Friday, February 16, 2018

The Joy of Celibacy

Celibacy and just Not Getting Any are not the same thing.  Not Getting Any is a lonesome thing, and for the most part not a chosen thing.  Celibacy is something you choose.  I’ve experienced both.

The first half of my young adult life I lived in a religious community, in a communal lifestyle.  There were idealistic young men and women both, my age.  The women lived down the hall in their own room.  There were some times we had to share bathrooms.  Unmarried sex in this particular belief system was considered the worst of all sins.  The worst thing you could do, the kind of thing that could get you kicked out.  The kind of thing you go to Hell for.  Never mind the reasoning behind it.  That was then.  So for about thirteen years I lived in a series of places, with young women, intelligent, strong, often, not always, physically beautiful.  Each quirky in their own way.  It was a lifestyle that tended to attract quirky people - such as me - which over time only made them more interesting.  Celibacy was how you lived in a house, just down the hall from the very thing your loins were longing for.  Pussy.

It was a choice. Being a choice gave it power, it was a strain, a boundary that made you grow as a plant finds a way to grow in a tiny sidewalk crack.  Bonsai trees, before they showed up in supermarkets, were revered in ancient Japan by samurais, because of where they were found in nature.  A natural bonsai tree could be found growing on the side of a cliff, or some such place where a plant had no business being.  The roots were small, because they were growing in cracks in the rock, with what soil gathered there.  They represented an ideal of toughness, of determination to live, a form of art known as Wabi Sabi, seeing the beauty in imperfection.  Celibacy is like that.

When a boundary is created, a line drawn, it is a limit.  It restrains from the possible,  But it also creates an alternate possible.  For me, a young man who never much impressed the ladies, it eliminated the need for sexual competition.  The women didn’t need me to impress them.  They weren’t looking for a boyfriend.  We were brothers and sisters, and that was understood.  This was incredibly liberating.  It was the first time I found a way to get past my own ego and insecurities. I could be their friend.  I could connect with my feelings and express myself in a way usually reserved for gay guys.  We could hear each other.  In those years I learned to really love women.  I love the company of women.  I love the conversation of women. I love what women are. I love the way a room feels when a woman is in it. That is a priceless gift many men never get the chance to have.  I was recently the stage hand for my church’s production of “The Vagina Monologues”.  The women in the cast elected me “Bob”.  When I found out what that was, I felt greatly honored.  You’ll have to look it up.

Thursday, February 15, 2018

Breaking Our Own Rules #lesbian #erotica

The Girl on Your Skin
Lesbian Erotica by Giselle Renarde
How could I complain? I was breaking my own rule.

Nesta and I made lots of rules when we opened up. She wrote them down in the back of her daybook, and we kept those pages pinned to the corkboard by her computer:

-Don’t bring dates home
-Don’t fall in love
-Don’t rave about how great the sex was
-Don’t come to bed smelling like another girl

The list went on, but I was hung up on that last point. All night, I’d been tossing and turning in my sweat-soaked sheets. TV was boring. I went to bed with a book, but the book was boring too. Brought out my vibe. Didn’t do a damn thing. The room felt different when I was alone in it, when I knew Nesta was fucking someone else.

Waiting was killer. Lying alone in our bed, I waited to hear her key in the door, waited for the hinges to creak, for her to unzip those big boots and kick them off in the hallway. Even the sound of her breath, the shallow guilt as she tiptoed to the bathroom, flicked on the light, closed the door—it was all there, right in my ear. The squeal of the shower. I heard every step in the process like an echo as I waited for her Nesta to come home.

I felt feverish, searching for a cool spot on my hot pillow. My head was burning up, and buzzing like a bee hive. I bucked against Nesta’s side of the bed, smelling her hair, her perfume, her body. It was all there in the sheets.

Where the hell was she? Fuck, it was… nine-forty-five? How was it only nine-forty-five? Felt like three in the morning. I covered my eyes and rolled onto my stomach, growling. My breath saturated the pillow, and I rolled again—onto Nesta’s side of the bed this time. I wasn’t going to preserve it anymore. When she got home, she was just going to have to deal with messy covers.

“Do you know what time it is?” I asked, in my mind. But that was a stupid question, because it wasn’t really late. “I’ve been worried sick.” Or maybe, “Who was she?” Or, “How was she?”

No, I couldn’t ask that question. It was in the rulebook. We weren’t supposed to ask about sexual performance.

I rolled back onto my side of the bed. More and more, I was starting to think it took a special type of person to survive an open relationship, and maybe I wasn’t that special. Did everybody feel this jealous?

