I am new to kink, but I like it. Before my Dom and I began our relationship, we researched kinks we wanted to try, we discussed and communicated likes, dislikes, triggers, ground rules for relationship expectations, safe words—the whole shebang. (My…pun not intended, but grrrr….) Yes, I do digress, however my point is this: We try to be prepared—for everything. And you know, you just can’t always be prepared for everything. No. You. Can’t.
One of the things we are trying out is public play. We’ve been interested in watching and being watched for a while, so it wasn’t a far leap for us to bring a little extra buzz (definitely pun intended) to the restaurant snatch-and-grab we checked off of our list in December (or “DOMcember” if you’re considering reading my most recent little production available on Amazon. Again, I digress…shameless self promoter that I am). So, my Dom, being the wonderful man that he is, decides (with my input, of course), he’d like to use a toy that he controls with his phone as part of our public play. He buys one of the best—a top-of-the-line Lelo (not endorsing…just stating facts). We practiced beforehand and found the settings that gave me the most pleasure. I planned my outfit. A nice table at a swanky sushi bar was put on reserve…and off we went on our sexy adventure. When we get there, apparently, the reservation wasn’t “reserving,” so we are placed on the dreaded “wait list.” (RBF…I’m totally impatient.) My Dom, a very positive, pleasant personality, suggests that we casually stroll around and visit some stores. As soon as we stop in front of Williams-Sonoma, I have to go in. I’m a freak for other kinds of toys—the kind you use in the kitchen that never see anything except the kitchen. At one point, he walks away from me and then…nothing. We lost connection. Okay, I think. I can still feel it. It’s still sexy and we can restart it. It’s the Cadillac of vibrators! Apparently, we can’t restart it. Think technical difficulties that you can’t exactly fix in public. With too many people around at that particular venue, we quickly move out of the store and down the sidewalk. As we’re walking around and he’s trying to figure out a plan, I feel it. The sliding. There’s definitely some sliding happening. I clinch my thighs to try to keep it in. Thank God for Pilates this week. I do my little duck walk, hoping to make it to the car for tinkering, but I know I’m not gonna make it. I did not prepare for this! Our kink has hit a snag. Right there, at the intersection of Pottery Barn and LoveSac, my toy fell right out on the cold, desolate sidewalk. (Hold all vagina jokes, please.) Fortunately, our quickly thrown-together plan for him to stand in front of me and swoop up that bad girl worked. No one was the wiser, and our collaboration was the perfect equivalent to combination of an Olympic baton hand-off in a marked exchange zone. The sushi was really excellent. The laughter was better. My public play toy adventure was a buzzkill. (Did you really think you’d leave this piece without at least one more pun?!?) But, here’s one thing I learned: Kink is as much about the adventure as it is about the accomplishment. So, if you see me walking funny, just keep moving. I’m working out the snags in my kink.
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I stood in front of my closet the other morning trying to match a pair of black pants to a…black t-shirt. Waking up thinking it was Thursday, only to unfortunately realize that it was actually Wednesday, forced me to embrace my inner emo bitch. I kept pulling out black pants and black t-shirts. Nothing matched exactly…How can black have more than one shade…of black?!? I rolled the question around in my mind and settled on this conclusion: black has many shades because when you nestle one shade against another, it brings out a whole new hue. Who knew?
People and experiences can bring out whole new hues in us, too—the good and the bad, the ying and the yang. Some people can just piss us off with a look and some can make us feel comfortable in our own skin (with just their presence) in ways we could have never imagined. Some partners can bring out our delicate side, our submissive side, or our naughty side. Life is short and can be full of hardships and heartaches; be willing to expand your palette and explore all your colors. I have readers who write to me and ask about relationships, and one of the themes is always sex—(shocker, right?!?). I’m not a counselor, but I’ve learned a few things in my forty-plus passes around the sun. In my debut erotic novel, Just Call Me Confidence, the protagonist Jenna eventually learns to say “fuck it” and grows herself exponentially into the person she wants to be. I’m not advocating a lack of reflection, but sometimes…overthinking leads to indecision, which is 100 percent guaranteed to yield no growth. So, let those freaky flags fly all your colors and consider a little love advice from yours truly:
No matter the hue you choose, be it 50 shades of freak or anything in between remember this: The people who pass through our lives always have something to show us about ourselves. So, tickle yourself (or your partner) pink, or color me bad, but whatever you do, unapologetically be the many shades of you. “At least he doesn’t hit you.”
