Friday, June 22nd, 2012 • 8 Comments
Helloooo out there! I apologize for the silence over here, but I promise I haven’t been snoozing. Spring was busy and summer is already off to a grand start! Part of the summer festivities includes being a stop on Shanna Germain’s Bound by Lust blog tour. It’s a beautiful anthology of kinky (yet romantic) stories and includes my story “Brushstrokes.” (You can read an excerpt of my story at Erotica for All.)
You know when you Google “Google” and the interweb explodes?
Being on Kristina’s blog feels similar. We share a first name and that’s highly confusing! In the anthology, Bound By Lust, my story, No Sleep, immediately follows Kristina’s story, Brushstrokes. So editor Shanna Germain isn’t helping here, either.
To clarify: Kristina and I have similar color and length of hair; we wear similar glasses; we’re a similar age; we write about sex; we’ve both worked in libraries; we have masters degrees; we hang out with similar people online and in anthologies. And we are both totally awesome! But other than that, we are chalk ‘n’ cheese, as far apart as Right and Left, as Right and Wrong, as Wright and Lloyd. Um, OK, this isn’t working. Check out Separated at Birth for the lowdown on who we are(n’t).
My story, No Sleep, is an unusual piece for me. I usually write about sexual submission from a first person, female POV but this story is third person subjective, dipping in and out of his (dom) and her (sub) perspectives. Writing this story began as a casual experiment – hey, what happens if I try this? Unexpectedly, the narrative distance took me closer to something precious about sex and D/S: the vulnerability of those involved. It’s easy to depict femsub as being about ‘Him, brute. Me, swoon’. He’s cool, cruel and controlled. She’s malleable and at his mercy. Sure, sometimes there’s scope for that; sometimes it’s a fantasy we want to read. But sometimes it’s valuable to show the equal emotional stakes and matched lusts within a scenario where a power imbalance is being created and eroticised for kicks.
No Sleep is the story of a couple in an ongoing, kinky, NSA relationship who have fabulously hot sex but never sleep together, the latter being too intimate and a potential threat to their ‘just sex’ deal. In her intro to the collection, Shanna describes her selected stories as showing either how love can create a safe space to explore kink, or how a shared love of kink can lead to deeper emotions. My story is very much in the latter camp. Here’s an excerpt in which my shamelessly kinky duo hook up for an afternoon in a hotel. (Yum, hotel sex!)
The night before she could barely sleep. Fifty miles away, neither could he. In the morning, she took extra care over her appearance. It had been six weeks. That deserved lipliner, at least. He selected underwear she liked, jeans his arse looked good in, the jacket she’d once admired. He shaved his head because she found it hot when he looked brutish and mean. He glared at himself in the mirror, turning his swag on. He was dom but he liked to please. She’d told him it wasn’t unusual.
She arrived first, checked in, dumped her bag of kit in the room. They met downstairs in the hotel bar, a warm but spacious area with leather sofas the color of good cigars, open fires, bare boards and red brickwork. Firelight rested on thin metal sculptures and glossed the floor with amber puddles. Behind the bar, rows of tawny-hued spirits gleamed as they might in a country pub, a dangerous enchantment of nectars. It didn’t feel like noon.
“See?” she said. “I’m a high-class hooker.”
“We’ll see about that,” he replied, grinning.
They drank brandy, smirking secretively but saying little because there was too much to say and not enough time. Before long, he said, “I want you to go up to the room, strip to your underwear and kneel. I’ll follow you in five.”
She took her brandy, feeling it was important to carry the magic of the bar to the privacy of their room. He watched her arse as she walked away, wanting to slap it. Upstairs, she drew the curtains, blocking out the rarely glimpsed underside of the city, the back ends of shabby buildings, delivery doors and fire escapes. The room, like the bar, was warmly minimalist, a cocoon of cream, browns and aubergine. She turned up the dimmer switch, stripped and knelt, pleased that the thread of ribbon in her black bra was a near-perfect match for the bruise-purple stripe on the bed linen. Not that he would notice. Not that she cared. This was a sex thing, not a matching-bra-and-bed thing.
On the dressing table, the brandy glowed like a tiny fireplace. I could be anyone, she thought.
When he entered, he glanced at her as if she were nothing but furniture before he turned to hang his jacket in the alcove-cum-wardrobe. “Clasp your hands behind your head,” he said, removing his shirt.
She did. She felt nervous and stupid, playing this game of make-believe because it aroused them. Children play games, not adults.
He removed all his clothes, aimed the TV remote then flicked through screens of information. Naked in the dimness, he was glorious, his cock erect, vulgar and shameless, his arms sculpted with light and shadow, his butt taut and lean. Colors from the TV shimmered on his chest.
She recalled him once telling her about a program he’d watched, something involving Romans and their servants, and how it had turned him on. This was months ago when they’d first started seeing each other (if you could call it “seeing”). She’d treasured the snippet because he never revealed much about his day-to-day life. Then again, neither did she. Distance.
But this was cheeky: six weeks apart and he switches on the TV first? She was aching for the warmth of his skin, the scent of him and the wild thrust of his cock, and knew he was equally hot for her. She admired him for being such a cool bastard. The more he ignored her, the more humiliated and horny she grew. She liked to claim she wasn’t ashamed of her kinks but when she was in the thick of it, compliant, needy and submissive, she felt embarrassed by the enormity of her lust. She wanted satisfaction, and didn’t like to dwell on how low she might go to achieve it. But it was a tricky business, this game-playing, because going low was part of her pleasure. She loved what she hated, hated what she loved.
He didn’t have that problem. He loved it all.
Thanks so much for visiting, Kristina! Do stop by Clarice Clique’s blog tomorrow for a peek inside the mind of Justine Elyot!