When I finally heard Nesta’s key in the door, it came as a surprise. Maybe I’d given up hope or something, because I sat straight up in bed, on high alert, like the figure coming through the front door might not be Nesta at all.

She unzipped her boots, kicked them off in the hall. I couldn’t see her until she tiptoed past the bedroom door, and even then she was only a shadow. The shower would come next…


Something inside me was adamant about this. I whipped off the covers and stomped across the room in basketball shorts and a T-shirt. Nesta shrieked when I grabbed her wrist and pulled her out of the bathroom. She shrieked like she didn’t know it was me, like I was some faceless attacker in the night.

I pulled her tight to my body and held her there, like we were dancing. Her breath hit my chin in hot little bursts as I pinned her to the bed.

“I haven’t showered yet,” she said in a whisper.

That day, for the first time, I didn’t care. My lust for Nesta superseded any jealousy. I was so hot for her I didn’t even know where to start.

Pressing my body tight to hers, I kissed her hard. She was too shocked to react, and I had to pry her teeth apart with my tongue, dig inside her perfect mouth.

Her perfect mouth tasted like pussy.

The sweet tang, the aftertaste that stuck at the back of my throat—it was pussy, unmistakeable. And I shouldn’t have been surprised, because I knew what she’d been up to, but knowing and tasting are different things entirely. That girl, that other girl, whoever she was, had found her way inside my mouth. She was a stranger to me, but her pussy was on my tongue. I could taste it.

“She fucked your face,” I said, holding Nesta’s head in my hands. My palms looked huge against the fine line of her jaw. “You ate her. You ate her good. Her pussy’s all over your skin.”

“Is it?” Nesta asked, like she wasn’t sure if I was angry or what.

“Shh, shh, shh!” I didn’t want her being scared. “Baby, it’s all good. It’s all good.”

I licked her cheek and she shuddered. “Oh god.”

“I can taste her pussy,” I said, and kissed Nesta’s chin with an open mouth. “I can taste her cunt. It’s everywhere. That chick must have been riding your face hard.”

“Yeah,” Nesta admitted. “She was.”

“Tell me what she looked like, girl.”

Nesta inhaled sharply as I tore open her top. “Are you sure you want to know?” she asked. “I thought we said…”

“Forget the rulebook.” I leaned her down on the bed and kissed a sharp path from her neck to her nipples. They stood up hard against the cool night air, and I asked, “Did she do this too?”

Petting my hair, Nesta said, “Yeah, babe. She did, but not like this. We were standing by the window, all the lights on. She stripped me bare so everyone could see down on the street.”

My pussy clamped tight when I pictured my Nesta naked, all eyes on her, getting her tits licked by some girl I didn’t know.

“Was she wearing lip gloss?” I asked, because Nesta’s nips had a tacky texture that didn’t come from me. And they tasted like strawberries.

“Yeah,” Nesta said. “Gloss over dark lipstick. Fake lashes. Golden eye shadow and thick black liner.”

“A real femme, huh?”

“Yeah, babe.” Nesta pushed down on her pants, and I helped her. God knows what happened to her panties. I’d never seen her go commando before. She must have lost them at this femme’s place. Her pussy was bare where it mattered, with just a tuft of hair like a landing strip.

“You’re still wet,” I said, tracing my fingers over the slick line of her pussy lips. She was drenched with juice, just dripping with it. “Did this girl eat your pussy before you ate hers?”

Nesta nodded. “How’d you know she went first?”

I didn’t know. I wasn’t even thinking anymore. My body was taking her because that’s what my body wanted. There were days when I wished to hell I could grow a cock and fuck her with it, fuck her hard. My system was in overload mode. Too much heat.

“Get me off,” I said, begging for it. I didn’t even know what I wanted her to do, exactly. “Get up on the bed. Spread your legs.”

My cunt was throbbing for real, actually pounding like my clit had its own heartbeat. I pulled off my clothes as Nesta climbed fully onto the bed. Her top was open, hanging off her shoulders. Her bra was pulled down under her tits, but her bottom was bare. Even in the dark I could see her pink glistening. How much of that was pussy juice and how much was a stranger’s saliva?

I’d never wanted to know before. I’d never wanted to think about who Nesta fucked outside our bedroom. But that’s because I was scared. Scared these women were bigger than me, stronger than me, butcher than me, better.

That was it. That’s what I’d been afraid of—that Nesta was looking to replace me, when all that time she’d been looking in the other direction.

I don’t do feline and feminine. I like the look, but it isn’t me. The girl who’d planted her face between my Nesta’s legs had all that going for her. I could practically see her pouty purple lips parting to lap my Nesta’s nectar. Pretty girls playing in front of open windows, for all the world to see.

