Archive | August 2012

You’re Not The Boss of Me

I don’t respond well to being told what to do.  This goes back to my rebellious teenage years and carried on through my first and now second marriage.  Not that either men were/are commanding, but I’m not submissive.  I’m a partner and wife in all that it entails, but I do what I want to do. *cracks whip*

I don’t write many stories about submissive women either. I actually prefer my girls on the bad-ass, dominant side, some even issuing punishment to their mates who often test the waters, push the limits until their ladies wind up giving them a nice, swift spank on the ass or tying them to a bedpost.

In the story that I’m posting here today, originally published in Alison Tyler’s Got A Minute?, I went a different way.  In a motel room, all by herself, Stephanie did exactly as she was told:

As She Was Told

            Stephanie did as she was told.  She lay there flat on her back, her eyes to the ceiling, knees up and thighs spread.

Her fingers…

            Her fingers drummed on the dingy floral bedspread.  Those very fingers were supposed to be resting on her cunt, preparing to find their way inside right about now, but she hadn’t worked up to that yet.

            It had been enough just to drive here, to rent a single room in the name of a Mrs. Jacqueline Jones, and then shed her clothes, all of them.

            Her clothes…

They lay folded neatly on a chair in the corner of the room.  Stephanie had found it strange that he’d even instructed her on what to wear when what he ultimately wanted was her naked.  Still, he had insisted on a crisp yellow blouse and knee length gray skirt.  The shoes, he had demanded they be black, patent leather heels.

            And though one wouldn’t peg Stephanie as the type to take orders, she did it all.  She didn’t question any of it, not the fact that he wanted the curtains to remain open or the door unlocked.  She didn’t even ask why he needed her to be laying on top of the covers, hiding nothing as people walked by.

Of course, she never questioned him.  Questioning brought consequences, always.  If she questioned or strayed from his specific instruction even slightly, he would resign to only talking to her about the weather, or he’d tell her about his dog’s recent hip operation, or worse, he wouldn’t talk to her at all.

So she learned to simply do as she was told.

With him, Stephanie always did as she was told.

And now, she stopped the nervous drumming and got to it.  Slowly, her fingers crept over her hips and traveled down between her thighs.

Stephanie was wet.

She hadn’t expected that.  She had assumed she would be too aware of everything and everyone around her to get turned on, but strangely, it fueled her, urged her to insert a finger, then two.

When she yearned for more, she reached for the box that lay on the floor beside the bed.  He had mailed the package to her office and had included specific instructions on what to do with that was inside.

Stephanie had never used one before, didn’t see where it could bring her any satisfaction.  After all, this was a machine and she was a woman, a complicated woman.

Still, she twisted the base of the curved, leather cock until it began to swirl and vibrate in her hand.  She moved it down between her thighs and slipped it inside.

And though Stephanie knew that people could see her as they walked past, could hear her if their footsteps were soft enough, might enjoy her if they were bold enough to stop and watch, she trembled when she heard the click of heels on the concrete.

She halted, holding the machine deathly still between her legs when a couple, who walked far apart from each other and kept their eyes to the ground.  They slowed, glanced briefly inside the window, then shuffled swiftly by.

Then Stephanie resumed, regaining her rhythm quickly.

So consumed was she with the pounding in her chest and the throbbing between her thighs, Stephanie didn’t notice the maintenance man walk up and stop just outside the window.  When she opened her eyes, he was propped against the railing, cigarette lit and dangling between his fingers.

She had been instructed on what to do if such an incident occurred, and so, as she was told, Stephanie continued.  She inserted the stiff cock quickly, removed it slowly.  She teased the edges of her cunt with the tip, arching her back and twisting on top of the covers.

The dark, wavy haired man turned away when her eyes met his through the window, but, as if he couldn’t help himself, he turned back again, his eyes fixated between her legs, his foot tapping nervously on the concrete.

When Stephanie looked more closely, she saw that between his long legs was an erection that pressed forward against his zipper.  He crossed his legs just below the knee, leaned back, his elbows on the railing.

He took a final drag of his cigarette and put it out on the concrete.  Then he brought his hand down to his crotch and unzipped his navy blue trousers.

His cock sprang forward as if it had been waiting to be freed, waiting for just that moment when it could breathe.  And just as suddenly, his hand was gripping the base, holding his thick, dark cock in place.

Stephanie spread her legs farther apart, excited by the thought of what could happen next, if the stranger so chose.

And he did choose.

One hand worked slowly on his stiff cock, the other he propped on the rail.  Slowly, steadily he stroked, watching her.  When the leather cock slipped deeper inside her, he licked his lips.

