Fiction: The Seven Strike Paddle Technique

“Eric, I think I am ready to let you spank me.”

I didn’t believe it. Heather has the greatest ass in the dungeon, and the number of people who have actually spanked it can be counted on one hand.

“You’d let me spank your ass?”

“You could spank it, if …”

She had my full attention. “If?”

“If you knew the seven-strike paddle technique, I’d let you spank me for as long as you wanted,” she said. “Hell, for a chance to feel the seven strikes, I’d let you fuck my ass, too.”

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She told me this on Friday, and that is why on Sunday, I’m in an Asian supermarket owned by a Korean family. I’m the only white man here, which means I’m towering over everyone and sticking out like a Mennonite in a porn store. The aisles are too narrow, and the concept of personal space is apparently considered a Western fetish. Old ladies put their hands on my ass as they squeeze by, while small children give me dirty looks for being in their store.

At the back of the store, past the duck butcher and the fish tanks, there’s a door that isn’t locked. It doesn’t need to be locked because people here don’t go where they are not supposed to. Manners are better than stone walls in a place like this. A white guy like me, though, I walk right in.

Past rows and rows of bags of miso soup and boxes of Pocky, I come across another door. This one has a single strip of black duct tape stuck to it. It’s both a warning and a sign to the supermarket employees to leave this place alone. All it means to me is that I am in the right store.

As soon as I open the door, I hear the familiar sound of a spanking. Accompanying each spank is a high-pitched squeal of pain and maybe a little arousal. The smell of leather hits me next, and I breathe it in. Dungeons smell and sound the same no matter the culture of their denizens. I can feel the tension leaving me as I keep walking. Compared to the mannered foreign chaos outside, the order of a dungeon is like coming home.

I turn the corner and enter the dungeon proper. A naked woman is bent over a small stool. Behind her, a man is swinging a paddle. He’s dressed in a t-shirt and jeans. It makes me smile. I’ll bet Heather would have expected a kimono or a gi.

“Who the fuck are you?” the man asks. He doesn’t look at me; he just keeps looking at the woman’s ass as he spanks it.

“Pardon my intrusion,” I say. “My name is Eric Werner, and I’m here looking for a Jong Soh.”

He pauses in mid-swing. “I saw you once. You were demonstrating New York backhands. What do you want with me?”

“I would just like ten minutes of your time, if you can spare it,” I say. “I have an offer I’d like to make you.”

Then he looks at me. The guy is a little younger than me, but that doesn’t mean anything. It’s only the senior-citizen dominants who want you to think that age is important. What does strike me is how angry his eyes look and how his body language is that of a pissed-off dude. Not that I blame him, of course. I walked into his play space uninvited and asked to interrupt his afternoon. I’m lucky he’s even talking to me.

“Sit here,” he says. Jong points at two chairs over by a small coffee table. He sits in the chair on the right. The girl on the stool gets down on all fours and crawled over beside him. She looks Korean and in no more than her early 20s. I move to sit on the left, but he holds up his hand.

“Take off your pants first,” he says.

“Sorry, I don’t play with guys,” I say.

He smirks. “Neither do I, but if you are going to interrupt my time, then you can at least assist in training my slave. Remove your pants and underwear, please.”

Seems reasonable. I do as he asks and sit down. As soon as my ass hits the seat, his slave crawls over to me and gets between my legs. She leans forward, takes my cock in her mouth and sucks away like her ass depends on it.

“Oh, shit!” I say, because damn, she’s good.

“We can talk as long as you don’t climax,” Jong says. “Once you come, you must go.”

“You got a deal,” I say. “Who is this woman?”

“She’s my sister,” Jong says, as simply as you might tell me you had waffles for breakfast.

I look down at the woman whose lips are around my cock.

“Bullshit,” I say. “Look, I might forget the differences between Chinese and Vietnamese noodles, but I can tell when two Koreans don’t even have a family resemblance. Besides, isn’t sister-fucking something we white people prefer to do?”

For the first time since I got here, Jong’s face relaxes. The anger is gone, and I know I actually have a shot at what I want.

“Forgive my little joke, Eric,” he says. “Please, tell me how you learned of my dungeon.”

His slave does something wonderful with her tongue, and I am tempted to put my hand on her glossy black hair, but I stop myself. A dom doesn’t touch another dom’s slave, even when his cock is touching her tonsils. I keep my hands on the armrests and try to remember Jong’s question.

“Oh, Min Kim told me,” I say. “I asked around, and she told me about this place you had set up. She said the market belonged to your brother, but he lets you have this space.”

Jong scowls. “I can’t believe Min told someone where I play. The fact that I let her go as a slave is no reason to betray my trust.”

I nod in sympathy. “If it makes you feel any better, she told me only because I bribed her.”

He keeps scowling. “What did you offer her?”

I look down at the woman sucking my cock. “Funnily enough, I offered to let her do what your slave is doing now.”

“That cockslut,” Jong says. “Oh, well, I guess I trained her too well.”

I don’t understand that, but I nod, anyway. The slave is humming, and I am awfully tempted to climax right there. I know my time is going to be limited.

“Anyway, Jong, the reason I came is that I’ve heard stories about you,” I say.

“Yes, the white BDSM community would talk about me, I guess.”

“Right, they said you had some sort of new paddling technique,” I say. “Something called the seven-strike paddle. I was wondering if you could teach it to me.”

