Cover for Show Yourself to Me

Show Yourself to Me – From the Fantastic Xan West!

Hi everyone! I’m thrilled to welcome Xan West today, a writer who has long impressed me as one willing to take risks and walk the edge. Xan’s fiction is always transgressive and bold, and, having had the opportunity to listen to a live reading, I can tell you Xan’s words will make you sit up in your seat.

Xan’s Show Yourself to Me is now out from Go Deeper Press—and I’m honored to be part of the blog tour for this collection. Xan is a writer who empowers with words and emotions that stand out in our genre, and this anthology is full of queer kink that explores power dynamics, consent, play, and community. The tour has been going on for a bit, so please be sure to check out the entire lineup of stops here, as well as Xan’s thoughtful, informative postings at Kink Praxis.

For now, I’m going to turn the floor over to Xan to share not only an intense excerpt, but a musing on a kink involving one of my favorite things: boots.

Take it away, Xan!

Cover for Show Yourself to Me

For the Love of Boots
By Xan West

Boots are one of my core kinks, and have been since the beginning. Boots are one of those kinks that can be really baffling to people, and bootlicking in particular is one of those things that lots of folks find deeply distasteful. One of my early online screen names was “bootlicker”, and it consistently garnered me both puzzled and squicked reactions.

From the outside it can get immediately read as being about humiliation, and sometimes it is. But there are so many other flavors of bootlicking. It can be about worship, or sex, or begging, or love, or service, or fetish, or submission, or dedication, or stubborn will, or gender, or getting the best shine possible. Like most kink acts, what you bring to it is really where the juice is.

When I write boots into my stories, I attempt to illuminate boot play in its specificity, to give the reader a clear sense of why this character is doing it and what it means to them. In the story “My Will,” a dominant chooses to kneel for the first time in fifteen years. He gave up submission after an abusive D/s relationship, and moved to the other side of the whip. He is drawn to submit to a man he trusts, who has offered a scene for his birthday, and rationalizes that it’s not a forever choice, more like a vacation.

I’m going to share an excerpt with you, that shows what boots mean to him in this particular scene. As a heads up, this excerpt includes D/s, boot care, boot worship, cock torture, rough body play, face fucking, consensual non-consent, and humiliation play.

An Excerpt from “My Will”

When I knelt to do his boots, it was like coming home. I savored every second of it, taking my time brushing on the saddle soap, carefully cleaning every inch of them. I had not even done my own boots in many years, much less anyone else’s. It was too dangerous, I had found: I got too trancey and submissive. I could let that happen in this space and time. I could let myself go there with this man I trusted immensely.

Flaming the polish was a delight. Bootblacking is such a sensual experience, and I wanted to take my time with it, relish every aspect. The scent of the polish, the dancing flames, the warmth of it on my fingers. The ritual was sacred, I knew that, each step vital to the whole. I applied two full coats of polish, shining it vigorously with the brush, pulling off my A-line shirt, ripping it in front of him, and using a piece of it to buff his boot. I lifted my gaze to meet his and asked permission. He stroked my cheek gently as he answered, and I closed my eyes so I might feel every millimeter of his hand on my skin.

I lick boots the old fashioned way: belly on the floor, as low as I can be. As I placed myself on the floor at his feet, I shivered. It felt so good to be here, to be worshipping the boots of this man I deeply respected. I was in his care, and he would be careful with me—I knew that. When I touched my lips reverently to his boot, I felt so full I could burst. This was exactly where I wanted to be. Tears fell onto the leather, and his boots soaked in their due. I could taste salt with the polish as I licked, pressing hard with my tongue, wanting him to feel it.

I had made myself forget what this tasted like, felt like. I concentrated hard on all of it, imprinting the memory of this lest it be the only time I would do it. His other boot came to rest on the back of my neck, and he used it to press my mouth down hard, groaning. He held me there for a good long time, his hand reaching down to stroke my hair, his bootheel digging into my shoulder. I didn’t want it to end. Then he lifted his boot from my neck and pulled my head up, telling me not to forget that the other boot needed care, too.

As I cleaned and polished, his hand stayed on my neck, calmly stroking. At some point, his boot snaked between my thighs and dug into my cock. I held my breath, gritted my teeth, and did my damnedest to remain focused on polishing his boot, to give it just as much care as I had given its brother. It was hard. The heel digging into my cock felt amazingly delicious, flawlessly excruciating. It took all I had to finish, and I could not be quiet while doing it. Growling moans kept fighting their way past my lips.

I lay on the ground again, pressing my lips into his boot, and felt him resting the sole of the other one on my back, pressing it into my skin, my naked belly on the dirty floor. It was heaven, and I began to tremble. So much, so intense, so exactly what I had been yearning for.