My pussy pounced. Turning Nesta on her side, I spread her legs so I was straddling one, the other launched over my shoulder. Yeah, I split her right in half and pushed my cunt right up close to hers. She shrieked and grabbed her tits, like that would protect her from me.

“You’re crazy,” she said, and I wasn’t totally sure whether she was amused or afraid. “What’s going on here?”

“I’m getting off on you,” I said, pressing my fuzzy cunt right up against her. “Fuck, your pussy’s wet, girl. You’re all slippery.”

I licked her smooth calf, and she moaned, thumbing both nipples. “God…”

She looked good like that, damn good, and I asked her, “Is that what you were doing while that other girl sucked your fat little clit? You twisted your tits just like that while she ate you?”

Nesta’s eyes were closed, but she nodded. “Mmm-hmm.”

“You keep tugging on those tits, baby.” I rammed my cunt right up against hers, banging our bones together, searching for the sweet spot. It wasn’t easy to find. Usually I’d have the patience for all sorts of bumping and grinding, writhing and adjusting, but not this time. “Squeeze your tits, girl, just like that.”

Nesta pushed her big breasts together as I pulled her ass off the bedspread, holding her up until my muscles trembled. She wasn’t heavy, but the effort got to me. I needed to come, and fast. I had to find that perfect place where I could rub my fat clit against her pink. I wasn’t getting there quick enough, and it made me want to scream.

I pictured this girl, this stranger, between Nesta’s thighs, lapping at her soft flesh. Would I be beat by some chick I didn’t know? Never. Never. I traced my clit up and across the plump folds of Nesta’s pussy until I found what I’d been looking for.

An imagined tongue licked our clits as we grinded together—hot, wet, slick and powerful. Every woman had a tongue, but not every woman knew how to use it. Whoever Nesta spent the evening with knew just what to do. I could feel it like an echo in Nesta’s pulsing body. I could feel it in the way she bucked against my pussy while we tribbed. There was something between us, something we could both feel even though it wasn’t physically there.

“What’s her name?” I grunted. I could barely speak.

Nesta pinched her tits and squealed. “We said we wouldn’t tell. It’s in the rules.”

“Fuck the rules.” I pounded her pussy with my clit, making it a cock, fucking her like she wanted. “Tell me her name.”

“Won’t you be mad?”

Holding her hips aloft, I traced my clit over hers, feeling her shudder. I trembled so hard I couldn’t speak. I didn’t care about that girl’s name anymore. I didn’t care about anything. My orgasm was coming on strong, riding up my thighs and swelling in my belly before shooting straight to my clit.

It was fireworks, the way we exploded together. Her hips rattled in my hands. My cunt blazed against the soft, wet pink of her pussy. There was another element in the mix, too—a lingering scent, or feeling, or taste. Something foreign, not of us.

Nothing else had ever felt this good, and I knew it was the unnamed femme, the ghost of a threesome. The tang of her pussy clung to my throat as I grunted Nesta’s name. Her tongue was there on my woman’s clit, lapping up hard while we climaxed together. The unnamed girl was there the whole time. No denying it.

My arms lost their strength. I dropped Nesta’s hips to the bed and our hot pussies came apart, making a wet kissing sound. Falling beside her, I spread my legs. My cunt felt so fat I couldn’t close them without sending aftershocks through my whole body.

Nesta was panting wildly when I found her hand with mine. For a long time, we didn’t say a word. We had way too much to talk about—a whole rulebook to re-evaluate. Hard to know where to start.

“I didn’t take my shower,” Nesta said, after a while.

“Yeah.” I slid my arm under her shoulder and rolled in to sniff her neck. The whole room smelled like pussy, but I could still distinguish the one that wasn’t ours. “You want to shower now?”

Nesta hesitated before saying, “Maybe in the morning. I’m too tired to stand.”

We pulled up the covers and buried ourselves underneath. Change was coming, but the conversation could wait. We could sleep together in the scent of that nameless femme who’d taken Nesta up against a window, for all the world to see.

This story appears in my book Spicy Confessions, which is now available as an audiobook from such retailers as Nook Audiobooks and eStories.

If you're a patron of mine on Patreon, I've already read you The Girl On Your Skin. Remember that?

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Tuesday, February 13, 2018

Sexual Negotiation

I write erotic romance, usually with a BDSM slant to it, so sexual negotiation is at the heart of my stories. Lisabet’s post yesterday set out the glorious complexity and core paradox which bedevils these delicate discussions. Negotiation, compromise, subtle and often unspoken agreements are, I would suggest, essential to all relationships, sexual or otherwise, kinky or vanilla. The world of BDSM just flushes it out into the open, makes overt what the rest of the world takes for granted or leaves unsaid.

