. My suit is only one piece of that puzzle, but it’s an important one, and when I get off the plane today and walk through the terminal, I’ll have an extra spring in my step as a result of wearing it.

Erotica

Divine Ecstasy

This was mostly written a while back, after a trip to one of the London galleries. I was horny when I went in, even hornier when I came out, and this piece of flash fiction was my way of channeling that.

—

The air is always still here; it should feel sterile, but the paintings give it life, and as we walk into the gallery from the sticky, humid street, the arid coolness bathes our skin. But heat lingers, even as it evaporates from glistening temples and flushed cheeks; it lingers inside us, burning us up with every step we take.

It’s in the look you give me when I place my hand on the small of your back, underneath your shirt. It’s in the way my eyes wander distractedly over paintings that usually hypnotise me for hours; the way they return again and again to you walking beside me. And it’s in our desire, unspoken, but shimmering in the air between us, surrounding our bodies in a bubble of lust, hidden from the world outside it.

Every touch is accidental, yet seems pre-ordained. It’s been like this since we met: the quiet, pervasive awareness of mutual need, as if we will come apart unless we have each other soon. I step back and watch you move in front of me, tasting your sweat on my fingers where they have caressed the back of your shirt, and wanting to taste more of you. All of you.

You look over your shoulder at me, quizzically, playfully, and I smile. I’m thinking about tasting both of us now, my cum slick and hot over the lips of your cunt as I lick it from you, your juices mixed in with it. I wonder, do you know what I’m seeing in my mind? Do you know what’s getting my cock hard as I stand and watch you? You know – I think you know – and I walk towards you, our eyes never leaving each other until we’re standing so close that your hair brushes my face.

All that I desire is impure, forbidden, and I glance around me, surveying the pious faces that stare down at us, lovingly rendered studies in ecstatic devotion. I pull you against me, turning you so you can feel my cock pressing into your arse, conducting the heat between our bodies. I whisper, too loud for this silent hall, my voice thick and unsteady as we look up at a Renaissance nude, her eyes cast heavenward in search of the divine. “Do you see her? When I look at her, I see you. I see her expression on your face as you slide slowly onto me, curving your body around mine; taking me deep into the heart of you until we blur into one.”

There’s no space between us, no cool air to separate our bodies – even our clothing feels insubstantial, like it might just melt away. My fingers are on your arms, pinning them by your side, in the knowledge that if we move, we’ll fall into each other and never find our way out. I could fuck you right here on the hard marble floor and throw both caution and consequence to the wind; instead I hold you, every muscle tense, and feel the heavy press of desire warm my blood, until it feels like the summer storm is breaking around us. We will emerge into it, already drenched, and find our way to calmer waters, where the storms that rage inside us can be released.

Other photos Sinful Sunday

Sinful Sunday: If you go down to the woods today…

Post author By Exhibit A
Post date March 23, 2014
13 Comments on Sinful Sunday: If you go down to the woods today…

…you might just spot a little acorn, in between all the tall oaks.

(Nothing sexier than a man in socks, right?!)

Erotica

The Suitcase: winner!

Winner: Lost, by Charlie Powell

I’m not superstitious, and I don’t believe in fate. Still, when faced with a really difficult choice between two options, I have been known to resolve the dilemma by tossing a coin. Not because I think a higher power will intervene, but because my gut reaction to the way the coin falls invariably tells me much more about what I really want than any amount of soul-searching or logical analysis.

Confession: I spent about 20 minutes this afternoon trying to think of a good reason not to pick this entry as the contest winner. Eventually, I realised that if I put it up against any of the other eight and tossed a coin, I’d be disappointed not to see Charlie’s story land face-up. Unfortunately she’s a friend of mine, which will make handing over the 25 quid all the more galling, not least because in doing so I’ll be forced to acknowledge that she’s pretty fucking good at this whole writing business.

Why this story? Because it manages to make the suitcase both an incidental and an integral part of the action; because it delights in the marriage of language and sex, while using the former to expose vulnerability and establish control; and because the prose is tight, clear, controlled, and precise, even as the story reaches its filthy climax. It was the best of a very, very good bunch – smart, beautifully written, and really fucking hot.