He doesn’t say anything, but I can tell I fucked up. I don’t know how I fucked up, but I can tell by his body language that I did. He’s pissed, and he regrets that his slave’s mouth is on my cock. I am glad it is, though: It will discourage him from taking a swing at me.

“Why do you want to learn?” he asks.

The slave sucks faster, but I choose my words carefully. Somehow, I don’t think he would be sympathetic about the wonder that is Heather’s ass. “Look, I’m always looking to be better at what I do. I’ve learned Italian flogging techniques, English-style crop swinging and a whole mess of other styles. Some people collect ropes and paddles; I like to learn methods. A friend told me you were paddling your girl at Roy’s place, and you did something that blew their minds. I’d like to learn it if you’d teach me. If you like, I can teach you any skill I have in exchange.”

He sits there glaring at me. I try to match his stare in a respectful but firm manner. I am doing a pretty good job till his slave deep-throats me, and her tongue slips out to lap my balls. My eyes roll into the back of my head, and I groan pretty damn loud.

“Do you know how hard it is to be an Asian in a white BDSM community?” he asks.

“Like being a white man at an Asian supermarket, I’d guess.”

He blinks. “Yes. But it’s different, too People expect me to have ancient secrets. They’re too damned ignorant to realize I’m just a dom like them. Took me six months to convince them I don’t know shit about Japanese rope bondage. Six fucking months! If I were Japanese, I still wouldn’t know about it!”

His slave licks one ball and then the other. I am doubling over with pure pleasure. I can still listen, though.

“That is really unfair,” I say. “It’d be like expecting a white guy to know how to ride a horse or throw a lasso.”

“Exactly!” he yells. He stands up and starts pacing. “Fucking bigots! It’s hard enough finding a BDSM community, much less one that doesn’t think an Asian man is there to teach them some sort of sexual martial arts!”

I nod in sympathy. His slave nods, too, but I think that’s just part of her technique.

“I have been going to that dungeon for a year,” Jong rants. “And not once has someone asked me why my slaves are so obedient or how I teach them to become addicted to cock-sucking. Instead, all they ask me is why anime has so many schoolgirls and where they can buy black kimonos!”

“It’s a damn shame,” I say. “So, uh — oh, fuck, that’s nice — how did this whole seven-strike paddle thing start?”

He storms over to the paddle and picks it up. “I was spanking my slave, and I decided to just fuck around a little. You have to change up your pattern every once in a while; every dom knows that. I was distracted and started hitting her ass in time with the music. They were playing Enigma, I think. I was smacking her ass, thinking about what I was going to wear to Mom’s house the next night, and someone asked me what special method that was that I was using.”

I laugh and then stop myself. To my relief, Jong laughs, too.

“I know, stupid fuck,” he says. “So I told him it was the seven-strike paddle technique. A half-hour later, I had to leave because all the assholes kept bugging me to teach it to them.”

The slave applies a higher degree of suction to my cock, and I feel both legs tremble. “Yeah, I can see how that would piss you off.”

Jong sits back down. He’s fuming.

“Look, Jong,” I say. “Here’s the thing. This BDSM thing is a mystery to people of any race. We have books claiming to teach the one true way of domination, Web sites swearing to make your submissive as loyal as a Tennessee bloodhound and stuck-up doms giving lectures on the best way to make up a long pretentious title for yourself. BDSM people are stupid because there are a lot of people trying to make them feel stupid for not buying their bullshit.”

“Dumb-asses,” he says with a particular Southern twang.

“Yeah, but you know, they have to learn different, and they are not going to until people like you explain it to them. The seven-strike paddle technique, that’s pretty funny, but you can’t sell them a line of bullshit like that and then get mad that you’re such a good liar.”

He closes his eyes and considers what I said. I close my eyes, too, and try to think of my grocery list to keep from coming. The sexy Korean woman between my legs just keeps sucking.

“You’re right,” Jong says. “Thank you, Eric, I’m glad you came today.”

“Hold on,” I say. I open my eyes and look down at the slave. Her head is bobbing along as though evolution has created the perfect cocksucker. Her lips are tight, her eyes look up at me with sexual serenity, and her hair never once gets in front of her face. She is a work of art, and I shout my approval as I came in her mouth.

“All right, now I came today. Well, I guess I should be going now,” I said. His slave keeps suckling as my cock wilts.

“Feel free to drop by whenever,” Jong says. “I have a feeling we could learn a lot from each other.”

“Now that you mention it,” I say, “how do you teach a slave to be addicted to cock-sucking?

He laughs. “Can you teach me English crop swinging?”

I think of Heather and the promises she made. “Would you mind if I told people you taught me the seven strikes?”

He shrugs. “Sure. Who knows? You might get some ass out of it.”

The end.

Random BDSM Tip #2

I came across this news article about hazing while doing research for a story I had in mind. It's sad to me how this incident could have been prevented with basic BDSM safety knowledge.

First of all, I would avoid using "a wooden cane". Stick with paddles, college kids! Upgrade to canes later.

Second of all, and the more important tip in my mind, is derived from this passage-
"Harris was convicted of participating by encouraging Jones to bear up under the beatings and reviving him with water after he passed out so he could go back for more punishment."

When you beat your loved ones, consider passing out to be a good stopping point.

Hesitation

Anxiety is a bitch. I have a longish story in mind that I am quite excited by. I'm eager to get started and I have done all the prep work from doing the research needed all the way up to writing the outline. This story is ready to roll and yet I sit here this morning afraid to type the first word.