My friend meant well, but what she couldn’t see, what no one could see, was the destruction inside. Hell, I couldn’t even see it, much less truly acknowledge it. For nearly a decade, I hid behind a pieced-together facade of professional success, kind-heartedness, and a precariously strong faith. No one would have ever guessed what was happening at home—the emotional exile that nearly drove me to suicide, the words that left me crippled to the point where I struggled to function professionally, and even privately as a grown-ass woman, and physical threats that haunted my existance, paranoid to use the phone, to ask permission to go out with friends or visit family, or to dress up and look “too good.” How do I live like this? It was a question I never entertained seriously because to do so would assure a sort of self-destruction. Much like a character in a story, my reality was often held captive by a personality who loved delivering plot twists—cruel and demeaning were the tropes. If I’m making comparisons, he would have been an award-winning author. October is Domestic Violence Awareness month, and it would be easy to get lost in all the other “awareness” packed into a month that’s also full of the first crisp mornings of fall, pumpkin spice everything, and hayrides, harvest, pumpkins, and the spooky fun of Halloween. But domestic violence very often dons a mask, and it comes in many forms, not just the physical variety. A skilled abuser is always a manipulator. In my case, what challenged people in believing me (and why I never said anything for a long time), was the fact that my partner didn’t need to put his hands on me because he was a master at manipulating. I did the dirty work of running with it, letting all good sense and boundaries fall by the wayside…for love. But dammit, love shouldn’t hurt, and I hurt a lot, for too long. Writing erotica, and writing in general, was my escape. In my subsequent “escape” and recovery, some people have asked rather obtuse questions in regards to writing about sex, BDSM, morally gray, etc., and don’t I feel a little like I want to have my cake and eat it, too. My answer is always very simple: one is a choice you make and like within the confines of a healthy loving relationship and one is most certainly not. While the victim almost always has some work to do, being abused is not a victim problem. It’s a manipulation problem of the abuser. Peering in from the outside, it’s easy to look at someone’s issues and feel exhaust, disgust, disbelief, or even anger at the abused, especially if you’re a safe person or a friend. I get that. I no doubt wore out my two favorite safe people who waited on me to leave like they were waiting on the apocalypse. Separating yourself from your abuser is a wicked unwinding of a tenacious vine, its tentacles wrapping twofold for every one that is loosened. It takes a lot of internal work and support, but it’s worth it because it essentially breaks potential generational cycles—for the would-be abused and the would-be abusers. It’s the baby steps or the slow trickle of a stream that make big changes. Someone will appreciate your patient support. I promise. Thanks to my angels, I was able to leave and to thrive. I’m happy, confident, and a successful author because I was able to turn a shitty situation into fodder for my artistic expression. Thanks, asshole! It wasn’t the visible part of the iceberg that sunk the Titanic, it was what people couldn’t see that ripped a gaping hole that doomed it. Be an ally, be someone’s safe person, be aware that with domestic violence, it’s not always what you can see, but what you can’t. #loveshouldnthurt The awesome people at shepherd.com asked me to give five recommendations for erotic romance novels. So, here they are...books with all the feels and not just the ones in between your legs because hey...we have hearts, too!
POWER PLAY (original publication in Oysters & Chocolate, 2014)
By Stella Grae I specialize in powerful men, and the trick to satisfying powerful men is to make them feel powerful while satiating that intrinsic human need we all have to be tended to—physically, emotionally, and quite possibly even spiritually. I am not a hooker or a fame-digging whore, but I have been an advisor, a confessor, and a friend. I participate in meaningful, discreet relationships; I am a woman who knows what she likes, and I go after what I want. I’m the best damn political reporter Washington, D.C. has seen since the days of Woodward and Bernstein. For nearly six months I have been trying to scurry up an interview with freshly minted Senator Duncan Menton for my employer--Political Style—the newest politically savvy magazine to hit the Hill since John F. Kennedy Jr.’s now-defunct George. Senator Menton’s new wife has great taste, not just in interior decorating, but in young staffers, as well. She abruptly left him after only a year in Washington, citing the old standby— irreconcilable differences, exacerbated by work demands—but newsroom scuttlebutt reveal the Mrs. has always been weak to her wandering eye. In her former private life, it was easy to hide, and to even indulge, but a high profile United States senator simply cannot tolerate having a cuckolded label attached to him. The Mrs. violated one of the cardinal rules of loving a powerful man: At the