Pain Deferred. Pt 4

She checked her watch and placed it on the bed, undid the belt of her satin robe and discarded it, and knelt on the carpet facing the window, head bowed, waiting for him. He had said she must wait for 5 minutes but have no means of tracking those seconds except within her own head. She thought of what she had asked of him, what he had promised to give, and his request that she submit first, allow herself this abdication of control. He had promised her pain though, pain she had been unable to receive, but for which she was desperate. The litany of flogger, paddle, crop and cane ran through her mind, and her damp pussy became awash with her juices in moments, as she waited, alone, patient, desperate. Still, she was waiting for his first touch.

Surely this was more than 5 minutes. Maybe he was delayed. But she remembered he had said her phone could be left on for now to reassure her, although he claimed notoriously punctuality. Her legs were beginning to tremble, not from any physical stress of her position but from her emotional turmoil; rampant lust mixed with doubt… and fear she now acknowledged. Fear of whether she could in fact take what she wanted to experience.

A sound. Footfalls muffled by the carpet outside, the keycard in the lock! She heard him move into the room, and was desperate to see him, but she kept her discipline as he had said she should, her head remained bowed, eyes fixed on the carpet before her. She heard what must be a bag plop onto the bed and then she heard that lovely dark voice.

‘Grace. You are stunning. Even the beautiful pictures you sent me came nowhere near doing justice to the vision I see before me. I am singularly blessed that you chose me as your partner.’

She heard him getting closer as he spoke, his shoes and chinos appeared in her vision.

‘Raise your head and kiss me.’

She obeyed joyously, seeing him drop to one knee before her, quickly noticing his broad chest, wide shoulders, and lovely beard. An impression of brown sensitive eyes were all she had time for before his lips were softly brushing against hers, slowly inviting, pressing gently. He smelt of spice and dark sex, his taste was rich and full. Slowly, their mouths opened to each other, tongues met, embraced, chased, slowly, then with more purpose. She felt herself melting at this kiss, becoming a flowing, pulsing entity as he stirred her with his presence and touch. Only half-aware it was happening, her lips were becoming firmer and he matched her, not trying to dominate, just seeing what she liked it seemed. After what felt like a delicious age, she felt the pressure lessen along with the pace, and he moved to kiss her eyelids. Never before had she felt so full of energy but almost weak enough to faint.

‘Such beautiful eyes. I look forward to seeing them in many different moods, but for now I must forego that pleasure and ask you to look downwards again.’

This time her compliance met an inward reluctance but this did not slow her actions. He moved up and back towards the bed. That was the bag opening she thought, a little rummaging, and he is returning, going round behind her.

‘You desire restraint but your experience has been limited, let’s introduce you to cuffs. Stand for me Grace, and put your hands behind your back.’

She felt his strong hands guide her wrists into leather, and support her arms as the straps were tightened. Then she felt movement and heard metal click. He backed away a little and stayed still. Her hands were fastened together, cuffs on her wrists, and the sensation was so much greater than could be explained by the leather. She was bound, bound by him, bound to him.

‘Beautiful. Just so sexy and tempting, that arse really does cry out for the full treatment. Kneel again for me Grace.’

The silence grew as she achieved the required posture, it endured.

‘Remember you told me how this proposal of mine turned you on? That you would wait and wait as I watched? And that as you waited you would be more and more turned on? Let us test this remark of yours.’

Silence reigned again, as he moved to a position over to her left, out of vision as he sat in the chair she knew was there. She waited.

And it was as she had said.

She could still feel him there, the strength of his regard, and she believed his words that he found her beautiful, that he wanted her. He had always said this, but there was no faking that kiss. It had left her breathless. Her yearning for him was an aching fire, threatening to swamp her pussy and turn her legs to jelly… and he had hardly touched her yet.

She so wanted him, it had been building ever since she first read more than one story at a sitting. She did not care what he did, for she knew instinctively that she would love each and every nuance, every twist and turn, every demand, every offer. So she knelt still, offering herself completely. And waited as her passion took her over, but still she held.

His wonderful strong voice softly penetrated her erotic haze.

‘Grace, I am so proud of you. I can see just how turned on you are. Just waiting for me, you can make into the most wonderful pleasure for yourself. This is a great talent. One to be celebrated and nurtured.

Let us take you fully into the world of restraint, as you desire, and let me give you a little surprise before I begin to spank you. Would you like that?’

