Erotica : Shine a Light – Masturbation Monday #148

Masturbation Monday is the weekly erotica writing meme hosted by Kayla Lords. From time to time, I like to play along. 

The prompt this week is Candlelight – based on an image by Marie Rebelle. Not only is it a gorgeous image, it’s also a prompt that’s perfect for erotica.


At midnight,

by candlelight and sound alone,

she walks up the creaking steps to her waiting bed.

It is where her lover

waits for her, the promise of his lust

pulsing in the suffocating summer night air

like a lifeline coming through.

At midnight, she walks up those stairs,

nothing guiding her but for one flame

and her endless nerve.

The house is silent,

the only noise coming from

a lonely bird outside, somewhere distantly hidden in the nighttime tenebrosity of the moors.

The house is silent, apart from the sound of her breaths,

quickening

quickening

quickening as she approaches her door.

He waits there, sat on her bed,

illuminated by one flame, one flame shining a light on the aching need

brewing between both of them, brewing all throughout the day until she spoke the words to him

meet me in my bedchamber at midnight

spoken softly into his ear, softly so mother and father and sisters and maids wouldn’t hear, this scandalously unladylike display of desires put on for his ears and his alone.

He stands to approach her, takes her hand and presses a kiss onto

the back of her hand. The candlelight shines a light, and she is once more taken aback

at the sheer perfection of him.

The candlelight shines a light

but after the string of hidden passions snaps, and clothes are stripped and flesh is bared

it’s only when the flame blows out that both of them

can truly see each other

for the first time

at last.

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On High Heels – for Kink of the Week

“But the truth is, I want to be some woman’s work boots, not her high heels.”
“Work boots?” What was sexy about that? And did women have work boots?
“Yeah. You know, the boots she pulls out when she wants to get down and dirty, hiking or gardening or boating or painting the kitchen. The ones she relies on and trusts and lives her life hard and good and on her terms in. Her favourites.”
― Erin McCarthy, Hard and Fast

I make absolutely no secret about the fact that I am a short-arse. It’s right there, in my Twitter bio along with the fact that I wear glasses as both are two home truths in my life. It can get mightily inconvenient at times, and I often find myself wishing I had Mister Fantastic-like stretching powers just because it would make certain things a little bit less of a kerfuffle.

You’d think then, that I’d be a sucker for a pair of high heels. And I am… kind of. Not in the way you might think, anyway.

For my graduation, I got a pair of high heels from my mother to wear, as a present. I don’t even remember why I was so excited to get them because excitement quickly gave way to terror visions of tripping over a mic extension cord and falling on top of of our head of year. Still, I wore them and graduated without any major trippage occurring. In the years since, I’ve only owned one other pair of high heeled shoes. Both pairs were gorgeous, both pairs in the end only got a few outings.

Aesthetically, I fucking love high heels. Done well, they’re like tiny feats of architecture. I refer you to Rebel’s post on this subject, and the picture of her amazingly detailed and gorgeous Iron Fist shoes – I mean… LOOK AT THEM. Hours of delicate crafting, right there.

But personally, I don’t think I’d ever invest in a pair again. There’s a couple of reasons for this:

  • I have arthritis in my knees and even though I’ve often said on this blog that my body is an entity I am still learning to suss out, I am pretty fucking confident on matter of keeping whatever structure my knees still have in tact for as long as I can;
  • The idea that some people really think you’re less of a woman if you don’t wear high heels pisses me right off, especially (in my situation) for the reason mentioned above;
  • The few times I have worn them, they’ve never felt right to me;

High heels and I, we’re always going to have a complicated relationship. However, boots are a different matter. A pair of sturdy, chunky boots on my feet seems to have the same effect as a pair of high heels can have on others. I walk taller. Stand stronger. Feel like I can navigate my way through life (and London) with some form of confidence.

I trust in my boots like some trust in their high heels. They’re my favourites – the ones I rely on. But that doesn’t mean I won’t ever stop admiring a beautifully crafted pair of heels.