What is maddening about social anxiety is that it is documented to get worse as you get older. What was easy for me to do five years ago suddenly becomes hard today. Where as normally experience makes something easier to do with repetition, anxiety acts as a sort of entropy that takes backs the progress I make. Four years ago when I wrote Cell Phone Slave, I was four chapters in before I started to worry about how it will be received. This morning I find myself quantum leaping back and forth in the beginning of the story trying to find the ideal place to start. Do I start with the plane ride? Do I start at the house? Do I start a week earlier when Cassie lies to her parents? They all seem valid and equally wrong.

It really makes me appreciate how everything I write is a minor miracle. I've been able to create stories that mean a lot to me, share them with total strangers and then take in the praise with the flames. I have the worse time complimenting a pretty stranger but somehow I can share my pirate fetish with the entire world. That seems so contradictory but I don't want to analyze it too much. I'm just grateful I can keep writing for the time being.

It may seem off topic, but times like these are when I really doubt I can be a dom in a relationship. I feel completely out of control right now and the fact that I can't bring myself to start a story makes me wonder how the fuck I could ever be the strength that a submissive anchors herself to when she is embarking on her own scary adventure. I feel like I need a nurse or a baby-sitter and it is becoming increasingly clear to me that this kind of situation would be one fucked up power dynamic.

I have nothing to end this post on except the irony that blogging that I am too anxious to write is less scary than actually writing.

Scarlet Morning

A pirate captain looks out her window and wonders what distant shore she should ravish next.

Erotic College Fund

We need a porn scholarship. We need to start cultivating tomorrows perverts today. Let's make the usual depravity of college a requirement instead of extra credit. For many people, college is a time of sexual awakening and self exploration. It's about time we gave the poor kids some money for that sexual metamorphosis.

Let's pay for their tuition, books, and Spring Breaks. Let's include some money for the x-rated websites they'll be visiting as well as the strip clubs and the sextoy stores. Instead of making a student decide between eating and porn, let's have them looking at porn as a requirement for getting their grocery money.

I'm not picky about what the student studies. Sure I would like for them to be writers and photographers, but I wouldn't mind a lawyer or two graduating with the help of the porn scholarship. Business majors and doctors would be pretty nice too. No topic is too off-topic; imagine what an erotic architect could do if properly trained and inspired. Let's give a college education to anyone who is proud to enjoy sex and see what that does the professional world.

Just imagine what that scholarship application would look like.

Book Swinger

If you're going to write, you have to read. If you are going to write porn, you have to read something other than porn. By all means, keep reading porn because you need to know what everyone else is saying and writing but when it comes to your own consumption, you have to get influences from elsewhere.

Read some horror and learn how a writer can draw tension out. Learn how you can make the inevitable seem avoidable. Learn about the emotion of fear and think about the terror of getting naked for the first time for your lover. Learn how a horror writer makes you care about a character who dies a page later.

Read some romance even though you think you're hardcore porn is hotter. Learn how a writer can make a snug t-shirt sound sexy for two pages. Figure out how a character can debate with themselves for six pages about something you know they are going to do, but they came close to talking themselves out of it. Work out how in a three hundred page book with one sex scene, the writer kept you turned on.

Read some science fiction and fantasy to see how they create whole worlds that exist only to tell the story the writer wanted to tell. Deconstruct the different races, languages, technobabble and magic systems to understand that all they really are is excuses to make the characters behave and act in certain ways. The theme of a pizza boy and the hot woman who has no money has nothing on the contrivance of a Jedi and his Queen falling in love.

Read some children's fantasy and marvel at how a writer can make a tin man and talking scarecrow seem not only reasonable, but sympathetic. Remember what it meant to you as a child to know that Neverland was just the second star on the right.

I've barely scratched the surface of genres. Mystery will teach you misdirection, adventure will teach you action, and chick lit will teach you how to make a flawed character. If you find yourself in a rut in your erotica writing, go read a book outside your recreation list. Sharpen your skills by reading how someone else deals with the problems unique to their own genre.

Most of all, keep reading.

Magic Hours

Ages ago when I was a teenager, I used to set my alarm for 5 in the morning so I would have some private time. Free of my parental dominance, I used this time to make adventures for my role-playing games, write really bad erotic fantasies and do a hell of a lot of masturbating. From five till seven, while my parents and siblings slept, I got shit done.

Now years later, my wife has had to change her work schedule. She gets up at 4:30 in the morning and out of sympathy I get up with her. She leaves for work at 5:30 and I am sitting here before the crack of dawn with nothing to do except well, write porn.

It's been fucking great. In a quiet apartment, before work starts calling me with requests, before my friends tell me their latest confessions and before even the news has awoken to tell me of new scandals, I sit here in erotic isolation. My mind speculates without interruption about willing mouths, cruel doms and breasts of all shapes and sizes. I swear I wake up horny, almost too horny to masturbate. It's like I am interrupting my normal wet dream cycle and those fantasies have to come out somewhere. I'm just lucky I can get them out onto the page.

I think when my wife resumes her normal schedule, I'm going to keep getting up early. Or at least till the stories run out.

Enjoy

Enjoy every stroke. Slide your hand over your cock, dig your fingers into your cunt, or thrust into your lover and then stop. Think about that stroke you just felt. Smell the sex in the room. Hear the beating of your heart. Look at the act of sex itself like you were looking for the first time.

Breathe.

Before you grind away at each other for an hour, before you pump your cock looking at porn, before you manipulate your clit for the duration of a sexy story, take a moment to really appreciate how even just one stroke can feel like heaven.