‘Oh yes,’ oh God yes she thought.

So saying he came to her, held her wrists and her arm as she stood, helping her to overcome her unsteadiness.

‘First let me disconnect these,’ he separated the cuffs from each other, allowing her hands to come to her sides. ‘Come and kneel on the bed, here. With your feet still near the bottom of the bed here, and your hands spread on the covers before you.’

She saw the other cuffs near the foot of the bed, and divined their destination. She noticed the restraints near them, and the longer straps coming from the edges of the headboard. With her pussy already so wet it seemed incomprehensible that this was exciting her further, but there was no denying it. Just like she knew there would be no denying him. Absolutely anything he asked she would give, she knew this. And still he had hardly touched her.

As she mounted the bed she almost came when she brushed one of the cuffs. Fuck. What was going on. Her labia were so distended and her pussy so wet, it felt heavy.

‘That’s good.’

And the simple praise sent such thrills coursing through her. She felt him attach a cuff to each ankle, stroking her skin softly as he applied them. His touch was delicious agony.

‘A little wider.’ She spread her knees apart and her feet, and then she could feel him attaching the cuffs to the straps. ‘Now for your wrists again.’

He took a pillow and placed it on the bed before her face, about level with her chin, as she pushed her hands forward so she sloped down from her hips. In this position he connected these cuffs and tightened the straps. At the moment she could now rock her hips forward if she needed, but could do little else.

Suddenly he grabbed her hair and roughly pulled her head up and tilted it sideways, the shock and lust filled her eyes.

‘So beautiful,’ he stroked a finger oh so gently along her jaw and over her cheekbone, so different from the lovely pain in her scalp. ‘That pussy looks oh so hungry, and so swollen and wet. Let us see if we can make it more so.’

He disappeared for a moment and the she felt something over her pussy, from mound down to below her cunt, cupping it and smeared in lube. She heard a noise and pressure pulled her pussy into the device. This must be a pussy pump.

‘Tell me when it begins to get uncomfortable, I believe this is the first time you have tried a pussy pump.’

Another noise and the suction began to be difficult to endure.

‘A bit too much,’ she gasped, causing him to reduce the pressure a little.


‘Yes. Much.’

‘Now we shall leave it to do its work for a while, as I get out the instruments I have chosen for your instruction and show them to you.’

He pulled his bag onto the side of the bed and reached within.

‘Now. Have you decided on your safe word?’

‘Yes. Dante.’

‘Ah you decided to stick with that. Sounds good. Easy to remember easy to say, easy to hear. And a vision of heaven. How apt in your case’

She had to smile, he was always doing this, showering her with compliments.  It took a little while for her to realise he really did mean them.

The first spanking paddle appeared, pink satin on one side, leather on the other. He turned it slowly in his capable hands, displaying it for her before placing it on the bed. Next was a handle and a shaft, with a top – a two-part crop, the head was leather and thin, adequately long – it would be wicked. A small rubber flogger was flicked gently before her, and then placed down.  Another paddle, this one thick leather with studs, was set next to its fellow. She gasped when the heavy whip/flogger was taken from the bag. A big thick handle, substantial tails of leather, many of them, maybe 2 feet long, now draped over the covers. Others followed, a tiny box, maybe lipstick sized, that made her curious, another crop, heavy, leather tipped again, a real equestrian piece by the look of it, a simple 12” wooden ruler. Lastly, he moved away, and returned with a cane that he swished vigorously before dropping onto the bed.

The accumulation of possibilities was wonderful, her imagination played with the different sensations each could provide in the hands of this man who seemed to know them all, as he knew her, despite their circumstances. She knew this was why the display had been made, in silence. He believed that at crucial times, her body would know what she craved and cry out for it, once she knew what was possible and how she had reached her current level of fused pleasure and pain. Until then, he would be her guide, as he had been by message and email, and phone. She knew he would bring her pleasure even more exquisite than the delights of these last days. She desperately wanted this, needed it, as did her pussy, now even more swollen and madly sensitive.

‘How is your pussy feeling Grace my angel? Are you throbbing and hot? And wet as sin?’ He teasingly drew her attention back to her current focus of sensation.

As he released the suction and removed the cup, the surge of blood finding a new equilibrium was amazing, like suction or removing clamps on a nipple, but magnified, and in that even more sensitive area. She moaned before she could stop herself, but then realised that they were not currently playing the game of dominance to the extent that permission must be asked, and him addressed as Master or Sir. He moved to select the small rubber flogger and the satin and leather paddle. She waited.

