Sharpie on thighs "I want to feel you here"

On Skin Writing

I have loved skin writing for as long as I can remember.

When I was a young girl, I was the one constantly scolded by teachers and parents for inking up my skin. I’d spend half an hour drawing an elaborate sketch on my thigh beneath my shorts while I learned algebra, or I’d doodle all over my forearm while I gabbed on the phone. There was a combination of factors that appealed to me when I did it—from the glide of the pen over my skin to the unique words, image, or design I’d set out to put there for whomever to see. I liked the look of ink on skin, and the way people told me I wasn’t supposed to do it. It was more appealing to me than a tattoo, because I could change it to fit my mood, and scrub it all away for a new blank canvas if I didn’t want it to endure. Then, skin writing was just a thing I liked to try; but later, it would turn into a huge turn on for me.

When I was 18, I saw The Pillow Book at a small theatre in my hometown. It was the first erotic movie I ever saw, and everything about it excited me: a writer heroine, her discovery and search for sexual experiences, sexy images of flesh, calligraphy against skin, Ewan McGregor, full frontal male nudity, pure devotion, and a Romeo and Juliet style twist. I left the theatre moved by the story, but more by how exotic and erotic the look of all that calligraphy had appeared on the flesh. I’d had a tattoo in mind for a couple years by then—one I swore I’d get after the publication of my first book, which is indeed going to happen—but even that didn’t strike me as much as this story’s concept had. When Ewan McGregor ripped open his shirt and said, “Use my body like the pages of a book…of your book,” I had a whole new notion of what skin writing could do. It was the using of someone’s flesh in creation of a story to be read and understood—and I craved this, someone else using my skin like I had all those years.

The thought mostly buried itself over the next decade. I had a professional career and didn’t usually have time to doodle on my skin, but sometimes, when I was bored, I’d Sharpie a word or symbol on the bottom of my foot. Later, this transformed into a love of henna. Whenever I could, I’d henna the entirety of a foot and all the way up my calf with some new design I liked. When I went on vacation, I’d mark up my hand with something to catch the eye. It still wasn’t the same as what had roused me in that flick, though—it was done by me, for one, and the henna lacked the same appeal.

Of course, that didn’t stop me from convincing an artist I dated in my late twenties from coming over to henna the entirety of my back. We’d shared a bottle of wine before I’d stripped down to my panties and stretched myself out on the living room floor. He’d squealed over the canvas of my back—literally squealed, because he was an exuberant, lively, playful man—and I clearly remember him sitting on my ass for a long time, waiting while he looked over my naked back and breathed these heavy, deep breaths.

“Anything? I can draw anything?”

“Yes, anything,” I’d said. He’d stared over me for what felt like forever, then spent the next forty or so minutes dragging paintbrushes and fingers across my skin to create whatever henna design he had in mind. He told me how he was playing along with the lines of my back, and not only did I love that what he was drawing was a mystery I couldn’t see, but that as he shifted on my ass to work, we both grew breathless until he called it done.

“Is it weird that I really want to fuck you right now?” he’d said. I’d shaken my head so fast, confessing I felt the same—and we’d fucked right there on the carpet, me flat on my belly and him trying his hardest not to wreck his design. Sadly, it rubbed off a little on his stomach (we might have gotten a bit into it), but nonetheless, I was still tickled to flash him what was left over the next few days.

After him, the urge quieted again. Henna seemed the answer, but my life was too busy to sit down for a session. Occasionally, I’d write memos with ink on my palm, even if I had a perfectly good post-it stack, or phone to jot a note in. Years later, though, I’d have the sexiest relationship of my life, where everything was an option, and want—pure want, desperate, vocal, speak it out loud want—was the name of the game.

I miss you, I’d told this lover via text. I want you, now.

I want you too. Now. Soon. How would you have me?

This picture is what I sent him in response.

Sharpie on thighs "I want to feel you here"

Needless to say, we found a way to get together soon after… But until then? I refused to wash off the words. I loved that I could pull down my pants in the bathroom at work and find that level of want scrawled on my thighs. That my chicken-scratch handwriting revealed my desperation on my very skin, and that he was making his greatest efforts to come strip me down to find it.

I told him later I wanted him to Sharpie all over me, call me names and scribe his lust for me on my flesh. He loved the idea, but our relationship was, unfortunately, fairly short-lived after that. So, I tucked the urge away for many more years.

I nearly forgot about it.

But one night, not all that many months ago, it flared up again. It was a coincidence with a friend, but it suited exactly what I’d always wanted—someone else writing on me, using my skin as he saw fit. We’d gone out to a party and both of us were dressed to the nines, and after a few drinks, he’d wanted to make a list but had no paper. I’d offered up a pen and the entirety of my thigh, and though he thought I was kidding, I soon arranged myself as best I could in the front seat of his car, the entire event furthered, somehow, by my efforts to not flash everything up the skirt of my sassy dress. There was something blissfully erotic in him gripping my leg, writing his message on my bare skin—especially as dressed up as I was. I remember holding my breath, because the combination of his own breath over my leg and the scratch of his pen turned me on more than I could ever admit to this friend. Well, that, and not knowing what it was he was writing in his hunch over my leg.