Stephanie’s nipples hardened and rose like pearls on her breasts.  The one thing she hadn’t been told was that she’d enjoy it, even hunger for more.  She wondered if she were stepping out of line, if she’d somehow be reprimanded for her own pleasure.

And he would know that she enjoyed it just a little more than she should.  He always knew.

The thought caused Stephanie to hesitate.  Then, just as suddenly as he had begun, the main outside her window stopped stroking, tucked his still rigid cock back into his pants and stepped out of sight.

She paused.  Had he seen someone coming?  Was he suddenly afraid?  Embarrassed?

When Stephanie noticed that he never passed the second window, that he had halted just outside her door, she pondered.

Would he take it upon himself to push the door open and come in?  Had he merely stepped closer so that he could hear her?

And as if he was listening, as if his ear was pressed against the door, Stephanie resumed, her moans growing louder, her thrusts more intense.  The dildo circled and shook insider her.

And then, on top of the tasteless, dingy bedspread, flat on her back, knees up, thighs spread wide, Stephanie came.

She allowed herself to catch her breath only for a moment before she stood on her feet, cunt wet with desire, skin glistening with sweat.

Stephanie stepped back into her clothes, not even looking toward the bathroom or the sink.  And as she was told, she placed the used dildo back into its box and tucked it under her arm.

She paused at the door, listening for signs that the stranger was still there, and hearing nothing, she opened the door and walked out.

She looked down and smiled.  Stephanie stepped over the thick, wet result of the stranger’s passion, and as she was told, she stuffed the box inside her shoulder bag and walked quietly away.

Got A Minute? is still available here.

My Story “Speed Bumps” In Backdoor Pleasures: Anal Erotica

Is this a hot piece of ass or what?

Well, imagine my surprise when I was browsing Amazon and saw that this exclusive mini Ebook from Cleis had been released on July 15th!  It contains a reprint of my story, Speed Bumps, which originally appeared in Fast Girls edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel.  But not to confuse you, this is from the fabulous blurb:

“When I read a book of erotica,” says editor Alex Algren, “I’m not looking for
romance and happily ever after. But I am looking for great writing and a searing
hotness that gets you sweaty.” Here, Algren has curated a set of smart and sexy
stories of anal eroticism celebrating every imaginable kind of Backdoor
Pleasure. Algren and her top notch contributors explore the exquisite

pleasures of toys, tongues, and beautiful bottoms. When two motorcycle
enthusiasts argue about moving on to mountains and mountain bikes in Tenille
Brown’s “Speed Bumps,” skillful anal sex becomes a bargaining chip…

When I wrote Speed Bumps it was specifically intended for the original anthology.  I had not intended to highlight or focus on anal sex at all.  As a matter of fact, years later, I barely remembered that it had happened in the storyline, but reading back over the story last night, I saw that not only was my story about a little speed demon, it was also all about the ass.  It’s funny how things happen that way, how you can be writing something and it just takes itself where it wants to go.

Anyway, you can get this hot little thing with myself, Donna George Storey, Gwen Masters and others here!

Excerpt From My Story “Choices” in Zane’s Z- Rated: Chocolate Flava 3

Today is the official release day of Z-Rated: Chocolate Flava 3 edited by Zane, which features my story, Choices.  I”ve posted a short excerpt below:

It was nice to put her elbows on the table and answer texts and emails while she ate her chicken and to burp without saying excuse me.

After all, it was just Leroy.  They had been married eight years and he had seen her at her worst.  And it was funny how some things with Leroy were still a natural reflex for her, like handing him a napkin and telling him he had crumbs in his beard.  How she ordered water for him because he never seemed to remember that scotch wasn’t a good thing to chase your food with.

His food half eaten, Leroy asked, “Was dinner all you had planned, or was there something else?”

And he had that shit-eating grin on his face like he already knew the answer.

But, Adrienne didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, so she said, “No, there was nothing else.”

Leroy looked her up and down, then, from her come-fuck-me heels to her cleavage baring fuck ‘em dress.  He knew.  He had to know.

You can read the full story in the anthology by purchasing it here.

Sweet Release

So, it seems yesterday I was all about the dirty talk when it seems I should have been talking aobut the release of the new ebook from the HarperCollins Mischief line Too Fast For Love: Opportunist Encounters which features my sweet, dirty desert story, Having His Cake.  I dropped the ball… forgive me?  You can read mine and nine others including Rachel Kramer Bussel and Sommer Marsden for just $1.99 by ordering here.