very least, always give the powerful man the illusion of power. I pull out all the stops to snag the interview: I unmercifully accost Senator Menton’s bulldog secretary at the Macy’s counter and unprofessionally threaten a still-in-the-closet Hill staffer (I followed his mother and grandmother to church; we became friendly acquaintances). Soon, a former high school and college classmate (with whom I shared a boyfriend—she got sloppy seconds; I was done with him, but, being the patent narcissist she is, she still sees it as a successful boyfriend thievery) who anchors the weekend news at Fox rewards me with his personal assistant’s phone number. And soon, a call drops from the bulldog secretary, and finally, a meeting is arranged at the Hay-Adams hotel. Its period suites will be the perfect backdrop for this Constitutional purist. For this first, soon-to-be-divorced senatorial exclusive, Political Style actually lets loose some of the money in its slush fund and I hire celebrity photographer Dannie Browne. As smart as she is sexy, Dannie not only promises great photos, but photos that will make the senator a decadent alpha male—and remarkably human; a rare quality in Washington politicians. Since the suite will be available for occupancy after the interview and photo shoot, I pack my bag and decide I should treat myself to a job (almost) well done. Excited about engaging the new senator in discussions concerning his progress in changing Washington policy, I venture out on a limb and buy a bottle of Woodford Reserve bourbon. It is a surefire ice breaker for two Kentucky natives—the senator and me—and there’s nothing like a good shot of bourbon to cure what ails you—homesickness and a good case of the jitters. Dannie bounces in at nearly one o’clock, as unconcerned about the shoot as she is of the time; we had agreed on 12:30. She is tall and thin, the muscles in her forearms sharply honed. She must be a tennis player, I surmise, as her long tan legs brilliantly erupt from under her red denim mini skirt. Her brunette hair hangs over her shoulder in a messy braid and following her photography equipment is her perfume—vanilla and Ivory soap and salty ocean air. “Hi, you must be Jade.” She lunges into my personal space and grabs my hand, giving it a healthy tug. “I’m Dannie Browne—one “I” and two “Es.” “You’re also running a little late,” I quip. “It’s nice to meet you, and I am, indeed, Jade, like the color green,” I volley back, meeting her smug smile millimeter for millimeter. “Don’t worry,” she assures me, patting my shoulder, “I haven’t screwed up one of these—yet.” Her athletic frame is almost boyish, only slightly rounded in all the right places, but decidedly feminine in a white unbuttoned-to-there man’s oxford dress shirt. She kneels in my line of sight, splaying her legs and I sneak a peek at her highlighter yellow underwear. She is one of those women who is sexy as hell without trying, without even being aware of it. Her orange-tipped nails grab my attention and I amuse myself with the strength in her delicate hands as they assemble the lighting boxes, tripod, stands, and umbrella. At precisely two o’clock, I spy a black three-car fleet round toward the portico. My heart races and my palms become moist. I yell, “Get ready! He’s here! The senator is on his way up,” and slosh down the last swallow of a shot of Woodford. From the bull’s-eye of a Secret Service detail, Senator Duncan Menton emerges and is swiftly escorted into the front entrance of the hotel. A sober knock on the suite door startles me, and I soon make way for the hoard of agents securing the room for the senator’s arrival—windows secured and shades pulled, telephone handsets taken apart and examined, bathrooms scavenged, mini bar opened and its contents carefully scrutinized. If there is a nook and cranny that is overlooked, I’d be shocked. Then, a tall (and taller than I had expected) sandy blonde man in a cobalt blue suit walks in, his crisp, white blue pin striped shirt slightly open at the top. I notice a red neck tie sticking out of his pocket; he looks sexy, undone, but still quite dapper if not a tad bit bureaucratic. I tell myself, remember to take deep breaths. “You must be Jade—Jade Reynolds.” He extends his hand and shakes mine—firm and professional yet he remembers how to be gentle with a woman. “Hello, Senator Menton. Thank you so much for agreeing to this interview. It’s great to meet you and I’m really looking forward to speaking with you this afternoon.” Underneath his furrowed brow, his eyes dance playfully, dripping down my legs, holding his mouth from a full blown smile, but I can tell this is going to be an interview where I must tread carefully—a crucial balance between professional and personal questions. While the senator is tying up loose ends with his detail, my thoughts center on the interview; I decide the icebreaker is in order, so I pour two bourbons—heavy on the ice with a generous splash of seltzer. As I saunter his way, his security detail scatters as leaves in the wind and he and I are face to face. I match his boyish grin. “Well, what’s this?” He quizzes, taking the glass from me and giving it a good sniff. I giggle. “It’s my somewhat awkward attempt to make you comfortable. I hope it doesn’t offend, but I thought a little Kentucky bourbon would calm the nerves—probably mine more than yours. I’m a Kentucky native, too, you know.” He reticently swallows a sip and purses his lips together, probably wondering whether he should, but the hopeful smile and wink betray him. He surrenders to another drink. “All interviews should begin so auspiciously.” Closing his eyes he inhales deeply, slowly releasing his breath. I hold up my glass for a toast. “Well, then, here’s to auspicious beginnings, and to the best cure I know for homesickness.” “Oh, my dear Miss Reynolds, I will absolutely drink to that. We’re certainly not in Kentucky anymore, are we?” “No, sir, I’m afraid we are not.” He passes me a sideways glance, pointing to my ring finger. