Cryptolibido

Her sex is a labyrinth.

Whether by cock or by tongue, her sex is a maze filled with magic, wonder and bliss. Folds and passages without dead ends going on forever and ever through corridors of pleasure and mystery. At the center of this beautiful maze lies precious treasure but it is not the treasure that makes the labyrinth special. It's the way the labyrinth changes me. It molds me, reshapes me, transforms me as it squeezes me through until I emerge from the labyrinth exhausted, exhilarated and new.

After I leave the physical labyrinth of her sex, I still find myself blissfully lost in the labyrinth of her love.

Out of Town

I am heading out of town for the rest of the week. I'll be back this weekend and hopefully will be back on a regular posting schedule Monday.

I have stories in mind that I want to tell that do not feel like therapy. I have some ideas that will hopefully entertain you and me. I know divorce is supposed to take forever to adjust to but I'm really tired of it. I want to be a writer again and not that guy who analyzes his life all the time.

Thank you for all the kind e-mails and comments. I may not have been a god husband but apparently I have been a good blogger considering how much affection and good wishes I have received.

Merry Christmas from Chiron Beta Prime

From the always entertaining Johnathan Coulton comes a song I wish I had written.

Office Party

You are cordially invited to the Von Madd Laboratories Christmas/Kwanza/Festivus/Whatever party being held December 21 at 8:00 pm. Please bring this invitation with you or else you will not be allowed into the party unless you submit yourself as a test subject for the new FlogMistress-3200 (Now with 20% more rotations!).

Food and drinks will be provided, as well as lube, mattresses and seasonal lingerie. A strictly dress code will be observed requiring at least fifty percent of flesh to be exposed. Lab coats may be worn if they are the only article of clothing being worn.

The mistletoe this year will emit a powerful aphrodisiac at random intervals resulting in kisses you may not be able to stop for an hour.

One percent of your fellow coworkers will actually be cleverly disguised sex robots. Take a chance this year on that coworker you have been crushing on, you might get lucky with them or at least get lucky with a highly accurate sex android version of them.

A vast majority of the candy canes will in fact be vibrators. Yo determine if a candy cane is in fact edible, you can test it by stroking the length of the cane three times. if it vibrates, it is not edible, though you may still want to put it in your mouth.

Presents will be distributed based on a system of peer appraisals, work reviews, outstanding sexual qualities and number of PhD's. Presents could of course be traded but that is only if you have zero faith in Dr. Von Madd's delicate and highly researched system, but that is your choice if you want to go against science and all. It is the holidays, you are allowed to throw away everything you beleive in just because you want something prettier than what you deserve.

You may of course bring your own presents to give to your coworkers based on your own flawed system.

Video cameras will be recording the entire party in order to provide Research and Development with necessary data. The film footage will also be used as outright porn for management and holiday cards for next year.

Happy Holidays,
Dr. Otto Von Madd

Good Sex

Good sex is like entering heaven.

Good sex is like finding what all the fuss is about.

Good sex is like the sky: warm, bright, beautiful and infinite.

Good sex is like watching porn and realizing that it is you on the screen.

Good sex is like Christmas, Easter, Halloween and your birthday on one special day.

Good sex is like finding an author you love and then realizing that they have written a hundred other stories that you can read.

Good sex is what we all deserve.

Written Anything?

I love my friends. Some of them ask if I have written anything this week. They are not greedy, they just think it is a healthy sign that I am getting better. They want to know that I am still writing and that everything will be okay. The fact that it has been less than a week doesn't seem to sink in because it is so surreal.

Of course I haven't written anything yet.

But I have some ideas. I have one story banging around but I'm not writing it because it is really sad. I don't want to be that blogger. You know the one, who undergoes a terrible life change and then starts writing stories about characters who go through the same life change and shit plays out. Christ, you're my readers, not my therapists.

I want to write something funny. I want to write something with a lot of action. I want to write a summer movie with big explosions and bigger breasts. I want to write amazing sex with even more amazing dialogue. I want to go blow your fucking socks off.