So yes, well done Charlie (grr), and thanks again to everyone who took part or got in touch to let me know what they thought of the stories. I imagine I’ll find an excuse to do this again at some point in the not-too-distant future, so do look out for the next prompt/brief – until then, you’ll find me cyber-stalking the nine lovely people whose stories I’ve just enjoyed, one hand tucked discreetly inside my pants.

—

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Lost

‘You should buy a Kindle.’

I look up, glare at him. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s looking stupid in front of other people, especially when the other person in question is smirking and squeezing his dick all at the same time.

I brought back wine, hence why I checked in my case. Hence why the weight of it didn’t take me by surprise when I hauled it from the conveyor belt. But there’s no wine in this Samsonite, only a selection of garments in various shades of beige, two pairs of sensible shoes and a hardback French-English dictionary, well-thumbed but spine unbroken. Clearly those who favour beige are not up to speed with app technology.

I lift it out and flip it open, looking for a name in the inside front cover, but there’s nothing. I flick to a random page, and it lands on F.

‘Dirty girl,’ he says, squeezing my shoulder.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘I think you do. How d’you say “Fuck?”’

I thumb the pages, scanning down with my finger till I find it. When I do though, I can’t bring myself to say it. I have trouble asking for what I want when the language is familiar to me, the unknown makes it worse still. I’m reminded of classroom roleplays, of oral exams, of hearing myself speak and not recognising my own voice.

His hand slides from my shoulder to my nipple, and he pinches it hard between thumb and forefinger.

I love words on the page. I hate words in my mouth. He can read them, he doesn’t need to hear them from me.

‘Putain,’ I whisper.

’Nice,’ he says. ‘Let’s try another. How about “Fuck me?”’

My eyes skim the column of text. ‘Baise-moi.’

‘Louder.’

He’s standing beside me now, wanking slowly. I lay the book on the carpet and scramble to my knees. If I suck him, maybe he’ll stop tormenting me. But as I lean in to take him in my mouth, he takes a step back, leaving me grasping in thin air. An involuntary gasp of dismay escapes me.

‘You know what to do.’

I’m wet with the shame of it, and it turns out he’s barely started. For every word I utter, he thinks of more, barking them one after another and barely giving me time to find them.

Eventually, he grows tired of the game and goes hunting through the case in search of more fun. There’s a washbag at the bottom, and inside, a stub of a dusky pink lipstick. He has me get on my hands and knees and then he carefully folds my dress back. Another five words follow, and each of these is scrawled across my back and arse in waxy capitals.

There’s one word he hasn’t asked for yet. ‘Find “cunt.”’

As I’m searching, he pulls my knickers to one side, and slicks his finger up through my wetness. Then he’s right there with me, cock poised at the entrance to the very place I can’t find the word for. The pages flutter helplessly as I hunt desperately and my pussy is twitching with the need to have him inside me.

It’s not fucking there.

It’s not my fault, I protest – I’m not the keeper of the words. But he takes no notice, instead leaning over me and going all the way back to A.

Arse. Of course. Cul. I’m pretty sure you don’t pronounce the l, but not certain. Even as he makes me say it he’s spitting on his fingers, working the moisture around my tight hole. As he eases them into me I let out a deep moan. We’ve not done this before, but my body is grinding back against him, trying to take him deeper. He moves his fingers apart, slowly, stretching me. What’s tumbling from my lips now is as incoherent as the smudged lipstick prints on my back.

His cock replaces his fingers, and I gasp and keen as he slides deep inside me. He butts against me steadily, rhythmically, as he reaches round to fret my clit with one hand. The carpet burns my knees, and it stings with every thrust, but I don’t care, because right now I am just as lost as my suitcase.

