Fiction: Gym of Sin

“I don’t know how you do it,” my wife said. As soon as I got out of bed, she wrapped the sheets around herself, sealing me off from getting back into bed and taking any of her warmth. She looked like a burrito. The alarm clock read 5:00, but my body was swearing to me that it was only midnight. It was too fucking early to get up.

“I have to work out now; I’ll never have time to do it later,” I said. “You should join me.”

“I love you,” she said. In marriage, those words can mean 1,000 things. In this case, they meant, “I love your crazy ass even when you want me to leave this warm bed.”

“I’ll be back before you get up,” I said. By the time I left the bedroom, she was already snoring. By the time I left the apartment, my cock was harder than a 50-pound weight.

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It was so quiet at that hour. The only sounds were coming from the highway a half-mile away. The apartments were deep in sleep, resting before they expel their screaming children, impatient drivers and yapping dogs.

Inside the sound-proof gym, things were much louder. Some college kid with back muscles I can’t seem to achieve was fucking Laura up against the wall. She was keeping her body up by holding onto the bar above her, and I could see her biceps bulging from the strain. Robert was doing squat thrusts right into a chubby blonde whom I see here every morning now. Good for her. Some gyms like to play music, but here we only need the soundtrack of men and women grunting and ducking. It’s very motivating.

“You’re late,” Karen said. She was sitting on one of the benches, wearing only her sports bra. She still had bed hair, her blond locks pointing every which way. Her fingers were buried deep in her cunt while she watched the other two couples.

“I see you’ve done your warm-up,” I said.

“Get your cock over here,” Karen said. “I pigged out this weekend and had two pieces of pizza.”

I shook my head and took off my sweats. “You’re never going to fit into that bikini this summer if you keep this up.”

Karen growled and turned over. She offered her fine ass to me and braced her legs. I could tell she was sucking in her stomach, doing crunches in the short time it took me to get to her. A little trash talk always makes her work harder.

“Damn, your hips do look a little fuller,” I said. I put on my heart monitor.

“Really? Damn it, fuck me already,” she said.

I slid into her and Karen pounded back. We fucked like well-practiced machines. We fucked every Monday through Thursday and swapped up Friday with Frank and his trophy wife, Deena. Saturday was masturbation with the wrist weights on the bicycling machine.

It helps to have a workout partner so you get to know each other’s movements and body. You need the right depth of cunt matched to the right length and girth of cock. You need similar heights for full-body extensions. You need the right mix of sex appeal to get your cock hard and your cunt wet so that you can be ready to fuck six days a week with one day off for resting. I went through three partners before I found the right match in Karen.

“Is that all you got, you pussy?” Karen yelled. “Give it to me like you mean it!

“I would, but your fat ass is in my way,” I snapped back.

We both growled and picked up our speeds.

Ten minutes doggie style, ten minutes with her grinding on top, and then we finished up with me giving it to Karen while her ankles were around my neck. Our heart monitors let us know when our fucking was below the cardio levels, and we would trash talk some more till we were grinding our calories away. She climaxed at the 18-minute mark, but we kept fucking no matter how sensitive she got. Sometimes you have to suffer for fitness.

I came in her mouth, my little reward for getting up on this cold Monday morning. It was a better motivator than a fucking Weight Watchers muffin, let me tell you.

We showered together in the fitness center, both of us too worn out to even flirt. My arms were sore, so Karen got my back. Her knees were hurting, so I bent down and washed her legs. Partners do that sort of thing for each other.

I went back into my apartment. The wife was still snoring. I envied her for just a moment. Then I thought about how much she liked my new harder look. I thought of how much she moaned when she felt the muscles in my thighs and how she liked the way I look in my jeans again. I was jealous of her sleep, but I wouldn’t give up how much I turned her on now for anything.

Still, it would have been cool if she came to work out with me.

What Erotica Writers Do On Their Breaks

Sometime last week I took a break from my Spring Break story. It's three chapters away from being done and I am planning for a March release but I was starting to slow down. You spend that much time with a group of characters and they become like house guests. You love that they are around, but you start to long for the days when you didn't have to wait in line to use the bathroom and you could masturbate in the living room. I took a small break secure that I would return to them shortly.

In that break period, I gave The Movies a try. I love simulation games, from playing Sim City to the point of obsession to crafting some really naughty families in the Sims. I still play Tropic 2 every few months because in it you run a pirate island haven, complete with brothels, shipyards and pirate mansions. Simulation games are sadly on the decline in that companies prefer to focus on war games or sports. The last game I bought before The Movies was Evil Genuis and that game sadly was not supported well. As a control freak, writer and dom, I prefer games that let me be creative first and solve game challenges second. I have created cities in the shapes of breasts, named pirate ships after my favorite erotica writers and designed much better creative pleasure mansions than what I have seen on E.

The Movies so far has been fun. You run a movie studio in the 1920's and manage it to modern day. There is a shitload of actual movie making tools included with the game that let you design, cast, shoot and produce your own little future YouTube pieces. I haven't gotten to those tools yet as I have been more interested in seeing if I can get my studio ready for the science fiction explosion of 1970. It's been a nice break from the Spring Break orgies I was writing.

But today I realized I was ready to get back to writing. I was watching my studio shoot 'Olympic Mons 2058' in time for a summer release and I started to daydream about what a Space Opera porn story would be like. I got to thinking about how to do Space Opera without sliding into Stars Wars parody, and whether there would be an audience for it on my blog. I debated doing it as a BDSM story, or something more pulpy where I have one or two main characters get fucked a lot. In the game, one of my actors strayed off the set to get drunk and I completely missed it because I was wondering if I could write convincing alien sex.

Yep, time to get back to writing. Already I find myself amused by the freedom writing has over movie making. No costumes to buy, no spoiled actors to coddle, no sets to create or special effects to research. Erotiterrorist Studio has me, my editor and a whole lot of Word documents. Our operating budget is a hell of a lot smaller too.

***P.S.
Special Bonus List- The Five Simulation Games I still have on my hard drive no matter how old they get. Gods, you could probably get the first three for under 20$.

1. Tropico 2
2. Space Colony
3. Evil Genuis
4. Sim City 4
5. Sims 2

Monday Wood

Every man alive and every woman who has ever been woken by a crazed lover at 5 am knows what morning wood is. It's the amazing phenomenon where a man is horny and ready to go as soon as he wakes up. I'm not too sure about the science behind this, but I suspect it has something to do with Wood Fairies who flitter in on gossamer wings and wrap their tiny little legs, arms and breasts around human cocks. This explains why my boxers always seem to be in such a mess when I wake up.

Anyway, I was wondering if it was possible to kick morning wood up a notch and turn it into Monday Wood. This is when a guy is horny before his week starts because on a subconscious libido level, he knows this week is going to rock. It's like your cock just knows that Monday will involve a naked cowgirl, Tuesday will be the day a sexy geek moves in next door, Wednesday will be the day you find the sexiest blog ever, Thursday will be your first fivesome, and Friday will have something to do with Shakira. It's about being horny and ready to go for the week, starting Monday morning. Let's get rid of the 'I Hate Mondays' attitude and replace it with, 'Monday? Sweet! Let's get laid!'

What are you sexually excited about this week?

Fiction: Succulent Sutra Finale

Claire was still feeling smug as she and her boss climbed into the cab home. The shocked look on Mrs. Lepin’s face would be a treasured memory forever. Mr. Dillon’s grudging smile as he read the first recipe had made Claire’s cunt clench in excitement. She had loved explaining how Mrs. Lepin’s husband had been able to conceal his greatest work from his disapproving wife. It had made Claire feel superior in a way she hadn’t felt for a long good while.

Mr. Dillon told the cabdriver their destination and then settled back into his seat. His hand casually pulled up her skirt to expose her lime green thong. Claire closed her eyes. She was embarrassed by the public display, but the words she’d overheard earlier made her think differently about her embarrassment. This, too, was a lesson.

“Ms. Currie, I must say I am disappointed at your speed,” Mr. Dillon said. He casually pulled aside her thong to reveal her cunt.

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She spread her legs wider for him. “How so, Mr. Dillon?”

“It took you 34 minutes to report your discovery,” Mr. Dillon said. His hand was stroking her cunt, rubbing up and down her brown lips. “I expected it to take no more than 15 minutes.”

“You knew?” Claire asked. Then she sighed because his fingers penetrated her rather wonderfully. Her wet sex was more than ready for him. She glanced up at the rearview mirror and saw that the driver was watching.

“Certainly,” Mr. Dillon said. “In our business, you learn 100 ways to hide erotica. Jealous wives, curious children, disapproving servants and shy demeanors drive pornography into the shadows. The Torchida method of breaking apart a work and hiding it among several other works is one of the classics. As soon as I saw the scribbled ingredients in ‘The Busty Secretary Pool,’ I knew what Mr. Lepin had done.’

Claire’s cunt clenched in memory of the book’s title. Mr. Dillon’s finger were fucking her in earnest now, and it was all she could do not to climax in the back seat of the cab. She was tempted to ask if she could climax, but she refrained. Claire could hardly stand holding off her climax, but the thought of being outright denied was even worse.

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” Claire asked. Her tone had no accusation, only pure arousal.