He pulled me up to my knees, suddenly, by the hair, tugged out his cock, and thrust it down my throat. It was amazing. I went from fifteen years of nothing to a glorious cock deep in my throat. I was gagging on it, tears seeping from my eyes, aching for him to use my mouth in exactly the way he needed. His hands gripped the back of my neck, and he rammed his dick as deep as it could go, relentlessly, selfishly, purely focused on his own need, growling, until he came, forcing me to swallow it, holding my mouth on his cock as he thrust repeatedly, until every drop was gone.

He released my neck, and his boot pushed me into the floor until I had my head pressed down onto it, his boot kicking my ass, ramming between my legs, stomping my thighs. It was brutal and intense and completely unexpected. I began to shiver, to scream no, and all he said was that no was not a safe word, and I better take it for him. His boots flattened me, kept me in the place I desperately ached to be, the place I feared with all of my heart.

He showed me exactly how much I wanted to be under his boot, how much I loved it. He made me say it to him, tell him I loved being under his boot, repeatedly, as he kicked me, dug the heels into me, hurt me with his boots. When I finally said it the way he wanted to hear it, he rewarded me by forcing my mouth onto the filthy floor. He made me lick it, to show him how much I appreciated his attention, his dominion, his boots showing me exactly where I belonged and what I loved.

I sobbed as I licked that dirty cold floor, the taste bitter and perfect, and he groaned, telling me my tears turned him on, that the sight of me under his boots was making him hard again, that if I did a good job he just might fuck me. Soon, I was licking salty wetness along with the grime on the ground, and I knew that I wanted to please him more than anything in the world. He was good enough to see inside me and give me exactly what I desperately ached for, and all I wanted to do was bring him a small portion of ease or pleasure.

He lifted my head and inspected the section I had been cleaning with my tongue, saying gruffly that I had done a good job on the floor, and on his boots, and that he thought I had the makings of a good boy in me. The universe stopped for a moment. All I could hear was those words of praise, and they slithered their way inside a shriveled place in my chest and watered it, just a little.

***

About the Book:

In Show Yourself to Me: Queer Kink Erotica, Xan West introduces us to pretty boys and nervous boys, vulnerable tops and dominant sadists, good girls and fierce girls and scared little girls, mean Daddies and loving Daddies and Daddies that are terrifying in delicious ways.

Submissive queers go to alleys to suck cock, get bent over the bathroom sink by a handsome stranger, choose to face their fears, have their Daddy orchestrate a gang bang in the park, and get their dream gender-play scene—tied to a sling in an accessible dungeon.

Dominants find hope and take risks, fall hard and push edges, get fucked and devour the fear and tears that their sadist hearts desire.

Within these 24 stories, you will meet queers who build community together, who are careful about how they play with power, who care deeply about consent. You will meet trans and genderqueer folks who are hot for each other, who mentor each other, who do the kind of gender play that is only possible with other trans and genderqueer folks.

This is Show Yourself to Me. Get ready for a very wild ride.

Find Show Yourself to Me at…

Go Deeper Press

Amazon

Barnes and Noble

***

Please be sure to check out Xan’s next stop at Ashley Young‘s site tomorrow. And, don’t forget to pick up your copy of Show Yourself to Me today!

XX,
Jade

About Xan: 

Xan West is the nom de plume of Corey Alexander, a recent transplant to Oakland from Brooklyn, who has been doing community kink education for over ten years. Xan has been published in over 35 erotica anthologies, including the Best S/M Erotica series, the Best Gay Erotica series, and the Best Lesbian Erotica series. Xan’s story “First Time Since,” won honorable mention for the 2008 National Leather Association John Preston Short Fiction Award. Xan’s work has been described by reviewers as “offering the erotica equivalent of happy ever after” and as “some of the best transgressive erotic fiction to come along in recent years.”

Xan refuses pronouns, twists barbed wire together with yearning, and tilts pain in many directions to catch the light. Xan adores vulnerable tops; strong, supportive bottoms; red meat; long winding conversations about power, privilege, and community; showtunes; and cool, dark, quiet rooms with comfortable beds. Find Xan’s thoughts about the praxis of sex, kink, queerness, power, and writing at xanwest.wordpress.com.

Tantalizing Terrors…to Come

Halloween, Halloween…it’s in the air! This is the time of year when everything starts to get a little bit creepy, fun, and wild—and that’s why today, I could no longer resist giving you a tantalizing preview of the delicious, sexy terror to come!