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask. Is it Miss or Missus?” “You guessed correctly, it’s miss.” “Where’s home in Kentucky?” “Hawesville—right on the Ohio River.” “Oh yeah, I know exactly where that is. I had some great barbeque there, many times in fact. It’s a nice little city. I bet you do miss it.” His voice dwindles and I speculate that he is reminiscing about the better times he had with his wife. He swirls the ice in his glass and nods. “Good—very good.” Finishing off his drink, he perches against the entry hall sideboard, watching Dannie put the final touches on the lighting and photo props. Silently, he studies her as she snaps test shot after test shot; his breathing is unintentionally heavy. Without taking his eyes from her he asks, “So, what do you have planned for me? Photos first, then interview?” Keeping my eyes fixed on him watching Dannie, he unexpectedly rolls his face closer to mine. Lowering my eyes, I am conscious of his smell, and of his chest hair peeking out of the top of his dress shirt. I anchor my arms behind me, perching on the table; I open my personal space to him, and answer, “We can do whatever you like. I thought if we did the photos first, then we’d be left in peace for the interview. It might be more conducive to speaking openly.” He moves closer yet again and scans my body. I blush red hot and a fever breaks out all over my body with a sudden mist of sweat collecting in the small of my back and between my breasts. “That sounds like a great idea, Jade.” I’m not certain whether it’s the booze or the swanky hotel suite, or perhaps even his need to rebound, but I sense a chemistry brewing between us. I slide around behind him, calling back, “I shall return—just need to check on the photog.” “Dannie? Are you ready for our boy?” my voice cascades through the layers of Frette Italian linens draped about the settee. From the open French doors of the balcony, my eye catches the White House and the Washington Monument. “It’s an awesome view, isn’t it? I think maybe the best in town,” she offers, sidling up to me, close enough that our arms touch; she is a good five or six inches taller than me. Brushing a stray strand of my hair back in place, she apologizes. “Sorry—occupational hazard.” Her hazel eyes passionately drill me with one simple question: Are you interested? The proverbial lump swells in my throat and I awkwardly bat my eyelashes at her, repeating, “Are you ready for the senator?” “Send in the victim,” she volleys back with her best deadpan. The senator isn’t so natural in front of the camera. He poses awkwardly, often balking at Dannie’s suggestions, and generally seems ill at ease with himself, which is too bad because he is an incredibly attractive man, and so much more so than on the occasions I have seen him in various debates and interviews. I consider that perhaps I am making him self conscious, so I leave to hang out in the kitchen, pouring over my notes, making sure I have all of his political positions straight in my mind. Suddenly, I sense a presence behind me, someone sputtering heavily between his lips. “I hate this shit! I’m terrible at it. Could I please have another one of these to get through the rest of this?” Senator Menton shakes the ice in his nearly empty glass. “Why certainly, but now I don’t want you to get hammered. Remember, you promised me an interview,” I playfully wag my finger at him. He grabs it. “I don’t have any other plans besides the interview. No place to be, no one to meet, no obligations, just an empty well decorated house waiting for me. So, we can take all night if you like.” He releases my finger, wrapping it around his hand in one fluid motion. He surely hears me gulp nervously. Thirty minutes later, we are alone. The conversation shuffles along slowly, even awkwardly sometimes, especially when I ask about his wife. His succinct answer warns me that he is not in a mood, or a place, to elaborate, so I continue on about the new healthcare legislation, income tax cuts and tax code overhaul legislation, and about his recent experiences serving as a junior senator on the Hill. Instead of a brash, slimy professional politician, I discover a man with tremendous aptitude for changing our country—for the better—and a moral man, but still, a man. He stops and stares at me for several minutes at the end of the interview. By my count, he’s downed three drinks; I am nursing my second. “That was a solid interview, Ms. Reynolds. I feel really confident leaving my ideas and words in your hands. But,” he slightly slurs his words, “I simply must ask: Are you registered Republican, Democrat, or