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Anew

Due to the line of work I’m in, I didn’t really stop working during the holiday season. It felt strange to see all the days blur into one. To temporarily forego the actual names of the days in favour of Christmas Eve, New Years Eve, and so on. Even stranger still to jump back to plain old Tuesday.

Strange, but kind of nice. As the clock ticked over to twelve on New Years Eve, it felt nice to just breathe for a second. Celebrate that this lovely, but stressful period was drawing to a close. And reflect on what lay ahead.

One step at a time, one day at a time is my motto for this year. It has to be, considering my previous motto (DO ALL THE THINGS DO THEM NOW OH MY GOD wHy AM I sO TIreD) wasn’t exactly doing wonders for my mental health. Nor was it doing wonders for my libido. The mind is insidious like that. It’s like my depression had been talking at me about my sex life for so long that I eventually had to go “sure, why not”. The same old drone became so fucking boring that in the end my mind just flicked a switch turning off my sexual needs and wants.

And then got that switch jammed for A Very Long Time Indeed.

So, in life as in my sex, that’s going to be how I’ll try to roll from now on. And already it’s kind of working. Taking baby steps has already made me feel a bit better, a bit more relaxed about my body and about being touched. I’m wanting to work on getting back to masturbation first – that’s a jolly one that I maybe didn’t actually talk about last year come to think of it.

I think that one’s actually borne more out of being too tired to even take my shoes off at the end of the day, let alone go to town on myself with fingers and vibrator. Maybe it’s a mix. Part mental health, part tiredness, with a glazed cherry of are you fucking kidding me though on top.

One step at a time, one day at a time. That’ll do for a resolution.

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Got Your Back – for Kink of the Week

A few years ago, my boyfriend’s back inspired me to write a poem. I love the feel of it, the muscles and curves and softness. Running my fingers over the expanse of it, gently scratching… I never knew how sensual a back could be until I had his to touch.

So, as someone who adores her lover’s back, taking part in this edition of Kink of the Week (all about backs, but of course) was a no-brainer.

His back

We’re both creatures of touch. We like cuddling, lying entwined and letting the world fade away. And touching his back is one of the most potent ways of helping him relax. I am more than willing to give – as I said, I love the feel of it. He’s got the most gorgeous dip into the lower half of his back, leading down to his bottom. It’s the place I love to rest my hands, sliding them under his shirt or jumper and relishing the warmth and comfort.

It’s where I rest my hands when we kiss.

He’s ticklish. I kind of try to be very careful when I touch him, because understand that when I say ticklish, I mean he will fall the fuck apart in a sea of giggle-spasms. So when I touch his gorgeous back, I tend to put just enough pressure in to make it feel less like infinite feathers and more like actual my fingers. I scratch him, gently, which makes him make noises that make me smile just thinking about them.

His back is poetry to me.

My back

I am nothing if not a constant knot of muscle tension. My back has been a source of irritation for plenty of years, and my day job – as much as I love it – doesn’t tend to help. So to have loving touch lavished upon me is a treat for every sense.

Somewhere in our bedroom, I’ve still got a bottle of lavender massage oil. But, as regular readers of this blog know, I tend to lose bottles of fun stuff – and it’s not just lube. Still, massage oil isn’t something I really need when I’ve got his touch. Little scratches, like I give him. Kneading. Feathery flicks.

I’m getting shivers from thinking about it.

Is it a turn on? Perhaps, just because it’s intimacy and I am a sucker for intimacy. Good thing he is too. We love lavishing intimacy on each other, and we love each other’s backs.

It’s a sensation that makes me mellow. Something that makes me un-knot.

Feathered

One day, early on in our relationship, I brought a purple tickle feather with me on a visit. It was still a time of getting to know each other’s bodies, not to mention getting to know the bit of my sexuality that involved a partner.

It was a big feather. Rather a bit of a piss to carry around with me on the train, but carry it with me I did. And I presented it to him with a glint in the eye – a can we? may I? 

That afternoon, I used the feather as a tool to get better acquainted with his body. Specifically his back. His poem of a back, his strong centre. I let a purple tickle feather be my guide to discovering an until then unknown quantity – one of many.

And wherever that damn thing is now, I can’t thank it enough for teaching me.