His scrawl ended up being a childish, silly note—but from that experience, I finally knew what about skin writing made me tick, and what elements, exactly, I was after: my skin, offered up for him to write whatever he pleased; him, shifting me about to scrawl on the curves of my body; that pen, marking me up in a gritty, vulgar way that completely contrasted how glammed up I was right then. And even though what he wrote ultimately irritated me, I still felt the burn of it when I tried to wash it away in the morning, and the memory of being used for whatever he wanted to write. That’s what I loved the most.

Skin writing has so much potential to it, whether it is done in a beautiful way as in The Pillow Book, or in a purposefully crude way like that memorable note on my thigh.

Which is why one day, I hope I’ll get all the elements just right—because it is truly a turn on for me.

Click the lips for more Kink of the Week…

Picture of feet sticking out of car window, parked to watch sunset; Ammentorp ©123RF.com

We [Were] On a Break!

I am the worst at taking a break. I’ve been this way my whole life—relaxation is a thing I enjoy, but most of the time, there has to be something else going on simultaneously. Hell, it wasn’t until recently that I took up watching some TV before bed while needing to talk myself into lying still on the couch (because, sadly, reading revs me up and makes it impossible to pass out). I have a friend who describes me as being incapable of slowing down, but I often correct him to say that I can, I just prefer to have my wheels spinning at all times, if not in person, then at least in the back of my head.

The slowing of the wheels is something I’m actively working on this year. I’ve been going through a lot that I’ve mentioned on the blog, but there’s been other off-site stuff, too, which has made my series-writing ride quite the adventure. Add to this that moderation is a concept lost on me (just give me a pile of candy and I’ll blow your mind, swear), and the fact that I’m still pretty good at pushing past pain…well, put all this together, and you’ve got a flashy sports car that eventually has a major break down and stops working.

Obviously, that, in the middle of a 3-book series, simply will not do.

Picture of feet sticking out of car window, parked to watch sunset

Chillin’. Ammentorp ©123RF.com

Which is why I’ve set up various rewards to honor the need to slow my roll in this already unique process. Since I just typed “The End” and closed off the draft for The Discipline, book 2 in the Lessons in Control series, the one I greet you with today is a deal I made with myself long ago: two full weeks off! This is a time for me to not only not think about the book while it simmers, but to essentially take a mini-writing-pseudo-vacation. Yes, writing is my passion, my sustenance, my love—but revisit that moderation in all things clause, and eventually, one can overdose in love, too.

Plus, a “vacation” always brightens the landscape of pretty much anything, so here I am, taking one!

What does this mean? Save for the potential of my copy edits showing up during this rest time, I’m not doing a lick of writing beyond a blog post or two, and maybe even a little revise of a poem and a piece of flash I wrote a while back, since it’s high time I get some fiction up in this joint. But beyond that? I’m practicing chilling out interspersed with moments of handling a short To Do list I avoided while staying focused on the series. This last weekend, for example, I swapped between bills, taxes, and major social time with friends. I even kicked off Saturday morning with pancakes, bacon, and a coconut milk latte in front of a TV show while still in my robe. Guys, this sort of thing hasn’t happened in years. And you know what? It felt pretty good.

There are other cool things happening in this two-week break, too. One, I’ve got a slew of awesome social encounters I’ve delayed: karaoke, luncheons, dinners, happy hours, and, hell, I might even take myself dancing and then sleep in this weekend! Whoa! Also, I’m finally reading a book. I know this sounds like a no brainer—but between being all up in this series and not being able to read before bed lest it keep me awake, I’ve pretty much been catching only blog posts here and there, and thus haven’t touched a book since, oh, late August (shameful, I know, but it’s the truth). Oh and extra chill-worthy: I’m rewatching Fringe from start to finish. This is my favorite series of all time, right before the wicked tie for second between The Tudors, Dexter, Friends (bonus points if you caught the show reference in the title of this post), Grey’s Anatomy, and the first six seasons of The Vampire Diaries (don’t even talk to me about the current season). I have tons of other good things planned for this time, too, but let it be said: there will be some real relaxation for me. I’m excited!

On top of that, I’m not going to feel guilty. Not at all. I know my lovely little characters can wait for me, and everything—life, series, etc.—will return to normal when I’m back.

We are, after all, on a break. 🙂

XX,
Jade

B/W still vintage image of typewriter

THE Process

Okay, here’s the deal: I kept fooling myself into believing I have a systemized process, and it’s become abundantly clear I’m full of shit.

As some of you may have noticed, I’ve been fairly quiet on both this site and my poetry site. For the most part, I’ve had my head down working on the Lessons in Control series. I’m getting more and more excited to talk about it as we get closer to launch in December, but for now, I’m tied up (heh) in edits for The Assignment (book one), the drafting of The Discipline (book two)—and later down the line, the drafting of The Reward (book three).