“Pure charity, I am afraid,” Mr. Dillon said. “Yes, charity. The sweet discovery of unraveling a puzzle is one of the few delights our profession gives. I wanted to give you a chance to figure it out yourself so you could relish it. Also, like a well-made appetizer, your discovery will tease you into being hungry for more. Now, you will approach every collection as though it might contain a secret delight.”

“And you didn’t have me look so you could fuck Mrs. Lepin?” Claire asked. The cabdriver’s eyebrows rose at that comment.

In response, Mr. Dillon vigorously finger-fucked Claire. She gripped the arm rest hard as Mr. Dillon thoroughly used her. She felt an orgasm build within her, and she had to bite her lip. The sharp pain from her teeth kept back the longed-for climax.”

“Fucking horny widows is but another delight of our profession,” Mr. Dillon said. “Besides, you needed to learn to deal with your jealousy. I thought you had learned that lesson when you eavesdropped on us.”

“You knew I was there?”

“Ms. Currie, a librarian must be as silent as a ray of light striking a white page,” Mr. Dillon said. He ground his fingers into her sex till the wet sounds filled the cab. “You, on the other hand, are as loud as a tap dancer wrapped in cellophane.”

“Did — did you mean what you said?” she asked.

He leaned in close. The rhythm of his finger-fucking never changed as he brought his lips to her ear.

“Every word,” he said. “And you may climax now.”

Claire did. She let go and climaxed within seconds. Her fingernails bit into the cab door’s arm rest, and her eyes clenched tight as the orgasm rocked her. She tried to be silent, but she couldn’t hold back the low, full-bodied moan that escaped her lips.

Mr. Dillon removed his fingers from her cunt and smoothed down her dress. He placed his fingers at her mouth, and she gladly opened her lips to clean them. The cabdriver watched this all with a goofy grin on his face. Claire couldn’t help smiling back at him.

“I’m glad you like our driver,” Mr. Dillon said. “You’ll be tipping him with a blowjob.”

Claire kept smiling. “Certainly, Mr. Dillon.” It was a fitting dessert for a long day as a librarian.

The end.

Fiction: Succulent Sutra Part Four

“Here are my husband’s books,” Mrs. Lepin said. “Take whatever you want. I certainly don’t need them.”

Claire really didn’t see how anyone could need them. The books were cheap paperbacks piled in a cardboard box. The smell of pulp seeped from the box. Hidden away in a closet, the dirty box was in stark contrast to the modern furnishings of the study where they now sat.

Mr. Dillon picked up a book and flipped through the pages. He was frowning darkly. Claire could tell he was disappointed, and despite the way she felt about his behavior during the meal, she couldn’t help feeling sympathetic. First, he’d found out that there was no ‘Succulent Sutra,’ and now these poor tawdry books were the only prizes to be found.

“Mr. Dillon, I’ll leave you to go through the books,” Mrs. Lepin said. “I will be in the kitchen if you require me.”

Mr. Dillon’s disappointment melted into a smile. “Thank you, madam. Your hospitality has salvaged what looks to be slim pickings for the collection.”

Mrs. Lepin closed the doors as she left. Claire suspected it had less to do with granting privacy than with insulating the rest of the house from the dirty books. Still, she was relieved to be alone with her boss. A box of porn and her boss were easier to deal with than a slutty widow.

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“Ms. Currie, what is your first impression?”

“She’s a horny tramp who’s looking for someone to bed before her husband’s corpse is even cold,” Claire said.

Mr. Dillon actually smiled. He reached up and grabbed the back of her hair. A savage twist of her hair made her start, but she knew better than to cry out while at a client’s house.

“I meant the books, Ms. Currie.”

“Oh, ah, they appear to be poor-quality paperbacks, most likely from the ’50s and ’60s. They appear to be American and in very bad shape. I suspect they all have mildew and perhaps other stains.”

The grip in her hair relaxed. “I concur. Obviously, such books are beneath my attention though they will provide a good exercise for you. Go through each and every book and document all the pertinent details. I’ll then decide which books, if any, are worthy of inclusion in the collection.”

“Understood, and what will you be doing?” Claire asked.

The grip in her hair tightened again. “Jealousy is a useless emotion for a librarian, Ms. Currie. Perhaps you need a reminder of your duties.”

Claire’s cunt clenched. “Yes,” she said.

Mr. Dillon released her hair and picked up another book.

“As you look through these books, I want you to stroke your sex six times every time you come across a certain word. Hmm, which word should it be? Something common and yet racy. Ah, let’s go with ‘bust.’ It makes me think of tight sweaters and top-heavy waitresses. So, every time you see the word ‘bust,’ I want you to stroke your cunt six times. And of course, no climaxing. Understood, Ms. Currie?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good,” Mr. Dillon said. “Now get to work and be diligent. I shall be talking to the poor widow Lepin. Maybe with enough prodding I can get her to remember something that could have been ‘Succulent Sutra.’ ”

Claire almost made a comment about “prodding” but refrained. She pulled a chair up to the dusty box as Mr. Dillon left the room. He didn’t close the doors behind him. Feeling a little vulnerable, she angled the chair so that her back was to the door. If she was going to be stroking herself, there was no sense flashing the hallway.

The book on top of the pile was titled “The Busty Secretary Pool.” Claire suspected that Mr. Dillon’s choice of the word “bust” was not a coincidence. She pulled up her skirt and slipped her fingers under her thong. Six efficient strokes of her clit later, Claire cleaned her fingers the way Mr. Dillon had taught her, with her mouth.

She processed the book. She opened the cover and looked for a copyright and publishing date. Both were located under the title, but since Claire had once again seen the word “busty,” she paused to administer another six strokes. Each stroke pushed away thoughts of Mrs. Lepin and returned Claire to her earlier level of sexual frustration. Earlier, she had dreaded the prospect of stimulation without end, but now, she welcomed it. She could deal much better with being horny and squirming in her seat than with Mr. Dillon’s strange change in behavior.

Her cunt still tingling from the strokes, Claire returned to the book. The pages were brittle, indicating cheap paper. A water stain was evident on the bottom right corner, and the spine had been cracked ages ago. A quick skim revealed that all the sex scenes were of a heterosexual nature except for one lesbian scene involving a threesome. Claire recorded all these details in her small notebook for Mr. Dillon’s review later.

She was about to set the book down when something caught her eye. On the last page, where the publisher advertised other books, including one titled “Busty Betty,” resulting in another six strokes, someone had written on the pages in a red pen. Claire shook her head disapprovingly. Mr. Dillon hated defaced books and never allowed them into the collection. The presence of writing almost certainly disqualifies the book altogether. Claire felt a momentarily resentment of the time wasted cataloging the book’s attributes, although she didn’t regret the three instances of stroking it had provided.

Curious, Claire read the offending writing. It was a list of ingredients: 1 orange, juiced; 2 egg whites; 1 tablespoon cocoa. That was it. Claire frowned. Since it was obviously part of a recipe, Mr. Lepin must have defaced his own book. If that was the case, odds were other books were similarly molested.

“Oh, well,” she said to herself. “Every book written on is another book I can skip.”

As she reached down for the next book, she heard something. It was a faint sound, but it echoed in the down the hallway from the kitchen. It lasted only a second, but there was no mistaking what it was. It was the sound of a zipper being pulled down.

“Not my concern,” she muttered. She snatched up the next book and groaned at the title. It was called “The Mafia Bust,” and it featured a top-heavy brunette dressed as a gangster’s moll. Claire closed her eyes at the awfulness of the pun and pulled up her skirt.

One, two, three, four, five, six.

This time, she checked for writing. She flipped the pages rapidly and found a page with more handwriting. Crammed in the margins was a list of more ingredients. This time, it looked like the ingredients for dough. Claire congratulated herself for skipping any possible sightings of that word and closed the book. That was when she noticed that the title had been repeated no less than three times on the back cover.

One, two three, four …

On the twelfth stroke, she heard something that made her cunt ache. It was a sloppy wet sound that echoed down the hallway. She paused in her own sloppy wet noisemaking and listened. It sounded like messy eating until Claire distinctly heard Mrs. Lepin groan. The sound continued, and Mrs. Lepin kept groaning.

In her mind, Claire could clearly see them. Mrs. Lepin would be witting up on a counter, her dress up around her waist, revealing her cunt. Mr. Dillon would have pulled up a chair and would be devouring her. His hands clamped around her thighs, he would be assaulting the widow with his tongue, and the bitch would be moaning overdramatically with each lick. The whore.

Furious, jealous and terribly aroused, Claire counted off the rest of her strokes.

The next book had nothing to do with breasts, busts or mammary puns. It was simply titled “Mistress.” Claire tried to ignore the faint sounds of cunnilingus coming from the kitchen and flipped through the book. This time, the writing was at the top of a page. It was more cooking instructions, this time listing the time needed to cook a certain cream. It was another book to discard.

Claire moved to close the book but hesitated. She wanted to make sure there would be no surprises on the back cover. She looked straight down on the pages and slowly closed the book. A smile lit her face as she managed to close the book without seeing a single word. She turned around and placed the book on the stack of two books she had previously checked. Their titles were written clearly on their spines, facing her.

“Fuck!” Claire exclaimed.