Honesty, trust, transparency, key buzz words in the BDSM community. A BDSM playroom is no place for assumptions, therein lies the route to disaster, or at least the nearest Accident and Emergency department and we all know how over-stretched they are at this time of year. The last thing they need on a busy Friday night is a bunch of kinksters turning up. That said, I know of at least one ED consultant of my acquaintance who assures me it’s not that uncommon to be asked to retrieve various interesting objects from unusual places.

But we digress…

I’m not convinced that readers really enjoy reading the finer points of the sexual negotiation between characters. That can all be pretty repetitive in any case and I reckon they want to get to the good bit, and as a writer it’s tempting to dive straight in. But there are the purists out there, we find them in the reviews, taking issue about the level of negotiation, the breakneck speed with which a relationship builds from initial meeting to whipping out the cane (so to speak). I prefer to believe that no serious Dom or sub would rely on works of erotic fiction, least of all my books, for their introduction to the noble art of kink but there you have it. Do we have a social responsibility to offer factually accurate content and provide glittering kinky role models? Christ, I sincerely hope not.

I had plenty of comment along those lines in response to my first ever book which features some fairly heavy BDSM. Re-reading The Dark Side now, there is much that I might write differently. Back then I laid on the negotiating aspects with a trowel. These days I think I’d skip a lot of that stuff to cut straight to the chase.

This excerpt is from Darkening, the first book in The Dark Side trilogy. This is, as far as I can recall, the only one of my books to actually feature a written contract.

With a shrug, he gets up and strolls across the spacious office to his desk, then opens the top drawer and withdraws a sheet of paper in a clear plastic wallet, and his iPad.
Returning to the table to sit alongside me, he glances sharply at me, cool, efficient. “So, down to business. I want your consent, Miss Byrne. But it has to be informed consent. I always like to make our sort of arrangement really clear,” he states matter-of-factly, “just to avoid misunderstandings later.”
“But first, health and safety.” What?
“We need to sort out contraception, and disease control.” At my amazed expression, he goes on to explain, “I trust you do practice safe sex, Miss Byrne?”
Me? I don’t practice any sort of sex. And I need some practice. That’s the point of all this, why I’m even considering this bizarre ‘arrangement’. I just want to get laid. Nicely, of course. Skillfully even, if possible. But laid all the same. And I already know he has the skills I want. So if these are his terms…
“I’m on the pill,” I blurt out, realizing too late what impression that will create. In fact, I was prescribed the mini pill about three years ago to deal with horrendous heavy periods rather than to prevent unwanted pregnancies. You’d need a sex life for that to be a problem.
“Ah.” He looks a little surprised, but quickly rallies. “Well, that simplifies some aspects, I guess. So, just disease control then. I’ll use a condom. Is that okay with you?”
“Er, yes, yes, of course. But—I don’t have any…”
Idiot. You should have told him you were a virgin. Too late now…and anyway, you don’t want to put him off.
Grinning, he leans in and quickly kisses my mouth. “My department, sweetheart, leave the supplies to me.” Now, leaning back in his chair again and back to Mr. Cool and Efficient, he slides the plastic wallet toward me. “Read this, please.”
I take my time retrieving my glasses from my funky little satchel, perching them on my nose before glancing down at the sheet in front of me, at the words printed there. Then I blink, take my glasses off and clean them slowly with the little bit of soft cloth in my glasses case, buying time. He’s patient, unhurried, waiting while I collect myself before eventually looking again at the printed sheet, reading carefully to make sure it does indeed say what I think it does.
Words like ‘fuck’, ‘anus’, ‘feces’, ‘fellatio’, ‘dildo’, ‘vibrator’, ‘nipple clamps’, ‘strangulation’ and many, many more leap about in front of my eyes. Snapping my head up, I look back at him in stunned horror.
“What… What is this?” I ask weakly, my self-confident bubble in danger of bursting with a nasty pop.
“Don’t look so worried. It’s just a way to make sure we both know where we stand,” he replies calmly, obviously anticipating my reaction. Reaching out, he takes my hand and turns it palm up, then strokes gently, reassuring me. “Although, in fairness, standing’s not generally my favorite position for what I have in mind for you.”
His wry humor is strangely calming, and I look back at the sheet full of obscenities, taking a deep breath. If he wants to talk about this…stuff, I can handle it. I hope. I am fully aware we didn’t come to Leeds for a picnic by the river, but still…
“We need to agree on the parameters, know what’s allowed and what isn’t. Do you know what all these words mean?” he asks, still stroking my hand.
“Yes, of course,” I reply defensively. Then think better of it. This is no time for false bravado. “Well, I know what these things are. But what do they have to do with me? Or you?” The more frightening ones keep leaping out at me—strangulation, blood, naked flames… “I didn’t realize… I mean, I didn’t expect… I can’t just… This is really dangerous.”
“Well, that stuff on that side certainly is. That’s why it’s on the ‘don’ts’ list.”
“Don’ts?” Relief washes over me. Maybe he’s not a psychopath, after all. Not totally.
His voice hardens suddenly. “Pay attention, Miss Byrne, read it carefully. You have three lists in front of you. The first list”—he taps the sheet with his index finger—“here, this explains how our arrangement will work. This is a list of some of the things I want, intend”—he looks up sharply, catches my eye to make sure I get it and know he means business—“to do to you. What your role will be, and mine. It’s not an exhaustive list, but it’s enough to give you a pretty good idea what’s going to happen. Read that list, Miss Byrne. Read it out loud, please.”