The process has been thrilling, shocking, and terrifying, all at the same time. My editor, Rhonda Stapleton, has been a dream through the work we’re doing on book one—but alongside that, I’ve had a hell of a journey on book two. Whatever “process” I swore I had for writing books has been, well, doctored.

B/W still vintage image of typewriter

Dmitriy Cherevko ©123RF.com

Let me give you a little background. The first real book I wrote (because I’m excluding the fictional biography I wrote at 11 as well the YA horror I wrote at 13) was a romantic fantasy that took me 17 years to complete, and at the end of it, I learned one very important thing: I’m neither a fantasy writer OR a strictly spec fic writer. I love sexual content, and I love dripping that all over the pages of whatever the hell I’m writing. So for my next book, I opted to write a comedic memoir about the year and a half I semi-intentionally stopped having sex. (True story!) Turned out, for a book about not having sex, it actually had a lot of sexual content—but it was also about healing from heartbreak, finding oneself, and a bit of ridiculousness that happened in that period, among other things. Honestly, I haven’t talked a ton about this thing since it’s shelved in lieu of what I currently love writing (that would be erotica in its various forms), but, the point is that it took me about three years to write, the end confirming that (1) I needed to write more because it was my life blood and (2) I was capable of finishing things faster than I thought.

Next came a bunch of short stories. I had a spec fic writing mentor at the time who suggested what I needed was to start and stop over and over again, so I could feel more confident in the process before I took on another book. Whoa nelly, did that turn out to be a boon: I wrote something like two dozen short stories in a few months. Plus, I wrote them fast. 4-6k in a couple hours? No problem! I had become a binge writer who also learned the skill of drafting without backtracking, because one can always chop and revise later. I was pretty sure that nifty trick would carry with me for life.

Flash forward to the recent past, and there came The Assignment. I’d been plotting and stewing about how I might be able to write an erotica series for a couple months, and, meanwhile, had an extremely transformative relationship that sparked all sorts of ideas in my head. Then…we broke up. Okay, in actuality, I had to pry myself away because the entire thing was about to ruin me, but a well-timed vacation and a keen interest in the “do not disturb” function on my phone created utter magic. Even through my devastation, the plot of my story became clear and I proceeded to channel all that breakup energy into writing The Assignment. That book—which I am seriously excited for you to read when it comes out in December—took me a whopping week and a half to outline, and right around one month to draft.

For realsies.

And suddenly—I knew my process: outline, speed draft without editing, let it breathe, go in and proceed to smoothe. Check! Oh yeah. It was that simple, and it would be, forever. Right? So while the final version was off wandering the world for a home, I proceeded to start another book—but the entire time, I couldn’t figure out what had happened to my process because I seemed to be going in circles…for almost eight months.

I’d just upped my speed and written a book in a month. How on earth did this thing take so long?

Then came some real life chaos that fucked with me. It took a while for me to get a clue on how to handle it, but when I did, I opted for a book break. I spent a couple months writing shorts and reworking my confidence, so that when The Assignment found a home at Carina Press and they wanted the entire series, I was both giddy and ready to write book two. Except, not so much. I was still contending with the residual chaos that culminated in the attack of the chronic migraines while also struggling to realize this was in no uncertain terms affecting my process. I drafted about 30k. I got migraine sick. I drafted 10k. I was still migraine sick. I tore up 20k. Edits for book one came. I finished them and then drafted 20k. But again, I was really sick and had to straight up stop. When I was migraine-free and ready to go again, I not only cut out about 15k, but completely replotted the rest of the book.

Ha. Take that, process!

Oh, and my binge writing tendency in that entire time period? M.I.A. 1-2k became a good day! But I plodded along, accepting that I would produce, delete, rewrite, break, etc., until somewhere around December when—while setting my 2016 goals—I took a step back and thought, hmm, maybe I should just write the damn book however it comes out, and stop being an asshole to myself because the process happens to have changed from what it was before.

Amazing concept, right?

I have to say—since then, things have continued to be pretty good over here. I turned in another round of edits on book one, and when I sat down to begin the final chunk of the book two draft this last weekend, I didn’t even bat an eyelash at the fact that the first thing I did was replot the last 20k again.

Go figure.

So, ladies and gentlemen, it’s safe it say: I have discovered the real process! It’s good, and I’m going to share it with you. You should grab a pen. Go ahead, I will wait. *Taps foot.* I know you want the Secret to the Writing Universe I discovered over the last few months, and now, I’m going to give it to you!

Okay, you ready?

Here it is.

The official process is…

Whatever fucking works.

Yep. That’s it. (Did you write that down?) 🙂

I have no idea if my process is “no process” because of life things, or just because that’s the truth of the matter, but I’m pleased to have established this riveting…process. Also, I’m curious about everyone else—what’s your process? I’d love to hear in the comments.

For now, though, time for me to get back to work.