 

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The Two Questions – for Wicked Wednesday

Until recently, I thought that one of the most impossible questions for me to answer was “what do you want me to do to you?”. There are several factors to that line of thought, not in the least the factor which is me being naked and turned on and getting wetter and wetter at the expense of every logical thought in my head. What I want? This is what I want. What you’re doing to me, right now, is what I want. More of it. Turn me on with your fingers, lips, hands, your cock and your thrusts. Get me there and beyond and get me there again because I want you to make me fly.

There is no one clear answer to that question. There is only a very unclear waterfall of verbal grunts and half remembered words. I know what I want and yet having him ask me so clearly, matter-of-factly, makes it hard for me to remember how to put it into even the most basic of words. I stumble. My brain can’t process the countless answers that come up all at once, like a line of F1 cars with the KERS on coming round the final bend to the finish. So often, what ends up coming out is a huffed “don’t ask me that – just do what your instinct tells you to do”, which doesn’t really lead anywhere other than straight towards a “but I don’t know”/”I don’t either”/”what do we do now” meander.

Until recently, and because of the way my brain worked in those situations, I thought that out of all the questions I am faced with regularly, this one was the pincher.

It’s not, though.

The real fucker among questions is “how are you doing today?”

I get this question a lot because it’s a part of daily customer chit-chat at my job – along with complaining/rejoicing about the unbearable shit-arsedness/gloriously wonderful happiness of the weather and asking if they’re up to anything good today. It’s a difficult one to answer for several reasons.

1) Jokes about how it’s still early morning can (duh, Captain Obvious) only last you so long.

2) I get this question SO MANY TIMES in a day that “good” tends to stop being a word that sounds like a word in my head and feels like normal speech on my tongue.

3) Especially in the last few months, I’ve been so wracked with the big beast of depression that I’m afraid the real, 100 percent messy as can be answer might cause them to inch away and leg it out the door.

So I share bits. Fragments. “Bit tired, really.” or something like that. Of course, with my colleagues I can be open because they listen and they empathise and they offer a listening ear and a hug and are wonderful human beings. But sometimes the having to grin and say “good, good” to customers gets to me. It causes little fractures in my soul – the truth wants to get out, all messed up and ugly and gnarly. But there’s only so much you can share with these virtual strangers who only see you in this context. Fragments it is.

It’s not so with other situations. Friends and family, who you don’t see as often, will want to know more than just a “good, good”. Fragments can’t get you far with their questions. But I’m often left wondering if the full truth will, or even half-truths and . And then I find myself longing for the moment where he asks me, naked and wet and aroused, what I want him to do to me. Because no matter how many meanders we end up on in our quest to get to the point where he’s doing what he does so brilliantly well, it’s often still easier than grinning and telling people I’m fine when all I want to do is to let out in the open that I am not.

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At The End Of The Night – Wicked Wednesday #96

I’m joining in with Wicked Wednesday this week, and I believe it is my first time doing so. So, I think that warrants a bit of an introduction, for those of you who don’t know it.

Wicked Wednesday is a weekly meme, hosted by the lovely Marie Rebelle. Every week, she sets an optional prompt (this week’s being “write a story from the point of view of a glass sitting at the edge of a table”), and you can either follow the prompt and write an erotic story/take a picture relating to the prompt or just write an erotic story/take a picture without using the prompt.

So, here’s my take on this week’s prompt, a piece of erotica titled At The End Of The Night

It always begins when the large man in the apron places me and my colleagues on the tables. He meticulously cleans us, assuring that we at least start the evening without any spots or stains… it’s not how any of us will end the evening – some of us don’t even make it past the first hour. I pity them, lying shattered on the floor. They do miss out on all the fun.

At six o’clock in the evening, they trickle in. I’m ready, as always, to receive what’s coming to me. I always enjoy the variety of people who take me to their lips and drink whatever type of red or white or bubbled concoction they’ve picked from my full body. I like listening to them as well. Always such interesting secrets revealed…

Sometimes the daily grind can get quite dull, I grant you. Thursday nights, I mostly spend staring into the middle distance, envious of any of my colleagues who do get to indulge in the company of people enjoying wine and whatever the tall French man in the kitchen whips up at his stove. I envy the feeling of their rims being touched by lips, soft, large, voluptuous…

But then Friday comes along and all at one, I am filled with excitement. Friday is when I see Her.