something else?” “Something else…like Communist or Socialist?” I tease, flipping my hair back. “I am registered as an Independent, and plan to keep it that way.” He rubs his chin and grins. “Good for you, good for you. A smart woman—it’s the Thinking Man’s party, you know.” “Senator, I don’t normally do this, but, would you like to order room service and hang out for a while, maybe discuss some abstract political philosophy?” I snicker, collapsing back, relaxed, in my chair, but he reaches over, grabbing me, and kisses my lips—soft, desperate, wet, breathy, punctuated by a quiet moan of pleasure. “Senator, room service is overrated. I think I like your dinner plans better.” “Jade, please call me Duncan. I want to hear you say it,” he whispers in my ear, tracing its lobe with his tongue. “Duncan, I need you inside of me, please.” He scoops me up in his arms effortlessly and uncontrived. Gently placing me on the bed, he slides over beside me, cupping my face in his hands and leaning his body into mine. He is an excellent kisser—the right amount of slow, wet lip smacking and intense eye fucking. He traces my features with his finger, barely grazing my flesh; my skin swells with goose bumps and I hear the catch in my breath. I close my eyes, succumbing to his kissing and breathing, which are becoming more uncontrollable, more instinct-driven. With his tongue and mine lashing together, I reach down and trace the outline of his hardness with the tips of my fingers. Kicking my heels off, Duncan follows suit and helps me with my dress, gently pulling it down off of my shoulders, kissing every place that his hands touch, leaving a wet trail of anticipation. As my tongue languidly strokes his neck, I feel for his shirt buttons; I begin at the top and he starts at the bottom. I press my bare chest against his and he presses into me as he gathers my panties between his hands and slowly works them down my thighs. He meditates on my naked body, then down at his pants, smiling. His beautiful light blue eyes ringed with deep blue trap me in a visual half Nelson from which I have no intention of escaping. He flips to his back and I climb on top of him while he fondles my breasts, rolling my nipples between his lips. “Is this a trick belt?” Embarrassed and feeling like such a rooky, I’m surprised at the answer. “I bet I can get it.” A voice, feminine and husky, interjects a confident solution. Dannie shimmies off her skirt and saunters to me, running her hands through her loose brunette waves with the most predictable smile painted on her lips. Pulling me to her, she snarls her hands around my rib cage, then to the small of my back; I wrap my fingers around her shoulders and peel her shirt off. As we exchange feather-soft kisses, she shifts her hips to shuffle me out of my spot, effortlessly unbuckling his belt and pulling off his pants and underwear. Dannie grins. “You must be as upright as they say—a tighty-whitey guy.” “His cock is beautiful!” I moan, my mound throbbing in anticipation. The senator’s eyes dart between the two of us and he remains as motionless as a trapped, wounded animal. “Did you ladies plan this? Is this some dirty political ploy to ruin me? Because if it is, it just might work; I’m afraid I’m in a rather compromising position.” “Duncan, I promise, I never could have imagined this happening. I’m just as surprised as you are, but we’re here, and we’re all consenting adults….” “And it’s D.C.—welcome to the power play, senator. I’ve amassed a fortune of dirty secrets in my line of work, but you’ll have to fuck them out of me,” Dannie teases, hovering over his cock and dry humping it. “Mmmm! Look Jade!” Dannie turns over her shoulder and whispers to me, “Doesn’t that look yummy? A nice, full round cock, enough to fill up a girl without being obnoxious. Why don’t you come over here and let us watch you make friends?” Dannie escorts me by the elbow to Duncan, giving my ass a smart slap. Kissing his chest, I continue my descent until I am skimming the head of his cock with my tongue. Grabbing his cock in my hand, I spank it against the soft pillow in the middle of my tongue, letting him uncontrollably thrust inside my mouth. But, he abruptly stops. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I don’t expect you to do something that makes you feel uncomfortable.” “Do you not want me to do it?” “No, I do. It’s just that…my wife—ex-wife—wife—didn’t do it. She said it was a demeaning act for women, but I suspect she just didn’t want to do it to me.” “Well, Duncan, I very much want to do it to you.” While Dannie holds back my buttery locks to admire my work, I continue to lick the tip of Duncan’s cock and playfully kiss it, letting enough spit run out of my mouth so that it hangs and glistens in the dusky last streams of sunlight coming into the room. His hands knead the bedspread and his legs are outstretched tight; he moans and Dannie and I moan in time with him. She pushes on my head, shoving his cock deeper and deeper into my throat. I watch Dannie touch herself, her fingers plunging in and out of her sloppy wet hole. She gently nudges me from my spot and noisily slurps up his shaft in one breath. It’s a no frills blow job—lots of deep throating, jerking, and ball handling. “Oh, stop, stop, stop! I’m going to come!” he yells. Giggling, Dannie