So we'll see what happens this weekend. This weekend I get the rest of my stuff. I get boxes and boxes of memories and coping mechanisms. I'll get stuff that was either bought for me by my wife, or bought by me trying to make myself happy in a unhappy marriage. Bleh, I am not looking forward to that.

That cheap meaningless light story is looking more and more attractive.

My Porn

One of the first things I did when I left my parents' house was get a shitload of porn. Man, I wanted it all. Back then I only had access to magazines and over priced videos from mail order companies but I just tore through it all. My parents viewed sex as a dirty thing and I was eager to see what all the dirt was about.

When I got married, my porn buying slowed down. Part of that was the Internet and it's wonderful vast collection of free porn. I really liked the text stories and started writing my own. The more I wrote, the more I treated porn as research material. I got porn that excited me, but a lot of it was just that same insatiable curiosity I had as a young adult. Sex fascinates me. It's something no two people can readily agree on. Well, they do if they want to have sex, but I almost consider that a statistical miracle. You can grab two people off the street and ask if they like a certain flavor of ice cream and you stand a good chance of these random two people saying yes. Grab two random people and ask how they feel about oral sex, you have no telling how they will react.

This is all my way of saying that my porn collecting didn't bother me in the least.

But now that I am divorcing, and I am able to talk to my friends for the first time about the sheer lack of intimacy I have had in my marriage for the last 10 years, holy shit. I've moved in with a friend and as I unpack I am just stunned by how many breasts, asses and acts of submission I have visibly around me. It's impossible for me not to see how dysfunctional it all looks.

Take my video games. My wife hated going anywhere. She much rather stay home and rest from throwing herself at work. So I bought a beach volleyball game for the XBox that has all bouncy half naked chicks who you buy swimsuits for. I got my summer vacation I didn't want, a bunch of giggly video girls who lay in the sun and I got to dress them in the swimsuits my wife always rejected wearing.

I have a pillow with pinup girls dressed in Halloween costumes. I like it because it is done in a 50's carefree style. My wife made it for me, after I found the fabric and asked her to do it. She made it for me, but it was what I wanted. You know what I mean? It wasn't her desire to make it. It was me, surrounding myself with something sexy to remind myself that I like sex.

Fuck. That's how I look at all my little sexy possessions. Art books, posters and figurines that evoked desire in me were precious things I bought and treasured because it was validation that I was a sexual being. For many reasons, my wife rarely had sex with me and damn it, I just couldn't ever give up on sex. I surrounded myself in sex like I was living in a bachelor's apartment. Maybe all that sex around us was too much pressure. Maybe it turned her off. Maybe because I wanted it so fucking bad and she realized my objects were my substitute for her. I don't know.

I can't throw them out though. I see them as reminders and maybe emotional crutches but I can't let them go. Being sexually frustrated is a part of me I know so well that right now when my world is so upside down, I don't want to let it go.

Who the Fuck?

This is going to ramble a bit but you'll understand because I'm getting a divorce.

My wife and I take care of each other. We adore each other in spite of those thing we hate about each other. Over the last few years, the hate outnumbers the love. There is no need to say what the breaking point is because over time the breaking has been going on for years.

I didn't understand this till Friday night. She was mad. She was upset and she unloaded on me. She said that she felt like I split my attention between my writing, my readers, my play partners, my friends and her. She said that all her attention is on me. She said that I hurt her, and for the last 8 years, that I have not taken care of her and that I am too selfish to really care for her.

Then she took it all back. She was just upset. She didn't mean it.

The thing is, this was a continuation of the same fight we have had for ages. We were picking right back up from the last time we had this fight and this was years old. She resents that so many of our friends like me better. She resents that I do not want to live like a hermit just with her on some lonely mountain. She resents that I don't submit to her tastes and interests.

So this really tore me up. I realized how unhappy she was for the past decade. See, I thought that no matter how unhappy I was, at least she was happy. I thought I took a good job taking care. I feel like I break my back taking care of her and now I knew that I sucked at it. The question became, if I was doing such a bad job as her husband, why was I making myself miserable for so little results?