‘Such a beautiful arse, so tender, such delicious curves.’

The lightest tickles began on her pert cheek, moving to the other, and back, and again, and down over the curves. In her current state she struggled not to ram her pelvis onto an imaginary cock. Soft satin surely now began a light rub, around the curves of her bum, the shapely sides, the tensioned buttocks. The first light blows landed and she shook. Not from the force of any blow, but from the joy. Not just the joy of this sensation, but also the knowledge of how much more was to come, how much she needed. She knew his awareness of her need for much more pain, more extreme heavy blows, but still he started this gently, and she could not credit the depth of her response.

The firmer stroking that followed was squirmingly divine, the tickling flicks of the flogger were light by comparison. Then he started in earnest, even firm blows of satin covered punishment, repeating themselves on her arse. He began on her buttocks, spreading upwards and round the sides as the warmth built in her arse, not yet a competitor to the fire in her pussy, but building. A pause, and now his naked hand smoothed over her arse, kneading her.

‘Ungh!’ Despite herself and her readiness, this blow caught her by surprise – so much harder. She caught her lower lip beneath her teeth as she stifled her voice as a second and third blow landed. And she was almost coming already. Two more blows and the tension throughout her body was unbelievable, the heat of her pussy and arse fired her convulsions. ‘Oooh.’ Thwack! And her pussy and her body shook in the throes of her first blinding orgasm in his presence.’Yeah, fuuuuck’ and moans of gibberish were shaken from her throat. She scarcely noticed he was spanking her still, harder as he knew she wanted. Little cries were coming from her unbidden. And it stopped.

‘Good girl Grace. Such a good slut, coming for me so soon. But you have so much more to give.’

Her blurry vision just saw him pulling the big flogger off the bed. Some part of her knew this might hurt worse, all of her knew she would love it.


Pain Deferred. Pt 3

When he told her he loved the sounds of his partner in ecstasy, she did not really know what to think.  She had no such positive impression of the noises she herself made during those snatched moments of self-pleasure, or all too rarely with a partner; but he seemed sincere, in this as in so many other things. In fact, as she thought back to her Sapphic days, she remembered how hot she had found the sighs and moan from her lover.

He had shown her the way by recording some of his erotica for her. She could do the same.

Thus she found herself, having checked the recording system on her phone, relaxing into one of her favourites amongst his stories. She had selected the tale of FF seduction and pleasure, impulsive, sensual, alluring and detailed in his descriptions of what gave pleasure.  She read this story so often she sometimes felt she did not need to look at the screen, her hands gliding softly over her skin as she savoured the words, the exquisite actions. Her caresses brought forth a sensual contentment, a relaxation that enabled the purest responses, her pussy moistening, as it infallibly did.

They had been messaging about the responsiveness of her nipples and how they had been neglected in their virtual exchanges of late, and he had suggested that she pay particular attention to her breasts as she began her masturbation tonight. The tingles that came so easily fired into greater intensity under her very first strokes of her nipples; as she began to use the harder fiercer stimuli she so often adored, the connection to her clit went electric, and turned on the juices gathering in her pussy. She was moaning gently but consistently, her legs easing softly apart, and her hips lifting a little as she gasped.

She turned to one of their recent exchanges, regarding her suggestions for  possible attire for a meeting, one in which he had been uncharacteristically blunt:

I approve re scandalous clothing. The type that makes me want to throw you over a tree-stump, rip off any knickers you might foolishly wear, and plunge my rigid cock in your dripping cunt right up to my balls. Xxx

Either that or be tied to a chair whilst you perform to turn me on.

               Mmmm I think I will enjoy dressing scandalously if that is the treatment I will get

Then, as now, her mind latched firmly onto the first option. In the sensual present, as she read more words promising an even stinging redness built into her arse, she picked up a new toy, and experimented, imagining his hands creating the patterns on her skin. She was amazed the way the tiny wheel delivered stinging little kisses to her flesh, each spiked-touch causing shivers of pleasurable pain to shoot right through her to her pussy.


