Monday, May 29, 2017

Pounded in the Butt by the Goddess—or Not

Sacchi Green

Drat. I’ve been around here too long. I thought I was all set with the closest I’ve come to a filthy story—at least there’s dirt involved, since the main character is stuck in a cave, and there’s a butt plug used, since she’s too stuck to prevent it and her companion takes advantage of the situation. But it turns out that I’ve used that story, “The Goddess Bites,” here before. I was all set with such a great title for this post! “Pounded in the Butt by the Goddess” (with apologies to Chuck Tingle.) I’m using the title anyway, which qualifies as a dirty trick, but not a filthy one.

So I’ve scrabbled around for a Plan B, and come up dry. You can’t have something both filthy and dry, can you? Filthy seems to require a considerable component of wetness. Well, so does erotica in general, but filth suggests something more akin to mud wrestling than heat between the sheets.  Speaking of sheets, my knee-jerk first image of filthy sex is the kind that, if performed in a hotel, leaves the bedding in such a state that you never dare go back to that same hotel. I’ve actually had that experience, in a way, although I wasn’t the one having the fun. It was on a club outing to Provincetown, and I was the one sleeping (but not sleeping much through the noise) on sofa cushions on the floor of the living room of a seedy hotel suite, having generously turned over the actual bedroom to a club member sharing the suite and her new acquaintance brought back from a party we’d all attended. And I was the one paying for the suite.  I’ve never used the experience as the inspiration for a story, but if I did, I think my detailed descriptions would qualify as filthy.  

Maybe I’ve written something filthy and don’t even know it. Some writers I greatly admire talk about how really filthy their latest story is, and when I read it I may think it’s a great piece of erotica, but not what I’d call filthy.

That’s the whole point, I guess. Filth is in the eye of the beholder. (Ouch! Sorry about that image.) When it comes to erotica (or porn) everyone has their own sense of where the fine lines fall between hot sex, dirty sex, and outright filthy sex. And for many, the filthier the better.  Come to think of it, some of those same writers like to say that they write smut; I’ve done it occasionally myself. It’s a case of claiming a derogatory term and using it with pride. Maybe that applies to calling one’s work filthy, as well.

On the other hand, some things may just strike us as honestly filthy, things we’re embarrassed to have written. They may not strike anyone else as notably dirty, or notably enough to be interesting, but they still make us squirm and feel icky. Especially when we use an imaginary character written about in several other stories who would be outraged to find out she was used that way. I, um, hope she never finds out.

You knew this was heading toward an excerpt, didn’t you. Here’s the setup. The character has left the love of her life because it’s wartime, and they’re sent in very different directions, and her ambitions as a pilot can’t be accomplished if she’s in a lesbian relationship (this is during WWII.) She’s crash-landed the Spitfire she was ferrying from London to Scotland in a storm, and injured a German prisoner of war who’s escaped from a nearby prison camp.

Two excerpts from “Spanking Gunther” (in DL King's anthology Spank):
_______________

1.(The Beginning)

Gunther squirmed in the grip of the familiar dream. Punishment, yes, surely he deserved every blow! But could justice be done when it gave him such twisted pleasure?
Fraulein Ludmilla, in the old schoolroom, raised her wooden ruler to bring it down on his vulnerable knuckles. Gunther tried to keep from hiding his hands behind his back, but failed, so she bent him harshly across the desktop, yanked down his woolen breeches, and proceeded to inscribe a lesson onto his tender buttocks, written first in red streaks by her hands and then, by the ruler, in purple welts.
Her grunts of exertion—so brutal, so unrestrained—beat in harsh counterpoint to his sobbing cries. The punishment went on and on, exciting him more and more…then ceased, abruptly, as a hail of bullets against a Panzer’s armored turret drowned out everything else.
The dream shattered in a jolt of panic sharp as lightning.
Battle-honed reflexes kept him low, struggling to shelter his head. Except that his arms couldn’t move! Something held him immobile, face-down. Paralysis? Had he been hit? No, he was able to twist his torso with an effort, but wrists and ankles were restrained by strong bonds. Oddly soft bonds, yielding a scant fraction of a centimeter before holding fast. When he fought harder to move, one ankle sent a stab of pain up along his leg. So he had been wounded! It subsided to a dull ache when he lay still.
“Take it easy, Gunther. It’s only a storm.” The voice was weary, stern, and unmistakably female. “You’re safe enough. Looks like you’re stuck with being my prisoner for a while, though.”
It was still a dream, then, taking strange new turns. But…a sharp flash and the bone-shaking rumble of distant artillery set him to struggling again.
“Cut it out, Gunther! It’s only…donder. And, um, blitzen. Thunder and lightning, and some damned impressive hail on this tin roof.”
Memory began to trickle back. The escape from the British prison camp at Halmuir Farm…the endless, bramble-strewn Scottish moors…his companions recaptured while he crouched in a thicket hoping to snare a rabbit for their dinner. And then, after two days of wandering, he’d sighted the sheepherder’s hut through pelting rain. But there his memory hit impossibility. The rest could not have been real, not here! A fighter plane roaring down on him so close that he’d thrown himself flat onto the cold, wet grass? The sands of El Alamein would have made more sense. And then the world vanished in a burst of pain, ceasing suddenly in darkness, and silence. He could remember nothing more.
Now Gunther opened his eyes to a stormy dawn. He turned his head. The dimness of the morning was dimmer still inside the little stone hut, its one window covered by a leather flap, but the rattle of hail on the roof had diminished. The narrow wooden door stood open to let in some light. And there was the woman, silhouetted against the grayness, lounging against a doorpost. She straightened and came to stand above him.
Not a woman from any of his favorite dreams. Nothing like Fraulein Ludmilla, nor even movie goddess Marlene, so naughty in The Blue Angel, so sultry in top hat and tails in Morocco, so deliciously cruel with an imagined riding crop in her elegant hands. This woman was tall, dark-haired, strong, self-assured—and in military uniform.