Claire sat back in her chair and once again applied the punishment strokes. Her sex was quite wet at this point. Her fingers slipped in easily, and she couldn’t help moaning. In the kitchen, Mrs. Lepin moaned with her. Claire grimaced until she decided to close her eyes and imagine that Mr. Dillon’s tongue was administering the required strokes.

One lick, two licks, three licks, four licks …

Her stroking and fantasizing finished, Claire returned to her work. The next book she checked contained another list of ingredients. The one after that contained three separate pages of writing that detailed what she guessed to be some sort of marinade. Another book was free of writing except on the back cover, where seven types of chocolate were listed.

As she worked, Claire became more adept at avoiding that word. Sometimes — as with the book titled “The Bust That Busted Las Vegas!’ — it was unavoidable, but when it came to inside the book, Claire learned to scan without reading. She made it through “The Magic Bra” without spotting a single bust, which was a strange yet admirable achievement. All in all, she was forced to stroke on only five more occasions.

Although she managed to avoid stroking too much, there was no escape from the sounds coming from the kitchen. The wet eating sounds continued, but the moaning changed from Mrs. Lepin’s voice to Mr. Dillon’s. After a while, there was a great crashing sound, as if an entire counter had been cleared off in a dramatic, romantic fashion. That was followed by the rapid sounds of flesh meeting flesh as if someone were being furiously fucked from behind. At one point, there was the distinct sound of an ass being slapped, and Claire fumed with rage that Mrs. Lepin’s thin pale bottom was being spanked in preference to her own ample brown charms. Thankfully, the spanking lasted only a short while, but then it was replaced by the sounds of more vigorous fucking.

Throughout this, Claire tried to stay professional and do her job. In situations like these, it was best to keep your focus on the job. Certainly, Mr. Dillon had had a varied and wondrous sex life before she came under his employment, it would be foolish to think otherwise. Sure, the last three months of being spanked, taught, fucked, tormented, teased and fucked had been great, but it would be foolish to think Mr. Dillon did all that out of some sort of interest. Obviously, he was making use of what was on hand, when deep down, he craved skeleton-thin, arrogant bitches like Mrs. Lepin.

Claire picked up another book as Mrs. Lepin’s orgasmic moans reverberated down the hallway. With a practiced skill, Claire flipped right to the written-on page. She blanked noted its presence and closed the book when something struck her. She reopened the book and read what Mr. Lepin had written there.

“Now taking the cream sauce, apply it directly to your lover’s breasts. As it settles, sprinkle on the chocolate dusting made earlier as if you were blowing kisses.”

The writing continued. Claire read on as Mr. Lepin tied in other references that she was sure were components created in earlier book notes. The writing ended up abruptly, and she picked up the next book in the box. She flipped and found the continuation of the serving instructions. It became more pornographic as it made it clear that all these foods, creams and desserts were meant to be used on a lover as a prelude to sex. This particular passage detailed how the lover’s bust was to be prepared.

Claire sat back, stunned. In a daze, she lifted her skirt and stroked herself. Her body was on autopilot as her mind connected all the writings. Mr. Lepin had written his “Succulent Sutra,” but it was spread out over a large group of cheap erotic paperbacks. It was the perfect place to hide his masterpiece where only he could work on it.

After the sixth stroke, Claire brought her fingers to her mouth and licked them clean. She couldn’t help but speculate on what her cunt might taste like after application of one of Mr. Lepin’s recipes. Then she thought of what a cock might taste like. Claire sucked her fingers dry as she imagined an entire body of delicious flavors.

Sweeter than all those thoughts was the idea of interrupting Mr. Dillon and Mrs. Lepin to tell them of what she had discovered.

As silently as she could, Claire walked down the hallway. She carried three books with her to help prove her deduction. Just to be safe, she didn’t include any that had the word “bust” in the title. To her disappointment, the sounds from the kitchen were not those of moaning intercourse. They were the quiet whisperings of two well-fucked and exhausted people.

“Mr. Dillon, that was truly an inspiring after-dinner course,” Mrs. Lepin said.

“If I was inspiring, it was only because you were my muse,” Mr. Dillon said.

Claire rolled her eyes, but she still did not go in. Spying on her boss was not professional, but the novelty of it aroused her. Mr. Dillon certainly never said anything afterwards when they had sex. The chance to sample what passed for pillow talk from Mr. Dillon was too good to pass up. She took off her glasses and acted like she was cleaning them in case she was spotted.

“Where did you learn that thing you did with your tongue?” Mrs. Lepin asked.

“A Grecian vase depicted that technique, and I put it to use,” Mr. Dillon said.

“And that move you did with your hips?”

“I learned that in South Korea,” Mr. Dillon said.

“And how did you make me climax so hard I thought I had died?” Mrs. Lepin purred.

“That was practice,” Mr. Dillon said.

There was a girlish giggle that Claire couldn’t believe was coming from the proper Mrs. Lepin.

“Who knew you could learn something useful from being a librarian?” Mrs. Lepin said.

“I am afraid I don’t follow you,” Mr. Dillon said.

Claire grinned. She could hear the drop in warmth in Mr. Dillon’s voice. He was annoyed, and Mrs. Lepin apparently didn’t realize it. Orgasms must dull the perception, after all.

“Your job must be an endless cycle of finding books and bringing them back to the library,” Mrs. Lepin said. “You’re a purchaser constantly buying ingredients for a literary restaurant that never opens. I would be dreadfully bored. Where’s the creativity? An intelligent man like you must be frustrated to always be buying and reading without ever making something you can call you own.”

Ah, I see your mistake,” Mr. Dillon said. “I have a production of my own. It’s something I plan to work on for the next 20 years or so.”

“You’re writing a book of your own?” Mrs. Lepin asked. “Good for you!”

“No, I’m afraid my project is nothing that easy,” Mr. Dillon said. “My project is young Ms. Currie. I am constantly preparing her for her continued employment with the collection. I am measuring how much punishment and how much stimulation are required to make her learn. I pay unrelenting attention to her development in the hopes of one day creating a librarian to whom I can be proud to pass my responsibilities.”

Claire felt a strange feeling pass over her. It was a mixture of pride, affection and quite a bit of arousal. The way Mr. Dillon had earlier insulted and ignored her now had a new context. Claire’s mind and cunt struggled to take it all in. It was too much to absorb, so like a good librarian, she stopped thinking and went back to work.

“Excuse me, Mr. Dillon, but I have made a discovery that I think will be of interest.”

To be continued.

Fiction: Succulent Sutra Part Three

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Lepin. I’m Mr. Dillon, and this is my assistant, Ms. Currie. As representatives of the Collette-Ashbee Collection, we would like to offer our condolences on your loss.”

Ms. Lepin frowned at the mention of her late husband but seemed to swell up at the attention Mr. Dillon gave her. She was a champagne flute of a woman, tall and slender with just a hint of feminine curves. Her blond hair was layered on her head with the delicate beauty of whipped cream. She wore a black dress, apparently in mourning, but the way it clung to her body was more appropriate for a romantic dinner for two. Her bright blue eyes lingered over Mr. Dillon but flashed only contempt for Ms. Currie.

“You have arrived in time for lunch,” Mrs. Lepin announced. “Please join me for a repast, and we can discuss my husband’s gift to your collection.”

“I would be honored, Madam,” Mr. Dillon said.

Mrs. Lepin looked down her nose at Claire. “I am afraid that I only had settings placed for two.”

“That is not a problem,” Mr. Dillon said. “Just a meager portion of salad will be fine. My assistant doesn’t even require silverware. She is more than capable of eating with just her mouth.”

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“That I would like to see,” Mrs. Lepin said. Cruel amusement pulled her lips into a smile.

“The librarians of the Collette-Ashbee Collection believe in entertaining guests wherever we go,” Mr. Dillon said. “In any way possible.”

“Now that does sound promising,” Mrs. Lepin said.

Claire was a little stunned. Not quite so much at the proposed humiliation of eating without utensils, shocking as that was. No, she was more disturbed by Mr. Dillon’s behavior. Was he flirting? She hadn’t thought him capable of anything other than impossible demands.

The table was set for two, with soup waiting in gorgeous stone bowls. Mrs. Lepin came out with a cheap plastic bowl filled with a plain selection of greens. Claire saw with dismay that it was topped with a generous serving of creamy white dressing. She sat there with her hands in her lap, trying to judge whether Mr. Dillon really wanted her to go through with this.

“What a delightful soup,” he said. “Is that mint? I don’t think I’ve ever tasted mint in carrot soup.”

“You have an experienced tongue,” Mrs. Lepin said.

“I try to use it whenever I can,” Mr. Dillon responded. “Ms. Currie, do not be rude. Eat the generous meal that has been prepared for you.”

Claire was tempted to say that she wasn’t hungry. The words were on her lips when she heard Mrs. Lepin snicker. It was a brief sound, and Mrs. Lepin kept eating as though nothing had happened, but Claire had heard her. The widow wanted to see Claire squirm for some reason, and that annoyed Claire greatly. She didn’t understand what the widow had against her, but she was not about to embarrass herself in front of Mr. Dillon. Librarians are made of sterner stuff than that.

With her hands folded in her lap, Claire dipped her head down and reached for a piece of lettuce. She used her tongue to tilt a piece up and then bite down on it. A small drop of dressing clung to her cheeks, and she noticed that she hadn’t been provided with a napkin. She could have wiped it with her hand, but that seemed undignified. She ignored it and dipped her head back down for a second bite. Her glasses just missed hitting the side of the bowl, and Claire was proud of herself for her dexterity.