Stroke, stop, feel.

Enjoy.

Coven of Bliss Employment Ad

Are you bored? Do you feel like the glass ceiling will always keep you down? Are you frustrated with a Judeo-Christian-dominated culture that puts more emphasis on material goods and prudish behavior than on personal happiness? Do you have an overwhelming urge to make your mother faint?

Maybe you should be a witch! Exciting new career opportunities are currently available to women ages 18 and up who are willing to give themselves over to dark powers and egomaniacal coven leaders. Unlike most witch groups, which concern themselves with finding balance with Mother Earth and respecting modern law, the Coven of Bliss is dedicated to worshipping powerful gods and goddesses of the hedonistic spheres. We are currently looking for recruits in your area!

The Coven of Bliss is a well-established gathering of magic-wielding perverts with branches in at least three countries. Established in 1998, the Coven of Bliss has so far accurately predicted three great signs that will signal the end of the world as we know it. When the Great Pornocalypse comes and the world is thrown into flames and endless gangbangs, the Coven of Bliss will be in a prime position to reap the benefits of orgasmic chaos!

Ask yourself, Are you willing to have mind-blowing sex every weekend at a private field with a very high privacy fence?

Ask yourself, Are you willing to consort with very well-hung demons and incredibly nubile succubi? And by “consort,” we mean fuck a lot.

Ask yourself, Are you willing to be the personal love slave of an up-and-coming warlock leader who seeks to pierce the veil of mysteries that surrounds this world? And not complain or take it personally when he offers you as a sacrifice in return for great powers?

If you said “yes,” “maybe” or even “I don’t know about this,” then you are a perfect candidate to become a witch! All new witches are given a wardrobe of lacy black clothes, a silver dildo blessed by the gods and a sexy witch name unique to her personality and bust size. You will be assigned a mentor witch who will fuck your brains out. The first dozen applicants get their own vibrating broom!

Apply today by e-mail! Please include a photo, a current STD test and details of any strange tattoos or pentagram piercings you may have. Current ownership of a cat is a plus but not a requirement. Apply today!

Fiction: Great Escape

Paula didn’t say a word the entire time her dom wrapped her in rope. The last time she’d spoken during a bondage session, Victor had gagged her with her own panties for 12 hours. As soon as he started to strip off her clothes, Paula kept quiet and compliant. She knew he would reveal the kinky game they were going to play when he was ready and not a moment before.

Today, he had bound her naked body to the bed in the basement. Her hands were tied together with thick corded rope and anchored to the center of the headboard. Coils of rope wrapped each ankle and pulled her legs apart in a V. A network of ropes encased her torso, pulling and squeezing her tits into painful tight mounds. More insidious was the series of knots that ran from a belt of rope around her waist, down over her cunt and up again between her buttocks. She had already soaked that rope with her arousal, and the rope was constricting more tightly against her pussy. Finally, Victor took off the leather collar she wore every day and replaced it with a single cord. He tightened the rope around her neck till it was just shy of choking her.

Paula waited. She could feel her heart beating so hard. She thought of the hundred terrible things he could do to her in this position and then she thought of the hundred terrible things he had done to her in this position. What would it be today?

“The boys are coming over,” Victor said.

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Despite her best efforts at being silent, Paula moaned in despair.

“That’s right,” Victor said. “All of them are coming over today, and all of them have asked if they can fuck you. I haven’t decided yet. I know how little you care for them, so today I’m giving you a sporting chance. All you have to do to avoid a gangbang is escape. Get free of every inch of rope on you, and I’ll just lock you in the cage when they come over. Aren’t I generous today?”

“Yes, sir,” Paula said. “How long do I have?”

Victor walked over to the chair facing the bed and sat down. “I don’t know. Jacob is the designated driver, so they’ll be here as soon as he picks everyone up, I guess. I’d start trying to escape now if I were you.”

Paula did. She twisted her wrists and ankles as much as she could, trying to find which of her restraints might be looser than the others. The twisting agitated the knotted rope on her cunt. Paula ignored the fact that she was still soaking wet even with her plight spelled out for her. As she twisted, she kept flashing back to Jacob. The bastard loved to choke her, and his preferred method was with his cock. Paula could remember the taste of his cock as it slammed down her throat as well as the ache in her jaw she had for a week afterward. She struggled harder and tried not to feel Jacob’s balls already resting on her chin.

Her left hand felt looser than the rest of her body, and Paula pulled hard on that hand. The rope burned her wrist, and she had no doubt that Victor had left it loose for just that purpose. It was slack enough to pull her hand through, but the rope was going to take its price in pain. Paula cried out as she tugged her hand through the fiery embrace. She could almost hear Victor laughing at her discomfort.

Someone else who loved her pain was Owen. Oh, God, he was a worse sadist than Victor. He’d bring his own clamps, the bastard. They would be cruel alligator clamps that he would place on her nipples and cunt lips. He would leave the nipple clamps on as he fucked her, taking pleasure in watching her tits bounce. As for the clamps on her cunt? Oh, he would take them off when it came time for fucking, but he would leave them on when he ate her pussy.

Her hand popped free. Paula started to laugh with relief. She stopped, though, before she got hysterical. Her hand went to work on her other wrist, looking for any knots that were looser than the others, trying to create enough slack to pull her right hand free. They were there, but pulling at them with her left hand was more difficult than she’d first thought. The knots fought her, resisting every effort, and when the rope did begin to give, it did so teasingly slowly, as if it were taunting her.