adds, “Not yet! I get to go first, but we’ll let you come in our mouths if you want. Would you like that senator?” I dip my finger into Dannie’s hot, sweet wetness and lick it, offering it to her when I’ve had enough, and shaking my head in agreement so that Duncan knows I am game. He doesn’t say anything. In one swift, strong motion, he pulls me under him and splays my legs with his. I reach down and lead him into me, feeling his cock spread me apart. Within only seven or eight pumps, the windup begins and I pull my legs closer to my chest. He is a perfect fit. My fingers dig into the flesh of his ass and I open my mouth to gasp for air, breathing more deeply with each stroke. Dannie’s tongue finds mine and we kiss until she dangles her mound over my face. I extend my tongue to taste her. Her pungent sweetness pushes me to the edge of pleasure and sanity. She backs away, giving herself enough space so that she can finger her perfect little flower while watching us. “Oh fuck, I’m going to explode! Oh, make me come hard! Don’t stop!” I scream. “You like this?” He whispers in my ear and teases me, slowing down his strokes until I push my knee into his ass, trying to make him go faster. He speeds up and holds my head up to watch me when I come, never taking his eyes from mine, and I let him fixate on me completely absorbed and enjoying him—moaning, blushing, sweating. A bomb explodes inside of me, rocking me with a hundred thousand volts of lightening that percolate through me. He slows to kiss me, moving from my mouth to behind my ear, licking a spot that literally sends shivers down both arms. “Duncan,” Dannie whispers, latched onto his back, “please make me come. That looked so good. Pleeaase?” She moves her mouth up to his ear and sticks her tongue in it. He turns to copy her, an unexpected moan launching out of his mouth, and drags her under him, pumping hard and fast into her, his whole body tense and vibrating. They both moan in splendid agreement at the first few tight strokes. Their wet sloppy sounds inspire me to bulldoze my clit with one finger and to tease the rim of my ass with the other. I watch as Dannie’s long, tan legs wrap around his back and she yells without concern for who might be able to hear her. “That’s my girl! Yeah, you like coming for me, don’t you?” His breath comes in raspy waves. I kiss Duncan and feel Dannie’s gaze settling on me, then her tugging at my arm. “Oh, I’m feeling a little left out!” I purr. While Duncan pounds her, I cradle Dannie’s face in my hands and kiss her. I slide my thumb across her lips, her mouth accepting it, sucking it while I watch the hot sex begin to unfold inside of her again. I grab her wrists and pin them above her head, tying them off with Duncan’s red necktie as he drills her. I give her a command, “You better hurry up and come, Dannie! It’s almost my turn again. Come on, baby, come for me! Come princess!” Duncan flips to his back and motions for me to climb on top, which I do and he wrings my tits between his hands while I ride him—cowgirl style. I measure each stroke slowly, keeping him out as far as possible without popping out and then pushing down hard on him. Watching him go in and out of me, I lick my fingers and put them between us—a tactile turn-on—his hard cock grinding in and out of my wet softness. Dannie crawls to us on her hands and knees, her long, loose hair hiding one side of her face. As I bounce up and down on Duncan, Dannie kneads his balls while gently tickling my pink ruffles with her tongue until the craving completely intoxicates my body. Dannie and I greedily dive our fingers into my sweet, salty satisfaction, feeding each other. Reaching for his fingers, I wrap them up in ours, licking them, and offering him a taste; he intently cleans all twenty of our digits. “Do you remember what I asked you a few minutes ago?” Dannie quizzes him. A confused look plasters his face, but he is silent. I continue, “If you want, you can come in our mouths. It would be so good to taste you when you come.” We carefully watch his face as he strokes himself. When he motions to us, Dannie and I put our mouths as close to the tip of his cock as possible, and giving it two short expert strokes via Dannie’s hand, a hot salty explosion rims our lips and mouths, his obvious pleasure filling our ears—a profanity laced praise train. He rests his hands on our heads and gently pulls us to him as we show him the come in our mouths, swallowing it and licking our lips—me licking Dannie’s and Dannie licking mine—from one corner to the other, indulging in every last pleasure that echoes like a volcano throughout our bodies. “Jade, I don’t remember anyone ever fucking me like that!” He holds his hands to his head, replaying the whole episode in his mind. “Senator, stay in Washington long enough and I guarantee you will.” The Rules and benefits of a little kinkEveryone could use a little spice in the boudoir on occasion. 