LZ logo Twtr dimentions with title and date

Libidinous Zombie is a project orchestrated by the fabulous Rose Caraway of The Kiss Me Quick’s. She’s a woman who likes her erotica with a twist, and because of that, I can assure you that the stories within will merge horror and erotica into something mighty combustible. I have so much to tell you about my story, “The Lucky One,” once this is out—but for now, I’m just going to leave you with a few teases.

First, the fantastic art for “The Lucky One,” created by the amazing Dayv Caraway:

Lucky One Blk Bkgnd FB

(Catch the art for all the stories right here!)

Next, check out the incredible lineup of other authors you’ll find included in the pages:

Allen Dusk
Janine Ashbless
Malin James
Raziel Moore
Remittance Girl
Tamsin Flowers
Rose Caraway

Finally, don’t miss this thoughtful post from Remittance Girl about the psychological reality behind the blending of erotica and horror!

This anthology is coming out for Halloween, which is just around the corner…are you ready?

XX,
JadeKill that Motherfucker

 

Picture of panties around red shoes

Elust #75: All the Sexy News Fit to Print!

Kilted Wookie
Photo courtesy of Kilted Wookie

Welcome to Elust #75

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 Elust. Want to be included in Elust #75? Start with the rules, come back November 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Is it hate? Am I a fraud?
On Rape Fantasy
Just Breathe

 

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

sex, surgery, celibacy

Sex, Death, and Squirting

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

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

On Filth

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!

 

Erotic Non-Fiction

How I Became an Escort
I’m 2 and 0 for the season
He fights back
Hands On
The foodslut and the semifreddo…
The Photographer
Ex-Nazi girl: my hand on the back of her head
I Belong To You

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Disciplinary Drives
Surrender
On Filth
On sex positivity in public play
Cock Rings 101
A New Scene

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

The Fuck Feast Sexual Literacy Test
Sex Toys in Relationships — Yes, it’s OK.
Negotiating Power
Out of Touch
Don’t catfish: Be you.

Writing About Writing

On Jackie
Trigger Warnings (revisited)

Erotic Fiction

This would be fun
The Fucking Machine.
Erotic Fiction…With Aura
A Little Romance
Domination Dreams
My Pretty Dead Ones
Crushed…

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

5 Hilarious Pieces of Anti-Sex Propaganda
19 Reasons to Cheat on Your Boyfriend

 

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Shadowed image of man holding half-clad woman from behind

What Do I Tell Her?

I am fortunate to have several close friends who support what I write, but, truth be told, I also have many family members who strongly and vocally disapprove. As we all know and as was discussed in many incredible posts before a few months back, erotica has long been the black sheep of the writing world, regardless of its quality. It’s a shame, really, that so many amazing authors can be slapped with a derogatory label and/or be “on the fringe” simply for writing about sex.

Just before the real heat of the erotica sex writing versus mainstream sex writing conversation arose, a close family member made a point to call out her negative thoughts on what I write, and—perhaps because of the ongoing conversation, or just because of how it all went down between us—it’s resonated in my head off and on all this time. She was not the relative who’d previously crushed me by telling me my talent was wasted; the words of this woman, instead, infuriated me. We were mid-phone conversation when she brought up the fact that her daughter had started asking what I write, and, instead of coming up with an answer, she had apparently called to tell me of her plight. She said, “My daughter is asking what you write. What do I tell her? What on earth am I going to tell her with what you write? Do you ever think about that? You’ve put me in a really weird position.”

Irritation is a gentle way of describing the feeling I had in that moment. Granted, I don’t have children, and of course the appropriate response is entirely dependent on the age of the child—but I’m pretty sure there are a plethora of ways for a parent to approach this without blaming someone else for putting her “in a really weird position.” I said, “Why don’t you just tell her I write fiction?” But the response was, “She wants to know what kind. What do I tell her?”

Again, I’m not a parent, so I said: “Why don’t you tell her what you’re comfortable with?”

Unfortunately, this relative went on to say how awful her situation was because of what I’d chosen to focus on, and I opted to get off the phone rather than be berated. But months later, the real answer I’ve wanted to say still floats around in my head. It’s the easy answer—for me—that I know she and many others might not accept, but that I’m certain is the answer many of us feel, and why so many of us have no issues writing something that is, unfortunately, so shunned:shutterstock_126180551-2onfbpage2

I write erotica.

Yes, it’s really that simple.

But okay. If we want to go further, if we need to delve into the depths of how powerful and real this genre is, then here’s my official answer:

I write erotica. I write fantasy. I write desire, discovery, and truth. I write love, intimacy, communication, relationships, and connection. I write human touch, empathy, grief, lust, and pain. I write reality, and about how we as people interact and share with one another, and the affect, good and bad, this has on our lives. And—whether or not anyone agrees with it—I’m writing something I love, and that I’ll continue to write because it shouldn’t be villainized when what it’s based on is happening everyday, in so many homes, between the very people who continue to object to it.