It’s a process. 😉

XX,
Jade

 

Man and woman in sensual embrace about to kiss.;Sean Nel ©123RF.com

The Kiss

When I saw the Kink of the Week theme this time around, I knew I had to join in—both because the kiss is one of my favorite acts, and because I’ve been so lucky to have had many wonderful kisses. What I love most about the kiss is its variation; in one moment, it can be soft, sensual, and sweet, a tender caress between lovers. But in the next, it can be rough, wild, and hard, a battle of tongues that signals deep desire, given as easily as it can be taken away. The kiss is as intimate as it is a tease, and as passionate as it can be purposely cold. “It’s all in the kiss” is a phrase that often holds true—if for no other reason than it might, potentially, provide a glimpse of what lay ahead. Sloppy but given with gusto? Rough and taken with a trained gaze? Soft and peppered with whispers of yes, more, yes…? There is certainly much to be drawn from a kiss.

Man and woman in sensual embrace about to kiss.

Yes. This moment. Sean Nel ©123RF.com

Kisses are also as memorable in their fails as they are in their successes—those bad ones have the tendency to stand out all on their own. My first kiss was a silly thing, a peck on the lips I gave a fellow 7-year-old on a dare in the middle of an elementary school field. It was an all eye-open, quick lips, what-the-fuck-is-this-thing-we’re-doing kind of kiss. (Okay, maybe more for surprised him than me.) My first mutual kiss came six years later with my first boyfriend, and it was another awkward, mouth-closed, eye-open (him) disaster that left me pining. Even some of the ones I shared with my high school sweetheart later on live in this funny Bad Kiss Memory Land for his apparent desire to swallow my face whole—which admittedly, was as endearing as it was absurd.

Fortunately, beyond those experiences, I discovered many beautiful kisses. A heavy, sensual kiss that happened in the middle of a rainy afternoon remains the one I consider my real first; it was slow initially, hands slipped into hair, breaths whishes of sound between us as if to signal how closely we were about to connect. Much later, I experienced kisses so heavy and intense they felt stolen in the dark, but so delicious I would have given anything to have them stolen all over again. Later still was an insanely memorable dance floor kiss—a slow-build thing that seemed like it would happen the second we met, and yet didn’t all through the two solid hours we swung ourselves around, lips near and smiles wide…until the kiss itself made it feel like time stopped. There was another kiss with someone else that merged sweet with seductive while we swayed half-clothed in a living room, where curious pecks and nibbles of each other’s lips soon blurred into a meshing of tongues so combustible it was hard to believe we’d done anything more than kiss. And far later, I’d swear I found my kissing soul mate, with whom kisses were desperate, deep, and in sync, sparking almost as much electricity in the tension before our lips met as when they actually did. (Of course, it didn’t hurt that he would turn out to be alarmingly good with his mouth in every other way, too…) 😉 To this day, that lips nearing, eyes locking, breaths speeding come-together is as much one of my favorite moments in fiction as it is in real life—because goddamn, that build has the potential to make an actual kiss so much hotter.

One of the other joys of the kiss is that it is built to travel. It can graze the swoop of a shoulder just as easily as it can tease an inner thigh, and it can also transform into anything: the suck of a nipple, the nibble of a finger, the taste of cunt or cock. But after this transformation, it can always come right back up to where it started—sealing the moment as a quiet end to a beautiful, luscious storm.

So in case it was at all unclear—I’m a big fan of the kiss.

What about you?

XX,
Jade

Want more kisses? Click on the lips… 

Image of two women and a man, focusing on only legs

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.

Wicked Wednesday Badge

Cover of Alison Tyler's Bondage Bites

How Does it Feel to be Bound, My Love?

I have never been all that quiet about the origin of my stories. Many of them are purely fictional, or fantasies I’ve dreamed up, conscious or not—but a few are retellings of true events, actual encounters I’ve twisted to be better, or on occasion, semi-fictionalized redos of things I’ve been lucky enough to enjoy in real life.

Today, I’m delighted to tell you that Bondage Bites is officially out—it’s a new title edited by the amazing Alison Tyler, and published by Cleis Press. To say I am over the moon to be in an Alison Tyler collection is a massive understatement…but to get to say I have three short shorts in this anthology—all connected to my personal life—basically has me giggling. Er, grinning. No, blushing.

Okay, maybe a combination of all three!

So, to celebrate the release of this hot anthology of super short stories, I will give you some dirt—that is, I’ll share a snippet of all three stories, each with a taste of the reality that inspired them.Cover of Alison Tyler's Bondage Bites

Here we go!

First, with the tamest personal connection of the three tales:

“The Gate”

A few years ago, I went on vacation to Italy. I traveled throughout the country, but I got particularly caught up during my stay in Tuscany, where I had a rental car to check out everything in the area I could. (This song came out during my stay, and it become my driving theme, if you’re curious.) One night, while dining at this incredible family owned place in Poggibonsi, I spotted a rather magnificent storefront gate in an alleyway that got my gears turning. The waiter commented at one point that I had a nice blush on my face, and—based on the scene running through my head—I can’t say I was all that surprised. So, after finishing dinner and taking a beautiful stroll under the moonlight, I went back to my villa and wrote out a snippet of the entire fantasy I’d envisioned and then sent it to my lover back home.

