We both moved, and met. Her mouth was soft and full and her teeth were sharp. I kept my hands on her and moved us so I could sit her on the bench and kiss her without having to bend or pick her up. So I could have both hands free to grasp the fleshy parts of her hips and squeeze and bring her closer to me and I could finally press my aching cock against her. When I did, her hips thrust up against me and she moaned into my mouth.
“Fucking hell.” We both said it but it was her hands yanking at the fabric between us. I didn’t have a chance to be self-conscious, to think about how looked, because she wriggled off the bench to drop to her knees and press her face into the curve beneath my belly and bite on the soft flesh there, mouthing at me as her hands worked. I revelled in it but when she finally got my jeans undone I pulled her back to stand.
It’s a little bit praise kink, a little bit affirmation, a lot bit validation.
There’s nothing like someone saying ‘god, that was hot’ about your work*. And nothing better than them getting it. Seeing those bits of romance, or rawness, or connection, that you peppered through your work.
I need to review more, if only to give out some of the love I’ve been getting.
*even more when it’s got the coda that they’re thinking about that kink differently, or about that kind of scene in a different light. That you’ve opened their eyes.
This was great, so great. But it was Tryst of Fate by Lydia Hill really got me. Really, painfully, instantly grabbed me. Surprising given my aversion to condomless sex, but Jesus it worked so well. I’ve already expounded on how amazing Alison Tyler’s story was (in fact, I thought that Hill’s story was another of Tyler’s when I first read it and had to go back and check). Click-Click-Click by Annabeth Leong was great as well, just so much positive energy. I rather liked Postcards from Paris by Giselle Renard (I have such a weakness for body hair) and The Seven Ravens by Ariel Graham – odd and mythic and thoroughly enjoyable. Roxanne by Tasmin Flower was a really lovely story too, hot and sweet and really, really, good.
My entry in the illustrious series was Accidental Transmission, excerpt below.
All in all, go buy it! Read it! Enjoy.
I breathed deeply, and slowly, as the images came thick and fast. I knew I was staring at her throat but couldn’t stop, not until I heard another laugh, smothered into a cough. San was sitting next to me and had obviously seen my distraction.
“You look like you want to eat her alive.”
He didn’t bother sugarcoating it, just went straight for the kill. I tilted my head and considered him. He met my gaze and we held eye contact for just a little bit too long.
“That would be one of the things I want to do.” My own voice was husky, telegraphing my desire. He leaned over to murmur close to my ear.
“I am no longer allowed to participate, but I am allowed to watch…”
(this one has stalled out too but I’ll get there, in the end, I’ll work out why it’s being difficult)
Not in the sense that you actually do any sex work. In the sense that you work in a highly fetishised career. I imagine nurses, firefighters, cops, doctors and others have some similar feelings, but I was a librarian.
And not just a ‘lady who works in the library’. I have glasses – black-rimmed plastic usually. I habitually wear my hair in a bun, so it doesn’t get caught under bag straps or yanked by children. I have a 50s sort of shape. I wear pencil skirts and cardigans and stockings in the cold. In short, I look like a librarian. To the point people think I’m being sarcastic when I describe what I do.
This can bring out some interesting things in people, mostly men. When you’re new, someone takes you aside and warns you about the creepers. The calls, that start out normal, and draw you in, and ask you to read out all of Nancy Friday’s titles for example, with requests to repeat them. The patrons who request books from the top shelf, or the bottom, and need your help. The ones who write you poetry (my body is no mere vessel, it is a chalice, according to one wordsmith).
I do not say this to brag (lest certain people are reading) but to explain the way I’ve been treated as a librarian, with a Masters degree, based on fetishes people have. Based on old scripts.
And I get it. A friend of mine has explained his own attraction to librarians (“I assume you’re smart, and if you’re hot too, and surrounded by books, and you’re funny, it’s just really really hot.”) and I get it. I read this and Jesus Christ do I get the appeal of the library. I write erotica specifically because I love the power of words who who wields that in a more overt and easily codified way than librarians (…maybe literature professors? Which is my other career?)?
But I also read that piece and think ‘oh man I have to clean up after that’ and ‘you might think you’re discreet but you aren’t’ and ‘other library fuckers are not so kind’. So it’s a fraught topic for me.
And like all fraught topics I’m gonna write myself some library porn. Look for an excerpt coming up soon.
Dav nodded, his eyes on Tian. The other man was still smiling, crooked and wicked, tapping his fingers on his bent knee. Dav looked at them and swallowed hard; they glistened. Tian saw his glance and met his eyes once more, before dipping his fingers into his mouth. Dav made a strangled noise and Alina drew back, looking at him and then at Tian. A blush rose as she took in the tableau. Tian grinned around the fingers still in his mouth, then withdrew them with a lascivious noise.
“Tian!” Alina’s voice was strangled, but her hand was still around Dav’s waist. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Tian laughed, then rose to come and stand close to her, trapping her between the two men.