Erotica

The Suitcase: runner-up

Runner-up: No Hope, by John D Stories

I read John’s story on my phone last week in between job applications, and I wasn’t all that impressed at first. It didn’t quite ring true, the focus on the mundane details of Rita’s trip was a bit annoying, and hey, ‘dogmaticism’ isn’t actually a word…

It was only today, when I read it properly, that I realised just how well-crafted this piece is. Those mundane details – the Ford Mondeo, the Argyle socks, the strawberry jam – actually help to establish Rita as a character you can believe in, and by building up that rounded picture of who she is and how she thinks, John makes the theme of mistaken identity a more powerful and believable one.

For some readers, the issues around non-consent might be a turn-off, or even a trigger, and I certainly don’t think this is a story that everyone will enjoy. However, for the hot sex, the clever use of the suitcase, and also for Rita’s ultimate triumph, ‘No Hope’ ended up being my second-favourite of the nine stories.

As the runner-up, John wins a copy of Kinksters, by the lovely (and very generous) Giselle Renarde – you lucky boy. I’ve published his story in full below, but you can also find it here, with the rest of his work.

—

No Hope

The growl of the engine reverberated angrily in her small compartment; her knees pressed against her chin, vibrating tortuously as she struggled in the car boot, desperate to bring relief to the tired, cramped muscles in her body. All she wanted was to be watching the banal stream of pointless entertainment from her Saturday night television, while wearing her wine-stained onesie and swigging from a bottle of Rioja. She wanted to be home, but somehow found herself in the back of a car boot, winding down country lanes.

It was her usual weekly flight; Copenhagen to Manchester, for arrival in Saturday’s early evening. She even had her usual seat, next to the window, and had sped through passport control and baggage claim in no time. It was usual. Everything was normal, until she reached the bus terminal, and she was grabbed from behind and bundled into the back of a waiting car.

No time to scream, barely time to fight; the cold, gloved hands of her attacker forced her into the open boot, ripping her handbag, containing her mobile phone and valuables, from her grasp. But what could she remember? Little details, Rita, she reminded herself. Little details, she had to be observant. The car: it was green; she remembered that. A light green, faded like pea and mint soup. It was a long car too: a bit like a Ford Mondeo, and her attacker had black facial hair. Little details.

She strained over the roar of the car engine to listen to any clues to where they were going: places, accent, anything, but couldn’t hear a word over the spiteful roar of the car. Her hands hurt as she punched the metal boot, and her shoulders ached as she tried to force the seat, but her compartment remained solid; immovable and inflexible: she was stuck, beholden to the will of her captors.

She struggled to stand when, 30 minutes later, she was hauled from the boot into a cool, brightly-lit area, and fell onto the floor, scrabbling quickly towards the exit as a couple of shapes descended upon her. She screamed, her voice echoing around the large space; bits of straw on the floor, and the feint smell of cow shit: it was a barn, she knew that much.

“No one can hear you Jane,” her captor barked. “No one.”

Rough hands grabbed her arm, pulling her to her feet, and dragged her to a large wooden bench. Her lungs burnt as she screamed, pleading pointlessly to her attackers; she wasn’t “Jane,” they had the wrong person, but they ignored her. How did she let herself get in this situation?

Could she have screamed louder, or kicked harder? Could she have done anything more to protect herself from her attackers? She went running in the park every evening after dark and had never been approached, but somehow she was snatched from the centre of a busy International airport. How?

Doubt and fear stalked her mind as she thrown roughly over the wooden furniture; a pair of hands fastened rope to her right wrist, forcing her further over the bench so that her weight uncomfortably rested on her breasts.

“Let me go!” She screamed, her left arm flailing and resisting the immovable bondage of the rope offered, but a sweaty hand squeezed her wrist and pulled her shoulder forward as he restrained her. She yelped in pain; her body seized with fear and terror as the men walked around her in the cold inhumane space.

How many? Four? Five? Six? They had all donned Anonymous masks except the ring leader, and he barked out instructions. “Tie her legs apart. Get her clothes off.”

“No!”

“And get a gag on her.” Rita shook her head, as a hard, uncompromising ball was forced into her mouth; roughly and soullessly.