Once the vacation ended, I decided that wasn’t enough. I needed to turn the whole thing into a full story, which soon became “The Gate”…

When you gestured back at the gate, I understood why you’d brought your backpack to dinner. The flush that spread through me couldn’t be from the wine—not after only two sips—and I wanted to rush to feel the surprise you had in store. Still, I knew the longer we took, the quieter the alley would be.

We took forever, too. No one seemed to mind the leisurely American couple, or the way we didn’t speak, just stared at one another with half-grins while you stroked my hand. When we finished, we wandered around the cobblestone center hand-in-hand. It wasn’t until past one that you led me back to the gate.

“I haven’t seen anyone for almost an hour. Are you ready, Mara?”

I nodded. My role now was to remain still, which is what I did as you removed the cuffs from your bag. I clenched my knees together, feeling a charge clamor up my thighs and straight into my pussy over the thought of being seen, and of what you would do to me once you bound me here.

You grinned under the street lamps as you fastened me to either side of the gate, and once I was secure, your hands roamed around my neck and down my back. Then you kissed me and lifted my skirt, stroking my thighs right there in public. You gripped me, kneaded me, your breath hot on my cheek. You took my gasp as an invitation and slipped your fingertips under my panties, nudging them aside so you could feel how wet I was for you—and moaning when you discovered my short curls soaked through.

I wanted you to touch me deeper, but you liked to string it out. You whispered, “How does it feel to be bound, my love?”

Strangely, I didn’t take a picture of that gate—but I have never forgotten how gorgeous it was, or the way it felt to just sit there drinking wine in the pleasant breeze, dreaming up a scene that I later got to flesh out in a full tale.

Okay, next up:

“Safety Shears”

This one has a bit of a funny back story because, well, in truth…

Bondage accidents happen.

Lucky me, I happened to experience one such accident—which had my doctor and I exchanging some seriously hilarious emails for a solid week after it happened. The good news is that all was okay after a little stretch of time, and safety shears found their way into my closet for the next time. *Cough.*

Now, while I feel it’s important to remind that fiction is not meant to be an instructional guide, I can’t speak highly enough about owning a pair of shears.

And it’s from that recommendation that “Safety Shears” was born:

“I think it’s okay,” she said, clenching a hand, then releasing it. She smiled at him. “You have the safety shears handy, right?”

He nodded, jumping off the bed to show her that he did indeed have them, right there on the nightstand. When he stood upright, the glow from her lamp cast the sexiest of shadows over his abdomen, enhancing the results of all the working out he’d done of late. He was such a pleasure to look at, the most handsome lover Julia had taken in years. And with the eager way he stared at her, he’d proven delightful in more ways than one.

“Of course. I wouldn’t want to give you carpal tunnel. Or anything worse. Can you imagine?” Matthew chuckled and crawled between her thighs again, but now he grew serious, quiet. He admired his work. “Dear God, you’re beautiful like this.”

 Julia had only been cuffed before, but something about Matthew made her want to submit to his every whim. He’d spent the last twenty minutes binding her like a man possessed, stopping every so often to caress her face or brush back her hair. Twice he’d slipped a finger inside her, testing her and moaning at how her pussy flinched around him. “Please, Matthew, fuck me,” she’d cried, and he’d hurried back to the business of tying her up. Now he ran his hands over her inner thighs and down to her ankles, fondling the rope that connected them to her wrists. Instead of the traditional hog or frog tie, he’d left her on her back with her legs splayed and her thighs free so he could more easily access her. And he did just that, tracing back from the ties and over her belly, then circling his fingers around her nipples and making her gasp.

“I need you,” she whispered.

Ah, safety shears…

Okay, finally, it’s time for what may be my most favorite (and definitely the most personal):

“In the Morning”

For this story, I opted to try something I’d never done before—I took an old lust letter I’d sent to a lover and converted it right into a story. 🙂 Not to worry, though! No boyfriends were harmed in the making of this story. I warned the recipient, way back then, that I’d probably end up doing this at some point—and he totally got a kick out of the idea. See, when we dated, we were supremely open to sharing fantasies, and if we weren’t speaking them in bed, we were sharing them in emails, via text, or on the phone…. Some of them got acted out, and others didn’t, but suffice it to say that “In the Morning” is a tale fully based off a real email I sent during our very memorable affair:

Somehow, he’d shifted my arms behind my back without me ever stirring. Now he patted my wrists in satisfaction with the knots he’d pinned me in, and I felt an immediate rush of warmth between my thighs.

“I told you what I expected in the morning, darling.”

Without another word, Gabriel crawled off the bed and stepped behind me. He’d bound me so many times before, and every time, I felt this way—this desperate longing, this hunger for his touch. The heat from my pussy seared up through me, and suddenly I wanted nothing more than to feel him, to lose myself in the way we moved together.

“Come to me,” he said.

I squirmed beneath the covers, my arms pinned too closely to my back for me to use them in any useful fashion. I managed to roll to my side and slide off the bed, landing on my knees directly in front of him. Gabriel was naked, his beautiful prick swollen and upright before my face.