I look down, peering at the words through my glasses, my eyes skimming the list… I start to read out loud.

Monday, February 12, 2018

Negotiation or Seduction? #BDSM #negotiation #nostalgia

Envelope graphics

By Lisabet Sarai

I wish now that I’d kept his letters—the ones in which he detailed his fantasies about spanking me, tying me to his bed, dripping hot wax over my breasts, then asked for my reactions. We hadn’t touched each other at that point, just flirted over a chess board (he almost always won). I’d never thought about the activities he described in his multi-page messages, at least not consciously, though I’d had kidnap fantasies since before puberty.

Somehow he sensed that I was susceptible, before I knew this myself. With old-fashioned, pen-on-paper epistles, then later through lengthy, expensive phone calls, he revealed his kinky nature and explored mine. When we finally met again in person, more than six months after he’d left grad school and moved to the West Coast, we were in essence already lovers, though we’d never even kissed. With his arrogance, eloquence, and calculated crudeness, he’d captured my erotic imagination and won my consent. We both knew we’d have sex, and not vanilla sex, either. (Hard to believe, but I didn’t even know the term “vanilla” at that point!) I was ready to yield, eager, despite the fact that I had no idea what to expect.

But actually, that’s not true—I had learned about his desires as he interrogated me about mine. Face to face, we didn’t need to negotiate anything. I trusted him, somehow, with my body and my spirit. I think he was surprised by how easy it was.

I was too overwhelmed by emotion and sensation to even consider the question.

That was almost exactly forty years ago. I’ve wondered, since then, whether he and I would have come together if he’d stayed on to get his PhD instead of putting 2500 miles between us. Geeky and awkward as he was, would he have had the courage to offer himself as my master? Struggling to deal with my own raging hormones, would I have paid enough attention to him that I would have seen who he really was?

Believe—believe in me, and in your own dreams.
For I will make them real.
I am the one, the Master.
Give me your nakedness, your naked heart.
As you open yourself to me, so I will satisfy your lust.

I don’t have those letters anymore. One day, years ago, I destroyed all the correspondence I’d saved. I decided it was unhealthy to hold onto them. Rereading them over and over them was too guilty a pleasure. I worried that my obsession with our past love might be damaging my marriage. But a few of his words and phrases live on, quoted verbatim in my novels—like the snippet above from RawSilk.

Lisabet Sarai probably would not exist if not for that long-ago, long-distance negotiation. I’d always written stories, but without my memories of that incandescent passion, would I have been so moved to write erotica, especially erotica featuring power exchange? I doubt it.

I really wish I had those letters. Would I still react the same way? Or would his words sound cheesy and silly? I am no longer the innocent I was. We were both so young. Still, even at twenty four, he had the true instincts of a dominant. In those letters, he both guided and tempted me. I fell for his lines. I answered his embarrassing questions. I gave myself wholeheartedly into his hands.

I’ve never for an instant regretted it.

For an earlier post about negotiation, go here:

For a fantasy about those letters:

Sunday, February 11, 2018

Queers In Space!

There’s a distinct lack of queer characters in science-fiction. That’s not news to anybody, really.

I’m a die-hard Star Trek fan and I’ve increasingly become a Star Wars fan. In the hundreds of hours of televised Star Trek, the Star Trek movies, and the Star Wars movies (I’ve not watched the animated Star Wars TV show), I can name two queer characters — Stamets and Culber from the new Star Trek: Discovery show.