It reminded her so much of Larry. He always took his time with her, as if he were relishing every once of hatred she had for him. From gradually stripping off her clothes to slowly, tediously penetrating her ass with his cock, he never rushed through anything. Time dragged with him, and he could make 20 minutes of ass-fucking seem like a night-long ordeal. Even his climax was slow, one pump of cum spaced out after another.

Paula got both hands free. Victor rewarded her with an insincere clap of his hands. She took a moment to flex her hands and then sat up. Her tits ached as the ropes binding them jiggled. Pulled together like this, her breasts were so damn sensitive. They felt like they had been mauled for hours even though she knew it had barely been 5 minutes. Paula whimpered as she realized that if she didn’t escape, her breasts were going to be mauled for hours.

With her hands no longer bound and pulling her taut, Paula was able to scoot her ass down and create some slack in the rope holding her ankles. The knotted cord tugged at her cunt, but she ignored the incredibly arousing sensation that produced. She went to work on the rope and did her best to get her ankles free.

So close to being free, Paula couldn’t calm down. The tension was too great. Even though she had both hands working on the knots, she was panicking too much. Her fingers slid off the knots, and at one point, she was even tightening a knot before she realized her mistake. As she screwed up more and more, she kept thinking of Alan and his belt. He would whip her ass, she just knew it. Every failed attempt at a knot would mean another swing of his belt on her ass. Every second she wasted was another 30 lashes he would burn into her backside. The fact that he would make her thank him for every stroke of the belt just made her fingers shake more.

To her surprise, Paula got her feet free. This time there was no applause from Victor. She didn’t need it. Paula knew she had a lot more to go. First, she pulled at the rope encasing her breasts and released her heavy tits from their prisons. The relief at removing another length of rope turned to whimpers of pain as the blood rushed back to her tits. Paula balled her hands into fists as the pain crashed into her.

A car door slammed outside.

“You have till they walk into this room,” Victor said.

Paula started to pant in fear. She pulled at the rope belt she was wearing. The knotted rope did terrible, wonderful things to her slick cunt. Of course, Victor had tied this belt with tougher knots than anything else. Paula clawed at the belt and tried to overcome the evil knots with sheer force and fear.

She thought of Daniel and his need to make her lick his boots. She thought of Kevin and his hands slapping her face. She thought of Freddy and Hank double-teaming her as they always did. She thought of Theo climaxing in her hair. Worst of all, she thought Victor looking on and waiting to punish her if she dared resist any of them.

What she didn’t think of was how wet and horny she would be when Victor dragged her back to his bed and reclaimed her after what his friends would have done to her.

The boys were coming down the stairs as Paula ripped the belt off her body. She collapsed to the ground just as they walked in. Their talking stopped as they saw her, and she giggled with joy. She had done it! She had escaped her master’s friends, at least for today.

Victor walked over to her, and to Paula’s surprise, he was smiling. He reached down and hooked his fingers around the single cord of rope that encircled her throat. Paula, in her great escape, had forgotten to remove the rope that symbolized her collar.

Actual Conversation I Had In A Dream Last Night

She said, "Right here? On the bus?"

"Yes," I said.

She looked down at my cock. It was standing up through my zipper, waiting for her mouth.

"What if anyone sees me?"

I laughed. "Then they will see my slut sucking my cock."

She nodded. "You're right. I can't believe I am doing this."

"Just wait till I cum on your face."

Martin Luther King Jr. Day

This is such a hard holiday to write about, especially on an erotica blog. Do I talk about how hot black women are? That seems tacky. Do I talk about the complex emotions that are involved in interracial BDSM? I am not remotely qualified to talk about it although it fascinates me. Do I talk about how lately it seems like the African American Romance section in Barnes and Nobles have the sexiest covers I have ever seen? Again, that seems weird.

As a white man living in the South, I have seen almost daily acts of racism. So much of it was a sort of negligent racism, where white people turned a blind eye and told themselves it wasn't their problem. My parents didn't believe racism really existed like they portrayed on television; that it was just something minorities made up in order to get sympathy, and yet at the same time they forbade me from hanging out with a friend who was dating a black girl. I often feel that a culture that tolerates racism can never really claim to be a compassionate one; which to me is the true hypocrisy of America as some sort of Good Nation.

I'll just say this: Racism sucks and I hope things get better for the minorities in this country.

Now I'll get back to writing my interracial librarian story on this day off.

In Memory of Robert Anton Wilson

Robert Anton Wilson died yesterday. You might not have ever heard of him and that's a damn shame. If it wasn't for Robert, there wouldn't be an Erotiterrorist much less a Shon Richards. He taught me that skill we don't like to teach children and that's the ability to think for yourself. He was a skeptic, a believer and a damn fine man all at the same time.

I was seventeen and being a geek, I spend a lot of my time at my friend Andy's house playing computer games on his Apple IIe. We played a lot of war games where one player would do his moves, and the other player would have to look away and not see everything the first player was doing. To pass the time, I would read books during Andy's turn. I'd raid his bookshelf and worm my way through the Dragonlance books or some shit.

One day I noticed a book that looked a bit different from his usual fantasy books. It was book one of the Historical Illuminatus Chronicles, 'The Earth Will Shake'. I picked it up and Andy freaked.

"Don't read that!" he said.

"Why not?" My porn sense was tingling. A forbidden book?

A wave of emotion came over him. "It's . . .wrong. I should burn it and then go to the book store and buy every copy and burn it too."

Holy shit. "Why?"

Andy stuttered. "It's just wrong. It lies."