We talked about it and we both agreed that we were both working really hard for so little happiness. We love each other and we care about each other but we are not good for each other.

The weird part is that I feel like I have lost my identity. I saw myself as that husband guy who loved and took care of this very special woman and made her happy. I made choices every day with her in mind. I made decisions with my inner voice sounding like hers. I have worked, played, loved and wrote with her influence and approval or disapproval.

And now it's just me. I haven't been me in 14 years. Even in my writing, there are large bits of her. I'm not saying it in a tragic, oh-she-will-always-be-with-me way, but in a very serious, I did everything with her in mind. I was not myself, I was what she demanded of me. And now I'm not. I'm me.

Who the fuck is me?

I have friends. I have close friends. I have people who love me. I will not be alone in this. I'll be moving this week. I will keep writing. Something. I just don't know what that writing will be. It will be all me. Or a lot of me with less of my wife. But this will take time and well, practice.

I've never been me.

Spanking Rivalry

Matthew checked the woman’s ass. It was like touching a hot plate. The hour of flogging, spanking and whipping has made the woman’s ass a crimson delight of heat, welts and tenderness. The woman squirmed when he touched her but the spanking bench’s restraints held her tight. The gag in her mouth stopped any protests but that was okay, she consented to everything in advance which is just how Matthew liked it.

He tried to remember the woman’s name and failed. It was just too damn hard to keep track of all these names. He felt like it started with a hard ‘K’ sound. Karen? Kathy?

“Is she ready?” Jason asked.

Matthew looked at his older brother. “I’d say so.” Matthew tried to act cool as he gripped the woman’s plump ass. Was her name Kelly?

Jason was acting just as nonchalant. He toyed with the paddle he had just used on the woman. “So, which end do you want to fuck?”

To read more, click Whole Post


Matthew looked at his paddle as if the choice didn’t matter to him either. “I was thinking about fucking her ass.” He was also thinking the name might be Kitty?

The bound woman moaned in delight or apprehension. They couldn’t tell which. They really didn’t care.

Jason shook his head. “Brother of mine, I think I’m going to have to call you out on that.”

Matthew kept looking at his paddle. “You sure? She has a pretty mouth. I’ll take the ass and you can fuck those plump red lips.” Katherine?

Jason laughed. “You’ve been reading too much porn. Plump red lips?”

Matthew laughed. “Okay, you’re right. That was a bit too much. But you know, I didn’t spend an hour whooping her ass just to fuck her mouth.”

Jason nodded. “That’s how I feel too.”

This conversation was one they have had a hundred times. It started back with their high school crush, Tina Stratford, and continued through college, and into their adult lives when they started going to BDSM clubs. The brothers don’t mind fucking a woman at the same time, but they have very strong opinions about which end they prefer and they just hate sloppy seconds.

“Dragon tails?” Matthew asked.

Jason nodded. “I’ll get the stickers.”

Five minutes later, the bound woman had twelve colorful stickers on her ass. They were bright yellow and green letters arranged in a circle on her bottom. B-B-O-O-T-T-T-T-O-O-M-M.

Fifteen feet away, Jason and Matthew uncoiled their dragon tails. The whips were made of rough leather and had a strange cut that resulted in the fabric forming a spiral when at rest. They looked neat but were a bitch to actually aim. This made it perfect for their purposes.

Jason snapped his first, striking the bound woman’s exposed ass but missing the letter, ‘B’.

“Fucker, we hadn’t decided who goes first,” Matthew said.

“I just did,” Jason said. Only brothers could get away with being this unfair when a woman’s ass is on the line.

“Fucker,” Matthew said again. He snapped his dragon tail and hit his letter perfectly. The sticker was obliterated by the speeding leather.

“You small dick asshole,” Jason sad.

Matthew smiled and snapped again. This time he was off by a few inches as his dragon tail landed on the woman’s bare ass. Even through the woman’s gag they could hear her scream.