“Show me how much you want me, Katharine.”

I grinned. Even bound like this, that would be an easy feat—I always wanted him, each second of every day. I wiggled closer, my balance off with my hands bound, and then I took him in my mouth. I swallowed him, licked him, wanting to devour every inch of him, and dear God, he tasted so delicious on my tongue, so tantalizing when I couldn’t grab onto him or stroke his length. He jumped and jerked between my lips and I moaned, because I still wanted him so much more…

And there you have it! A small sampling of three stories that are pretty damn connected to my real life. Please pick up a copy of Bondage Bites not only to read these stories in their entirety, but to check out all the fabulously hot bondage short-shorts you’ll find within. Alison Tyler is a phenomenal editor, so this collection is, no doubt, going to be a huge hit. You can pick up a copy at Amazon and other retailers today, and I hope you enjoy what you find!

Thank you so much for reading!

XX,
Jade

Cover of The Sexy Librarian's Dirty 30 Cover

Interviewed on Inside the Erotica Author’s Studio!

The most exciting thing happened earlier this week—the lovely Rose Caraway of The Kiss Me Quick’s Erotica Podcast had me up to her studio to record an interview! Wow!Cover of Rose Caraway's Dirty 30 Audiobook

Rose Caraway is the editor of The Sexy Librarian’s Dirty 30, a collection in which I am lucky enough to have two stories, “The Bells” and “The Doll.” To celebrate the release of this book, Rose has been interviewing the contributors on her “Inside the Erotica Author’s Studio” series. The whole idea is to introduce you to each of us while finding out more about us and our stories. I could not be more thrilled to be a part of this book, and now to have had the privilege of talking with Rose in her actual studio—well, let’s just say the whole experience has completely boggled my mind.

We had such a great conversation about all sorts of things—you’ll find out about my tendency to try just about anything, how I write, thoughts on my stories, my experience with having an agent, and even an interesting date accident I almost had. Rose is positively one of the sweetest people on the planet, as is the amazing Big Daddy, so this interview made me feel right at home in their studio!

If you’d like to check it out, you can do so right here with the player below. Or, if you’d like to read Rose’s show notes alongside the interview, you can click on over to The KMQ’s. Either way, I hope you enjoy listening to us as much as I enjoyed my time hanging at The KMQ’s!

Also, don’t forget to check out The Sexy Librarian’s Dirty 30 in audiobook or ebook format. And if you’d like to hear some of my previous work narrated on The Kiss Me Quick’s, check out my story “Soundscapes,” or a poem, “Owned.” It’s been a privilege working with The KMQ’s, and now to be interviewed by them!

Thanks so much for joining us!

XX,
Jade

N.B. You can now listen to “The Doll” narrated by the fabulous Rose Caraway right here!

Cover of The Sexy Librarian's Dirty 30 Cover

The Sexy Librarian’s Dirty 30 (Part Two) – “The Doll”!

Yesterday, I told you a bit about “The Bells”—the first of my two stories in Rose Caraway’s freshly released The Sexy Librarian’s Dirty 30As promised, today I’m back to talk about “The Doll,” a piece that is dear to my heart in a far different way than my fascination with famous queens and historical torture methods.

The Other Dirty 30 Cover

The alternate (and possibly temporary) Dirty 30 ebook cover

This one is much more personal.

I’ve had many relationships in my life, and I’m sure I’m not alone in saying some have definitely left me more wobbly than expected once they ended. “The Doll” is a play off something I said after one such relationship—a fairly complicated affair that, in truth, both opened my mind and turned me completely inside out. It’s a love I’ve come back to a lot in my head, one that’s inspired several things and that will undoubtedly continue to do so for a long time to come.

While I’ve since healed from this relationship, the period after it ended required a ton of strength to wash it all out of my system. Over and over, I told those close to me I felt broken afterwards. I likened the experience to having finally come alive, but said that afterward I felt like a crumpled up, abandoned marionette that was no longer able to dance.

And it was from that analogy that “The Doll” was born.

I scribbled a few notes after I said all this to a friend one day, and I guess it turned out that—devastated or not—my writer brain was still working, turned on in ways I couldn’t even begin to comprehend as hurt as I was. Somewhere in my subconscious, I was crafting an image of what the experience really felt like to me.

It took a long while for me to sit down and write this story because it was so close to me, but once I did, it morphed into something I hadn’t expected. It was no longer just a story about a doll coming to life, and somehow it went from literary erotic spec fic to allegory in a matter of pages. Like “The Bells,” it came to me in a single sitting—but when it was over, I exhaled a different kind of sigh than I had for the other piece. This story was more personal, more tender, and in so many ways, incredibly healing for me to put to page.

So…there you have it: my story behind “The Doll,” one of my most favorite pieces written to date.

To celebrate its release into the world, I’d love to share an excerpt with you.

From “The Doll”:

When Asif’s ex-wife swung by to drop off his alimony check, she’d pointed at the marionette with a frown.