Her hands curled into fists as her heart pounded against the cold, barren wood of the furniture. She felt slightly dizzy, detached, desperately hoping her experience was a vivid dream caused by an exceptionally ripe piece of Blue Stilton. She pleaded with fate to release her from her nightmare, clawing at hope that the cold steel of scissors cutting her clothes were no more real than the feeling of circulating air against her thighs, the forced parting of her legs or the unwelcome touch on her buttocks.

Ankles, scuffed big black shoes, and green Argyle Socks: the view of the man standing in front of her recorded as she filed the memory away: little details, she reminded herself, might be important.

“You’re going to love this Jane.” She growled into the gag: why wouldn’t he listen; she was not Jane! She felt she was being examined, probed by the dozen eyes in the room as they scrutinised every imperfection on her body. How dare they! She tried to force her legs closed, knowing that there was passing judgement on her intimate areas, as a cold, hard object rolled up her inner thighs.

But not any object: it was vibrating! She groaned into the gag: they meant to force her into arousal, and she struggled helplessly with the unseen bonds, digging the rope deeper into her pale skin. The pain mattered not: she was anxious to spare herself a humiliating violation and desperately flailed, pushing her body against the wooden bench as the vibrator was pushed against her skin.

It was low; a gentle, warm setting: a subtle hue of agitating arousal skipping lightly over her thighs and sex. The man wrapped his hands in her hair, jerking her head sideways as his dominating voice whispered into her ear. “We’re going to make you come like the slut you are!”

She whimpered; unable to resist and answer; the gentle hum of the sex toy rattled in her ears, drowning out the sounds of her heavy breathing. She tried desperately to think of non-sexual things: the price of Strawberry jam, the new supermarket in Wilmslow or the sparkling views over the Cheshire plains, but the relentless wand, pressed against her unwilling cunt, tingled her senses.

She stubbornly refused to acknowledge the sensations; it felt so different to when her last boyfriend would use her toys on her: he would probe her body gently, sliding the vibrating wand over every inch of her arousal, and then, as he pushed it up against soft hole, he would use his tongue to delicately swirl messages on her clitoris: come for me, I love you, fuck me, you’re gorgeous.

This time, she had none of those sweet messages. The soft murmurings of the toy were replaced with stronger, more determined pulses; she closed her eyes, focusing on ignoring the feelings from her sex. It was her versus the toy. Willpower versus the wand. Mind versus matter. She would not let the vibrator win, desperate to retain her dignity and refused to submit to its quivering power.

She tried; tried to resist as fear dominated her concern, but her body betrayed her. The unrelenting dogmaticism of her battery-powered nemesis, taking her deeper towards her unwanted climax. Her clit throbbed as she fought to beat every snatched breath and lust-addled whimper of her climaxing body.

But the men didn’t stop, they upped the power, as her body sent wave after wave of orgasmic delight, forcing undulating groans of desperate desire to escape from her body. All resistance was futile, her body ravished by orgasms and her unable to stop the wand, forced against her sex.

She pleaded with her eyes and twisted her body, as they laughed; they were savouring her humiliation and degradation, but she barely registered their reaction. Her body heaved and contorted with the sensations, and she was almost disappointed when the wand was removed.

“Let me go!” She spat into the gag, knowing that nothing but murmurings could be heard.

“Little cunt wants a bit more, guys,” the man shouted over the top of her and picked up a couple of toys from a table, kneeling down in front of her to display the giant strap-on dildo and the tube of Deep Heat. “One in your cunt and one in your arse if you give us any trouble Jane,” he warned. “But I’ll let you choose what goes where!” He laughed as he left the two items in her view: a reminder of the fate she faced as her buttocks were fondled and patted.

A man walked behind her as she struggled again with the bonds. Her mind floated, anxious to put her situation out of her mind when a belt landed on her backside. She screamed, pointlessly, as blow after ferocious blow of leather punishment landed on her sensitive skin.

The humiliation tore through her; the pain of the degradation as the men watched her beating, fear tingled at her anger; not since she was eighteen had any man dare to lay a finger on her. She silently implored for release; her soul vibrating in agony at the echoing smack of her torment, while her bare buttocks sung in painful indignation at her treatment.