2. (The End)

“You could…you could try to force me to tell you the way to the prison camp.”
“I’m sure I could beat it out of you,” she said severely, but when he stole a look at her face he caught a hint of a smile, the first slight lifting of her mood.
“What’s eating you, Gunther?” she asked, almost companionably. “I don’t need your information—you can’t grow up on a Montana ranch and then become a pilot without developing a fine sense of direction—but why the angling for punishment? Who’d you leave behind?” Her voice turned bitter with the last sentence.
Now hope seemed more permissible. He looked at her slantwise, gauging her expression, and took a chance. In an exaggerated drone he began, “I tell you nothing. Only name, rank and…” Before he could get to “serial number” she grabbed his shirt by the collar, hauled him over onto his back, and dragged his body entirely off the bed. From flat on the floor he saw her knowing glance at the bulge in the crotch of his trousers, and felt it surge even higher.
“On your knees, Sergeant Bernhardt,” she snapped. “Arms across the bed, ass in the air.”
Gunther scrambled to obey, hindered only a little by his bound ankle.
“Drop your pants.”
The dingy, grubby fabric was bunched around his ankles in moments, effectively hobbling him. He heard her move away, dared a look, and saw her drawing leather gloves from the pocket of a flightsuit hanging on a peg beside the door. He shivered in anticipation, until she drew the scented nylons  that had tied him carefully from inside her tunic and tucked them into that same pocket. Startled, he blurted out, “Will you not tie me again, Fraulein?”
She let the form of address pass. “Nope. This is your party, buddy. Just hang onto the bedframe and pretend.” In two steps she was right there, swinging the pair of gloves, whipping them across his buttocks in a series of blows so fierce that he did have to grip the wooden frame to keep from flinching away.
“Now,” she ordered, pausing and pulling up the stool so she could sit, “tell me your sins! Who have you left behind?”
Gunther had to let it out. “Mein…mein General! Feldmarschall Rommel!” Just speaking that name in German brought him close to tears.
She slapped him again. “Rommel? A fine soldier in a rotten cause. And you deserted him?” The contempt in her voice hurt more than the blow that came after, one harder than any yet. The gloves had dropped to the floor, and now she was using her bare hand. Gunther visualized how it must look against his reddening skin, and came so close to ejaculation—not yet! not yet! she might stop!--that telling his story was a necessary distraction.
“Not deserted, no, never! We were his personal troops, the very best, sent to hold off the enemy while the main forces retreated.” The chaos, the despair, the exhaustion, came back to him in waves.
“And you failed?” More blows now, from an open hand, varying the angle and the sharp, cracking sounds, striking new territory, down to his thighs, returning full force to flesh already sore and beginning to throb. Then she paused again.
“No!” Gunther was half-sobbing, as much from memory as from pain. “We held as long as possible, as long as was needed, as long as enough were left alive…” He had to stop for breath.
She struck him again, but not as hard. “And then?”
“And then we were captured.”
“That’s it? That’s all?”
“I should have died, as well.” The hot tears rose behind his eyes. It all seemed so real again, and yet so indistinct, the sand, the choking clouds of artillery smoke, the berserker’s fury that had possessed him until it crashed at last into helplessness. “I swore that I would return, or die. It was all that I dared say to him...”
“And that’s what you call a sin?” The lieutenant leaned back. Gunther could sense her beginning to retreat into her own sense of guilt.
“Please!” he gasped, lifting his hips toward her. “Please!” At any moment his arousal would turn to unsated pain. She must push him that last lap, raise him to the highest peak of intensity. “Ma’am, Lieutenant, Fraulein, bitte, mehr!”
So she gave him more, spanking his sore buttocks in an unrelenting rhythm that varied but never faltered, switching hands from time to time, driving his body into the bed’s leather straps until his cock felt so savagely huge and hard that he thought it would surely burst through them. What an arm she had, and such hands! At any instant now the impact of her blows would surge right through his flesh and set him off, soon, soon…but what was that sound? Artillery again?
“Now!” the lieutenant barked. “That’s an order!” Suddenly her hand was no longer striking his buttocks, but squeezing them, digging into the flaming soreness, making his hips move so that his cock pressed into the straps in rhythmic thrusts that drove him to a peak beyond retreat. “Now!”
And Gunther obeyed, all guilt submerged, all pleasure embraced in its full, searing glory, by the power of her authority. The flood of release spewing in sticky white bursts through the leather straps onto the floor brought also a storm of cries and harsh groans and possibly words, but if he called out any name, he could never after recall whether it had been that of the Field Marshall, or of the American woman he knew only as Lieutenant, or Ma’am. And in any case, soon enough he was crouching beside the stool with his head in her lap, face against the wool of her uniform trousers, sobbing incoherently as she stroked his hair.
“Well done, Sergeant Bernhardt,” she said firmly at last. “But pull yourself together now. That’s an army jeep you hear laboring up the hill. We’ve been found.”
________________

