Tag Archives: kink of the week

I wrote something new for this KOTW post, but as I was finishing it up…completely out of the blue…a good friend reminded me that I wrote this piece. It was part of a blog swap with Kenny C. based on the photo accompanying it, so you might have read it on his blog. If not, here it is appearing for the first time on my own blog! You can read the post Kenny swapped me for here as well. 

She had outdone herself. Her taste in men was always particularly bad: an assortment of overzealous creative types, addictive personalities, semi-abusive–she had been lucky to get out of that. And now, now, she smiled as the rain beat against the windows of the car and on its roof like a melody she must observe. Now she was heading to a motel to meet a man whose online darkness was sparkling. He told her he’d do things to her she would be ashamed she asked for. It was all part of the game. He said he could kill her. The rain blurred the image of the motel’s fluorescent lights, but she saw them nonetheless and was prepared to get out of the car. She had no desire to put her umbrella up, so she walked into the pouring rain. The sight of the car that he described let her know he was there, and her response to it was Pavlovian.

In the lobby of the motel, she saw a bride in a very smart suit and a suggestion of a veil about her head, holding hands tightly with her new husband. She rained rose petals everywhere she went, blood red rose petals.

Felice went to the counter, and asked for the keys, the number of the room she had to fumble through her messages from him to get. She did not know his name, so everything related to him was in a folder she marked with a capital ‘H.’

She took the keys and headed up the stairs, where she pressed her damp body to the wall and tried to breathe properly. Her heart raced quickly, as she clutched the keys in her tight fist so their jangling would stop jangling her mind.

There were rose petals leading to room number eight, because the bride had already walked by it. Not because there was anything romantic that was going to happen there. H. had told her that. As well as to arrive without makeup or perfume because he did not want any artifice about her. What she wore was her choice. A little black dress was her first thought. It was would be easy to remove, with her thickly seamed in the back thigh highs. She felt okay even without panties which he did not request, but she felt was right to do.

She opened the door, he jumped her which is what he told her he would do. His kiss was warm like he had extracted summer from the day before this rain. She loved the press of him so close to her.

Then he pushed her away.

“You are wet,” he said.

Felice burned up to her temples, ashamed that he knew just how wet she was and beads of perspiration formed there. Then she realized that she was wet from the rain, and he probably meant that.

“I did not put my umbrella up.”

She looked down on the floor and saw she had dragged in rose petals with her. He plucked one from her shoulder, she had no idea how one had gotten that far up.

The heat from his body could have set her on fire. He put his hand on her thigh and lifted her dress. She saw her legs bare in the mirror straight across the room.

“Nothing?” he questioned as he skimmed her bare bottom with his fingers.

“No, I thought you would like that best.”

He smiled which filled her with relief.

“You are very smart, aren’t you?”

Felice frowned when he said that. Being smart had been the bane of her existence. She had never been able to have her baser desires fulfilled because no one thought she would want them.

“I tried to be intuitive,” she said and he smacked her bottom which made her labia quiver.

Then he touched her there.

“Very wet.”

This time she knew that he was talking about between her legs, and she avoided his eyes.

He raised her chin to look up at him.

“I do not want you to look down, I want you to look at me and observe everything that we do to each other unflinchingly…”

His eyes lingered on hers, then he moved away. Felice felt a shiver when he did. Like he was the only source of heat in the room.

“Well take off your dress, didn’t your mother tell you to take off your wet clothes when you came in from the rain?”

She pulled off her dress, which did not have buttons or zippers to delay its removal. She hated that there was a mirror and she could see herself first naked except for her bra, and then completely naked.

“Sit down, you have time don’t you?”

Felice sat, between her legs was sticky wet. H. was dark online, and even more decadently so in person. Her excitement was at its peak, her nipples indicated it, she could see them in the mirror in the dim room.

Without thinking she walked over to the window, a soft release under her high heels was a rose petal she was sure. She looked at the red lights from the sign which made H. look like Lucifer as the light hit him. She saw in a flash Lucifer’s fingers.