If Mr. Dillon was impressed with her grace, he didn’t say anything. “Are you a chef as well, Mrs. Lepin?”

“I was,” she answered. “I worked at a restaurant that Jean-Paul was visiting for his television show. It was his early show, the one where he traveled around showcasing local cuisine while trying to get into the pants of star-struck young women. They just never showed that part on television.”

“Pity, I might have watched it then,” Mr. Dillon said. “I am sure you were not one of his star-struck conquests. He had to seduce your properly, I would imagine.”

Mrs. Lepin laughed. “Would you believe, Mr. Dillon, that he seduced me with one piece of lemon cake? He gave me a piece and asked my opinion of it. It was quite honestly the finest cake I had ever eaten. I told him I would kill to have that recipe. He asked me if would mind fucking instead. I agreed on the spot. Does that shock you?”

Now it was Claire’s turn to snicker. She almost choked on a piece of lettuce. Mr. Dillon shocked? The same man who once read aloud an entire chapter about a Chinese army orgy just to teach Claire the proper way to pronounce grunts? It struck her that few people know Mr. Dillon nearly as well as she did.

“Shock me?” he said. “Of course, I am shocked. I would have imagined that a three-month courtship would be required to earn a simple kiss from someone as beautiful as you.”

Claire stopped eating and stared at Mr. Dillon. This was the man who kept three erotica books by his bed to aid nocturnal emissions. She realized that he was presenting a different face today, and she had an ugly suspicion that it wasn’t for professional reasons. Her stomach twisted, and it had nothing to do with the salad. It was pure jealousy.

“Oh, Mr. Dillon, I am afraid I am not nearly that beautiful,” Mrs. Lepin lied. She stood and picked up the empty soup bowls. “I agreed to his demands right there. In the storage room, he pulled down my pants and bent me over a box of apples. He fucked me, and when he was done, he laid me down on the dirty floor and fucked me again. He ravished me, in every sense of the word.”

Mr. Dillon stood up. “Please, let me help you serve the next course.”

Claire stared at him again. In the three months that she had been working for him, he always required her to fetch him even the smallest of objects. Once he had her bring him a book that was literally two feet away from him. The fact that he was offering to help with the food seemed terribly unfair.

“No, thank you, Mr. Dillon. You are my guest,” Mrs. Lepin said. “Much as Jean-Paul was my guest when we first met.”

Mr. Dillon smiled. “That is a pleasant comparison. Ah! That has to be steak-frites I smell. I haven’t had proper steak-frites in years!”

Claire could smell them, too. Peppery steak soaked in a red wine and shallot sauce mixed with the aroma of the potatoes to create an olfactory reminder that she was stuck with nothing but greens and dressing for her meal.

Mrs. Lepin poured Mr. Dillon a glass of red wine before sitting back down. For Claire, a small saucer of water was provided. She glared at the tiny saucer and the even tinier amount of water. Mr. Dillon, of course, took a moment to thank Mrs. Lepin for her thoughtfulness.

“If I may be so bold,” Mr. Dillon said, “was the lemon cake one of Jean-Paul’s recipes from ‘Succulent Sutra’? And before you answer, may I also add how delicious this steak is?”

“Thank you, it is a personal recipe,” she replied. “I am afraid, though, that the lemon cake was just cake, delicious though it was. As for ‘Succulent Sutra,’ I hope you will not be too disappointed to hear that the book doesn’t exist.”

It was Mr. Dillon’s turn to choke on his food. “Doesn’t exist? But Mr. Lepin willed it to the Collette-Ashbee Collection. Are you sure?”

Mrs. Lepin smiled sadly. “I am very sure. Jean-Paul loved to brag about that book, but to my knowledge, he never wrote it. It was just a line he liked to use to impress other men’s wives.”

“Amazing,” Mr. Dillon said. “So you have never seen it? Could he have kept it a secret from you?”

Mrs. Lepin brought a frite to her lips very slowly. Her tongue reached out and brought the frite into her mouth. It was, Claire thought, an amateurish and crude attempt at seduction. The fact that Mr. Dillon was watching with what looked like smoldering lust in his eyes made Claire’s twisting jealousy contort into new knots.

“Mr. Dillon, Jean-Paul did not keep secrets,” Mrs. Lepin said. “He loved to brag too much. Whether he’d fucked his publisher’s wife or some 20-year-old fan in Miami he met on a book tour, Jean-Paul told me everything. He was a very proud man.”

“My apologies that he was unfaithful,” Mr. Dillon said.

Mrs. Lepin took another slow, sensuous bite of her steak. “What makes you think I was faithful?”

Mr. Dillon did something Claire didn’t think was even possible. He blushed. Mr. Dillon, librarian, boss and tormentor, blushed at Mrs. Lepin’s words.

“That’s it, I have to kill her,” Claire muttered into her salad.

“Quiet, Ms. Currie,” Mr. Dillon said. “The adults are talking.”

Claire nodded as curtly as possible and took a lick from her water saucer. Two could play at this game. She tilted her head just like a cat and arched her tongue out as far as possible. She lapped up the water with a grace that surprised even her. For an extra effect, she ran her tongue over her full lips, as if trying to lick every possible drop of moisture.

Mr. Dillon ignored her. “So ‘Succulent Sutra’ doesn’t exist? I am terribly sorry we inflicted ourselves on you, then.”

Mrs. Lepin waved off his apology. “I am glad for the polite company.” It was clear this did not extend to Claire. “Besides, Jean-Paul had a box filled with dirty books. It was quite the embarrassment when we were married. Why read about it when you can be doing it? Since you are here, could you look it over and take whatever your collection needs? It would save me the trouble of having to throw it all away.”

“We can gladly do that,” Mr. Dillon said. “It is disappointing to find out there is no ‘Succulent Sutra,’ but at least we can be of service to you.”

“Oh, I could use all the services I can get.” Mrs. Lepin laughed.

Claire chewed her salad. She was fuming with so much hatred for the widow that she completely forgot the glob of dressing she had been avoiding. It clung right to her chin, and the heavy cream stuck just out of reach of her tongue. Against her dark skin, Claire just knew it looked like semen. She waited for Mr. Dillon to notice and make some sort of insulting comment.

“Allow me to clear the plates this time,” Mr. Dillon said. He walked right by Claire without a single word. Frustrated, she reached up and wiped the dressing off with her finger. She expected a rebuke for using her hands, but when Mr. Dillon returned, he sat down without even noticing her indiscretion.

Being ignored was far worse than being punished, Claire realized.

Mrs. Lepin brought out chocolate tarts for herself and Mr. Dillon. Claire was finished with her salad, but no dessert was brought for her. She just sat there trying to look like a professional, not a fuming, angry woman who had nothing better to do than watch two people shamelessly flirt with one another.

“This might be the finest tart I have ever eaten,” Mr. Dillon said.

“The day is still young,” Mrs. Lepin said.

Kill me now, Claire thought.

“Well, if you ever wanted to write ‘Succulent Sutra’ yourself, this would be the recipe to start with,” Mr. Dillon said.

“Oh? Have I seduced you with this one?” Mrs. Lepin asked.

“A gentleman never tells,” Mr. Dillon said. “Although it is like sex for the mouth.”

“Oh? And what sex act would it be?” Mrs. Lepin said.

Mr. Dillon thought about it. “Like a kitchen tryst with a beautiful chef.”

Mrs. Lepin raised her glass to him. “We might need to verify that.”

Claire sat in her chair and prayed for the meal to end. She didn’t know which was worse, the terribly unsubtle flirting or the fact that she was being ignored by her boss. When the dessert was finally over, Claire thought the end to her suffering had arrived as well. How wrong she was.

To be continued.

Fiction: Succulent Sutra Part Two

If Mr. Dillon noticed as they headed for the cab that Claire’s cleavage was more visible than usual, he didn’t give any sign. He gave their destination to the cabdriver and then sat back in his seat. Claire arched her back in what she thought was a subtle manner and tried engaging her superior.

“You said that we were meeting a widow named Lepin?” she asked. “The name sounds familiar.”

“Yes, her husband was one of those television chefs,” Mr. Dillon said. He turned to look at her, and Claire noticed that his eyes dipped down to the swell of her dark breasts.

“Oh! You mean Jean-Paul Lepin? I used to watch his show on the telly in college. I didn’t realize he had passed away.”

Mr. Dillon’s eyes were fixed on her chest. “Yes, apparently he died last spring. He willed his erotica to the collection.”

Claire smiled and crossed her skirted legs in a slow, easy manner. “Jean-Paul had a collection of erotica?”

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“Not just a collection,” Mr. Dillon said. “He used to brag that he had written an erotic book himself, but his agent and network contracts forbade him from publishing it. In certain circles, he had bragged that ‘Succulent Sutra,’ as he called it, would be the world’s greatest book of erotica.”

“A little presumptuous, wasn’t he?” Claire said. “He was a great chef, but what made him think he would be a master of erotica?”

“Ah, Ms. Currie, your naivete can be refreshing, although it is a poor quality in a librarian,” Mr. Dillon said. His insult rankled — until he placed a hand on her knee. He lifted her skirt and brazenly moved his hand to her thigh. He gripped her hard, his fingers sinking into her flesh.