Of course I started reading it. The story was a simple one that blew my mind. Sigismundo Celine is a teenager in the mid 1700's who has a crisis of faith. He finds out his family are Free Masons, which is punishable by ex-communication and death by the Vatican. He then finds out that they are not quite Free Masons and for that matter, the Catholic Church might not be the holiest of people themselves. Conspiracies unfold and fall on top of one another at a rapid speed until Sigismundo doesn't know up from down. The Church, his government, and his own family just keep lying to him for their own needs until he finally snaps and runs off.

That seems simple to you but to my teenage mind, it was life altering. Maybe it was because I grew up in a military town surrounded by conservatives and Baptists, but it had never really occurred to me that people in charge could lie to you. I knew people in authority hated porn, but I thought it was pretty cool and I was struggling with my guilt over my sex drive. In the middle of this struggle comes a book that asks one simple question- Can you really trust the people who obsess the most about controlling you?

I read other books by R.A.W. and they didn't disappoint. The 'Illuminatus' trilogy with Robert Shea was one fucking hard series of books to read but I could feel my mind reformatting with each page. The 'Schrödinger's Cat' trilogy was brilliant, Cosmic Trigger was profound and so on and so on. Although the books concern themselves with great reaching secret world conspiracies, they were never intended to be taken as fact. They were written to teach critical skeptical thinking in a very entertaining way. The goal of every book was to break you out of the assumptions of morality and perception and to start fucking paying attention and thinking for yourself. They didn't preach a way to think as much as they gave you the tools to listen to your own heart.

It's this ability to question that helped me get over my guilt over enjoying porn. It helped me reject Christianity which always rang false to me and allowed me to explore and find Buddhism. It helped me look at the fiction my parents and family created to justify why they abused me or allowed others to abuse me and recognize it for what it was- miserable excuses created by miserable people. It helped me approach my own interests so I could write and talk about the things that make me happy.

Years later, now that R.A.W. has moved on, I think back on why Andy freaked out so much. A military kid, he married his high school sweetheart and has been working a job he despises for ten years because it's what was expected of him. He's in a special Hell that he could have seen coming decades in advance. I think Andy hated that book because it dared him to ask himself if he was going to be happy if he stayed on the track he was on.

Robert, where ever you are now, thank you. I am a better person for having read your work.

Fiction: Quality Time

I’ve been hard at work all morning. No matter how busy I am, my cock has a to-do list all its own. Luckily for me, I’ve learned the art of time management.

I walk over to the bookshelf. I can feel Diana’s eyes following me. I know that inside her tight purple panties, she is getting wet just from the anticipation. What used to take ten minutes of foreplay now takes just six seconds — as long as it takes me to walk from my desk to the timer.

I set it for five minutes. Just like always. No matter how tempted I am, that’s the time.

To read more, click Whole Post


The clock starts ticking, and I turn around. Diana is on her knees, her shirt and bra already on the floor. Her back is perfectly straight, and her knees are spread so wide that her skirt has become a tent.

I walk — no, rush over to her, grabbing her black hair in my hand and pulling her roughly to her feet. She squeals, but then she begins to hiss as I slap her heavy breasts. One, two, one, two, I slap each breast. With no warmup or prep work, the slaps sting much more harshly than they would normally, but that’s OK. We only have time for pain.

Diana’s hands go to my pants. It’s not very submissive of her, but I let her do it. I need my cock out, anyway. I tighten my grip on her hair and yank her head back so she’s staring at the ceiling. She’s struggling now to unzip my pants, and she’s biting her lip in concern. That’s good. She knows that every second we waste is one less second my cock will be in her cunt.

She gets my cock out, and I slap her hand away. She whimpers, and my cock gets harder. I reach for a nipple and twist the hell out of it. She cries out, still looking at the ceiling, but I see her eyes straining to look at the timer. I twist the nipple harder till her knees buckle.

“Pay attention to me, not the timer,” I growl. I say it, but I don’t really mean it. I want her looking. I want her to know exactly how many minutes she has to climax. I don’t need to look at the timer, because I know Diana will.

Dragging her by her hair and her nipple, I bring her over to the couch. She tries to bend over to offer her ass, but I turn her around and shove her into a sitting position on the couch. At eye level with my cock, she licks her lips and leans forward. Her mouth opens to take my cock in. For a second, I’m tempted.

I slap her face. She has a moment of shock, then a brief moment of shame before blossoming into more arousal. I slap her face again to give her other cheek the same red flush. This time, she groans again.

I hear the timer tick. My mind is racing as fast as Diana’s heart. So many choices. Sex or pain? Humiliation or arousal? Fucking or spanking? There’s no time to plan, no time to create a goal and work towards it. I have only time me to seize my emotions and use this willing slut to sate whatever desire arises first.

I grab her by the throat. My hand is big enough to encircle her entire neck. I let my fingers sink in a little. When she swallows, I feel it under my fingers. Diana stares at me while her mouth opens for breath.

“Spread your legs,” I growl. Her knees spread faster than the eye can blink.

“Show me your cunt.” She pulls the purple aside and shows me the thick bush of hair I never allow her to shave.

“Do you want to be fucked?” I ask.

“Yes,” Diana moans. Her eyes snap to the timer. I squeeze her throat harder to get her attention again.

“Bark, then.”

“What?”

“Bark, Diana,” I say. My cock throbs in front of her. “Bark like a horny little bitch, and I’ll fuck you.”

Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out. “Please don’t make me do this,” she moans.