“I can do every dark little thing you want now,” he said his hands about her neck, which pleased her.

She had told him all of her fantasies. He knew the things that she liked, there was no secret from him. Slumping into him, he stroked her spine, soft first then roughly. Every part of her body came to a dark life.

“Do you want to play?”

His fingers squeezed tighter about her neck, and she suddenly felt weak as everything went black.

More anonymous sex here…

photograph found on tumblr

“Where I am from? Why do you need to know?”

She looked at him, startled. It was like she had broken the moment. His hand loosened on her knee, and he sat back with a deep sigh.

“Forget I asked, ” she said spilling a little scotch on her thighs.

When she attempted to stand up, his hand tightened again on her knee.

“What?” she said standing up and he stood up with her, looked down at her and touched her trembling lower lip.

“I am right now, right here. Here with you.” His fingers on her lip felt the the tips of matches, and she get hot, very hot. Under her arms were moist with perspiration and desire. He looked into her eyes. “Where are you?”

“Here with you,” she said without delay.

“Let’s go back. Or do you want to leave with me?”

“Both,” she said. She raised her glass to sip her scotch, desperate to dampen her parched lips and swallowed before even a bit of scotch had gone between them.

She walked off the balcony with him, so lightheaded with desire it felt like people were circling around her like the end of Ring Around the Rosie. She felt his hand strong on the small of her back, keeping her erect.

Their friends and colleagues voices and faces were disembodied, as she was blind and deaf to everything but him. It was like she had drunk too much which she had not, she was only intoxicated with him.

He slipped her shawl about her shoulders, and his hand burned through it like the sun on naked skin as they descended into the night. The moon sobered her, and she began to walk upright and with purpose.

Pauline’s memories were soft as she remembered the first time she and Henry…she had walked onto the balcony with him. What they shared there reminded her of Baudelaire’s poem, The Balcony. Alone with him in bed, was where the summit of their passion was reached. Each of them concerned with the other’s passion more than their own she had felt. The way he worshipped first her labia and then her anus, Pauline shivered from head to toe with the pleasure he bestowed upon her. His mouth described love that she was not sure he could say another way. his kisses were open and honest in a way she felt no one had ever been with her. Her thrusts against his face, were her acknowledgment of his love and desire. As much as she wanted to just say it was the sensation that was driving her. His lips soft on her ass and her breasts in his hands, Pauline shook from impact of her orgasm. Henry caressed her hips and cheeks to soothe her.

When she opened her eyes and the lights spun about her because she had closed them so tight, she fell forward and kissed his shaft just once. She was too drowsy with desire to reciprocate, as still he kissed her ass in homage. His tongue moved in thick strokes about her cheeks, painting her thickly with lust. 

More face-sitting here…

face-sitting via wikipedia

We were led upstairs by a girl who I almost wanted to prick with a pin, or pinch. She was so perfectly put together and her behavior so appropriate, I wanted to ses her come undone.

Of course she recognized me, I was used to that. But I was never used to the mechanical way that people interacted with me.

And of course her eyes moved to my companion, because he was just as known as me. Because he was with me. 

As we walked to the private bidding room, we walked past it: the gorgeous photograph that from the time  Henry saw me looking at it, he wanted to buy for me.

He spoiled me, and I loved it. 

“No, I want to buy this for myself and I want you to come…to bid with me!” I’d countered.

“But you can do a phone bid or something Pauline. Why would you want to be in that circus? It is not our style.”

I smiled at him. He knew me so well, us so well.

“We will have a private room of course,” I said to him. “Because that is our style.”

I looked at the gorgeous photograph of a corset, almost as lovely as the one I wore. As we walked past the employees they all stared at me. Henry was the kind of man that other women hated you for being with. But because I looked the way I did, they hated  me additionally because I could pull him. But that was what I had done and corset or not to alter my shape, I could have done it even if I was older than him.

Henry took my hand, and walked ahead of me to open the door.

“Can I help you with anything else Ms. Ross?”