I can understand that the lack of queer characters and the very slow integration of them in present televised Star Trek as being a result of general society’s acceptance of queer identities. These things often come down to being business decisions — I hold no anger to TV or movie executives for not historically including queer characters. In fact, there was the intention of introducing Star Trek’s first gay couple back in the 90s — Doctor Bashir and Garak from Star Trek: Deep Space Nine were intended to be a gay couple. I didn’t know that until someone told me very recently, but looking back at the episode where the two characters first meet, it’s very clear now that there’s an initial infatuation that would have easily transitioned into romance. However, TV execs at the time kiboshed the idea and they instead became best of friends.

Given my love of Star Trek books, though, we have a little more material to work with for this post. I’ve literally read hundreds of them. I’ve also read a few dozen Star Wars books. I can’t speak for Star Wars literature that much since it was in the 90s and early 00s that I read those couple dozen books and I’m not up to date on what the books are doing. For Star Trek, though, I very clearly remember the first gay couple showing up. There was on outrage on the internet, of course, as there always is, but the publishers didn’t back down. There are still inclusions now and then of gay characters — since they can’t rewrite canon characters from TV or movies, the gay characters tend to be family members of canon characters or original characters of the authors.

While I enjoy this diversity, I’m still very critical of it.

Of the queer characters I can remember, 95% of them are gay men. I believe there was one lesbian couple. This completely ignores most of the queer rainbow. However, perhaps in the Star Trek future, identities like trans are far less of an issue than they are today — perhaps in that future, transitioning is an easy process that’s totally accepted, and so there would be no need to mention it in a novel as it’s a relatively minor aspect of their identities/pasts.

As well, I have to acknowledge that I spend my day-job working life immersed in the queer community, so I’m very aware of the diversity of identities that exist and the lack of them that exist in fiction. That could simply be my fairly unique perspective and it might not be a concern shared by many (or any) readers of Star Trek books.

My bigger problem, though, is that there are two profiles that queer characters are given in Star Trek books, and in most other general fiction books I read (including, for example, thrillers by James Rollins) — they’re either the sacrificial hero or the happily paired-up couple.

I can see why this is. These authors are trying to normalize queer characters and relationships for their readers. (“Look! He’s the hero of the book — he sacrificed himself! Just like a hetero action hero!” or “Look! They’re blissfully happy and monogamous!”) Sometimes, a queer character is both of these things. In one Star Trek novel I read years ago (maybe more than a decade ago), there was a blissfully happy gay couple and at the end of the book, one of them sacrificed his life to save the crew of the Enterprise.

Perhaps this wouldn’t bother me so much if hetero characters were given the same treatment. Yet, in televised/movie Star Trek alone, we have:

  • Captain Kirk’s promiscuous one-night-stands;
  • Bones being a bit of a creepy man that would be brought down in our modern #metoo movement;
  • Commander Riker sleeping around and eventually dating and marrying Counsellor Troi;
  • Captain Picard having vacation flings;
  • Captain Sisko dating and falling in love with Kasidy Yates;
  • Worf dating Counsellor Troi (in Next Generation), hooking up with an Ambassador and fathering a child (in Next Gen); and later dating and marrying Dax and later becoming a widower (in Deep Space Nine);
  • All the other casual dating and relationships that happened in the relationship-heavy Deep Space Nine;
  • Torres and Paris being on-again-off-again for most of Voyager before marrying;
  • An odd short term relationship between Chakotay and Seven;
  • An is-this-a-relationship-or-not ongoing “thing” between T’Pol and Trip;
  • Mayweather hooking up with an ex;
  • Lorca hooking up with an ex (who happens to be his boss);
  • And Burnham nervously falling for Tyler.

These are all examples of complicated, messy, realistic relationships between hetero people.

But queer people (AKA gay men)? They’re only in blissfully happy marriages or they’re sacrificial heroes or both. (I haven’t watched all of season one of Star Trek: Discovery yet, so no spoilers please, even though I’ve already seen some hints regarding the gay couple.)

If Star Trek, Star Wars, and other science-fiction properties want to normalize queer relationships, they really need to treat them like hetero relationships. If someone is homophobic and watching Star Trek, they won’t think “hmm… that gay couple is just like me and my wife… maybe being gay is normal…”. No, they’ll think “ugh, another scene with the queers — why is Star Trek being ruined by political correctness?”

(I sometimes read the comment section on — those who are homophobic clearly haven’t changed their minds and those who are not homophobic are celebrating the inclusion of Culber/Stamets. No one has changed their mind; they’ve only reinforced their pre-existing opinions.)

I always question the reasons for including something — is it there because it makes sense to the story? Or is it there to make a point or to create a teachable moment?