“Nothing, nothing at all.” He nibbled her neck and Dav felt her hand clutch at his shirt.
“Fuck. What are you doing?” Her voice was strained, but Tian simply turned her so he pressed against her back and pushed her against Dav’s bulk.
“No seriously, Tian, what the fuck man?” Dav’s voice was harsh, but he didn’t move away from Alina’s softness. “This is not cool.”
Tian looked up; he was the same height as Alina, both of them a few inches shorter than Dav.
“You can leave if you want. Or you can watch. Or you can join in.”
(I have such a thing for squishy dudes.)
I’ve been thinking about this for a few days.
I was a librarian when Fifty Shades of Grey hit big time. Latex gloves on check in, constantly updating paperback stocks, my assistant coming in wide-eyed and shellshocked because her mother took her copy and told the poor girl that “oh me and your dad are reading it together”. It was a good time in the library, we had lots of discussions about the role of porn in the collection, about censorship, about young people’s access to sexually explicit material (that wasn’t contravened by law) and so on.
I kept my views on the realism of the BDSM to myself. Apart from any issues around disclosure and my job (the children’s librarian talking about BDSM does some things to people), I hadn’t read it, didn’t want to deal. Plus, y’know, I’ve read some shit. Not just erotica, but fanfic and online erotica and I’ve spent a lot of time talking and researching the way people use literature and writing to explore and expose issues. So unsafe, dumbass, ridiculous BDSM is something pretty damn common in my reading-of-erotic-stuff experience.
I’m not entirely sure why it is I have more of a problem with unsafe sex than with unsafe BDSM being represented in erotica. I think part of it is experience, in that unsafe BDSM practices aren’t always ‘unsafe’ – established long-term partnerships tend to have a connection that changes how certain kinks are practiced, and the experience of both partners makes a difference (someone with years of rope experience can gauge and understand knots better than someone who might have watched a few videos). It doesn’t technically change all that much of the risk – breathplay for example doesn’t really change according to experience – but there is a difference. Fucking without a condom, without a discussion/understanding about pregnancy and STD just doesn’t get the same leeway from me.
So I’ve been thinking about it all a fair bit, reading what other authors think about condoms in their work, but also the reactions to Fifty Shades of Grey. About the elided spaces between realistic and real, the norm and the normal. Unsafe sex, unsafe BDSM, are actually normal – in the sense they are common and regular – but aren’t ideal. Particularly I think for BDSM, where there’s an enormous cultural imperative to emphasise safety. And condomless unsafe sex gets a bit of the ‘not me (except when I make a mistake, not like those other habitually unsafe people)’ treatment.
But what does it all come down to for me? That I’m happy writing barely negotiated, or unnegotiated, scenes but I can’t write a scene without a condom in a mileu that I expect one? That I write condom use with genital-genital contact but not other penetrations/fluid swaps? Because those things are certainly true. There’s a division in my head that isn’t necessarily a fair one. But it is there, and I am thinking about it.
I nodded, and pelted for the shower. I scrubbed myself clean, pushing my fingers into my slick cunt, into my ass. When I was clean, I got out and dried off then walked naked into the bedroom. He’d laid down our nicely absorbent blanket and I knew I was in for it. All our toys, the nice bit of cord I’d scored on sale at the fabric store, the chopsticks and clips and clamps and lube. And him. He still had the dark slacks on, the white shirt, he’d worn to the party but he’d taken off his shoes and socks and untied his tie. The dark flesh of his skin contrasted with the shirt, and the tie made his eyes look stormy grey. His beard was trimmed close, and hairs curled on his toes. I breathed deep and he smiled.
“God, you’re so fucking gorgeous.” He ran his fingers from my throat to my left nipple, then stroking over to my right breast. “You’re flushed, all the way down.”
“Please don’t make me wait, please.”
“Oh no, don’t start begging yet honey, not yet. We haven’t even started yet and you’re already wet and begging?”
(improvised sex toys ftw. Sort of. This has stalled a little but I still like it.)
- getting a thorough patdown at a European airport, standing atop a box while a white haired gentleman (ha!) squeezes along my limbs, stroking up and down over my body but it isn’t until he grabs my waist, a direct mimic of that motion that precedes a thorough fucking from behind, that I begin to blush
- trying to explain to a friend that weight is not a turn off, realising I cannot put into words the desire to rub my face against the curve and juncture of someone’s belly before pleasuring them with my mouth without going from ‘conversation’ to ‘dirty talk’
- fucking in the summer sweat and humidity, rain and thunder and lightning putting me on edge
- my lover’s tongue in my mouth and his hand in my hair pulling me up with the taste of his cock still on mine
- seeing a woman with her hands on the tools in her belt, a twist of humour on her lips
- drops of water in dark salt and pepper hair
- the dark, terrible, curl of the word ‘whore’ said with a soft accent
- the interminable, undefinable, what if