I looked at the young woman in front of me and smiled, not too harshly I hoped.

“No, dear. We are fine.”

Henry was hungry for mey body, and he barely was able to let the door close before his hand was on my ass. I saw the young woman blush, but then hold my eyes a little longer than she needed to with a smile and…envy.

Pushing me against the wall, Henry pressed himself to me, caressed my hips and licked the top of my breasts as if they were ice cream in a cone: soft licks in circles. He panted softly as he pulled up my dress and caressed my ass with his hands in circles much like he licked my breasts. 

“We are not going to fuck unless I get that picture,” I heard myself pant, eyes closed tightly with pleasure as he did not stop licking my breasts or touching my ass. “Did you hear me?” I opened my eyes.

Henry stopped, he heard the seriousness in my voice.

I braced myself against the wall, and smiled at him.

“We are not going to fuck unless I win that picture!”

I knew Henry’s limits, and I knew I had pushed them. He liked to play with me, but he really wanted me and I wanted him. But I was not going to be with him when I was nervous about winning the photograph.

“Are you kidding me? Your lot is awhile away! You want me to sit here with this and not fuck you?”

When he stroked himself through his pants, I felt how slippery I was but I did not give a shit.

“Yeah, exactly.” I put my hand over his, and he closed his eyes and grunted. “Or you can go out there and have one of those young women that was drooling all over you…”

“No,” he said pushing my hand away. “Will we fuck whether you win or not?”

I shrugged and took his hand. I took him to the plush couch, where there was a bucket with two bottles of champagne and hors d’oeuvres on the glass table. 

I did not bother to pull my dress down, and sat bare-assed on the leather couch. Henry sat beside me, and caressed my thigh. 

“If we can’t…can we do something else? To tide me over?”

I grinned.

“Like what?”

Henry pulled off my dress. I sat with spread legs in just my ivory corset and patterned pumps, and looked at him. 

“What number is your lot?”

“Soixante-neuf.”

“You are lying!”

I handed him the catalog from the glass table.

“Sixty-nine…” he said. “Can I lick you once for each lot?”

“Where?” I leaned forward.

Henry leaned forward, I leaned back on the pillows. I heard the hammer go down. The auction was about to begin.

When he got between my legs and came to kiss me at my hunger mark, I felt like Anne Sexton’s poem, “Barefoot.”

I nodded and let him lick me sixty-eight times. But I sat up when they got to lot sixty-nine. I picked up the phone, and crossed my legs. Henry frowned. I shooed him away, as I told the head of the photography department my bid. She tried to run it up, but there were only a few fervent bidders. I did not want to go over $10,000. I had done my research.

But I wanted it, and would go over. I did not come here…well I had not come in that way yet and I had not here to not win.

The hammer went down.

“Sold! To a private bidder!”

I watched with a smile as the auctioneer wrote down my number that was whispered to him. Henry parted my legs, and he licked me once more.

Sixty-nine.

“I won,” I said, and the excitement of the bidding and his tongue made me come.

I stood up, pulled my dress over my head and took a final sip of my champagne. Henry got up with me, took my hand.

My hair was mussed, and Henry was hard. Everyone looked at us.

“Congratulations Ms. Ross!” The young woman who had led me to the private room smiled at me again, knowingly.

I smiled at her, knew she wondered what was behind my dark shaded eyes.

Dark thoughts she could not dream, and Henry squeezed my hand with knowing. 