It’s sex. It’s real. More than that, it’s beautiful, amazing, deep, painful, transformative, close, and powerful. And you know what else? It’s the most natural thing in the world.

That, my dear? That’s what you tell her.

XX,
Jade

Image of woman straddling man, shadowed; Katarzyna Białasiewicz ©123RF.com

Erotic Fiction…With Aura

In the last three weeks, I’ve been through two doctor phone appointments, five live doctor appointments, one MRI, several blood tests, and even one full-fledged panic attack. To say it’s been a little bit of a roller coaster is an understatement—but the good news is, there’s nothing major wrong. Yay!

So what is going on? Well, according to the fabulous neurologist I saw last week, my migraines have morphed into something really goddamn special. I am fortunate in that I don’t generally get the nausea and hammer-pounding headaches of most traditional migraine sufferers; unfortunately, I get all sorts of weird sensory problems instead: depth perception issues, tingling and/or numbness in my arms, mental disconnect, vertigo, occasional vision problems, and sometimes, the headache. This time, however, I developed a bizarre numbness in my cheek—and later, the entire side of my face—paired with completely blurred vision in one eye, which led some doctors to believe I might be having a stroke. (That would be the day the panic attack struck, by the way.) I am thrilled to say that isn’t the case, but it does appear a chronic basilar/sensory migraine took residence in my head for over three weeks—complete with all these fun new symptoms!

I’m getting to a point here, I swear (migraine brain fog is real, people). When I mentioned to the neurologist that I’ve been okay writing in short spurts in the morning, but everything else is sending my head into a spin, he suggested I stop the cycle of migraine with a heavier duty NSAID and a few days off (and yes, I totally followed doctor’s orders there). However, when I asked him how migraines could literally change overnight and cling, desperately, in ways they never had before, his response was the most poetic and frustrating thing I could possibly have heard:

“The life of a migraine is a mysterious and beautiful thing.”

I totally laughed that off. But Saturday morning, as I lay tossing and turning under my covers in a groggy, migraine-clouded and dreamlike state, I was thinking about the bizarre tingles raining over my brain that didn’t hurt at all, but that were making things really fuzzy and weird.

And suddenly, I had this spark of an idea:

What if a person could embody the essence of a migraine? What would she be like, as a lover?

It took me a while to drag myself out of bed to type this one up, but the story below is what happened as I sat down to imagine the mysterious and beautiful life of a migraine.

I hope you enjoy it.

XX,
Jade

AURA

Image of woman straddling man, shadowed

Katarzyna Białasiewicz ©123RF.com

She comes into his life like a comet—a fiery bolt arcing across the skies, haloed and crashing down into the open meadow of his existence. She seems a quiet blip, at first, awakening beneath the sun on a lush bed of grass. She stretches herself out against it, her long, pale body blinding in its innocent beauty. Her fingers clutch the earth as she shimmers in the light, and she sighs at the caress of this world, this new place that surrounds her in warmth.

Instantly, he is drawn to her, knows her otherness and craves it. He takes her in as she begins to bloom, as she shows him that she is, in fact, no innocent at all. She is all curves and smiles, arms that encircle and hold, words of sweetness that tend to him just as he tends to her—but behind her glistening, loving eyes, there is something else. It is furious like the comet she rode in on, unbounded and wild, and it lures him forward in the heated swarm of his mind. It shushes away his fears when she kisses his cheeks, his forehead, his mouth, and when she tugs at his clothes and limbs, she draws him further into her sphere.

In the dark of night he invites her to his bed, for though she is unsurpassed in her beauty, it’s her mystery that has him tangled in her. He finds himself beneath her in the light of the moon, his breath stolen as she rocks above. Her hips grind in swirls of chaos, her hands possessing his skin, her kisses speeding his heart. The way she moves sinks into the chasm of his soul. She seeks all of him—not just his length buried within her, but the depths of every crevice of his being, every utterance of his heart, every glimmer of his mind as she writhes against him and his sheets. Her movements become glorious and pained, ripples on the surface of a once-placid lake when the cries spill out from her lips. He sees her then as what she is—nails sharp over him, and teeth cutting his skin in jagged lines. But her whimpers are all he hears, and they seize him in their rock together, taking him beyond every sensation he knew before.

When she collapses over his chest, they lie in silence.

His days are fraught with tension in his efforts to please her. He bathes her, feeds her, loves her through the pinch of her lips and the furrow of her brow. She will not speak, and she moves like a streak of lightning—stubborn and sharp, illuminating their path and yet setting him on edge, pasting goose bumps on his skin like stars against the deep black sky. He thinks, perhaps, the end approaches, that she is sparing them both the hurt to come, soothing the quiet that will fill his life until she falls to the surface of his earth once more.