She felt the increase in readiness as she gazed at the results of her efforts, and turned her mind to his strong capable hands trapping her limbs in cuffs and the strapping them so she could only just move. In her mind he moved into her line of sight and pulled the belt from the waist-loops, as he had suggested just that afternoon. She was melting as he folded it and grasped it in his hands, her pussy became drenched as he held the leather for her to kiss. Its smell and texture were exquisite, she almost cried as he removed it. And then, in her imagination, she waited, and the tension built, as on her own sofa, her fingers squelched into her cunt and her other hand turned on the recorder. Fingers embraced her clit as fingertips beckoned at her G-spot, calling forth that almost-desire-to-pee she knew with increasing familiarity. Her moans and gasps were only partly registering to her mind, as she swore and jerked at the first imagined blow. The tension throughout her frame was becoming unendurable, her toes were curling.

As she called desperately for her Master to make her come, her hips writhing, three non-existent blows were sufficient to thrust her hurtling into another mind-bending orgasm, her self eroded in the sensations of flooding, jerking, and pulsing, clenching muscles, in the electric fire sparking through her fibres and scintillating in her vision, as she shook from head to toe. As she relaxed contentedly, limbs draped nervelessly in joyous quiescence, she sent the recording of her ecstasy to her Master; and as she recovered further, she added pictures of her contented exhaustion.

Her Master responded, wishing she were relaxed in his arms:

Fingertips tracing your curves. The places that made you sigh as I kissed them.

The sweet musk of your come in the air.

As the days dragged by until their meet, he discerned a change in her, one she recognised herself once the impetus had been provided. She smiled more easily, she looked more powerful, more confident. Her eyes shone, in the pictures she sent her postures were more emphatic, whether relaxing or whilst poised alertly. She wanted to wear her sexier knickers more often; with the help of the changing weather, skirts and dresses replaced her ubiquitous jeans more and more. He kept telling her how very sexy she was, beautiful even; and she dressed more and more as if she was coming to believe this was true. She had phone numbers handed to her by assistants in shops. She was, he said, beginning to come back into herself as a sexual being, a beacon of enticement and desire. All this with just remote communication.

She had known from early on that she wanted this man to do the things that stirred in the darkest areas of her passionate being. To be spanked harder than any hand would stand, to offer her arse to the paddle, the crop, the flogger, the whip and maybe a cane. Oh God. She thought of the sound of the cane through the air, the glint in his eyes as he flexed it, and that sting she imagined as it landed. She thought of the marks it would leave. She had found pictures of women (and men) carrying these red wounds of desire; she wanted to be marked by him, to carry his brand, not just in her heart, but on her skin. Something she could touch and trace with wondering, wandering fingertips as she remembers just how the blows felt, what pleasures they generated deep within her, and the ties they drove within her flesh securing her to him totally. How incredibly wet and swollen her pussy would become under his spanking, how close to orgasm without other stimulus – or so she was sure it would be, when he did what she so wanted, delivering artistic, intense pain as she shuddered in the restraints.

Yet now, she found herself apparently contemplating a dilemma. The more he talked about caressing her, loving her intelligence, wanting to bring her pleasure, to lick her to orgasm after orgasm, the more she wanted this too. She found herself considering the delights of awakening each other with gentle caresses of hands and mouths and bodies. She imagined the prolonged kissing and licking and stroking he had described as he showed the pleasurable possibilities of so very much of her skin. In her mind she felt his lips and beard against her neck and throat, the gentle sucking on her nipples that she loved from others and would make her moan from him. In fact, just contemplating the long slow, sensual erotic possibilities, she was moaning and gasping. Could she have this too? It seemed she must.

Lo. He was offering exactly that. Lover and master, with no restrictions, no insistence on just one approach to their dynamic. All possibilities open and all intensely delightful, in such very different ways. When they met, they would need time, lots of it, and many meetings, as frequently as they could manage.  The prospect was making her very wet indeed; and still, he had not touched her.

Thus it was during the long, sweet, agonising wait, and thus it was right now, but, in just over 5 minutes, he would touch her.



Long Weekend

We needed a break and our long-planned trip to Bath happened this weekend. Despite chronic fatigue we managed to rest up and recuperate a bit. Some lovely cheeses, salamis and ham were purchased, along with excellent artisanal bread.


Every day, this was the view from our front door:



On Fri we ate in the restaurant that is cheek-by-jowl with the residence. Swimming crabs were lovely.

On Sun we visited the Eastern Eye, stunning setting for truly interesting and unusual fine Indian cuisine.

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The standard of cooking is quite remarkable for the price. A real treat on each visit.