50 Shades of Gray ushered in multiple types of kink into many “vanilla” American bedrooms. Some people like role playing with domination, spanking, choking, or other forms of BDSM. By far, one of the most popular fantasies is being tied up, well ahead of spanking and choking. No judgment here…you do you—or whomever you want to “do.” As far back as the late ‘80s, studies have show that there are actually neurological and physiological advantages to acting out BDSM fantasies. According to a 2016 study of “self-identifying practitioners of BDSM, the majority reported a sense of euphoria (think runner’s high), which comes from endorphins (like oxytocin) produced after intense sexual activity.” Oxytocin is often called the “bonding hormone.” If you consider the communication and trust that ideally goes along with any sexual activity, it’s not surprising to understand how partners who participate in BDSM report “increased empathy and feelings of trust with their partners.” If communication is one of the cornerstones of a relationship, then BDSM forces partners to take a deep dive into themselves: What do I want and why? What do I need? What are my boundaries? One principle seems to be universal: There’s no more important work than self-improvement. Regardless of the flavor of your kink, there are a few rules to remember before you and your partner participate in the “knotty” stuff: 1. Always agree beforehand what will happen. While this might seem like a buzzkill for spontaneity, any type of kink is ultimately about love and communication. (Yes, even the spanking, slapping, spitting, etc.) It should be about a mutual agreement to engage in activities that partners find mutually beneficial. Do not surprise your partner with anything, even if the spice you crave is domination. Domination is not about making your partner feel insecure. On the contrary, BDSM is acutely attuned to communication about power in the relationship and the free flow of it between the partners. 2. Have a safe word or safe phrase. People have triggers, and some of us have more than others because of past situations. The point is this: Even if your fantasy lands on the fringes of (simulated) rape, for example, activities must begin as conversations before they’re committed to action. BOTH partners must agree on ceasing an activity that makes the other feel unsafe, unloved, or takes away a sense of self, of humanity. The word you choose should be unique enough so that if it is uttered (or screamed) it could not be confused with any part of the role play. 3.Love your partner enough to be discreet. Whether your goal is to put some spice in a 20-year-old relationship or you’re just getting freaky with a friend with benefits, don’t brag, rag out, or gossip about it. If it’s between the two of you when it happens, then it should stay between the two of you when it’s over, unless (and again), you’ve communicated your desire to share with others. No one wants to go into the break room at work and be known as the “Freaky Deaky Bitch.” (And if you do, then by all means…but be careful about current HR sexual harassment policies—just sayin’.) Respect your partner enough to be discreet about what goes on behind closed doors. Whether you’re craving the “knotty” or the nice, the pleasure and comfort of both people should be paramount. Kink is not about exclusive power and control. It’s an exploration of sexual and emotional communication that leads to empowerment…and potentially some damn good sex! Source: May, Gareth. “Your Brain on BDSM.” Vice. 2/16/17. https://www.vice.com/en/article/j5e833/your-brain-on-bdsm-why-getting-spanked-and-tied-up-makes-you-feel-high. Accessed 4/20/23. Hope can be a slippery little mother fucker. It’s a golden thread that can pull you out of the foulest of places, or a delicate rope that you unintentionally hang yourself with. We can survive without a lot of things—the internet, alcohol, sex (gasp!)—but hope is not one of them. Hope is not wishful thinking or an emotion, but it is a skill that some people parlay into their being that is…well…totally freaking hot.
I’ve made mistakes in my life and I have regrets, but not once have I lost all hope. Pessimistic people are no fun in life—or love. I’m not talking about venting with your bestie or your lover; everyone needs that. What I mean is people who tell themselves the victim story—all the time. Hear me out: shit goes awry, and it can happen more often than we want or can anticipate. The mistake a lot of people make is getting stuck in the same story: Things always happen this way. I guess I’ll never get what I truly want. It’s going to be just another shitty day, week, month, year, decade. life, etc. Change your mindset to one of abundance, to one of blessings, even if they’re just blessings or abundance in the moment. Changing your mindset can have a lot of benefits such as lower rates of depression, more positive emotions, fewer feelings of loneliness; there are physical health benefits, too: reduced rates of cancer, chronic illnesses, and fewer sleep problems. So, Stella, (you may be wondering)…what does all this have to do with sex? Well, gentle reader, if you’re sleeping well, healthy, and feeling good about life, your sex is going to be way better, and better for your partner, too. Boning up is more than…well…the physical function. There’s a lot of psychology to good sex (especially for women), and being hopeful makes you seem sexy to your partner, and heck…if you seem sexy you’re probably going to feel pretty sexy. So, bone up on finding blessings in the half-full glass. That shit is sexy. Y’all, hope is hot! To go downtown or not to go downtown—why is this question so difficult for women to answer?