In other release news, I received a big package in the mail yesterday which contained five contributor’s copies of Zane’s  Z-Rated: Chocolate Flava 3 which contains my story, Choices.  I probably say this a lot, but I really, really mean it this time…this story is one of my absolute favorites, only one of the reasons being that I let the main character, borrow my dress and high heels for her big night, ;)!  The anthology is available for pre-order on Amazon right now, but is officially released on August 28th.

Say Anything

I was having what I believed to be a random and normal conversation wih my favorite reader the other day when suddenly she drifted off into a rather explicit tidbit of her personal life.  Now, I should mention that outside of our writer/reader relationship, we are really good friends and I know her to have a “say anything” type demeanor.

Personally, erotic writer self aside, I only talk bedroom business to a certain extent, and normally lightheartedly.  I’m not a prude or against it by any means, but when conversations steer that way, I just don’t put my two cents (or pumps 😉 ) in.

However, I’m a good listener.  It’s one of the main things I believe helps me with my writing, listening to real dialogue and exchange.  I don’t judge and I’m not easily offended and people say (at least to me) the damnedest things.

For instance, one of her questions was: “Who fucks for hours?”

And: “I looked at his dick and thought, ‘What am I supposed to do with that?'”

I, of course, didn’t have an answer for her, but I engaged her as much as I could while smiling and silently singing “la, la, la can’t hear you” to myself.  But she went on to describe positions, noises and nicknames (one which I thought was particularly interesting).

It made me wonder, though, if by doing what I do, writing what I write, I invite this type of offbeat, illicit type of conversation.  Does writing erotica translate into being a sex therapist or love doctor?

Don’t get me wrong.  It’s always good for a story, and with her, a gut wrenching laugh, but had she never known the erotic author side of me, would she feel as comfortable being so free with her words?  Do other erotic authors get that, too?

It’s not that she’s the only one, though.  I’ve had to plug my ears during many a conversation with my own mother, and that could be part she knows I write smut, and she knows I’m a big girl now, a big girl with pen and notebook in tow, at all times.

Novel Nags

Here’s why people think writers are crazy:

We say things like:

A woman came to me in my dream last night, and told me to write her story.  Or:  Those clan of people just wouldn’t leave me alone until I jotted down a few notes of what they had to say.

I know, I know, I was once a non-believer, even when it was happening to me.  It wasn’t until years ago when I was reading Alice Walker’s In Search of Our Mother’s Gardens: Womanist Prose, and she was talking about the process of writing The Color Purple that I realized that hearing from the characters, being touched by those characters actually was a part of the process.

I am a short story writer.  I am rebelliously a short story writer.  I have written a novel and have been contracted to have it published (long story, won’t tell it right now) but today I am determined to write short stories.  I know that to get where I need and say I want to be, I eventually need to bang out that novel.  I’ve tried.  I’ve written, pages, scenes, chapters…

I’ve tried erotic. I’ve tried chick lit. I’ve tried literary.  All in all, I haven’t finished.  The only thing that’s remained consistent in my novel writing process is my procrastination, so what I’ve taken to doing is not talk about it at all.

That being said, I quietly wrote a first chapter yesterday, grabbing a character from a favorite short story of mine.  I actually published two short stories with these characters, I love them so much.  This chapter happened because I had developed a headache from the nagging.  The ideas clouded my mind and I couldn’t be at peace until I released it somehow.  I had already written out a quick outline the other night, slamming down my notebook soon after in frustration.

These people, these women are going to make me write their story.  And it’s not going to me easy, or mainstream, or maybe even popular, but apparently, I’m not going to be left alone until I do.

That Old Familiar

Yesterday, I dragged around, thinking no one noticed it but me.  As day shifted into evening and it was time to lay across the bad for the ritual of lazy t.v. watching, spouse mentioned that it seemed like something was bothering me.  It was, but it hadn’t occurred to me until just then.  School was starting the next day.  I had spent the last thirty minutes or so getting clothes and supplies together, making sure I didn’t miss a beat or risk being late because being late or not having everything in place would throw everything off.

But I had done all of that, so what was wrong?

Anxiety, that was it.  I was worried about what was to come.  Phone calls from teachers.  My daughter not adjusting well to her new school and new team.  I didn’t know how things would turn out.  I didn’t know, I just didn’t…

I let her pick out her outfit, a funky little number – a pleated plaid skirt and offbeat tank top that I wouldn’t have picked for her but I practiced restraint and kept my opinion to myself.  We “compromised” on the shoes.

She didn’t want breakfast this morning.  I worried about a blood sugar drop. I got her to eat some cheese on the way.  I’m checking my phone up to the minute, but still, no calls.

I think, I hope, it’s going to be a good day.