Pain Deferred. Pt 2

As we move into the next section it is perhaps worth mentioning something about the inspiration for this story. The lady concerned had just such instant and wonderfully intense responses to events as are described, but in her case her delicious agony before the meeting would be somewhat longer. Instead of the 14 days it was more like 70.

Yes, 70 days to undergo just this state of combined desperation and fulfilment. It seemed unrealistic to attempt to portray this within my story, but I thought it worthwhile mentioning why she must, necessarily, have this story particularly dedicated to her. For her amazing sexual desire, commitment, stamina, and an unbelievable ability to remain sane in trying circumstances.

My Angel.

– – –

When her phone rang she was amazed, only a hint of nervousness before she picked it up. His strong dark voice spoke softly but with enthusiasm. She could not remember much of that first conversation as they drifted and spiralled and laughed. They seemed to tacitly agree that this was bonding rather than an exercise in flirtation or remote eroticism, though they did not entirely forego the pleasures of the former.  He did tell her again just how wonderful and sexy she was, and how much he looked forward to them being alone together. Her imagination quickly translated this to the moments when just hour or minutes must elapse before he stood before her and repeated his adoration and demonstrated her attractiveness in the most wonderful ways.

From when she first heard him she imagined his voice telling her the lovely things he wrote, or that her fantasies had him saying. It made the waiting so much worse, and so much better again. It seemed impossible for his effect to be greater, but it was. Thinking of him made her squirm damply, brought her hurtling into orgasms when lengthy summoning should have been needed.  She wanted him desperately, all of him, everything he did, all that he would do, to and for her. She drew symbols of dedication on her arse for him, and sent him proof. She told him of the unbelievable effects he was having. She sent more proof. He loved her sounds, whether from mouth or from her natural lubricant, or the gushes of her ejaculate. She wore her sexiest knickers, and told him, or was told to by him.

Oh, that day… He had requested her to select a pair that she would enjoy wearing, both now and when they were together. Her choice was crotch-less, her secret covered by tight jeans hugging her beautiful legs and arse. As she moved through the day in company, the seams and the cloth rubbed enticingly, and her fever grew. She got more aroused, nipples and pussy aflame. As she stood in the supermarket she messaged him, confessed her lust. She would have him take her right now in front of everyone, she was so fucking horny. He loved it, and she loved that he did.

He sent her promises of delights when they met, his private imaginings that filled his erotic creations with thoughts of her. She sent him hers, full of longing and intense desire, but granting him complete ownership, to act at his pleasure, and at his leisure, for she knew this would bring her bliss. He sent a picture of leather restraints, cuffs for wrists and ankles, and the symbolic collar. She knew these were for her, for some of the pleasures she craved, like those short dresses he had admired, which made her feel so hot, and would give access to the wetness his regard and his touch would create.



They found a date, she found a place, he agreed, she booked – it was set. Their first tryst. She knew there was so much she wanted to experience, so much he wanted to show her, that they would need many more, but the first would be special she knew. She did not doubt him. It never occurred to her to do so, because her trust had come to be total, and the knowledge of what he did to her mind meant that the reality would be still more intense. She worried she would come at his first slightest touch.



Pain Deferred

This story, as it is appearing on a blog anyway, is going to be presented in parts. I hope you will enjoy it, by instalments, and as a whole.


Pain Deferred


Blank's little slut


The two weeks had passed in an erotic blur, friends had noticed a wild look in her eyes, little realising her pupils were almost permanently dilated with unbridled lust. And he still had not touched her.

She had never seen him, this cruel provider of intense pleasure. She could be coasting back down towards sanity when she would see a message from him, and her pulse would race. She always had to read it now, no matter the cost or potential embarrassment, she could not wait. Even if it was something trivial she would be in a heightened state. The moment she realised it was something sexual she would feel her pussy beginning to heat, and if he had decided to be descriptive or go into detail she would rapidly become sodden. The whole fucking fortnight had been like this.

There was ‘bare arse’ day, when she had to endure her jeans rubbing over her bare arse. That was the day they had decided the state of her pussy was ‘sodden’, the day he had told her to imagine that contact as a paddle in his hand rubbed against her preparatory to spanking her, and she so wanted to be spanked by this man. She wanted to give herself totally to him, for pleasure and for pain, and the delightful mingling of the two she most craved, but only from him, this name on a screen, a voice on a recording. She had come like an absolute steam train when she finally got the opportunity later that day.