But they continued, thwacking the leather paddle against her naked bottom with powerful strokes; her mind wandered in self defence. Suddenly, she was the errant Victorian school-kid, the medieval witch or the Roman rebel: smacked and tormented for the sadistic pleasure of the powerful. Anything but the naked and bound project manager, tied up in a remote barn by unknown strangers. She was anyone but Rita.

Her skin tingled as the straps were lay across her back; the gruff voice spoke above her and the sound of feet leaving the barn. Her heart jumped; her skin shivering to the touch as hands touched her wrists, freeing her.

“There you go Jane. Kidnapped, orgasmed and spanked, humiliated live on the Internet.”

“Stop calling me Jane,” she spat, ripping her hands from the untied ropes. “That’s not my name.”

“Of course it is! You’re Jane Trent!”

“No, I’m not!”

“Don’t fuck with me! I know as you spoke to me. You’re Jane.”

“I’m not!” She screeched. He looked him closing a laptop lid balanced on top of a blue suitcase, with the yellow flower on the front. “And that’s not my suitcase.”

“It was! You were holding it.”

“Mine doesn’t have a yellow flower. Mine’s blue but without the flower.”

“Oh shit!” He cried, the walls loudly echoing his profanity. “But … but … you picked up the wrong suitcase! Jane Trent paid for … this! We sorted it out on the ‘net.” Rita stepped away from the BDSM equipment and rubbed her sore bottom. “She said she’d be on the flight from Denmark with that suitcase and we were to take her and do … this. You’ve got to be Jane!”

“I’m not!” She yelled. He picked up the purse from her handbag. “And leave that. It’s mine.”

“Rita!” He spat as he looked at her work ID card. “Who the fuck is Rita?”

“The woman you just violated, asswipe!”

“I didn’t … it was … ummm … I’m so sorry. It was just a little misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding!” She cried. “You sexually assaulted me, and you call it a misunderstanding! Where the fuck are my clothes?”

“We destroyed them,” he admitted, looking sheepish. “It was part of the deal. She wanted us to. It was her fantasy.” His eyes dropped to the floor. “That’s what we do, act out people’s fantasies. We set it up with her, and she’d be holding that suitcase, so we knew it was her. We do fantasies and you never gave us the safewords we agreed.”

“Because you didn’t agree in any fucking safewords with me!”

He hummed. “Sorry.” He shrugged.

She snorted and her eyes narrowed on the floor. “You act out any fantasy?”

“Pretty much,” he admitted.

“Pretty much?”

“Yeah, well, some fantasies we can help with. Some, we can’t.”

“You mean only ones when the woman is powerless?”

“You said that, not me.”

Rita picked up the twelve-inch strap-on that she was threatened with, and held it out in front of her. “I’ve always wanted to fuck a man up the arse with one of these,” she said smirking. “Live on the Internet. It’s my fantasy.”

“Err … love, I …”

“Bend over. I have some lube,” she said as she picked up the Deep Heat. “ … or I’ll report you to the Police.”

“Fuck!” The fearsome glare on the naked, confident woman stepping into the strap-on, told him he had no hope.

Erotica

The Suitcase: round-up (part 1)

Post author By Exhibit A
Post date March 21, 2014
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Even with only nine entries, picking the winner of this short story competition has been a pretty thankless task. The good kind of thankless, obviously – I’m never going to complain too loudly about having to read a load of quality smut – but still, elevating one above the rest wasn’t easy.

Before I get to the winner, I want to briefly mention some of the things I enjoyed most about the other entries. With Anna Sky’s ‘Butterfly’, it was the wistful beauty of her closing line that I loved: the butterfly pinned to the board, probed ‘…until the novelty wore off, bright colours fading.’ The purple-and-black panels of the silk-boned corset, and the temporary charge it gives the sex between her two characters, are reframed right at the end, and the reader is left to consider the impact of familiarity and time on relationships.