They dance, this time, before bed. She swings him out in vibrant bursts, then yanks him close. She grasps him so tight his breath slips from inside and out into the vortex of the room. Her heat builds, scorching, suffocating. Blinding. He thinks as they spin, around and around, how much he loves and hates her. How he craves her, needs her. In her laugh he finds the answer to existence, a blurry question that leads to more questions but that, somehow, lets him settle beneath her in the way she commands.

He imagines curving his fingers around her throat, squeezing her away to nothingness—but she has coiled herself around him so tightly, he no longer knows where she ends and he begins.

When she fucks him again, her moans shatter mirrors and rattle pictures off the walls. Her gasps vibrate the room, the bed, the air trapped inside him, stifling in its icy slide against the innermost parts of his lungs. But he is enraptured with the thrust of her hips, with the sweat breaking over his chest when she sucks the tips of his fingers, with the shift of her body over him in the moonlight, even as he feels himself slipping away with her. He is losing his grasp on what is real, what is good, and when she comes, her cries and shudders render him frozen. She keeps arching until he erupts in her, and every last drop of him becomes hers.

He is still when she curls behind him, tucking herself close to his back. Her hands trace over his side, fingertips painting electric currents that circulate in his limbs, up into his face. She kisses his shoulder, then his neck. And though he cannot move, he feels her words when she breathes them into his ear, a shock of sound bursting inside his soul.

“I love you,” she whispers, “and I’ll see you again soon.”

In the morning, he wakes on damp, rumpled sheets. The evidence of their love has scented his skin, and the pillowcase beneath his cheek. He breathes in clean air, his air, and slowly lifts himself from the bed.

She is gone.

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The Pillow Talk...Erotica Writers Talking Dirty logo: black and white image of a cartoon woman with bright red lips on a pillow

Pillow Talk Secrets — Mixing it Up!

The Pillow Talk...Erotica Writers Talking Dirty logo: black and white image of a cartoon woman with bright red lips on a pillowHello everyone, and welcome back for the newest edition of Pillow Talk Secrets! Today, Tamsin, Malin, and I—Jade, your host for the day—have merged our thoughts together to talk about…merging writing genres together! 🙂 We had a lot to say in regards to genre crossovers and stories that blend vastly contrasting elements together, both in our own writing experiences, and in our reading, too. As usual, I’ve posted a portion of the conversation here with a link to continue on our Pillow Talk site. Or, click right here to read the conversation in its entirety.

We hope you enjoy it!

XX,
Jade

Pillow Talk Secrets

Jade: Hello ladies! So nice to be back again. How are you both doing today?

Malin: Doing well! How about you, Jade? Tamsin?

Tamsin: Very well, thanks—and better for being here with you two! 🙂

J: Aw! I agree. And I’m well too, thank you. So…today we have a very interesting topic on hand—erotica crossovers and genre blending. Shall we get right to it?

T: Absolutely!

M: Sounds great. I suspect we’ll have a lot to say.

J: I agree. Initially, I’d thrown this topic out as an option during our first year recap. Then, by random happenstance, we all ended up getting asked to join in on a special anthology that I know we’re all excited about! We’ll get to that in a bit, but for now—let’s start with the idea of erotica crossovers. What styles have you both blended so far? And how did you find it went for you?

T: I think by now, nearly everyone knows that I’ve written zombie erotica—and it’s probably one the most fun projects I’ve worked on. The obvious challenge being how to make something so totally squicky even remotely sexy!

M: The fact that you did make a zombie apocalypse a believably sexy scenario is a testament to your talent. It’s a high bar and you hit it!

Sci Fi guy

Erotic and surreal…

J: I agree—and I think what was most interesting is that you really humanized a really inhuman being. Even though we wanted to squirm over the grotesqueness of the zombies, we ended up rooting for them in a few of those stories.

T: Wow! Thank you both. I think the challenge with any crossover is staying faithful to the essence of the two original genres but somehow making the sum even more than the two parts.

M: I agree. Most genres have a set of recognizable conventions. They’re sort of like markers for the reader. When you blend genres or write crossovers, you almost have to choose which conventions from each best serve the story you want to tell.

J: Right. And you also have to decide which convention needs to rule the tale. Is it more horror than erotica, or more erotica than horror, etc. For example, when we did the Coming Together: Among the Stars anthology, Malin, we did a merging of sci-fi and erotica in our stories. Did you feel you were writing more of a sci-fi story with erotic elements, or an erotic story with sci-fi elements? Or was the blend pretty equally split in your mind as you wrote it?