“Clock’s ticking, Diana. You know the rules. Once the bell rings, I’ll put my pants back on, and you’ll put your shirt on, and we’ll go back to our boring vanilla lives. If you want your cunt filled with cock, you’d better start barking now.”

How long does it take to humiliate yourself? How long does it take to examine what you want and what you’re willing to do for it? How long does it take do something you can never take back?

Less than five seconds in the right situation.

“Arf,” Diana says. Her voice is meek and sullen.

I loosen my grip on her throat. “Louder.”

“Arf.”

I let go of her throat altogether and reach for her ankles. “Louder!”

“Arf!” she barks. Her eyes are closed as if she can not bear to witness her own humiliation.

I pull her ankles up to my shoulders as I bend down to her cunt. My cock bounces against her thick pubic hair. Her hips convulse as if she had been shocked.

“Bark, and keep barking. As soon as you stop, I’ll stop fucking you.”

“I hate you!” Diana says.

I slap my cock against her cunt lips.

“Arf! Arf! Arf!” she barks. It’s an angry, defiant bark. She’s letting me know how ridiculous my request is and what it must say about me. I could care less what she thinks. She’s doing what I told her to, and that’s all that matters.

I enter her. She is wet, wetter than she has been in a long time. Her cunt grips my cock while her ankles dig into my shoulders. I grip her thighs and fuck her. The carpet is killing my knees, but I don’t give a shit. I am fucking my bitch, and I have no idea how much time is left.

Sweet, beautiful, sexy, proud Diana keeps barking. She barks like a slut for my cock. Some of her barks are more like moans, while other barks are shouted in defiance. Tears are flowing from her eyes, and I know she is going to hate me for a good long time after this. Well, until the next time we have five minutes to play.

I fuck my barking slut. The timer keeps ticking.

One bark sounds very different. Judging from the way her thighs are clenching in my hands and the way she is biting her lip, my slut is about to climax. I realize I am going to hear what a barking bitch sounds like during an orgasm.

We fuck a little faster while Diana keeps barking. Moans are interrupting her barks. The ticking seems to get louder and louder. She looks at me with eyes filled with pitiful begging. She is so close. She wants to come so bad, but she knows if she doesn’t beat the clock, that’s that. The pressure of racing the clock is fucking with her orgasm. The act of barking is making every breath a humiliation. She is overwhelmed. In five minutes, we have created a scene that’s almost too much to bear.

DING!

“No!” Diana wails.

I pull out my cock and stand up. I smile as I notice that she doesn’t even bother to reach for me. There are rules, and Diana knows better than to break them. I haven’t climaxed myself, but I feel incredible. It’s not about the orgasm, it’s about the control. My half-naked slut is exhausted and spent. The memory of barking like a dog will linger long after her body stops aching for release.

For five minutes, she was completely mine. That’s quality time.

Greatest Story Ever

Yesterday my computer died. I was in the middle of writing a story I am quite fond of when my monitor froze and then my computer restarted itself. When it came back on, instead of a normal screen, I had a lot of gibberish filling my screen like a secret UFO transmission. Yep, that computer is possessed.

And since it ate the story I was writing, I hereby proclaim that story to be the Greatest Thing I Ever Wrote. Just take my word on it. It would have turned your sex organs into volcanoes. It would have haunted your dreams. It would have made you so horny you would have been humping your chairs. It's true!

In honor of the Greatest Story Ever, feel free to write your glowing praise now. Send me your naked pictures, your incredible e-mails and blog about how it changed your life. It was THAT good of a story.

Random BDSM Tip #1

When spanking, try a bouncing motion off the ass. Picture it like that ass is so bouncy and wonderful you hand instantly rebounds. It'll let you spank with your bare hand for much longer than normal, as well as building a nice slow heat on your spank-ee's ass.

Can you tell I am in the middle of writing a story?

Speaker of the House, Wanda Birch's Opening Address, Jan 4, 2020

Thank you for electing me Speaker of the House. As the first African American Bi-sexual Dominatrix to hold this office, I am proud to be representing not only the Sexual Freedom Party, but more importantly, America. I'm afraid this gavel is a bit old fashioned though and will be bringing in a steel cane.

It's been a long eight years since Fox News televised the federal execution of sex blogger, Pussy Hammer, for crimes of indecency. The public outrage was finally strong enough to sweep away the old centers of bigotry, prudishness and repression. The Sexual Freedom Party was founded in 2009, but in reality, our party has always existed among ordinary Americans. It just didn't wield it's considerable power till now. I reach out to our Democratic and Republican Senators and Representatives who still hold office and promise not to hurt them too much for the suffering they have caused us.

In celebration of controlling both the House and the Senate, I would like to lay out our plan for the first sixty-nine hours of our governance. And since we hold a large enough majority to overturn a veto, I suggest President Trump learn to behave.

First, we shall enact the Pervert Act which states that all pornography is free speech and protected from government prosecution. Further more, pornography is free from all prosecution from the government down to the family level. Bookmark your favorite porn sites with pride, because now not even your parents can make you take them down.

Second, according to the Rainbow Warrior Act, not only will gays, lesbians and whatever floats your boat be allowed into the military, they will be charge of the military. You straight people have killed enough folks of different colors. Let those who have yearned for tolerance decide who gets shot from now on.

Third, The No Ass Left Behind Act. Corporal punishment shall be replaced with corporal reward in our school systems. Do well in school and you get a spanking if you want it, or you get to spank a teacher if you lean that way. We predict a 400% increase in student performance.