Jason snapped his dragon tail while the woman was still squirming. He struck his letter this time perfectly.

“Show off,” Matthew said.

“Yep,” Jason said as he snapped again. The leather uncoiled and whipped off the ‘O’.

This time the woman arched up as much as her restraints would allow and Jason waited. She stayed like that for a minute before she collapsed back into the bench. That’s when Jason tried again and missed.

“I had to make sure your bench would hold,” Jason said. It was an old insult.

“Dog humper,” Matthew said without much conviction. “I don’t go bitching about the quality of your leatherwork,” he lied. “If you think you can do a better job building benches, then you build the next one.”

Jason said nothing. The fact that Matthew missed was all he cared about.

Around the woman’s ass they went. Crack after crack of leather landed on her bottom and there were more hits than misses. The brothers had good aim, the kind you only get from years of practice and an asshole to compete against. They never lacked for targets in the clubs and jealous doms were convinced that they weren’t even really brothers. They could have any woman’s ass, but they didn’t do it for the pussy. What really mattered was which brother was better. Something like that makes it personal.

It came down to the last letter.

Jason missed.

Matthew missed.

The woman shook as she realized how soon she was about to be fucked at both ends.

Jason missed.

Matthew hit.

The woman screamed and climaxed at the same time.

“”Fuckstain,” Jason said. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even that disappointed because the woman did have pretty lips. These things came in cycles. Today he lost, tomorrow he might win. If the contest hadn’t been close, then there would have been an issue.

“ Christine!” Matthew said. “That’s the woman’s name! That was driving me up the wall!”

Jason shook his head and tossed Matthew a condom. “Brother, you worry about the dumbest things.”

Matthew took the condom. The woman’s ass was decorated in multiple welts. Jason was right. What did names matter when there was a victory ass fucking to be had?

The end.

Dirty Thoughts: Greed

I want to unwrap her.

I want to take all of those beautiful clothes that she wears and peel them off one by one. I want to be so gentle but not for her sake. I want to be gentle with her clothes that are so delicate and feminine as I work my way down to the prize of her body. I want to savor every new curve, treasure every new inch of skin and memorize every gasp she makes as I pull her out of the safety of her clothes and into the thrilling danger of what I have planned for her.

I want her bare.

I want her exposed.

I want her to be all mine.

Erotica Alert Level: Blood Rushing Red

I wrote most of a story lately. It is almost finished except of course for the part where I like it. I have to tweak it a bit and figure out what essential piece will connect the story I wrote to the story that was in my head that I was so happy about.

What is interesting to me and I apologize to you wonderful readers because I have turned this into a Track-My-Anxiety blog, is that although I am no longer scared shitless by the world, I still have all this crazy adrenaline. I'm excited. I'm terribly excited to the point that when I sat down to write my story, I had to get some scratch paper and write out the four different possible ways of telling that story because I couldn't just focus on one. This story is barely three pages and yet four versions of it exist in my head and I had to give them all equal time just to silence the doubt that the version I like is the best one.

But the thing is, I wrote it. I put it down and it's not bad. Considering how much work I have to do at work, and the constant jitters I have right now, it is a fucking miracle it was done at all. Yes, I want a cookie for my efforts.

Where's my cookie?

Time Management

Daydreaming about kissing is the most unproductive use of my time and yet it is the BEST use of my time.

Gateways

I was watching 'Tin Man' last night on the Sci-Fi channel. It's not bad, but it has more interesting ideas than execution. I'm still watching it though because the flashes of brilliance might get more frequent.

It got me thinking about childhood fantasies. The most popular stories often involve tornadoes or rabbit holes taking us to wonderful places where children get to be active participants instead of passive observers. I think we like these stories because we inherently don't beleive that the world we live in is exciting or interesting enough. We want to go somewhere else and much like Dorothy, we don't know where that place is, but we know it's not here.