Queer characters could and should be put in Star Trek (and other science-fiction properties) to add diversity and realism — unfortunately, right now, they’re in there to create a teachable moment. It just makes me roll my eyes. (An off topic but tangential non-sci-fi example — condom use in MM romance fiction is typically there to reinforce the idea of condom use among gay men and some authors go overboard explaining why it’s important. It becomes a big “thing” in a sexy chapter that really serves as a distraction and nothing more. Ugh.)

I’m trying not to be overly critical, though. We have gay and lesbian characters — yay! — which is better than years ago when we had none. But we need to push for more diversity and more realism. This, too, will come with time.

Perhaps it will even come in Star Trek: Discovery. We have a happily-together gay couple, but it doesn’t mean they’ll always be this way. While I’d hate for them to not be together (as I’d hate for any couple to not be together), there’s at least opportunity for some realism there.

Until they do that, I’ll just keep writing my smut.

Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is Schoolboy Secrets. He is publisher at and co-founder of Deep Desires Press, member of the Indie Erotica Collective, and hosts two podcasts, Deep Desires Podcast and Sex For Money. He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit

Sex In Pictures!

I haven't written any sci-fi at all, let alone sexy sci-fi. I haven't used outer space in any genre so far. So I don't have a whole lot to talk about when it comes to the words side of sex in space.

I do, however, have plenty of pretty pictures.

One of my first sci-fi romance covers, if not my first, was The Alion King by Milly Taiden. This follows the template of all the previous Paranormal Dating Agency covers, but if you were to put any of the previous ones up beside this one, you'd see there's a slight shift in the overall colour tone. I made this one a cooler and bluer wash than the previous ones, which were all in a pretty teal shade.

Another Milly one with sexy outer space action is Kiss My Asteroid. Again, it's from her Paranormal Dating Agency series overall, but I made this one a further step away from the main series colouring. It's essentially a series within a series. (I almost messed up and posted two more covers I've made in that sub-series...until I checked and realised they weren't yet released!)

A couple of years back (maybe a little more than that by now), an author named Mara Frost came to me regarding some blue-skinned hot-bodied alien dudes she wanted covers for. The first of these covers down here is actually the third in the series, but they were all identical visually, with only the title and the book number changing. I just liked the colour of the title on this one the most! The second cover there was for a follow-on novella, from memory, though I don't think it's been published. Or if it has, it's been taken down!

All of these next covers are from one of my fellow Aussies, (and in fact, fellow Queenslanders) Imogene Nix. They're all related, though this first one is, to my understanding, a slightly separate beastie from the other three.

For these covers, I've included the print wrap, because I was rather proud of how the theme repeated across the three.

So there ya have it...I haven't yet explored the wonderful schoolboy fantasy of boobs in zero gravity...but I do like to make covers for all the sexy space action!


Also, I should mention...for anyone who writes smutty naughtiness, I've opened up a new group on Facebook with two other amazing cover artists (Tracey Soxie Weston and Alexx Andria). It's called Brazen Premades and we're catering to all kinds of heat levels within erotica. We handle all the regular stuff, from contemporary to interracial to same-sex pairings. But we're also working with niche genres (I just sold a tentacle erotica cover there yesterday!)
We're being judicious about the images we choose, for several reasons. Our primary desire is to provide high quality covers at affordable prices (we understand the rapid-fire process of erotica publishing). And we're striving to keep books from being adult filtered (at least for their're in charge of the content!)
If that sounds like something you'd be interested in, why not come over and run your pointy thing around our sexy little button? You know the it around that join button, it. CLICK IT!

Thursday, February 8, 2018

Sky Full of Stars ( #BDSM #FlashFiction #FemDom #GeekLove )

by Annabeth Leong

Hey there! I'm posting an unpublished story that seems to fit the theme. It's not about sex in space, but it's about sex with an astronomer and the wonder of space, so I say that's close enough!

I was a beginner. We both knew that. God, how I wanted to toss Ajay to the bed, tie those lanky limbs into the most artful tangle, and apply a wide variety of expert and creative tortures, in the forms of both pain and pleasure. But I knew I’d only embarrass myself if I got too fancy, and we’d talked enough about this that Ajay shouldn’t expect more than I could deliver.

Still, my hand shook as I stroked it down the side of his face. He smiled. “Relax,” he murmured. “That’s what this is for, right?”

I took a deep breath. “Right. So get on your knees.”

