Guest Blogger Jane Gilbert Sets the Scene!

I am such a fan of Jane Gilbert of Behind the Chintz Curtain fame, I do not even know how to fangirl her properly! Her collection of short stories, Scene floored me. With nods to Pauline Réage, Anaïs Nin and Jackson Pollock, each story in this collection is like a rare delicacy. The stories are so good, you wish you had written them! I am honored to have Jane on my blog to give some background, and an excerpt from “Soap”–my favorite story!
And without further ado, I will let Jane set the Scene…

With regard to the painting and literary references in Scene … One of my Bachelor majors is History of Art. However, I focused on the Italian Baroque and New Zealand nationalism rather than European contemporaries. I tend to have more scattered knowledge of artists and works outside of my major areas, such as Pollock, but I am quite a “pictorial” writer so if I can recollect an image – visual or textual – that I think is relevant to the picture in my head I will try and work it in. As an aside, I’m very tempted to write something around this Bernini sculpture, The Ecstasy of St. Teresa. It’s a perfect representation of spiritual and physical ecstasy, and there are a lot of delicious erotic themes that could be explored thanks to Bernini’s execution of it.

As I mention in Molly Moore’s KissCast , Scene actually came about because I wrote “Dark Comfort” (the third story in the collection) off the cuff, and didn’t have a home for it. I didn’t want to let it die a death on my hard drive, so I decided to write three more pieces that focused on similar themes – erotic humiliation and voyeurism/exhibitionism. Interestingly, in penning “Diana” and “An Unexpected Fare,” I found that I really enjoyed writing from the dominant point-of-view (something of a surprise, given that I identify as a bottom/sub), but I think perhaps it’s because I have been able to express what I wish – and hope! – is going on in a Dom’s head during a scene.

Excerpt from “Soap”
I awaken to my pussy being stuffed full of cock.
The unexpected invasion is a shock to my sleep-heavy body and I shout as he sinks relentlessly in, hooking his arms behind my knees to deepen the penetration. Normally, he’d warm me up by rubbing my clit before fucking me like this but this morning his fingers are punishingly absent. The message is clear: this is for his pleasure and his alone. I lie quietly, lifting my hips slightly whenever he slides forward to give him better access.
More than anything, I want to be his good girl. To redeem myself. To show him just how much I love him. His distance is crueler than any cane, a hundred thousand times more painful than any lash.
Just as my body begins to respond, he comes, his semen coating my increasingly greedy pussy in warm, wet spurts. The look on his face as he ejaculates—the pleasure, the satisfaction he’s taking in me—makes my heart sing. But all too soon it’s over and he’s easing from my body, leaving me increasingly aware of the insidious seeping of fluid from between my legs. I want to get up, the urge to clean myself off a needling, nagging itch.
But I don’t dare.
To my horror, he stands and dips two fingers into the sticky mess before smearing them over my bare pubis, massaging the fluid into my skin. “Put these on and go and get dressed for work,” he says eventually, crossing to the dresser and tossing a pair of white cotton knickers on the bed before heading in the direction of the bathroom. The unspoken instruction not to wash is louder and clearer than a cannon boom.
It’s like he’s just asked me to conquer Everest.