Fourth, the Janet Jackson Act will make public displays of nudity legal and on SuperBowl Sunday, required.

Finally, universal health care. Seriously, why haven't you assholes done that yet? This is common sense shit.

Before we get to passing laws though, I saw we take a quick dive into the new House Giant Hot Tub and get to know one another a little better. I'm feeling really horny with all this new power. Last one in has to balance the budget!

Anxiety Annoyance

After a month or so of not having an anxiety attack I found myself having a full blown one last night. It was weird and unexpected, which is to be expected with an irrational condition, but I still find myself greatly pissed off. I had things I wanted to do but right now I find myself obsessing over how my stories, my blog and myself is percieved. I catch myself worrying about things friends haven't said, about looks I get from strangers and about how the things I haven't done will come out wrong.

I guess rationaly I saw it coming. Sunday I weaseled out of having to buy a lottery ticket because I didn't want to meet a stranger. I waited in the long line at the grocery store because I knew the cashier. I didn't anwser the phone Saturday when I didn't recognize the number. So I guess I had been reverting to a social phobic state but man, the holidays and time off kept me so happy I didn't want to address the fact that I was becoming scared of things again. This is called 'avoidance' and it is the most destructive response anxiety sufferers do.

I feel like I have stage fright all the time when I'm like this. My natural reaction is to throw myself into something distracting like a book or a movie, but I know that what I should be doing is digging out the Anxiety Workbook and do some exercises. Blah, that's not terribly sexy.

Is It Just Me?

If I have to watch a man get hanged one more time this week, I might look to see if I can install some sort of Death chip into my television that will filter out scenes of humiliation and death.

Jeffery Rowland reminds us that the FCC hates black breasts but taunting and then killing a guy is A-Okay. Let's tell the FCC that we want more black breasts. Let them know at this handy link.

In completely unrelated news-

My wife and I went to a friend's house yesterday to play Dungeons and Dragons, 2nd Edition, a game that is about 20 years old. It was a lot like breaking out your tapes and listening to music you used to hear in high school; or watching VH1 a lot. The nostalgia was overwhelming and made more so by the fact that we we arrived 20 minutes early and our friends were out shopping. So just like teenagers, we were stuck outside the house waiting for people to show up and let us in.

For some reason, this made me horny.

"Hey, want to make out?" I said.

My wife looked at me. "Here? In their front yard?"

"Sure, what could be more high school than playing D&D and kissing outside because your parents don't want you making babies inside the house?"

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not making out in someone's driveway."

"Crap, I'm in such a teenage headspace I forgot the right way to do this."

"And what's that?" she asked.

I put my arms around her and bent my head down to hers. "I should have just done it instead of asking permission first."

And so I did.

2007 Manifesto

It’s a paradox, but what works for having sex often doesn’t work for writing about it. Sex is something you can do a lot before it gets old. When sex between two people dies, it’s almost always because of emotional issues rather than boredom with the actual sex. After years of getting blow jobs, I am always game for another one. Erotica, however — oh, my Goddess, can that get old fast. I will pluck out my eyes before I force myself to read another BDSM story set in a chateau.

Clichés abound in erotica, because clichés exist in our sex drives. I want to fuck a hot slave who wears only a collar and wrist restraints, but reading about same sex act holds no appeal for me. I want my wife to suck me off before I go to sleep, but I have no interest at all in reading about happy married vanilla sex. And yes, maybe I do want to fuck the cute delivery girl in exchange for free pizza, but how many of you would start giggling as soon as you realized a sex story was about that tired old cliché? What is good to masturbate to in your own mind in your bed becomes tired and pointless when you read it on a screen or page. That fantasy already exists in your mind, so why read it and masturbate to it when you can cut out the middle man and just masturbate to the idea yourself?

But as obvious as that is to me, I — and hundreds of other writers — keep churning out our versions of the same. Part of it is hubris; we feel that we can bring a unique angle to the story of the oversexed nurse. Some of it is the obsessive nature of writing; once an idea lodges in your brain, the only way to get it out is to type it out. Quite a few of us write these pre-existing ideas because they are safe: We just know readers love horny cheerleaders. Writers want to be loved, and pandering with safe concepts might give us the comments and attention we crave. Ultimately, though, this just makes it easy for readers to place us with the next writer to do a 10-part epic about a cruel dominant.

Erotica can be so much more than just a rehashing of the themes already inside us. It can be a cure for those suffering through the sexual apathy that occurs during times of stress and depression. It can inspire those who have given up on being sexually happy to demand more from their own lives. It can entertain, which is something I find terribly underrated in erotica. Good erotica should be a mental escape from the repressed and work-obsessed world we live in. Erotica should stimulate not only body parts but also our moods and the way we perceive the world.

We can’t change the world with erotica, but we can change people.

We won’t do any of those things unless we throw away the clichés, repeated words and concepts that the average reader has already been vaccinated against. We need new words for cocks and pussies. We need to get out of Victorian mansions filled with slaves and create new erotic playgrounds. We need to create new sexual archetypes to replace the tired sluts and studs of our past. There is a vast world of topics untapped out there, and it is time for us to go out there and eroticize it all.

This year, I promise not to settle when I write. This year, I promise to make stories that linger in my readers’ minds to the point that looking at a park bench will make them blush. I promise to work on stories that make you smile in a world that works so hard to make you stressed. I promise to take chances and make huge mistakes because I don’t go the safe way.

This year, I will bring the wonder.