M: That’s an interesting question! To be honest, I’m not sure. I don’t tend to think in that way—I tend to have a story in mind and then I write it and see what it is. That story came out a pretty even mix of sci-fi and erotica. Weirdly, the elements that I consciously played with more than anything were the comedic ones. The sci-fi / erotic elements took care of themselves.

J: I would agree with that—there was some comedy that somehow needed to be added. I wonder if that’s sci-fi or just a coincidence that we both had the experience?

T: I’ve definitely found comedy to be useful in all the genre blending I’ve done. Maybe it acts like lube (snigger) in getting the two genres into bed with one another!

M: I like that idea of comedy acting as a kind of lube! For me, it depends on the genres being blended. When I blend literary and erotic, comedy doesn’t come out as much (unless it’s very black humor), but with sci-fi it was very natural. It may just depend on the story. Jeez. What an abstract answer!

Click here to read more!

Picture of panties around red shoes

Elust #74 – All the Sexy News Fit to Print!

Ginger nic1
Photo courtesy of Switch Studies

Welcome to Elust #74

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 Elust. Want to be included in Elust #75? Start with the rules, come back October 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Machine
She wanted to let the light in…
Reflections on the Male Nude

 

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Trudy
Is it play acting?

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

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

Can a Woman be a Good Mother and Write a Sex Blog

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!

 

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Leaden Heart
Summer awakening
Our Kind Of Monogamy
If You’re Gonna Be A Thot Do It With Grace
Playing at Poly
I’m a-Lousy-Monogamist
Sharing the bed
The Couple and the Coquette
Four Love

Erotic Fiction

All Girls Night
Unresponsive Satisfaction
i don’t want realism, i want magic
A Stranger’s Tale
Motion Capture
Checking Southward
His Slave Heart.

Erotic Non-Fiction

Sexy Riding
Relaxing
I noticed without paying attention
Humiliating an ex-Nazi submissive: sex slave
The End of a Rut
Rayne is a Fucktoy Cunt
Mindful Orgasm

Events

5 Reasons Woodhull Was an Amazing Experience

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Sex: Vegans, Carnivores, and Apex Predators

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Location, Location, Location
Seven Dimensions of Dominance
Light That Fire: Motivational Tools

When A BDSM Scene Ends Abruptly

Writing About Writing

You Down With OPT?
Cover Me
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Shadowed image of man over woman licking her neck

Erotic Fiction: “Why”

I don’t know why I still want you so badly, but I do.

We are hip to hip, chest to chest, our bodies shifting like pendulums on these rumpled sheets. Your fingers clutch my hair, tugging back my head, exposing my neck to the quick nips of your teeth and the tender glides of your tongue. As you thrust inside, I know this is familiar, this is us, this is what it was—a tight embrace, a heated surrender. You’ve been inside me one hundred, one thousand, one million times. Loving, breaking, and ruining me.

Yet I’ve never stopped wanting you.

Why Image; Katarzyna Białasiewicz ©123RF.com

Katarzyna Białasiewicz ©123RF.com

The air burns with the scent of dwindling candles and our sweat, some of it beading down the sides of your face. You tug on my hair again, forcing me to see you as I always have—a crescent face of hunger, a demanding pine for this. You arch up your hips, searing into me, sinking so deep I cannot help the flit of a groan that spills from my lips as my mind tumbles with the questions I can’t stop asking.

Why do I want you like this? How can I still?

The thoughts are fleeting, shushed away with the sucking sound of your mouth on my neck. You take fevered laps at my skin before you catch my lips and gnaw them, your eyes wide open when you rock me in your lap.

“Baby,” you say.

I tremble atop you, my breasts lifting and falling with our motion, my nipples standing for you. Always for you. Every inch of my flesh burns with desire, and yet dances with goose bumps that remind me of what we are doing, this stolen moment we should never have shared. But to say that is to deny the truth. To pretend I can’t feel the swell of emotion I get from the look in your eyes, the rasp of your tongue, and the way your hands slide down to my waist, pulling me off you and around so abruptly I’m startled to be on my knees. My face presses into these sheets, and your cock is buried in my cunt before I can exhale the desperate puffs of air that have become the only noise I know to make with you.

“Fuck, fuck…” you say, plunging inside. Your hands grip my hips, yanking me back onto you, deeper. Harder. How can you always find me, deeper? Your thrusts grow more violent, hungry and greedy like the wet walls of my cunt that ache for you.

Forever, for you.

I curl my fingers into the sheets. My body is no longer mine. The slam of your pelvis against my ass is so strong the sound is louder than anything—my whimpers, my thoughts, my need for you.

My love.

