The blog tour cometh

Once upon a time, the inimitable Alison Tyler wrote a non-traditional sex guide for couples. Then she found she had a sequel in her, so she decided to do it again. Calls for submission were posted, writers responded, Alison poured her blood, sweat and tears (cue ear worm) into bringing it all together and wrapping it up with a pretty pink bow, and tomorrow the e-book comes out on Amazon (paperback is already available). An excerpt of one of my stories is in there, plus words from many other talented erotica writers, alongside those of Alison herself.

So now of course it's blog tour time. The title of this post probably gave that away, huh? Anyway, Alison Tyler will be paying a special visit RIGHT HERE TO MY OWN LITTLE BLOG on May 28th. So be sure to set a calendar reminder, and stop back next month to join in the fun. Hope to see you there. Er, here...

All I Want

Inspired by this delicious bit of nastiness from Remittance Girl: All You Ever Wanted

You think you know me, baby? Before the door is even shut and clothes start to come off, you have me sliced, diced, and julienned into your tidy categories. Man. Dick. Wanker. That’s fine. Go ahead and don your sex-kitten armor. Unroll it over your desire like a condom, to keep everything safe and sterile. I’ll be happy to enjoy your body and move on. Even soft-serve, dipped in chocolate to mask the underlying vanilla, satisfies on a hot summer afternoon. Fuck you very much.

But don’t think I don’t notice the calm settle over you when my rope embraces your curves. Giving up control centers you, doesn’t it, baby? Quiets the voices in your head? I hear the mewl escape your lips when my clamp bites your nipple, see you squirm when I grab a fistful of hair and use it to bend you over the sideboard, feel you press back against me as my lubed fingers invade your ass. Pain tolerance is harder to fake than an orgasm, baby. You have a taste for kink. The dark side whispers your name, and makes you wet.

I don’t pretend to know all that makes you tick. Hell, at this point I barely know your name. But I already have trail markers to guide me, as I set my compass for the edge of your comfort zone and embark on my quest to find all your buttons to push and knobs to twist, the ones that transform paltry coupling by numbers into exquisite mindfuck. All I want, baby, is everything you have to give. And you don’t know Jack.

Playing with words

This is what happens when I'm simultaneously fried and bored on a Friday night. I start playing with wordle. Here's a word cloud I generated from my entry in Round 4 of the Smut Marathon. Pretty cool, huh?

Sitting here, staring at words on a screen

Not happy with them, struggling to make them better. Fighting off one of those "who the heck am I fooling thinking I can do this" moods. When an email appeared in my inbox, from someone I'd recently started following on Twitter, otherwise a stranger to me. It seems she'd followed the link here from my Twitter profile, read my Kinky States of Mind post from last year, and been moved to comment on it. When Blogger got ornery about allowing her to comment on that post, she went even further out of her way to email me a note saying how much she'd enjoyed it. To which I can only say a warm and hearty thank you. You have no idea how much encouragement that provided me, right at a moment when I needed it.

Anyway, I've been promising for some time to post more of my words here. Some of you know I've been taking part in Alison Tyler's Smut Marathon. This was my entry for Round 1, in which I took first place in the voting. These words are not new. If you've read the Smut Marathon entries on Alison Tyler's blog—which you should totally be reading—you've seen them already. But for now they'll have to do.

Here was the assignment from Ms. Tyler:

Please pen me a 200-word (maximum) description of your ideal setting for an erotic story.

That's it. Ta da! Do not go over the word count.

And here's what I wrote in response:

-----
The Lake House Den

The sweet dawn light poured through the floor to ceiling windows of the lake house den, basking the room in soft pastels, attempting to probe its night secrets.

The removable wall panel on which the dartboard hung remained secret-agent silent about the St. Andrew's cross concealed behind.

The whips, canes, rope, clamps, dildos, vibrators, plugs, lube, and other pervertibles hid from the sunlight, tucked away in the armoire against the far wall.

The exposed ceiling beams gave no hint about being structural, such that a suspension ring lashed to them with a leather strap might create the perfect anchor point to fly her from.

So what if the round table in the corner was a good height and diameter to bind her atop, her head hanging off one end and her ass perched at the other, to present her holes perfectly for fucking? Such thoughts surely had no place in the innocence of morning.

If the tatami mats seemed well suited for relieving the stress of time on her knees, and the candles on the mantel burned at the ideal temperature for drizzling on delicate body parts, that was just coincidence, right?

Nothing to see here. Move along.
-----

As always, thank you for reading.

So... um... yeah...

My poor, poor, neglected blog. I really do fail miserably at keeping it up to date.

Anyway, I'm back here today because I'm going to be taking part in Alison Tyler's Smut Marathon 2, along with a bunch of other incredibly talented writers of erotic fiction. The rules are entries need to remain anonymous until after the voting takes place, but I will be posting my writing here after the reveal, and blogging about my progress. Hopefully I wind up lasting longer than one and done.

Negotiation

Some of y'all have been encouraging me to post more of my writing here. This is a scene I had to cut from a story I've been working on for submission.

“But I’m not gay.”

My blurted remark halts the conversation with a thud. Seagulls pick up the slack, filling the pregnant silence with their screeches. A gust of wind off the bay provides a brief respite from the sweltering July sun.

Lady Sara leans against me, gropes my ass, presses her bikini-clad tits into my bare chest. Her eau de SPF30 and DEET invades my nostrils, hinting of sex. On her, everything hints of sex.

“I know you aren’t, darling. I want you to blow him anyway. For me.” The tip of her tongue in my ear punctuates the sentence.

The ‘him’ in question is our friend Chuck. We’re at the summer home of him and his mistresswife, Lady Diana.

Lady Sara fondles the stainless steel chastity cage that encases my cock and prevents my erection. It’s been one hundred days since my last orgasm.

“Mmm. I’ll get so wet watching the head of Chuck’s cock push past your lips and thrust in and out of your mouth, knowing you’re doing it to please me. You want to please me, don’t you Andy?”

More than anything else in this world.

She traces lines up my crotch with the tips of her fingernails, on either side of my cage, sending a chill down my spine.

I have a hundred tricks for distracting myself when a stray sexual thought enters my mind. They’re all impotent against her full frontal assault. My cock strains against its confinement in futile protest. Tease, and deny. Turned up to eleven.

Chuck looks like he would rather be anywhere else right now; Lady Diana appears to enjoy watching me squirm perhaps a bit too much.

Lady Sara toys with the key that dangles from the gold chain around her neck. “Blow him for me and I’ll unlock you.”

I don’t want to, and yet I do. The thought of taking Chuck’s cock in my mouth makes me nauseous. I live to please her. There’s a delicious agony between the end of my comfort zone and the edge of my limits.

“Okay, but he doesn’t come in my mouth.”

She cups my balls with her hand, taps on the bottom of my sac with her fingernails. “Unh-uh. He comes in your mouth, and you swallow, or no release for you.”

My shoulders slump in surrender, my submission complete. “Yes, Mistress.”

“Good boy.”

Story A Day

Apparently there's a thing, called StoryADay, that takes place in May. It's kind of like NaNoWriMo, only with short stories instead of a novel, and it takes place at a much more convenient (for me) time of year.

Anyway, there's a site and all, just like with NaNo. I'm not going to formally sign up, as too much cheerleading tends to get on my nerves. Plus there's the whole talking too much about your smutwriting thing amongst the vanillas and prudes. But I am going to commit to writing a story a day for the month of May, and loosely tracking my progress here. Because my muse has been a lazy ass git lately, so this will be my way of laying my cane across her backside and getting her back into proper form.

Write on!