I think the Internet has become a tornado for people now. I know the first time I logged into a BDSM chatroom I felt like I was embarking on an adventure. I was escaping conservative North Carolina where BDSM could only be accessed through 'Beauty' books or leftover Gor novels. Chatrooms grew into discussion groups, fiction story archives, cyber sex and dirty e-mails. I met one of the loves of my life through the Internet and right now I keep in touch with my kinky friends through livejournal and my blog. When my anxiety last week was at it's worse, I got supportive e-mails from Oz and Wonderland, encouraging me to come back.

I think sometimes that people online don't really understand how lucky we all are. We are one click away from a new Emerald City or one e-mail away from meeting the Red Queen. Before the Internet, we were stuck on that Kansas farm wishing for something, anything, different and the best we could hope for was meeting someone who didn't think we were too weird for owning a paddle bought in some kinky gas station.

I think we're living in a fantasy land right now and we don't even notice it.

Anxious

Around last Tuesday my sex drive dropped. No big deal, it happens sometimes. It sucks to be a sex writer with a dead sex drive but I didn't worry about it. I knew I was one good episode of 'Dr. Who' away from getting it back.

Thanksgiving came and I had a pretty lazy day. I played insane amounts of City of Heroes and spent sometime playing the wonderful Bioshock.

Friday came and that night I went to a party hosted by Valerie. We played dirty word scrabble with a group of mostly lesbians. There is nothing like watching a lesbian play the word, 'Pud', and then explain it. I won the second game with BJ on a double word score and I'm still pretty happy about that.

Saturday I woke up with a tight chest and the sense that I was going to screw up big time. I felt incompetent, stupid, childish and lame. I was scared of everything. I was scared of hanging out with friends, I was scared of messing up my wife's birthday, I was scared of alienating people, I was scared of writing a shitty blog, I was scared of doing anything.

Monday wasn't much better. Tuesday was pretty bad but I think I held my shit together enough for my wife's birthday. Luckily she had an awful day at work and weirdly that took the pressure off me. I knew nothing I did would be as bad as what was happening at her job.

I was/am convinced that her birthday was a big trigger for this current anxiety attack. We just had an anniversary where we did everything under the sun and now I feel like I have to find one or two more wonderful things to do for her birthday and I am just flat out of inspiration. She's been looking at me all week to pull one more romantic miracle out of my ass and you know, she deserves one more romantic miracle but fuck if I had any idea what to do.

So, because work was such a bitch, she wants to move her birthday celebration to the weekend. That's fair. It also means that I have five more days to do something that will keep this from being a sucky birthday.

I so need to get my shit together.

My Wife's Birthday

Today my wife turns 34. Years of putting up with me has grayed her hair a little but other than that she's pretty much the same gal I fell hard for. Well, she's a bit more sarcastic but again, I think I have myself to thank for that.

I'm my wife's biggest fan. She somehow combines a great compassion for all living things with a ruthlessness that is a daily inspiration. She's the smartest person I know in all the most important things like computers, comic books, Everquest and why Harry Potter is over-rated. I can't imagine spending my days with anyone else.

The fact that she is a busty blonde with a great ass is just bonus.

That Fine Line

There are women that I love. They are smart, funny, and exciting. They make me feel like a great Priapic god when they show attention and affection for me. I adore and treasure them and want to be in their celestial orbits. I want to make sweet love to them in the dying of the night.

There are other women. The ones I want to fuck, ride, bend, bind, spank, pinch, overwhelm, and dominate. These women I want to play like instruments; discovering their unique song within and making them sing like they have never sung before. I write their story with paddles, commands and sheer will. I write a story that only works for them using themselves as inspiration and source.

One kind of woman is the kind I can grow old with.

One kind of woman is raw material to be processed, used and consumed.

I want both but it is hard for me to treat a single woman as both. A relationship that starts as the first rarely survives being transformed in the second. A relationship that starts as the second ceases to be exciting for the sub when it transforms into the first. Every book I read and every dom I talk to suggest starting with the first type and moving into the second and I agree in theory. It's the reality that's tricky.