For a moment, he looked back at me with steel in his eyes. My stomach flipped over. I didn’t have any right to this, and I knew it. I’d never been sure of my own power. All my life, I’d been told I could do things—get into college, then grad school, find internships I could afford to take, somehow feed myself on meager grant funding, finish my thrice-damned thesis—and in the depths of my soul, I didn’t believe any of it. What made people think I could do that stuff? What made me think I could tell Ajay what to do? Even if he’d agreed to this. Even if it seemed like we both wanted this.

Then, slowly, smirking as he did, he sank to the floor, and my heart soared with every inch he dropped.

I put my hand on the top of his head. This was real. This was happening. Tonight, I might be able to feel in control for what seemed like the first time in my life.

“Put your hands behind your back,” I said. Behind my own back, I fingered the handcuffs I’d bought for this occasion. They hadn’t thrown me out of the sex toy store, hadn’t asked for any credentials, hadn’t asked any questions at all. I guess I’d known they wouldn’t do any of those things, but I’d still felt dizzy as I walked out with the handcuffs in a plain brown shopping bag. I’d still tensed when a police car drove past, as if the officer might leap out and demand to know what I was carrying.

I moved to the other side of Ajay, trying to make a show of it. Was it really possible for steps to be authoritative? Were mine? I berated myself for not wearing high heels, for not buying leather of some sort, but the handcuffs already represented money I could only sort of afford.

I bent down, half-expecting Ajay to twist away and laugh at my presumption. Instead, his breath quickened as I took hold of one of his wrists. It was so slender. His brown skin lightened to a dark, creamy yellow on its underside, and I traced a finger along one of his veins.

Wonder filled me as I touched him and he let me. I’d forgotten the feeling. I’d entered my grad program enchanted by the mysteries of space, and now I never looked at the sky anymore. Instead, I spent my evenings tangled in datasets and the R programming I’d had to learn on the fly and never really felt comfortable using.

I clipped the handcuffs on and took a deep breath. I’d planned out what I wanted to do—a certain amount of spanking, a certain sort of ordering him around—but I’d just gotten a better idea and I wanted to go with it. “Back up to your feet,” I murmured, helping him. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been spontaneous about something. Vaguely, I recalled that part of being relaxed involved feeling free to follow a whim. Topping Ajay was working already.

I led Ajay toward the door to the fire escape. As I did, my confidence slipped. There was probably pigeon shit out there. It would be pretty private, but what if he didn’t want to be outside at all while wearing handcuffs? What if he expected a spanking, and what if this idea seemed weird and stupid to him?

The door swung open. It was cool outside, and as clear as a city night was going to get. I wanted this, and I needed to be sure he did too.

I stopped and looked him in the eye. “I want to take you outside. You’d use your safeword, right? If that made you uncomfortable?”

He smiled, softer than he did when we saw each other in the department lounge. “You can trust me,” Ajay said, and I did, and that made me feel safe taking him out into the fresh darkness and ordering him back to his knees, though the fire escape was indeed not particularly clean.

I watched his face as I pulled up my skirt. I did it slowly, not to tease him, but because my heart was beating so fast I wasn’t sure if I could stand it. He looked excited, too, and part of me wanted to burst into tears due to some bizarre combination of hope and fear.

My teeth began to chatter. I pulled him toward me until his nose touched my clit through my panties. “Take a deep breath,” I said.

Was that pervy? Or not pervy enough? We’d spent hours talking about this over drinks the week before, but now I felt like I’d asked all the wrong questions. It had been one thing to go up to him sounding all modern and confident, asking if it was true he was into kink, and whether he’d be willing to try it with me. It was something entirely different to be ordering him to soak up the scent of my pussy when we’d never even kissed. Why hadn’t I kissed him first? He’d said he was open to things getting sexual, but what if this was way too sexual, way too fast?

I heard him breathing in, though. And then I heard him moan. Then I couldn’t resist. I shoved my panties off my hips, leaned back against the fire escape guard rail, and told him to start licking.

“Fuck,” he whispered, and his tongue felt as soft as the night.

“That’s right. Take your time. Don’t try to make me come. Just make me feel good.”

I looked at the sky. I couldn’t see much, but I could see Sirius. I fixed my gaze on it and zoned out, until the pleasure Ajay gave me made me feel like I could reach that star across the light years.

I wanted him to see it, too. Easing him away from my cunt, I told him to lie on his back and redid his handcuffs to hold his arms overhead. I brushed a promise of a kiss over his lips, then knelt over him, returning my pussy to his face. His tongue pointed toward the sky just as I tilted back to look. Wonder rushed through me—of body and cosmos. I shuddered from the power of it, and I let him build that into orgasm.

Catching my breath, I looked into Ajay’s eyes. It was all reflected there. But his gaze wasn’t on Sirius. It was on me.