I understand why men waffle on the subject, silver-tongued, cunning linguists that they are. It’s the fear of an untamed bush, funky spunk, an unexpected red tide, bad smells, and probably the most popular fear, which is not knowing exactly what the hell to do once one wanders into the nether regions of our womanhood. What I wonder, though, is why some women don’t ask for it or why some feel they are imposing on their partners by asking for oral sex? I’ve never heard of a man having problems asking a woman to do a particular job, have you? So, what’s the female hang up? In my younger years, I fell into this trap, too, feeling insecure about my body and its natural goings-on, and then I wasn’t necessarily sure I liked it, or that he would like it, until I met a certain older man who made it come alive for me. Since then, I haven’t looked back and my rule is this: If you won’t go down on me, I am finished with you. Period. There are a few common sense rules you can employ to be more confident when asking for oral sex from your partner.
The trip downtown should be a pleasure cruise, not a ride on the Titanic. It’s not something to be bargained for or forced upon someone; it’s an expression of love and care for your partner. Men have been asking, expecting, and receiving this pleasure for a long time. So, if he’s getting what he wants, why shouldn’t you? Who Was Your First Love?
Who was your first love? It’s probably not who you’re thinking. Mine was myself. Yeah, you heard right—me. What I mean is that my first masturbation experience involved my dad’s Playboys that hid under his bed. Then, I moved on to masturbating under a blanket on the couch, watching the closest thing to soft core porn I could get—the Friday the 13th movies, which sounds weird, but if you remember those movies you know they were filled with horny, sex-crazed teenagers and lots of simulated sex that was actually more bad PG humping than rated R. But for my 13-year-old mind, it was sexual bliss. Remember, too, that the kids always got off before they got killed. See? Jason wasn’t that bad—at least he’s not the cock-blocking kind of killer like Freddy Krueger. Maybe that’s not the best example, but the take-away is this: Women who masturbate know what they like and how to get there—yeah, I mean t-h-e-r-e. And if you know exactly what kind of diddling does it for you, it’s easier to teach someone else. #naughtyteacher In the masturbation universe, we usually think of men, especially teenage boys, as the purveyors of that galaxy, despite the many outlets aimed at female consumers who want stories, pictures, movies and “friends.” In this patriarchal realm, throw caution to the wind and do it; do it alone; do it with your significant other; do it and be afraid to get caught, to be too loud when you get off, to be embarrassingly wet…just do it. Use fantasy, use dirty stories, use a dildo, or just get lost in how it feels…and love it. It’s healthy and normal for men, and for women, and when you love yourself first, you can love everyone else, too! Get diddlin’ y’all! We all have a story. Stories make us interesting. Stories shape who we are. Stories make us confident. I am no different. I just happen to use my experiences as fodder for my writing…well, some of those experiences might just be fantasy, but I’ll let my dear readers decide what’s possible and what’s probable.
The story that stoked this flame of erotica literature, Just Call Me Confidence (JCMC) was basically a lark. Publishers were not interested in my traditional literary works, so I did something drastic for (this) writer: I switched genres. And I was successful. In fact, more successful than I’ve ever been, as evidenced by my first novel in the till. Fantasy met reality…not in more ways than one. I wrote this story so I wouldn’t cheat on my partner—and it worked. I kept all of my naughty thoughts up inside my head, until I put them on paper. The first version was a little rough around the edges, but it had bite; it had an energy that kept me awake at night, blood pumping through my veins. I began writing more and more erotica, and it was hard (pun intended!). Writing sex scenes that are realistic and different each time is some of the most challenging writing work I’ve ever done; it’s made me a better writer though. My partner ended up leaving anyway (not a bad thing), yet I kept the story. I put my erotica writing away until one hot day in July. A publisher had contacted me about a traditional short story in an anthology. These little bites of success left me less than satisfied. So, I began wanting more…(not unlike my heroine Jenna in JCMC). Surging with confidence, I submitted JCMC and my lark…became my life. While not every story can have a happy ending, every story has the potential to be mixed with fantasy. What you do with that is your business. But I know this: fantasy can sometimes be the one thing that keeps us sane, and our inner stories that we tell ourselves alive. And sometimes, fantasy and reality collide. In that case, I’ll channel my inner Jenna and leave you with some wise words of advice: Not every story is meant to be a reality, but every story can be the chrysalis for a newfound confidence. |
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STELLA GRAEAuthor of the novel Just Call Me Confidence from The Wild Rose Press. Archives
June 2023
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