She’s a regular set of lips who comes in every Friday evening. And because fate works in mysterious ways, I always end up being the vessel for her choice of poison. Her lips are the softest, most beautiful lips I’ve ever had the pleasure of feeling on the rim of my body. If I had skin, I am certain it would break out in shivers.

She enjoys my company as much as I enjoy hers, it seems. Not that she’d know it was me, always me that trembles with delight every time she pulls up the chair and sits down to fill me up with red, white whatever. She’s always alone, but never really alone because I am with her, and I am relishing in her fingers tracing the outline of my hard stem, her painted lips leaving a rosy red outline on my rim.

I think it is the closest I will get to what I’ve heard human beings call “making love”. I imagine she’s good at making love, whatever that really entails. I imagine it’s touching lips, fingers tracing outlines, full body against full body and leaving stains and marks at the end of the night. I imagine it must feel good. It must make her feel like she’s truly alive.

So on the Friday she doesn’t walk in alone, a pang of a strange emotion makes me wobble on my very base. Two chairs being pulled back, two glasses being sipped from. One pair of strong, masculine hands stroking her fine, slender fingers. She laughs at his stories, he laughs at hers. They talk about touching lips, fingers tracing outlines, full body against full body… They talk about their love making, and I am at once forgotten, the sharp red concoction in my body resting as they talk and talk like people do in restaurants.

At the end of the night, the man in the apron collects me from their table, as they walk out hand in hand. He wobbles, and spills the remains of the red concoction over his white uniform. It’s fitting, I guess… it’s close to what humans call a broken, bleeding heart.

© Jillian Boyd, 2014

 

Read the other takes on the prompt and other Wicked Wednesday entries here.

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Writing Blog Hop Interview

The lovely Marie Rebelle asked me (ever so politely; she even DM’ed me specifically to ask) if I’d like to be tagged in an author blog hop. And considering I’m writing this introduction right now, it’s safe to assume that I agreed.

At the end, I’m supposed to be tagging three other (aspiring) authors so they can, in turn, answer the questions as well – this way, the hop keeps going.

Right. Off we go then.

1, What are you working on right now?
Well, currently I’m keeping busy with my day job! I’m taking kind of a break from writing short stories, but knowing me, that’s not going to last very long. It’s just a bit of recharging the brainbox, is all.
I kind of, tentatively, am scribbling down bits and bobs for future stories, but nothing concrete. I’d like to try my hand at a novella in the coming months…
2, How does it differ from other work in its genre?

To be honest, I wouldn’t know. I’d say my stuff is very “me” – the dialogue resembles the way I talk with people, the settings are not very elaborate and it’s nearly always set in London. I just tend to roll with whatever is bubbling in my head; scenarios that make me smile.

Bits and bobs from other works tend to float in as inspiration though. I might think of something I read somewhere else, and then go “But what if?” and riff from there. I don’t know if that makes sense.

3, Why do you write what you do?
In the words of Norman Lovett as Holly in Red Dwarf….
It’s a laugh, ‘innit?
I write erotic fiction because I like writing erotic fiction. It’s a genre that fits me, it’s a genre I like to play with. I’d like to experiment with other genres too, but erotic fiction is a genre that just works for me. And it’s FUN. It’s just fucking fun to write.
I don’t write erotica to turn myself on. I write erotica because I can. If you get turned on by it, that’s brilliant – but if it also makes you laugh, cry, giggle, snort, say “ah, yep, that…”, that’s even more brilliant.
4, How does your writing process work?

Writing process??

 

No, seriously. I look at a call for submissions, have a little brainstorm and start writing if something comes to mind. When I finish, I send it to my other half for editing, we bat it back and forth until I sit at my computer, shouting “CAN I SEND IT NOW IS IT GOOD WHY IS THIS SHITE.”

And then he calms me down and tells me to send it.

 

I don’t yet know who to tag…. If you want to be tagged, just let me know!

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