Her orgasms had seemed to be getting stronger ever since she had first noticed this guy’s fiction online, and the change strengthened once she started to actually interact with him. He was so kind, polite but gently flirtatious, until she had effectively indicated that flirting was fine with her, more than fine in fact. She was still not clear exactly how they had established the effect his writing, and thus he, had upon her, nor how that had developed into the revelation that she wanted him, physically, with everything that she was, but as that was probably impossible, then virtually.

The bastard. Expecting to get a polite rebuff somewhere along the line, she discovered he was deadly serious in wanting her equally as much. So here they were, her driven to distraction by his erotic suggestions and demands, actually by his presence in her virtual life, and him on his way to her, in this decidedly un-seedy hotel. Oh God, he was actually going to be here. In about half an hour. Their first physical interaction. There was no escaping the degree of nerves she was suffering, despite his assurances that the pictures and the communication told him he thought she was wonderful and incredibly sexy. Those old doubts are so hard to shift.

She distracted herself from her worries again by the same tactic, returning to the 2nd day of this 14-day sexual flood-tide. Oh yes, that orgasm. Such heat burning through her, electricity arching her back and erupting from her rigid nipples, tingling from toes to head, lost in the surge. Such a crashing wave of release, such a pulsing in her pussy, as she came thinking of him fucking her, thinking of coming just for him, the drab reality entirely absent from her experience.

As she inserted the Ben Wa balls that day she remembered the joke they had shared, that he was transforming himself (or some part of him) into the pleasure giving toy deep in her cunt. As she worked those muscles, as the weights moved, she was to think of squeezing his cock as she rode him. This was the first day her preoccupied wild eyes had been noticed, and at almost the same moment she received another message. Open your legs, let people passing see your beautiful panties as they covered your crotch. And she did. Without question. And she loved it.

Loving the photos she had already sent he requested another. The nape of her neck offered to him, her hair held aside – because he knew she loved her neck being kissed and that she liked to kiss the necks of her female lovers – and because he already loved to do this and would revel in bringing her this pleasure.

This was the reason she had become so hooked, just by his writing, you could tell he loved women, dedicated himself to giving them pleasure, willing to be so soft and tender and gentle, but also to be rough, to control with temperament and pain, because all that mattered was their enjoyment, which is what gave him his. The way he wrote about their bodies, their sensations, the tiny details, the recognition of clues, their responses and ecstasy – surely, she had thought, much of this was close to real experience. Some pieces seemed written for specific lovers, celebrating all that was unique to them and their lovemaking.

Some tasks he set her he called ‘easy’, selecting a location for a tryst, because they both wanted this; choosing clothing sexier than she could normally wear, to wear with him, for him, and, he explained, very much for herself. ‘Be free, be daring,’ he urged her, ‘let your sexuality surge free, luxuriate in it, and the power it gives you, I will love it.’ Always he insisted, enjoy your tasks, remember they express our mutual need, our desire, and they help to make our pleasure a tactile reality, and make that reality magical.  As choices were advanced he complimented her, told her how sexy she would look, recounted plans and temptations that came to mind, prompted by what he saw, and other things…

She would not let him buy for her though, a line was drawn, one he seemed reluctant to accept, but did, with praise for her principles, even if he felt them misguided. She knew she would not deny him the chance to see some of these possibilities they had shared, knew she would dress for him in something he had inspired her to wear, and undress for him too.

As she worked, and played, and did those endless but essential chores that daily life demands of us, she found her thoughts locked upon him. He did not need to contact her to have her wet for him, but contact her he did. He loved to tease. Once, she told him that there were no opportunities for relief. He was relentless, loving descriptions of her pussy, of gently sucking her labia, stroking her breasts. Telling her how hard he was from thinking about her, how much he wanted to fuck her, that he knew she burned to fuck him.

Burning, that is what she endured, her pussy aflame and aching, and he made it worse. In words and in her mind he bound her, in leather, in silk, made her submit, made her wait, granted pleasure through pain when he was ready, when she was beyond desperate, as she came to be that day. He told her he could see her biting her lower lip, and she was. How? How could this happen? ‘Climbing the walls’ for once felt truly apt, she was crazy with desire, with need. Still he continued and she could never look away, never ignore this vicious need for pleasure, for torment. Many hours later, fresh from the briefest of exchanges, the orgasm was still stronger once again. She could not believe this, but could not deny its truth.


Fictional Rape: Some thoughts.