“You’ve got to be kidding. Another doll to add to this crap?” She’d waved her hands about the apartment lined with shelf upon shelf of handmade dolls. “You’re obsessed with fixing the fucking dolls, and you don’t make any money with them. Plus, this one’s broken.” She’d lifted the doll’s leg, quick to point out the broken strings that barely kept her right foot hinged to her ankle. “You’re ridiculous, Asif,” she’d said, and then the door had snapped shut behind her.

But Asif knew she was wrong with this one, and when he turned his focus back to the doll, he spoke to her in hushed tones.

“You’re beautiful. These breaks are what give you character.”

She seemed to nod at him, confirming what Asif already knew in his many days of watching her—she was his darling to tend to, to cherish, and to love.

In the coming weeks, Asif discovered more of Henrietta: the chips of two fingernails, ruined beyond repair, and the space above her ear where a lock of hair had been violently removed, leaving the wood beneath ragged and raw. Asif tried to heal these wounds, and when he couldn’t, he’d prop her beside him at the table and speak to her with tender words meant to coax her from inside her wooden casing. Because—despite the nails and the missing strand of hair, and the broken string that left her right foot flailing when he tried to dance her around his flat—he loved her.

“You’re real beneath that shell,” he said one night, his voice a lonely whisper as he dipped his paintbrush, and then in a painstakingly slow manner, drew the paint in delicate sweeps to fix the liner smudged beneath her eye. “I can see it, Henrietta. I can feel it. I just wish you’d know how safe you are with me.”

The marionette’s eyes struck Asif as brighter, two brown stars against her pale wooden face. He set down the brush and took her slim fingers into his, stroking them, smiling at them, and then bobbed his head with conviction.

“I believe you’re more, my love,” he said.

A rustling came through the open window then, stirring a lock of her hair, and Asif caught it in his fingers. He fondled the wisp from root to tip as though it was real. As though she was real. And when Henrietta gazed back at him, Asif heard her silent plea for more.

Quietly, he lifted his fingertips to her brow. He traced several strands of her hair, from the knots binding it into her wooden scalp and down through to the ends, and as he did her hair began to lighten and silken. Moved by this, Asif slid his entire hand into her hair. He twined his fingers with the strands and brushed them back from her face, and each ringlet followed the course of the first—the flaxen coarseness becoming shiny and free, like the satiny strands of a woman’s hair. Even the knots on her scalp loosened, the hair springing quite naturally from her head.

“You are, aren’t you?” he whispered.

The doll’s eyes sparkled.

*

Intrigued?

I hope so. And I also hope you’ll pick up a copy of The Sexy Librarian’s Dirty 30. It’s a collection I’m so thrilled to be a part of, and with the roster of exceptional authors in here, I’m absolutely positive you’re going to love it.

Please pick up your copy on either Amazon or Audible, and in the meantime, thank you so much for joining me on this two-post series!

Happy reading and listening!

XX,
Jade

Dark toned image of woman sitting with one leg crossed over another

You Got Turned Out

Well over a year ago, a close friend used a term that struck me as profound—so much so it’s been simmering in the back of my head ever since. The truth is that it was said in reference to a relationship I’d experienced, but eventually, I realized how wide the scope of it was, and how very much I needed to write about it.

See, at the time of our conversation, I was wrapping up one of the most painful breakups of my life. I’ve had many relationships in two decades—some of them waking me in one way or another, others serious enough we nearly ended up engaged, and still others breaking me in ways that required many years of lightness to heal—but this was different. It was heavier somehow, more real, more intense. If I were to describe my past relationships as watercolor paintings, this one was made of oil—dense with color, small details, and texture, and labored over not just with brushes, but with rags and carving tools that molded the canvas of us. It started as a casual fling that should have meant practically nothing, but in the mere nine months we lasted—including four breakups, three standoffs, and two attempted months of silence—the impact still coursed through my blood and transformed me.

So on the night we chatted, this friend of mine listened while I cried to him for probably the third or fourth time, dragging myself in circles over this new kind of hurt, and this strange feeling of having had my heart and soul wrenched open in ways I couldn’t understand. And in the midst of it, he said, very sweetly, “Honey, don’t you see? You got turned out.”Dark toned image of woman sitting with one leg crossed over another

This friend has long been special to me for a variety of reasons, but his frankness—paired with his somewhat uncanny understanding of women—has always captivated me. Having never heard the term, I sniffled a few times and asked what the hell he was talking about. I’ll take the liberty of paraphrasing his response, but the basic concept is this: getting “turned out” means someone has fully broken through to you—turned you upside down, cracked you open, and unraveled you completely. Sure, you may have had sex and love before—hell, you could have had endless sex and love, and believed you’d felt the magic—but this experience is not common, and when it happens, you know. It’s more powerful than any love or good fuck or orgasm you’ve had before; it’s like you’ve found that person who can sink right into your soul, delve into your pores, and bring you out into the world as an entirely altered, more phenomenal version of you.