“Come for me,” you growl, and I hate that you can command me like this. That you’ve recognized the shake of my body, the flush of my skin, the way that, even with you taking like this, I am giving to you. I’m yielding to your thrusts, to the grind of your fingers on my clit like I love, pinching it as you push, and shove, and fill me with everything you have.

When I come, it is with you.

You are so far in I know you’ve reached my soul, and your arms curl around my waist. You press your cheek to my back as we huddle there, quivering. Gasping. I release the sheets, my fingers sore, my body aching from how hard you’ve fucked me. My mind soars, but I am tangled like these sheets, lost in this mystery of us.

We don’t move for seconds. Minutes. It could have been hours. I think we both knew what it was, what it would do to the two of us.

And it isn’t until you steal yourself away, slipping from my bed and into your clothes, that I ask myself again.

Why do I still want you so badly?

*

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The Couple and the Coquette

Fall is fast approaching, and it’s about this time each year that I remember my eight-year run at the seven-weekend experience that is Northern Renaissance Faire. This adventure was one I didn’t care for much initially—I’d been dragged out at 19 by a boyfriend who claimed he needed my presence to avoid cheating, if that explains anything at all—but eventually, I found the place to be a festival of fun, filled with colors, costumes, music, and joy. At night, after all the patrons went home, I started to understand it could become a veritable haven of sexual and emotional adventures I’d ultimately have, and have mentioned here on one occasion before. Still, I didn’t feel truly in place there until my fifth year, when I came out to Faire single for the first time. By then I was freer, ready to play and laugh, and to embrace the delights that came into my world.

One of these was a beautiful young woman I’ll call Emma. She was bawdy, silly, and flirtatious, like me—but bolder in a raunchier way, louder in a nurturing way, and sexy in a different way, sporting the biggest brown eyes over a bed of freckles I’d ever seen. These eyes seduced you with the suggestion that she would be the most playful person you’d ever met, which would turn out to be true. This was evident in our meeting, too—where she wore pink velvet hot pants and halter she’d been parading around after hours, and I’d been dancing in my own black velvet mini dress—when we had a near collision on the way to a dinner table because we were distracted by our efforts to whistle at one another. In a matter of hours, Emma and I became smitten with each other—never quite enough to take it anywhere, but to enjoy holding hands, kissing lips, and slipping fingers up one another’s skirts to fondle each other’s thighs as we set out to hunt what we loved best: someone to flirt with, in tandem and shamelessly, while we stirred up as much trouble along the way as we could.

One night, though, the energy shifted; it turned out Emma had met a man, and so our mission this evening was for her to introduce him to me. We found him waiting behind a booth—where I soon discovered I was to embark on one of the most memorable relationships of my life.

This man, John, brought out a serious adoration from Emma I hadn’t yet seen. Even then it was clear that these two could well end up together for life, because John was, in many ways, her male counterpart—bawdy, flirty, and smiling like he lived with a laugh on his lips at all times. But despite the connection fast growing between them, Emma surprised me after layering his face with kisses. She curled her hands around him from behind and looked right at me while whispering loudly in his ear.

“This is Jade. She’s my friend,” she said. “But I think you two should play.

Now, Emma and I had been flirting with so many people for so long with no intent behind a thing we said that this struck me hard and fast. And though John wasn’t my usual type (for I definitely had one at the time), when he kissed her palms and untangled himself from her arms, then started to circle me—right there in front of her—I sucked in a breath. This feeling wasn’t at all subdued when Emma pressed her palms against her cheeks as though she realized she’d done something particularly clever, aCouple and Coquettend while John kept circling me, round and round, I caught his eye, and he smiled before catching hers.

“I think you’re right, Emma,” he’d said.

And the nod that had come from me was quick and effortless.

Most of my life, I’ve frowned upon labels because I like to try so many different things on—but if I had to tag myself, I’d go with straight, monogamous, open-minded and playful, and above all, flirt. This is part of why I think so fondly of the love affair the three of us formed in that moment; I still have trouble describing it in any sort of specific way, because there isn’t a label that truly fits and it’s not anything I’ve felt since. I guess, in a fashion, what we became was the couple and the coquette—them firmly together, and me acting as the flirt who moved between and with them in varying ways.

In the early nights, the three of us would drink and dine together before cuddling on an air mattress by a dim lamp, where we affectionately established our entanglement as the two of them kissed and John rubbed my shoulders. Emma and I knew we didn’t want to share a bed, but we liked to kiss and flirt, or trace the contours of each other’s bodies when either of us donned a sexy dress. John and I liked to grope and tease one another, and sometimes, Emma liked to watch. All of us agreed we would never work in a threesome, because none of us wanted to share to that degree. So it was determined that, until they grew serious, we would all continue and encourage our separate bonds, however they may happen.