“Ms. Currie, cooking is a lot like great sex. There is preparation; there is the careful measuring of vital ingredients; and there is the unrelenting attention to your dish. Skills that one develops in cooking apply readily to sex and vice versa.”

As if to punctuate his point, Mr. Dillon squeezed her thigh harder. Claire looked up to see the driver’s eyes reflected in the rear-view mirror. He was watching, and she knew with certainty that his eyes were drawn to her spilling cleavage as well. Whether he could see Mr. Dillon’s grip on her thigh was something she couldn’t tell.

“If you are going to attempt provocative cleavage, Ms. Currie, then you should really undo another button,” Mr. Dillon said.

She blushed at the suggestion but then gasped as his gripping hand cruelly pinched the skin on her thigh.

“Do it now, Ms. Currie.”

She nodded and reached up to her blouse. The taxi had stopped at a light, and the driver was giving her his full attention. Claire’s fingers fumbled with the button. It was one thing to attempt to seduce Mr. Dillon, but seducing this stranger was going further than she had attended. She undid the button and then pulled her blouse together to prevent any indecent flashing.

“No, no, Ms. Currie,” Mr. Dillon scolded. “In for a page, in for a chapter, I always say.” He reached for her blouse and pulled the shirt open as far as the button would allow. He even tucked the blouse behind her large breasts to fully display them.

The cabdriver’s eyes were as large as 60-point type. Claire shifted in her seat to avoid his gaze, but Mr. Dillon resumed his grip on her thigh. She wasn’t going anywhere.

She blushed even more deeply when she noticed her hard nipples straining against the material of her bra.

“Mr. Lepin had quite the reputation as a charmer of women,” Mr. Dillon continued. He spoke as if he were lecturing a class, not speaking to his nearly topless assistant while she was being leered at by a cabdriver. “It was rumored that above every restaurant he opened was a private kitchen where he would prepare meals for his latest romantic conquests. He often bragged that in these secret kitchens, he could make any woman’s cunt taste as sweet as icing or as rich as a fudge. I imagine that being a chef, he preferred oral sex above any other kind, but this is just speculation on my part.”

Claire didn’t respond. She was too concerned with the cabdriver. He kept looking at her in the mirror. Mr. Dillon continued to squeeze her thigh with a firm grip that told her that the punishment would be swift and brutal if she tried to move. It reminded her of something, something dirty and tawdry, but she couldn’t quite place it.

“This is a scene from ‘Laura’s New York Adventure,’ isn’t it?”

Mr. Dillon’s hand tightened on her thigh. “Yes, it is. And do you remember what happens next in that book?”

Claire swallowed. “Laura gives the cabdriver a blowjob in order to pay her fare.”

The driver’s eyes widened.

“Very good,” Mr. Dillon said. “And that is exactly what is going to happen unless you can tell me where in the Nin-modified Dewey system that book would be found.”

Claire closed her eyes. It was a cheap book, produced in the late ’50s, she recalled. It had a typical female slut lead and was in that class of erotic books distinguished only by their settings in certain cities. It included many stereotypes of the period. Claire did recall that it had no lesbian sex, although it did include a sex scene involving an uncle.

“It would be in the 730s with a .4 designation,” she said.

Mr. Dillon was quiet. Claire felt a moment of terror, doubting herself and remembering what had happened to Laura. Would be she be sucking the driver’s cock? Would he fondle the tits that he had been staring at? Would he abuse her mouth and come in her hair? The questions made her thigh tense even more tightly under Mr. Dillon’s grip.

“You are correct, Ms. Currie,” Mr. Dillon said. “You may button your blouse back up.”

A sigh could be heard from the front seat.

Claire buttoned her shirt quickly. She noticed that Mr. Dillon didn’t remove his hand from her thigh. She felt relieved that she would not be required to perform oral sex on a stranger, but that relief was slowly replaced with something else as the drive continued. It wasn’t till they exited the taxi that she realized what that something else was. It was regret that she had missed out on an adventure, as if she had forever lost her chance to read a certain book.

Being a librarian was changing Claire in ways she had never anticipated.

To be continued.

Fiction: Succulent Sutra Part One

Claire Currie was being punished. She stood in the corner, where she had been standing for two hours now. The four-inch heels strained her calves, but she suffered in silence. It helped that she was biting down on her shirttails. The buttons of the shirt had been undone and the ends crammed into her mouth. It appeared as if her shirt were a curtain drawn up to reveal the beauty of her heavy black breasts.

Her round bottom was in a similar state. The hem of her skirt had been lifted up over her ass. Her hands gripped her skirt while staying crossed behind her back. Grey thigh-high stockings drew the eye up her legs to her exposed ass. Her panties hung around her ankles, which would have hobbled her if her own willpower hadn’t already been keeping her perfectly still.

For the last half hour, Claire’s glasses had been inching down her nose. Millimeter by millimeter, the glasses kept sliding down, and millimeter by millimeter, they were driving her mad. It would have taken only a moment to push them back up. She was sure she could do it so quickly that no one would even notice.

Claire didn’t move a muscle.

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“Ms. Currie, are you ready for the next phase of your punishment?” It was her employer, Mr. Dillon. He was the most ruthless, demanding bastard she had ever worked for. He was also one hell of a librarian, and in three short months working for him, Claire had learned more about books than she had in her two years in London.

“I am ready, Mr. Dillon,” she said.

Mr. Dillon came into view. He was dressed casually today. Instead of his usual button-down shirt and tie, he was wearing a button-down shirt without a tie. His polished shoes peeked out from underneath his plain black slacks. In place of his usual gold-rimmed glasses, Mr. Dillon had opted for his less formal silver-rimmed pair. Claire allowed herself the hope that maybe he was in a forgiving mood today.

Then she saw the cane. A shudder ran through her as the light caught the smooth blue plastic. Mr. Dillon had received two dozen of the vicious canes as a gift, and so far, he had broken five of them on her tender skin.

“Please recount the crimes for which you are being punished today, Ms. Currie.”

Claire swallowed. She used her tongue to shift the shirttails to the corners of her mouth so she could speak. Talking with her mouth full was a skill she’d picked up quickly working under Mr. Dillon.

“I let a copy of ‘Wicked Match Girls’ fall due to improper placement on the bedside table. I also failed to properly recite the ten most influential erotica writers of the 19th century when you tested my knowledge of my current studies. I compounded my crimes when I failed to wear the proper color thong, as it is Tuesday and I should be wearing dark green, but instead I put on my lime-green thong.”

Mr. Dillon nodded. “The Collette-Ashbee Collection demands a certain level of proficiency in its librarians, Ms. Currie. Not only must you be more careful with your book handling, but you also must improve your memory of the important writers of our focus. It took you two weeks to memorize the greatest lesbian poets of the Greek Classical age, and I forgave your slowness with that list because I had hoped you would improve with your next. Now, I see that I have been much too kind. I hope this punishment will help you focus on how you can prevent future mistakes and become a better librarian.”

“And how does the color of my panties make me a better librarian?” Claire asked.

She cried out as the as cane lashed out against her exposed ass. The shirttails fell from her mouth. It was only one strike, but the pain lingered like a sunburn.

“Your panties, Ms. Currie?” Mr. Dillon said. “The color of your panties is something I require.”

He stuffed the shirttails back into her mouth. Access to her breasts was something he always demanded during a punishment. He reached for one, cupping it with his hand. Claire steeled herself. Once he had a firm grip on her breast, he brought the cane down on her bottom. He caned her ass with quick, precise strokes. Line after line of pain burned into her ass as Mr. Dillon administered her punishment.

The pain brought tears to her eyes, but Mr. Dillon’s rough grip sent other feelings down to her cunt. She was getting wet, and she could feel the trickle of desire leak down her thigh. Over the last three months, Claire had experienced those rough hands in 100 fascinating ways. Some of those experiences had been painful, some had been almost unbearable, but many of those experiences had resulted in orgasms that shook her down to her knees. Right now, they were crushing her breast with an iron grip, but at any moment, they might plunge into her mouth for a crude simulation of a blowjob. Or they might pinch and pull her nipple till she begged for mercy. Or, if Claire were really lucky and Mr. Dillon was really generous, they might plunge into her cunt and get her off while her ass still burned from the cane.

It was just another day of Claire’s career with the Colette-Ashbee Collection. Three months in, it all still seemed like a dream. A rare collection of erotica, owned by eccentric wealthy patrons she might never meet and administered by one highly capable librarian, Mr. Dillon, the collection had one goal: to seek our and preserve the great works of erotic literature, no matter how obscure or rare.

Mr. Dillon traveled the world looking for these treasures to add to the collection, and Ms. Currie assisted in every way possible. Most days, that meant cataloging and verifying the books they found. She also handled the mundane details of arranging their hotel reservations and their meals. Claire performed the many small tasks that accumulated when you work constantly out of a hotel room, so that Mr. Dillon could devote himself to the important work of the library.