When he said this, it clicked. I’d known love, lust, empathy, closeness, hurt, passion, and all of the feelings that connect us with one another—but this thing, even as short as it was, had me lost in an emotional and sexual haze all the way through and well after it ended. Truth be told, it’s one of the most complicated things I’ve ever experienced, so uplifting and murky and amazing and excruciatingly painful, charging me even beyond the time it took to heal. This is why I strongly believe the last part of what my friend said in that phone call, too—that this type of experience will inevitably end in one of two ways: ideally, you and the person seize the magic and end up together for life, exploring this brilliance discovered together; or, you and the person call it quits, she who got turned out is hurt for a long, long time, and then—once all the pain dissipates and she can see straight again—she’s essentially reborn with so much more sense, emotional power, and feeling than she’d ever dreamed of before.

A phoenix rising from the ash, if you will.

That’s a big concept to pin on a relationship, I know, but I’d venture to guess a few of you know exactly what I’m talking about. Maybe while you’re reading this, your hearts are thumping in your chests, your heads lifting and falling as you whistle to yourselves because you remember what this felt like. It’s that feeling of putting your heart, your love, your soul, your very essence in someone else’s grasp like you could never have fathomed before—and still being unbelievably okay with it.

Sometimes, it works out. Sometimes, it doesn’t. But no matter what, you will never be who you were before.

So, that’s what’s been churning in my head for a while now, seeping into my work, my stories. I don’t mean to do it, and then suddenly I do. The first time I saw it was in the last book I wrote—I’d drafted it early last year and then came back a month later to edit, following my character through her adventure in love and sex while I made my scribbles on the page…and then WHAM. I actually saw it in her character arc, and said it out loud:

“Oh, look at you. You got turned out, baby girl.”

I thought it was just a one-time thing. Then the feelings kept resurfacing in other stories I wrote, essays I penned, and poems I posted, without me ever intending it. It was like in finding myself, my characters had to, as well. Even in the book I’m editing now, I saw it happening all over again—the protagonist shedding her old skin, embracing this new life and awareness she finds with the one who broke through to who she honestly was. It wasn’t that she wasn’t whole or happy before—only that, in a way, she had to set fire to who she was to leap into this vivid new self. In doing so, she’s become richer, more powerful, and eager for every sensation and experience yet to be had.

She’s been turned out.

Sometimes, I wonder if the intersection of my own experience happening shortly after I sent my first erotica story into the world was a coincidence, or if it was the Universe trying to give me a message. That in embracing my writing, I’d opened up a personal door. Or that in releasing the erotica I’d kept quiet for years, I was finally able to bare my heart and soul, even if it was going to hurt like hell. Or that, since I was going to explore so many things in real life, I would need to feed it all into my stories over time.

Honestly, I don’t know the answer to the how or why—and like the phoenix, I don’t think the past matters anymore.

When you get turned out, the only thing you need to do is soar on.

XX,
Jade

Man over woman looking breathless

He’s Got Her

I rarely write while drinking. For one, I’m usually out with friends, and sitting down to pen something wouldn’t work in the moment. Then, there’s the fact that my creative process simply doesn’t flow under those circumstances. I might have some good ideas, but they won’t come to fruition in any sort of cohesive way until I’m completely clear-headed.

That’s why today’s poem is a bit of an anomaly for me. A month ago, my friend and I met and played our usual rounds of dice games over drinks at a local bar. And as the evening progressed, we shared a powerful conversation on those people who rip you right out of your comfort zone—loves who make you see things differently, move you in ways you didn’t imagine, and break straight through to your soul. Sadly, he had to leave soon after, but I was still buzzed and nowhere near ready to drive. So I sat in my car for a while, texting friends, reading blog posts, and replaying the conversation.

It was then this poem started writing itself, inspired by the heady nature of the discussion and some memories of my own. I wasn’t able to finish it that night, but I’ve finally pulled it up off my phone notes and touched up a few spots. For the most part, I left the original poem intact.

So today, I’d like to share “He’s Got Her” with you:

Man over woman looking breathless

Sakkmesterke ©123RF.com

HE’S GOT HER

by

Jade A. Waters

He’s got her
Spread out
Naked
Her limbs stretched across this bed
Wrist to headboard
Foot to base
But this has nothing to do with
That.
It’s the way he looks at her
The way he sees inside her soul,
The way his fingers dig
So deep inside her cunt,
Finding her secrets
Her truths
And all her dreams,
With the flick of his wrist and a glint in his eyes.
She thinks for a moment
It’s not right that he can do this,
Not right that he can take her
From cynical to believer in seconds
But he does,
Every time he holds her
Kisses her
Loves her.
This is what she realizes
As he circles her clit with his tongue
And drives those fingers inside;
He’s got her,
Caught her,
Ensnared her heart and soul in his net
For a lifetime to come
Because it’s supposed to be,
Was meant to be.
It is.
So when he thrusts into her,
Grunting, bearing, deep and loving,
She knows—
This love he takes from her
This love she freely shares,
It was never hers to give in the first place
Because she’s always
Belonged to him.

*

I hope you enjoyed it.

XX,
Jade

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