There were many moments between us, but one of the most memorable was the night the three of us had been running around for well over an hour, Emma holding my hand and John cupping my ass, until Emma gave a firm nod in the dark. She took us both into her arms in a great big hug, then whispered, “I really need to visit that other booth across the way. Hmm, I wonder what might happen if you two ran off together?” She pecked me on the lips, then kissed John long and hard, and nearly sang as she danced away, “I’ll be back here in about 15…”

And off John and I slipped, into the nooks and crannies of Faire. There was an excitement in him taking my hand by Emma’s suggestion, leading me into a darkened booth, and backing me against a wall to slam his lips on mine like we’d stolen this tryst—though it was freely given for us to share. In this moment, it was just the two of us, John running his hands along my fishnets, biting my earlobe, whispering how he’d fuck me, rough and hard, over and over, everywhere he could find to take me out there. We’d never actually do that, but it was the fantasy that filled our heads as he dragged his fingernails up my thighs. I still remember the sound of my fishnets tearing in the still of the night, and the feel of his fingers sneaking under my panties before he growled against my mouth. And for what couldn’t have been more than ten minutes, we stood there, clinging to one another, groping, kissing madly, until the melodic sound of Emma’s voice summoned us back, and we tripped innocently out to meet the wink she gave us. Then she wrapped her arms around me, lifted my skirt, and trailed her own hands along my fishnets, giggling to find them ripped. She flashed me the wickedest smile before jumping into John’s arms and giving him the deepest, sexiest kiss…and then we continued on as though we were just three friends, frolicking about for the evening.

Of course, as Emma and John grew more serious, those incidents grew farther between—but the dynamic became sexy in a new way. Sometimes, the two of them liked to claim me as their own, purposely making a scene of their antics with me. Emma would stand on one side, John on the other, and while she affectionately groped my breast and weaved her arm around my waist, John would cross an arm over hers at my back, and use his other one to reach up my skirt. We delighted in the wide-eyed stares we got from this, with John seeing how high he could lift the fabric for whoever watched before I’d turn pink and Emma would burst into laughter. But the second we were out of sight we’d roll together into a huddle, kissing and grabbing through our costumes until we broke away with excited gasps.

As crazy as it may sound, that’s where we liked it to stop. It satisfied all of us in different ways—me running off to find my own lover for the night, them heading back to their tent to be together. They often called me their “little aphrodisiac,” which suited our bond—and though our friends shook their heads and inquired often, trying to understand what it was we shared, we laughed at the need for an explanation of what we got so well. I think that’s the simple truth of many great relationships—they may not make sense to anyone else, but to the parties involved, they really are pure magic.

Over the coming years, our love affair didn’t end so much as it morphed once more. We all grew away from Faire; Emma and John moved in together and she started a business, and I found a new hobby that took up my once Faire-filled weekend time. I was delighted to attend their wedding a couple years later, where at an open mic for reception speeches I playfully—yet respectfully—honored the “most beautiful, fun, and wonderful couple ever known on this planet.” Which, in truth, I still think they are.

These days, Emma and John are settled and happy, with one gorgeous daughter and another little one on the way. I see them every few years, and when I do, they both cast me those smiles of theirs, full of so much life and joy. We talk mostly of now—careers, children, hobbies, and such. But occasionally, we let one another know with the coy winks of our eyes and the tame but reminiscent squeezes we share that, despite the changes that life brings in the ever-shifting seasons, none of us have forgotten the very special love affair between the couple and the coquette.

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Elust #73—Hot and Sexy, All in One Place

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Welcome to Elust #73

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 Elust. Want to be included in Elust #74? Start with the rules, come back September 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

My shame
Has E L James broken erotica?
Sex Addiction is a Scam

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Goodbye, I’m Gone
sharing my inspiration

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

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

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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!

 

Erotic Non-Fiction

Watching you
His Vulnerability Creates Magic.
It really was a Wicked Wednesday
Paper
His First Cuckold Experience
Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 53
The Pole Dancer

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Gentleman Is the Opposite of Feminist
My Criteria for Rating Sex

Erotic Fiction

The Hunt’s Spectators
Peeping Tom
By the Sea, Part 1
Have You Been Naughty?
The Ritual
Triple Dog Dare
Eye Spy
Bound For Pleasure
Daddy Wants to Play

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Dealing With A Husband Who Can’t Cum
The Menopause Diaries
Balancing the Scales
On Cheating
On language learning and sex

Writing About Writing

What I Intend When I Write About Sex
Writing Erotica as a Disabled Top

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

What else could be done with BDSM checklists?
Crafting Your Craft: Serving With Passion
Social Masochist
The Last Word
“Only submissive to someone special”

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