Some days, the important work of the library seemed to involve stripping, punishing and fucking Claire. That had certainly been an unexpected detail of her employment. She was surprised at how easily she had submitted to these little episodes. In any other environment, being caned and finger -fucked by one’s employer would have been grounds for a sexual-harassment suit. However, this was an erotic library, and somehow it just seemed natural. Claire did learn from her lessons. If it weren’t for the paddling, she would never have learned the Nin-modified Dewey system for cataloging erotica. If it weren’t for Mr. Dillon’s use of the nipple clamps, Claire would still be forgetting the differences between 16th-century vellum and 17th-century vellum.

And if it weren’t for Mr. Dillon’s occasionally fucking her cunt, she wouldn’t have been able to sleep soundly at night after a day of examining erotica.

“Ms. Currie, I see you are soaking your stockings again with your damp cunt.”

Claire felt the heat rise to her cheeks. “My apologies, Mr. Dillon.”

He released her breast, and Claire closed her eyes. “Oh, please, oh, please, oh, please,” she prayed silently. It had been two days since he had fucked her, and she had spent the morning reviewing a deliciously naughty book about sex slaves who served at an adult amusement park. She was almost trembling with desire, and although yes, she could have masturbated, Claire preferred to wait for the bliss that Mr. Dillon deigned to give her.

She screamed as the cane landed on her breasts. The shirttails stayed in her mouth, though. He snapped the cane four more times, striking both her breasts with the cruel thin plastic. She ground the cloth in her teeth and clenched her eyes, yet she stayed perfectly still. A woman did not need rope to hold still when she had the unforgiving expectations of Mr. Dillon to hold her in her place.

“I can see by the stains on your stockings that perhaps you are too distracted, Ms. Currie,” Mr. Dillon lectured. “A true librarian must learn to set aside her desires in order to do her work. I am afraid I will have to forbid you from orgasms until you convince me that you can master yourself.”

A groan escaped Claire’s lips, and the cane flashed across her breasts. The groan transformed into a hiss of pain. New tears blurred her vision, but she looked at Mr. Dillon and nodded in acquiescence to his new rule.

“Very good,” he said. “Now, button your shirt and compose yourself. We have that 1 o’clock appointment with the Lepin widow.”

Claire released her skirt and calmly took the shirttails out of her mouth. She waited, hoping that Mr. Dillon might reconsider his new orders, but he was already heading to the hotel bathroom to change his glasses and put on a tie. She frowned and proceeded to get dressed herself. She put on a dark green bra to match her thong and winced as the bra hugged her tender breasts. They kept hurting as she buttoned her shirt; she wondered how long the pain would last. Over the past three months, she had grown accustomed to the way her skirt felt over her punished ass, but this abuse to her breasts was a new experience.

For that matter, so was the experience of being forbidden an orgasm. Mr. Dillon had never before made such a command, and already Claire found herself more aroused because of the limitation. Did this mean he wasn’t going to fuck her till she proved herself? As unbearably aroused as she was, the idea of not being fucked by Mr. Dillon struck her as a form of rejection. That rejection hurt more than the caning.

Claire snorted and left her top button undone. If Mr. Dillon thought he could ignore her, he was sadly mistaken. He might be an erotic librarian, but Claire had once been a sex goddess of the Internet. She had posted dozens of her erotic stories and accumulated a legion of dedicated fans who had stroked to her every word. She had retired when she graduated from college, but she still thought of herself as a woman who could seduce any reader if she put her mind to it. She was more than ready to use her prowess on her boss.

To be continued,

Hobby Diversification

A few years ago I decided to give photography a try. I quickly came to the understanding that to be a good photographer, you needed pretty much the same level of practice that I was currently devoting to writing. I already had a hobby and it was already time consuming. Digital cameras were also a bit pricey at the time and I wasn't willing to spend that level of money on something that wasn't even a hobby to me yet.

Today I got a rather abundant tax return and decided to take the digital camera plunge. It's odd, having a blog makes me feel like I would have more use for the camera. The past year I also discovered Flickr which has raised my interest level to the point that I think I can sustain two hobbies. Bloggers like AAG and her amazing flowers have taught me to appreciate beauty in every day things. I see a lot of similarities between writing and photography and I'm eager to start combining them.

The question now becomes, which camera? As an amateur that has been plodding along with a 10 year old digital camera, I am bewildered and amazed by the options today's cameras have. Megapixels? Apertures? Sheesh, it can be quite intimidating. In writing I started with a keyboard and Notepad, I didn't have to try to figure out what features of Word I needed before I started telling the story.

What amuses me is that what I will use the camera for doesn't exactly get spelled out in customer reviews. I want a good camera for taking nudes, I want a good camera for taking pictures of six inch action figures. I want a good camera that I can take to a geek convention and snap pictures all day long without the battery expiring. I want a camera that is easy to use that I can grow into in between writing ten part Spring Break sex romps. What's a good sex blogger geek friendly digital camera?

And can I get one that comes with a supply of nude models?

Tidbits

As far as romantic comedies go, 'Music and Lyrics' was one of the more pleasant ones I have watched. Hugh Grant is pretty much Hugh Grant and that's cool. The best part about the movie is the music as it skewers the 80's British Pop scene as well as poking a lot of fun at today's teen divas.

I have a guest post up on Hammon Wry's Word of the Day. If you haven't seen it, Hammon takes a word of the day and makes an erotic story out of it. It's a hard challenge that she pulls off quite well. It's also one of those brilliant ideas I wish I had first.

The Pirates of the Caribbean movie soundtracks are currently my favorite music to have playing while writing. They both carry a lot of menace and bold action in their scores, which is terribly similar to BDSM fiction.

Speaking of BDSM fiction, I am currently writing a massive story about Spring Break. This means I am looking at lots of bikini photos, reading a shitload about Cancun and writing so much my fingertips are getting sore. It is a bit different from what I usually write as it is more summer movie-ish. It's not a deep story, but its got an abundance of flesh and sun which I am finding greatly entertaining. We have to get the BDSM out of the mansions and darkness sometimes.

Fiction: Secret Gift

Mr. Flint looked down at the kneeling girl. She was outside his door, and he assumed she was the one who had knocked. It was a brisk evening, but he guessed the weather was not why she was wearing the black trenchcoat.

“Who is it?” Mrs. Flint called out.

“Some girl,” Mr. Flint yelled back.

Mrs. Flint came to the doorstep. She was dressed to go out and just needed her diamond earrings. “Is she yours?”

“Not mine,” Mr. Flint said. “I thought she was yours.”

“Excuse me,” the girl said. “I don’t belong to either of you, though I one day wish to. I have seen you both at the dungeon but could never approach you. I offer myself tonight as a Valentine’s Day gift.”

Mrs. Flint snorted. “I take it you are wearing something fabulous underneath that coat?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the gift said.

“Then show us,” Mr. Flint said.

“May I come in? To show you?” she asked.

“No,” both of them said.

The gift nodded and stood up. She opened her coat and let it drop. She was a tall girl, with her chest wrapped in a tight red corset that pushed her breasts up into a shelf. White lacy gloves adorned her hands and came up to her elbows. In contrast to the elegant corset, she wore tawdry red crotchless panties that showcased her shaved cunt. White stockings covered her long legs ending at sparkling red high heels. Little red hearts had been drawn on random parts of her body like little treats.

“And you are offering this to us?” Mr. Flint said.

“Like one of those anonymous Valentine’s Days gifts that lovestruck fools give their crushes?” Mrs. Flint said.

The gift nodded her head.

“Foolish slut,” Mr. Flint growled. “We had plans tonight, and you thought you can just insert yourself into those plans?”

Mrs. Flint agreed. “We had reservations at the finest restaurant in town, and you think you are worth canceling for?”

The gift didn’t answer. She felt foolish and arrogant. The rejection was more painful than anything she could have imagined.

Before she could do anything, Mrs. Flint reached for her hair and dragged her into the house.

“You had better be the best damn Valentine’s Day gift we’ve ever had.” Mrs. Flint said.

Workout Pact

"We should do that workout accountability thing."

Sara was complaining about her weight again. She couldn't fit in her sexy black dress and it had become a crisis. She was curvy in all the right places and a few bad ones as well.

"How's that going to work?" I asked. "We live on opposite ends of town."

"We don't need to work out together. We'll just tell each other when we work out and encourage the other to do so. It's been proven that if you have someone else to account to, you're more likely to work out."

"Okay, we can try that," I said. I started thinking about erotic penalties and got out my notebook. This might make for a good story.

"And if I fall behind, you get to spank me," she added.

I put down the notebook. "Well, I was fantasizing about that but sure."

"And if you fall behind, I'll spank you."

I snorted. That was a damn good reason to workout.

"Wait a minute, I like spankings too much for that to be a punishment," she said.

"Easy," I said. "if you fall behind, you'll let me take pictures. Naked dirty pictures of you and your non-working out ass."

There was a delicious pause of fear.

"Fuck," Sara said. "I think I'm going to start working out now."

The Big Book of Breasts

My lovely wife bought me as a gift, The Big Book of Breasts. Written with love by Dian Hanson, this book is a fascinating sample of the loveliest natural breasts of the 50's through 70's. Packed with tits, happy girls and wonderful interviews, this book was a joy to read through. It's an arousing tribute to beautiful curves and the women who became our sex goddesses.

What? You want numbers? Fine. The book weighs roughly 8 pounds. There are 398 pages filled with most black and white photos. It's 11.8 inches square, and includes nine interviews with busty superstars. A majority of the photos are full page and much larger than my puny scanner can capture. This book is so much more than a handfull.