Like so many of us, unfortunately, I know people who have suffered the torment of rape and its consequences. Not the erotic fantasy, but the brutal reality, something none of us want to support in any way. Non-consensual abuse of another, in one of the most emotionally traumatic ways possible.

Yet, as many again know, forced-sex fantasies are hot for many individuals. Partners agree to this and other forms of compulsion as they explore the erotic possibilities of their lives – and there we have the crucial element: despite the suspension of disbelief in which we indulge during the role-play, we have agreed to do this. Not in detail perhaps, maybe not even mentioning the R-word, but providing consent in advance; most using the parachute exit-strategy of a safe-word.

As someone writing erotica and other fiction, I found myself confronted with the question of when it is legitimate to portray rape; in what modes and in which contexts.

There is what I think of as character-development, where a rape in advance of or during the events portrayed is a necessity to properly understand that character, her decisions and vulnerabilities, her spur to eventual strength, or impetus towards despair. Similar elements may occur when such an act appears as part of the plot-development, perhaps even in the clichéd mode of showing ‘just how very nasty the villain is’. Now what should be clear from the foregoing is that the portrayal is likely to focus on the very negative aspects the poor victim is likely to experience; even if the actions involved might be hot in other contexts.

Yet it is also obviously legitimate to explore the rape-fantasy as just that, for its unavoidable erotic content, embracing this problematic area of our sexual thrill-scape. I confess a lack of comfort in writing these scenes, recognizing that as a male I am a nominal part of that portion of society that too often treats women as available sex-objects whose views on their designated role may be brushed aside to suit male convenience. I have written forced and/or uncharacteristically brutal sex scenes, but for ‘stand-alone’ pieces I feel it is only right to demonstrate, even if only as a coda, the underlying consent of both participants. After all, given how important the mental state of my female partners is to their pleasure, to their ease of orgasm and the intensity thereof, it seems to me entirely relevant when portraying these events as pleasurable, to reveal the underlying consent. If the victim is in a state of legitimate and undeniable terror and suffering abuse, one expects the negative impact on the pleasure centres to be much greater than the possible arousal through kinky desires or physical stimuli. Which brings me to the reason why I felt the need to write this piece.

I recently encountered some reading which included forced sex. Consent was explicitly denied by abduction, possible drugging of the victim or taking advantage of inebriation, and then gagging the recipient of the portrayed acts. The ‘victim’ is shown as majorly aroused which of course is what we might expect during a much-desired role-play. Something about the way the story was written obviously raised some subconscious flags, because I stopped to scan ahead for any sign of consent, concentrating on the ending, where it seemed abundantly clear that what would be portrayed (had been by that point) was entirely un-agreed.

I stopped reading,* because to be honest, whether written by man or woman, whether found to be hot by others or not, this was an actual rape that was being shown as hot, as desirable, no matter the subtlety employed in generating pleasure.

The story was, imo, too close to a ‘rapist’s charter’, promoting ideas like: every woman secretly wants to be raped, they are so desperate to be forced, they are all sluts and whores and should be treated as such. Not, crucially, because they individually agree to this, but because that is thought to be what they are, and this is what the rapist/abuser wants. Such attitudes I cannot and will not countenance; even hiding behind the excuse that we ‘know’ that this is a fantasy. Because a question arises in my mind. Whose fantasy is this? A woman’s or a rapist’s? And if the former is indistinguishable from the latter as written, should we read or publish this? Even if my attitude means I will never write good erotica, my personal answer is no. Yours may be different.


*NB After drafting this I did return to the piece and read it through to be sure I was not misrepresenting it; I stand by my remarks.


Muse 2


I see her in my mind, imagine the feel of her, her docile but eager touch. I know her curves, her smile, her burning eyes, the sighs and moans and gasps.

Always when I write she is with me, telling me what she wants, showing me action and reaction. As I channel her presence the pieces seem to write themselves, truer than anything with conscious direction.

Though we authors dream in fire and write in clay, the burning inspiration rings clear from the page and screen; when muse-fed, daemon-ridden, in thrall to her passion and that it generates in me. She reaps what I sow, harvesting the verbal seed I thrust towards her, accepting it wherever it falls, taking it into herself, powering her fantasies, her self-fulfilment – to be retold to me, or listened to live, or pictorially preserved and presented, further fuel for my lust, and its linguistic expression.

I am her scribe, she is my muse. Within this dynamic faithful to our shared purpose: satisfied sexual desire – no matter the wait for consummation.