Find more corsetry here:

jeanloup sieff’s corset via duck duck go images

I finished NaNoWrimo today, and it was gratifying. I had fallen off in my word count after a lovely start, but then I got into the mode. When I finished, it was almost anti-climactic because I was nowhere near finished and I am going to have to revisit it. I like the things that I wrote, and I was happy that I finally understand what a draft is. None of this is indelible, it can all be reworked and at some point I will work on it.
I wonder if I am going to work on all of the dirty talk that was in the novel? Candyland, which is what the novel was called is extremely erotic. There is a lot of dirty talk between characters, with me using words that I have never used in my fiction before. If I did use the words it was very intermittent.
There are slang terminologies for all of the body parts which I always avoided. I remember being a little girl in Catholic school, and cringing when I heard the words pussy and dick. It was like those are not the words, why can’t you say the words? Once in the girls’ room as sophisticated as I thought I was since my mother had told me about sex without me asking at a very young age, there were more sophisticated girls than me. Including the girl who was coaching me how to say penis, like I had an issue with it. I really did not have much of a use for the word penis when I was seven, but I admired her effort to insure that I was not uptight about using it ever. Or listening to the little girl who whispered to me the filthiest stories in my ear on the phone, with unlimited dick and pussy lingo. Dick and pussy, were a well married couple when I was a kid. Maybe it seemed too juvenile, so I did not like it in my erotic writing. It just seemed so there must be something better to say.
Well my characters in Candyland did not seem to think so! They used them with a ton of gusto, on a lot of different occasions. Was it that I resorted to these words, because when writing NaNo, you know that you are going to come back and revise? Or was it just what my characters wanted to say? Have I gained less of personal stigma about the use of these words, now that I hear all the time since I have an Audible addiction? That I hear them so often with erotica that I listen to, that they have less of a stigma to me now? Or maybe simply that when people are in a sexual situations suddenly all these words that are considered crude and vulgar, are suddenly the prime cut of words and that they are beautifully incendiary? Because while you may not memorize every nuance of a touch forever after, you can always remember what feverish words a partner said to you in the moment…

More dirty talk here…

red lips via wiki commons

Maybe it started with the lace pantyhose I wore as a girl under my Catholic school uniform skirt, which caused a bit of a scandal because they were pink and my uniform was blue. My mother said that I would wear whatever she gave me to wear, so that conversation was ended quickly. But not my fascination with all sorts of hosiery. Particularly lace. I still remember the feel of that particular pair too…
I have so many pairs of pantyhose, thigh highs and socks, it is kind of ridiculous. I get excited in Duane Reade, when I see their back-seamed pantyhose. I have a particular love of those, and admire them on others as well. My co-worker had on nude ones with a black seam, and I wondered if they were more risque at the top? The ones that say bite me in script? At Eroticon, I made small talk with a presenter because she changed her pantyhose–both sets were gorgeous. I get giddy in Fogal when they have a sale, and have a pair of newly acquired Wolford thigh highs that take my breath away…
I like patterns and textures primarily, and anything lace is a must do. I literally have had a love affair with lace since I have known myself. I have a pair called Cathedral that I got from Anthopologie that are so stunning–there are no words. I also have a pair that looks like clouds painted by Magritte.
Hosiery is like a little secret, along with bras, panties and thongs or nothing underneath your outfit. I remember a crisp winter day that I was wearing thigh highs, and feeling particularly delighted about it–the too cool air whipping about…
I used to admire a man I worked with for his creativity with ties, hosiery is like a woman’s tie. Your character comes out with them, and I love that. I can project demure or flashy, I reinvent myself by putting them on daily.
I was rummaging through my homemade stock photos for my excerpt for my short story that is going to be included in the Chemical Sex anthology. I was looking for pictures of chocolate and as a chocoholic, I found lots of chocolate images. One was me with a chocolate cupcake, well my lace covered leg. I hate taking pictures, but I have several of my legs in gorgeous hosiery. That pair was a gift, people know how much I love hosiery so it is often gifted to me. Friends who went to Italy and Japan, have brought back hose for me. The Japanese ones were so gorgeous, even my friend who got them could not stop looking at my legs.
I cannot seem to articulate exactly why I am so obsessed with hosiery. In Paris, I was in Montmartre and about to take my descent into the Abbesses metro…but there was a hosiery shop and I literally was aching to buy a pair. But I knew I could order the brands cheaper in the States so I refrained. However the racing pulse, the shortness of breath and lust that overcomes me for a great piece of hosiery is always there…

photo of my leg with cupcake by f dot leonora