What numbers can not begin to convey is just how beautiful the pictures are. Dian Hanson worked as a pornographic magazine editor since 1976 and obviously accumulated the cream of the crop in erotica. Every page was meant to be enjoyed. Every girl possessed a sexuality, playfulness or just plain beauty that is timeless.

I also greatly enjoyed the interviews. It starts with Tempest Storm and Candy Barr who seemed to almost suffer for their beauty. As the sexual revolution kicked in and women became more empowered, the personal stories become much brighter. There is still heartbreak, but you can see society change and treat their women better. Much is said about how you can judge a society by how it treats it weakest, but this book unintentionally makes a convincing argument that how we treat our most desirable says volumes about our own morality.

Looking through the book, I am struck by my own attitudes towards breasts. I have always liked breasts and when I was younger I was completely bewildered when other men said they liked legs, eyes or asses. I agree with Dian that the fact that Americans don't have a casually topless culture has made us obsessive about them. Nipples are always hidden away while breasts can only be hinted at. This makes breasts more important than they probably are, but damn it, it's hard to shake off the primitive response I have every time I see a beautiful chest. As an adult I and as a dom, most of the the qualities I look for in a woman are mental, but I can't deny the subliminal breast admiring part of my being. It's an instant tug on my libido, a message of abundance and femininity that short cuts the logic parts of my brain and whispers directly to my carnal desires. I feel like I am programmed to melt in the presence of D cups, and a book like this pushes that pleasure button over and over again.

It is worth the fifty dollars. It was well worth the strain in my back every time I picked it up. This book is big, lovely and magnificent.

Friday Night Dungeon Recap

Last night the wife and I hit our local dungeon. They were having a lingerie fashion show and we thought it would be a good time to try to get back into the public eye. I had a new dark purple shirt that was fucking awesome if I do say so myself.

Dungeons are strange places to meet new people. People were there mostly to catch up with the friends they already had. The conversations are deeply personal and centers on shared histories of events you can't go back in time and become a part of. I would stand there for ten minutes before realizing that there was going to be jack shit I could add to the conversation.

I read a lot of sex stories where new people at a dungeon are wrapped into a seductive circle that welcomes you into deeper deviancy. This may be true if you are single and submissive. Married dominant couple, not so much.

Slowly we did manage to find some people to chat with, it just takes forever. It amazes me how I spent the day e-mailing a fascinating woman who came across my blog, but In-Person Shon can't seem to be of interest to people. I guess I am used to talking with people who know me through my writing, because last night I was finding it damn annoying to try to come across as interesting when I know I am of interest. Blogging has spoiled me for doing all my publicity for me. I feel like I am missing some critical social skill that everyone else has when it comes to meeting new people.

As far as the lingerie show went, it was a pretty neat thing to watch. Some of the models were extremely happy to be doing their job, flaunting every thing they had. Others looked like they were being forced to do it, which in a dungeon is quite possible. You'd see the stark terror in their eyes as they walked down the runway, pivot and nearly run back. It was pretty sexy.

There was a gorgeous tall African-American woman that my wife said my jaw clenched every time she walked by. She was painfully beautiful. She had a tattoo on her upper thigh that was the beginning of the Declaration of Independence. Maybe its the lack of sleep, but I thought that was the sexiest thing I saw all night.

Rest In Peace Vickie

Most people understand the concept of an alpha dog. Dog packs, monkeys and just about any animal that is social has an alpha which is often the biggest, strongest and healthiest member of the pack. They rule their pack while fending off challenges from those who wish to take their place.

What is less known is the concept of an omega. The omega in a pack is at the bottom of the chain. These poor creatures are the ones every one else picks on, bullies and bosses around. They exist to bear the abuse of their group.

Here's the part that fascinates me- They hold no power yet when an omega dies, the pack stands a real chance of falling apart. An alpha can die and a wolf pack will mourn for an hour and then chose a new leader. When an omega dies, packs have been known to mourn for weeks, sometimes never really recovering.

Vickie Lynn Marshall, better known to her pack as Anna Nicole Smith, passed away yesterday. She started off as a gorgeous model who came across like Marilyn Monroe 2.0. Her breasts were bigger, her hair was more fabulous and her attitude was so adorably pornographic. She was at the start of a more voluptuous look as opposed to the heroin chic of the 80's. Visually she was divine.

In this Internet reality 24/7 entertainment channel age though, that wasn't enough. Her every action amplified for consumption, it didn't take Anna long to become the omega for our society. She committed the crime of marrying a terribly older and wealthier man. She gained weight beyond our national comfort zone. She was also a little less divine than we wished her to be, so every dumb silly thing she did was an excuse to get in another jab and another insult. She went from alpha to omega and people preferred her that way.

I wonder sometimes how Anna felt. Her reality show was clearly her cashing in on her omega status. By turning her life into weekly entertainment, she gave her consent for society to abuse her. Those who couldn't bring themselves to humiliate her could console themselves with the myth that Anna was getting paid so it was okay. My friends would quote her latest embarrassing statement followed by a 'bless her heart', as if that single statement absolved everyone involved from verbally pissing on her. Anna must have known what she had become and I wonder if she knew how important her role was.

Anna's dead now. Cause of death is currently unknown which means her pack will have to figure out what is the most hurtful humiliating cause they can settle on. She was society's omega and even in death they will find a way to put her down for their own enjoyment. In the years to come, entertainment shows and alleged news programs will drag her body, name and image around for community gangbangs.


Deep down though, I hope the whole damn pack dies with grief.


Images taken from annanicole.com

Fiction's Bitch

I'm a dom but when I get started on a long story, an irresistible excitement takes me over. I get up earlier and earlier for more time to write. I sneak back to the computer and add another paragraph. While I am typing, I fight any reason to stop. Food, money and even sex are just irritants when I am in this mode. I am bound the keyboard by fiction, bound tighter than any handcuff, chain or duct tape. I become fiction's bitch, serving the story as best I can till it is satisfied.

Fiction: Open Mouth

It was a loud, raucous night at the Booty Lounge. I could hear a full-blown orgy going on in the main bar. Denny had just gotten back from Iraq, and upstairs, the Lane sisters were giving him a three-mouth salute. A spanking contest was in full swing in the bathroom, and not an ass was to be spared. Nights like these were what made the Booty Lounge the greatest dungeon in existence.

Poor Maggie was going to miss it all. Tucked away here in the corner of the storage room, Maggie was chained by her ankles and wrists to a cold wooden chair. Goggles painted black covered her eyes so that not even the barest trace of light would come in. Earphones pumped out an endless track of ocean sounds so she wouldn’t hear any of the debauchery happening around her. Maggie would never know what had happened this night except for what we told her later.

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Don’t feel too sorry for her. It was her own damn fault. Last night had been a little bit quieter, and Maggie made the mistake of declaring her boredom. No-Pants Wally, the owner, host and captain of our dirty little bar, overheard her, and let’s just say he was not amused. In a place where the come runs as freely as the liquor and no fetish is ever denied, No-Pants Wally felt it was your own damn fault if you were bored.

Now, it would have been perfectly acceptable if No-Pants had decided to kick her out of the Booty Lounge for the weekend, but no, the captain was in a mean mood. He gave her the option of either being exiled for an entire month or submitting to his punishment. Poor Maggie, she liked the idea of a special punishment so she chose that.

That was why she was sitting here, isolated from the excitement she had craved last night. She had been stripped nude, of course, because that’s just how we do things here. Her restraints kept her legs spread wide, and her wrists were on chains too short to allow her to touch herself. All she could do was sit and daydream about what might have been happening around her.

Oh, and she could suck. You see, Captain No-Pants Wally believes that everyone in his crew should serve a function. Maggie usually pays her way by playing serving wench, but since she was tucked away here in the storage room, No-Pants had decided that there was no reason not to put something else of hers to work. He had settled on her mouth.

Why was I sitting here in the storage room with her? Well, the captain isn’t a foolish man, and he knew that someone had to keep an eye on her. Even in the Booty Lounge, we just don’t leave someone tied up and helpless by herself. I volunteered because it’s my job at the lounge to chronicle the events for the newsletter. As the crew’s scribe, I am often the only sober witness, so why not witness Maggie’s denial of the things I usually record?

The first hour was uneventful. Maggie sat there, pouting and annoyed. I had my notebook out and was trying to come up with a poem that did justice to Maria’s big brown tits. Maggie just sat quietly, sighing only once in awhile.

Wildman was the first guy to come in. He nodded at me and then unzipped his pants in front of Maggie’s bound body. His pierced cock pointed straight at her unsuspecting mouth. With both hands, he grabbed hold of her dirty-blond hair and pulled her mouth onto his cock. She barely had time to smile before eight inches of cock and a metal stud went down her throat.

He fucked her face hard; you don’t earn a name like Wildman because you’re a gentle lover. I watched as he pounded her face with his hairy crotch. Maggie’s hands clenched and pulled at her chains, but the shackles held tight. Only her breasts could move freely, bouncing with every thrust of Wildman’s cock.

He climaxed with a roar of approval and then pulled his cock free. He might have slapped her face with his cock or he might have just been wiping himself off. Either way, he zipped back up and walked out. He left without saying a ward as Maggie panted in her seat.