I pull my punches as a dom when I love my sub. I have trouble having my sub hate me when I used to flourish under their love. I can't go for the kill when I lack the heart to be her villain.

A dom has to know that his sub will still love him after he has done wicked things to her. Again, I know this in theory but my anxiety screams that this brilliant wicked thing I have thought of will shut that affection forever. I know it's a lie, that my own affection for my sub will prevent me from doing anything that would hurt her, but my anxiety says that I make mistakes. My anxiety says that one day she'll figure out that I am not as strong as I pretend to be.

I think this is why I enjoy writing BDSM so much. I can hurt fictional characters and I will. I can be honest with a character about my desires and the sub's desires, with no fear of being judged. I can use a character. I enjoy using a character. They are there to be used and since the never loved me and never can, my anxiety never sabotages what they need.

There is a fine line between those that I love and those that I dominate. The truth is that I love them all, I just have troubles loving them well.

Wednesday Erotica Ramblings

What makes good porn is the act of interesting people having interesting sex. You can have one without the other, but the thing you do have has to be SO interesting that it outweighs the lack of the other. The reason I stop reading most 'real sex' blogs is that they tell me nothing about the people involved so they are reduced down to stereotypes. There's the boyfriend, the cheating wife, college kid, or some other bland characterization that creates a weird sense of deja vu in myself in that I think I am seeing these characters again. Even in a blog about real people, the lack of depth to the people they write about makes me think that I am reading about the same sorta-kinky college boyfriend who's also fucking girls in six other blogs. I start speculating about this mystery Romeo who has all these girls smitten over him, before I have to remind myself that it's not the same guy, it's the same lack of interest in fleshing him out. In a way I think the sex bloggers are less interested in the guy and telling us why they adore him as much as they just want to assure us that they too have sex.

The sex blogger quest for anonymity has created a large cast of faceless men and women who seem to have an awful lot in common. Some days I am fascinated by these shared qualities and what it says about us as sexual beings but most other days I just consider it bad writing. Sex bloggers who tell us about their real sex lives need to tell us about why they adore the people they are fucking so that we can adore them too.

Along a similar vein, one of the things I hate when I am reading a 'real' sex blog is when they use commercial copyrighted images on their blogs to throw in some nude porn. Maybe I am too knowledgeable about porn but few things take me out of immersion faster than when I am reading about a kinky event that allegedly happened last weekend, and I have a picture of Erica Campbell staring at me. Don't get me wrong, I love Erica, but somehow I don't think she is a close personal friend of the blogger. Images from professional porn inject the same sense of professional porn artificialness to a so called real life sex blog. I feel less like I am reading someone's personal account and more like I am reading porn filler for a magazine. Use your own images, or if you use other people's property, talk about why you like them so much. Make them the conversation.

The blogs that do hold my attention do so because they create the illusion of sharing. They make me feel like I am reading about a real sexual being. They have flaws and strengths. They fall for certain types because of experiences they have shared with their readers. We the readers feel informed enough to give advice because we feel like we know the blogger better than the blogger knows themselves. That's not an easy feat and I appreciate every writer who has that talent.

Monday Erotica Ramblings

One thing I love about erotica is that each individual story rarely has an impact on literature as a whole, but one special story can change a single person forever.

On the Internet with millions of erotica choices, people rarely read the same story. They are seeking their own fetish, their own favored voice and their own preferred deviance. When I talk to me friends about a story I liked, almost never does one of them say "I read that too". I have to show it to them. Even if something gets posted on Fleshbot or Sugasm, it doesn't guarantee that everyone reads it. Erotica readers hardly ever have a shared reading experience unless they initiate it between each other.

This used to depress me. If people are not having a shared reading experience, then the genre can never grow. Someone out there has written the perfect Coming of Slave story, and eliminated the need for anyone else to write another. Someone out there has created the most beautiful spanking scene possible and other writers will never be inspired by it. Without a shared foundation, our stories ca not build and grow from each other. I used to think this was a bad thing.