After reading ‘Happy Consequences’, by Septimus Warren Smith, I’m pretty sure the author could earn herself a hefty commission from nJoy; the toy her character finds (and uses) is described in wonderful detail, and I don’t blame Carrie for wanting to hang onto it for another day or two. The whole piece felt like a celebration of female masturbation, which I loved as well.

For sheer kitschy fun, the story title I enjoyed most was ‘Madam Madonna’s House of Pain’, by Cherrie Jubilee. Madam Madonna herself turned out to be lip-smackingly wicked, and by the end of the story I had a clear picture of what she looked like and who she was. I also really liked the closing line, and the hint it gave of what might happen next.

After reading ‘The Suitcase’, Vida Bailey’s story of the travelling sex-toy salesman and the woman who uses him to test the merchandise, I found myself craving a good spanking, which is not generally something I fantasise about – testament, I think, to the way Vida captures the relationship between pain and arousal in her description of the punishment handed out to poor Gareth. It’s a hot, filthy hotel-room encounter, and I was fidgeting in my seat by the end of it.

I thought the cleverest entry came from Charlie J Forrest, and I had to read ‘Emotional Baggage’ a few times to tease out the full story. Charlie’s writing style is smooth and laced with a sense of playful mischief; I especially loved the image of ‘bruises to be admired, bruises to be smoothed over with arnica and kisses’, among various other well-crafted vignettes.

‘MissTaken Identity’, by Oleander Plume was the only M/M entry among the nine, and confirmed the author as a reliable source of high-quality gay smut. I thought that the deliberate switch of the two suitcases was a great twist, but the story really came together around the cross-dressing painter with the big dick, an extravagant, exuberant character who I believed in right away; his seduction of the strait-laced middle-aged businessman could’ve felt far-fetched in less skilful hands, but instead was fun, kinky and hot, all at the same time.

The final ‘honourable mention’ goes to ‘Open Me’, by Malin James. I love stories that play with the psychological aspect of D/S, and Malin sets this up perfectly, with the jaded road warrior jolted into life by a mystery woman, who immediately burrows inside his head and finds the right buttons to push. Even though disobeying her command would have brought with it no negative consequences, I instinctively understood why he chose to submit. For the surprise and delight it conveys, I also loved this line: ‘He was a grown man wearing panties, and he was fucking satisfied’.

Seven down, two to go. I’m going to announce the runner-up and the winner in separate posts, so I can publish each piece in full, after explaining why I chose it. Look out for those later today!

Uncategorized

e[lust] #56

Photo courtesy of Understanding Flutterby

Welcome to e[lust] – The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at e[lust]. Want to be included in e[lust] #57? Start with the rules, come back April 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Trick of the Light

What Does Porn Lead To

The Posh Life of a Sex Toy Reviewer?

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Eleven Quarters

Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Sadists

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*

Its official: NatWest now censors academic work

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Erotica

The Suitcase: contest submissions

Post author By Exhibit A
Post date March 18, 2014
1 Comment on The Suitcase: contest submissions

11pm GMT has come and gone, and so has the deadline for entering the short story competition I launched here last week. In total, there were nine submissions, which I’ll be reading and ~~jerking off to~~ carefully evaluating over the next four days. The winner will be announced on Friday: in the meantime, please take a look at some of the fantastically creative ways in which the various authors decided to tackle the brief (hyperlinks to be added as/when pieces are made publicly available).

1. Open Me, by Malin James (@MadeleineMalin)

2. Miss-Taken Identity, by Oleander Plume (@OleanderPlume)

3. Emotional Baggage, by Charlie J Forrest (@CJForrestauthor)

4. Madam Madonna’s House of Pain, by Cherrie Jubilee (@cherriedelights)

5. Happy Consequences, by Septimus Warren Smith (@SeptimusReviews)

6. Lost, by Charlie Powell (@sexblogofsorts)

7. The Suitcase, by Vida Bailey (@vidabailey2)

8. No Hope, by John D Stories (@johndstories)

9. Butterfly, by Anna Sky (@IAmAnnaSky)

Many thanks to all of you who took the time to write something. I hope I can do justice to the effort you put into these stories by picking a worthy winner.

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~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Erotic Fiction

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