That was just the start of the night. After Wildman left, a long parade of men came in to make use of her. It was if it took one cock to break the ice. One by one, they wandered in, ignoring me and making full use of Maggie’s mouth. Out in the bar, there were willing sluts with even more willing mouths, but here was the chance to just fuck a mouth without a word, a negotiation or a conquering seduction. In here was bound, choking, gasping Maggie.

And it wasn’t just the men who used her. Susan came in with her strap-on and assaulted Maggie’s mouth for a good half=hour. Belinda came in with six dildos and had Maggie get them nice and wet for the party in the bar. The Duchess propped her leg on Maggie’s shoulder, allowing Maggie access to her cunt. After sucking so many cocks, Maggie likely welcomed the taste of pussy, I thought. Well, not like she had any choice.

After three hours, I hung a sign on the storage room. I unlocked Maggie’s shackles from the chair but left them on her. A tug on her hair got her to follow me as we went into the main room of the Booty Lounge. Blind and deaf, she saw nothing of what Red Yolanda was doing to her slaves. I guided her to the bathroom where she did what essentials she had to. When it came time, it was I who wiped her cunt and ass, for the captain didn’t trust her not to masturbate even for a moment. I’m not sure who was more humiliated by the ass-wiping, Maggie or I. I made a note to talk to her about it later.

There was a line of men waiting outside the storage room when we came back. I brought her back to her chair and reattached the chains. Ready for business once again, I took down the sign, and we resumed her punishment.

I couldn’t imagine what it was like for Maggie. A cock went in, and then some sucking, licking and swallowing later, another cock replaced it. No words, harsh or kind, could she hear. Per the captain’s rules, no one touched her bare breasts or pinched a hard nipple. Her cunt was also forbidden, left to soak in its own juices. All she was tonight was a receptacle for come. Thrust, ejaculate, re-cock — that was all she knew.

Every so often, when there was a lull in the face-fucking, I would wipe her down. She would groan so much as the warm washcloth cleaned the come from her chin and chest. During these breaks, I would press a straw to her lips, and she would suck down water instead of come. These brief moments of care were all the kindness she was receiving this night, but I like to think they helped her during her punishment. Well, not too much. It was a punishment, after all.

It was during one of these breaks that Maggie spoke to me.

“Please, please help me come.”

I sighed and began to answer but then remembered that she wouldn’t be able to hear me, anyway. Mercy is not unheard of in the Booty Lounge. I had watched her sit her in this dark corner while endless parties happened outside the door. One cock after another she had taken without complaint. The captain had forbidden anyone to touch her, but if I broke the rule, I doubted Maggie would tattle.

I reached down between her legs. Her cunt was slick from servicing dozens of cocks that had parted her lips but never her thighs. I gave her a little stroke, and Maggie gave me a big moan. Her hips shook, and she clenched tightly on my finger.

“Oh, please, I have never wanted it so bad!” she said.

Neither had I. Watching this slut suck cocks all night long had made my own cock harder than steel. I pulled my finger out of her and pulled down my pants.

I grabbed her head and pulled her mouth to my cock. Maggie groaned, but she opened her lips and took me in. Her jaw was sore and her tongue exhausted, but she managed to suck the hell out of me anyway. It was a frantic sucking as she tried to somehow convince me to fuck her by the power of her blowjob. She struggled in her restraints, grinding uselessly in her seat as she tried to gain some sort of satisfaction for her neglected cunt. She mumbled as she sucked me, no doubt begging me to finger her cunt.

Instead, I reached down and groped her lovely tits. While the Captain had declared them off-limits, too, I indulged myself and squeezed hard. I pulled and tugged on her poor tits while she sucked my cock. My fingers teased her nipples, giving her ideas of what I could do to her clit. Maggie whimpered louder, but she never stopped sucking.

It didn’t take me long to climax. I emptied myself in her mouth, and Maggie faithfully squeezed out every drop. As soon as my cock pulled free of her lips, though, she went back to begging.

“Oh, please take me,” she said. “Just one orgasm, please!”

I pulled up my pants and went back to my seat. By the time I got my notebook open, Tito had come in with a hard-on. Maggie was still pleading when he slammed his cock into her mouth. I can only assume she knew what the answer was.

Poor Maggie. Did I deny her orgasm out of loyalty to the captain? Or did I deny her for my own sadistic pleasure? No, I did it because last night she was bored, and tonight, she was far from it. A horny mouth slave drunk on cunt and cock, she ached for release. She waited for a rescue that was hours away, trying to plead with her tongue to get something in return.

She couldn’t know whether she’d succeed in getting some sort of satisfaction: Maybe I’d give in and just fuck her. Or maybe the captain himself would come in and give her something to come on. Worst of all, maybe she’d just keep sucking and licking and her cunt would be neglected all night long.

No matter what, Maggie wouldn’t be bored tonight.

Post Orgasmic Bliss Syndrome

After the mind blowing of an orgasm, I can only remember the fuzzy details. Blond hair, purple shirt, and breasts come back to me at odd moments of the day. I'm haunted for days afterwards by the memory of sex that was better than it could have possibly actually been. Time adds filters to memory; stressing the brightness of hair, blurring the sharp lines into curvy perfection and contrasting colors till they become deeper than any artist's palette. Sex ceases to have been an act and becomes an event that will wake you up years later in a hot sweat and a panting breathe.

Bit Torrenting Domme's and Bad French Fries

"You realize that since I have met you, I have signed more non-disclosure agreements than I have my whole life?"

Sara told me this yesterday at a new BDSM munch we were at. For those who don't know, a munch is where a local community of BDSM interested people meet for food and to get to know people in their area. I have not yet determined what Atlanta law requires that this take place at a spot that serves abominable food, but I am working on it.

Anyway, the wife and I are still shopping through groups and yesterday we tried a group that appeared to cater to a younger crowd. I have to say I was a bit hesitant as I imagined a younger group would somehow be more shallow or cliquish. That's real fucking judgmental of me at 33 but when your baby fat has turned into well fed husband fat, you tend to think that younger people are snickering at your belly. Or maybe it's just me. Instead of snickering, they were the nicest most welcoming bunch we've met yet. It was a pretty pleasant surprise.

Sara tagged along which is really funny. When we first met, she couldn't imagine even stepping foot inside a BDSM group. Now she's planning to hit the dungeon club next Friday with us. In fact, she really got along well with this group yesterday and made friends hand over fist. I envy her speed dating skills.

On the other hand it just goes to show how strange and wonderful the whole BDSM munch experience is. The whole point is to provide a public place for those interested in BDSM to meet and see that the community is just normal folks. When you've had a conversation with a gal for thirty minutes about bit torrenting TV shows, finding out later that she is a professional domme is just a small character detail. The domme thing almost becomes insignificant compared to the detail that she spent two weeks downloading her favorite cartoon from the 80's.

I think that is what always surprises me about these things. It's just so mundane. I go through a cycle before every munch where I get excited, then I get nervous, then I freak out a little thinking the munch will be filled with people who find me boring and then I get there. Five minutes in, I'm looking at a bunch of people who are just as nervous, antsy and bored as I am, except they have been here longer. The topics are paddles and corsets, but these people are just as awkward as any company picnic or family reunion. I always feel silly afterwards for getting nervous in the first place. They are so freaking happy to see a new person yet at the same time hoping they don't come across as a freak to you.

So if you're into BDSM, go visit your local groups. Seriously. If I can do it with my anxiety issues, you can certainly do it. If Sara can do it, I know you can. Go join your local community and thrill them with a new person they can discuss their favorite TV show with. You'll thank me for it.

The Cruel Lessons of Chiun and Pai Mai

I may not always practice it but I know its true: If you want to be good at something, you have to keep doing it.

I've been on a martial arts movie kick lately and I am a sucker for the training scenes that is always in such movies. The poor hero finds that no matter how cruel his enemies are, the training that his beloved teacher dishes out will be far crueler. There is a sadomasochistic relationship between teacher and student in these films that fascinate me as a dom, but as a writer I know it is the right relationship. The student needs to suffer, he needs to take a beating and he needs to do back breaking physical labors because in his chosen field, that of a movie action hero, he is going to be beaten down a lot so he might as well start practicing it now.

What is true for martial arts movie heroes is always true for erotica writers and bloggers. We need to keep at it. We need to write everyday no matter how much shit we have to do. We need to come up with coherent posts and thrilling stories no matter what terribly important things may be happening with our lives. We have to push through colds, work schedules and pissy relationship turns and force ourselves to keep writing. We have to push through and adhere to a schedule because when we do get that brilliant story idea and it needs to be done, life and destiny are usually jealous assholes about letting you have the free time to write that wonderful perfect story. If you think you have a hard time now finding the energy to create a story, just wait till you actually have a story and you have to start clawing time away from other alleged more important things to do.

So there. If sitting down and writing something new for the day seems unglamorous, think of yourself as a driven action hero or heroine. Your blog is your cruel Master or Mistress that demands you wax on another post despite your sinus headache. It demands you learn the multiple point of view technique or else you will be called a lazy three legged yak. Resent the fuck out of your blog and call it nasty names while you sit down and write something just to keep your writing skills sharp.

I haven't worked out the analogy of what happens when someone kills your Master and you go on a two hour rampage of revenge but then, that might be tomorrow's impossible task.