Now I realized it was just ego. I wanted people to get the credit they deserved but if people did learn from each other's porn, then I think porn would move as a generic whole. I walk into a book store these days to read fantasy or science fiction and all I can find are Vampire romances. Young reader books are all about magic schools and destined ones. They are building off of one another and trying to steal a little of each other's success but what we get is one or two stories being retold and improved upon.

Which is why I think I prefer porn the way it is. As much as I get tired sometimes of reading yet another twenty-something girl's sexual experiences that acts like she invented the blowjob, I am touched by the honest way they feel like they are exploring new ground. Instead of stealing from previous more successful erotica, people tell their own stories in which they discover the joys of sex for themselves in an almost vacuum.

This is not to say that there are erotic blog imitators out there. Quite a few blogs read like resumes where the blogger is trying to convince the reader that they are hip, sexy, knowledgeable writers who deserve their own magazine column pretty please, but I really feel these people are in the minority. People who create blogs in the search for money and manufactured fame are easily recognized as the faux sex-obsessed people they are. When you have more ads on your blog than personal content, the reader knows better. I am going to be really bitchy here and say the only people that read a wannabe commercial success sex blog are other wannabe commercial sex bloggers.

Which brings me back to the amateur sex blogger/writer who's greatest ambition is to share. We want to express these weird wonderful sexy thoughts that we don't see reflected back in mainstream society. We want to discuss what turns us on, what we do in our bedrooms and we want you to know about it. The urge to express is so great that maybe we don't do enough reading and listening to other sex-obsessed writers. So we never have a common reading ground and erotic never becomes literature in the sense of a shared experience. We tell our stories that might have been told better in the past but because we don't know that, we have the courage to write and maybe make something better.

The best part is that just because we don't reach everybody with our blogs and stories, it doesn't mean we didn't reach someone. Our honest, un-influenced, un-intimidated stories will touch someone or maybe two someones and become part of their sexual desires. Because we are not commercially struggling to reach a mainstream audience that aims for the lowest common denominator, we create a very specific powerful tailored piece of work that strikes right at the heart and libido of someone who will masturbate, fantasize and daydream about that story forever.

I'm pretty happy with that.

Divide and Write

There are days when you would happily give up sex for a year in exchange for one good story idea.

And then there are days like this week where you are swarmed with ideas. There are so many possible stories and each one comes to mind faster than the previous one till you start thinking you might need to skip a meal to work in all of the writing and while you are at it, maybe skipping work, friends and sleep would be good too.

The biggest problem in times like these is that you are having so many ideas that you're not actually writing any of them. The euphoric rush of creativity sometimes fucks your focus to the point that you're not giving any one idea the time it needs to bloom into a story. You're filling notebooks with ideas but readers don't want ideas. They want stories and stories take time and focus.

Which is why I feel the best attribute a writer can develop is the ability to procrastinate when it comes to ideas. That brilliant thought you just had will still be as brilliant next month when you're finished with what you are doing. Put it off. Write it down on it's own separate page of notes and turn the page. Divide out your ideas into little cells in your notebook prison. Lock them away and keep them in isolation. Quit thinking about your ingenious BDSM story involving peppermint so that your current brilliant idea, the story about sadistic kinky real estate agents can get the attention it needs to get finished.

Divide and write.

Things I Like To Do During a Spanking That Does Not Involve Spanking

1. Pulling her pants down. This is something I really like to do myself. The act of unbuttoning is the BDSM equivalent of unwrapping a gift. Which I guess it is.

2. Grabbing the hair. You know, when you grab someone's hair, you have their attention. If you are wailing on their ass while doing it, then you have split their attention in two places. Besides, good hair was meant to be pulled.

3. When the ass is bright red and hot to the touch, I like to lean down and bite. I like the feel of hot skin between my teeth while the person I am biting either squeals, moans or shivers. I like to bite right where their cunt is inches from my nose. If I am doing a good job of spanking, I can smell just how good I'm doing. When the skin I am biting is no longer blistering hot, I know it's time to go back to the spanking.

Feel free to add to the list.