So much for Plan B. That’s such a feeble attempt at filth that my character would be not only be outraged, she’d be contemptuous. But she’s magnificent when she’s contemptuous! And she might even call me filthy names, so there's that.



 
 

     
 

 
 
     

 
 

 



     

Friday, May 26, 2017

Clean Dirt



by Jean Roberta

I already discussed “splosh” under a previous topic, so this time, I have to interpret “filth” as a metaphor. This is tricky. If “filth” means immorality, it can be interpreted in various ways. One person’s filth is another person’s revelation.

In my story, “The Battle Lost and Won,”* two nuns form a “special friendship.” The younger one, Sister Mary Agnes, feels horribly guilty about it, even though an androgynous Angel Gabriel has already appeared to her to warn her that entering the convent to avoid the complications of desire was cowardly, not virtuous.

Sister Mary’s lover, Sister Benedict, gives birth to a baby that seems to have supernatural origins. The Reverend Mother, wishing to avoid a scandal, threatens to cut the baby’s throat.

That’s when Sister Mary Agnes grows a spine and starts to develop her own moral code. Like many other single mothers, Sister Mary decides to keep the child alive by any means necessary:

Sister Mary held the child tightly against her bosom, where it mewed like a kitten and moved its little limbs, smearing the woman's habit with blood. Somehow Sister Mary knew the creature was female. "I will find a wetnurse for her and work for her keep. Sister Benedict, you must wait for me!"

Mother Anne tried to block Sister Mary's way. Summoning strength that she hadn't known she had, Sister Mary pushed her aside and strode to her room to collect her few belongings.

Soon, the woman was hurrying down the road that led to the village, holding the baby wrapped in her cloak.

Sister Mary walked past one humble cottage after another. Which dwelling had room for another child? None looked promising. At length she came to the inn, or so it appeared to be. A smiling gentleman strode past her to ring the bell. He was ushered inside by a plump, dark-haired woman in a bright red bodice that revealed the deep valley between her generous breasts. Sister Mary felt sure that she had come to the right place.

The young nun knocked at the back door, as befitted one seeking work as a servant. A maid wearing a saucy yellow gown opened the door, looking as though she had been interrupted while dressing. Her hair hung loose over her shoulders, and she casually bent over to tie one of her garters before acknowledging Sister Mary.

"What have we here?" she sneered. "A fallen sister. Well, it's not my problem. I'll fetch the Mistress."

"Please," begged Sister Mary, "my child is hungry." But the maid had already turned away.

Sister Mary cautiously looked at the face of the baby girl she thought of as hers. The child looked gravely back at her with the eyes of a sad woman. "Whether you come from Above or Below," promised Sister Mary, "I'll take care of you."

The woman in the red bodice swept forward, her petticoats rustling under her gown. This was Mistress Alison of the house known as the Lion Rampant. She laughed aloud at the sight of Sister Mary, who had resolved to take back her old name.

"Mistress, I am Susanna," she said as sweetly as she could. "I would be honored if you could use my services. The hospitality of your house is renowned."

"You needn't tell me that, girl," smiled the Mistress. "I'm sure we can reach an agreement. You're a comely wench and you still have an air of innocence. Are you willing to please me?"

The baby opened her tiny mouth as widely as she could, and screamed in hunger. Her face turned red, and the color spread to the tender scalp under her wisps of dark brown hair.

"You may feed your child, Susanna. You needn't pretend to be modest with me."

"My milk has not come in, Mistress. Is there no one in your house who can suckle a child?"

Mistress Alison laughed and made circles in the air with both hands. Susanna felt a tingling in both her breasts. "Come," ordered the Mistress.

The former nun knew that service would be required of her, and she could guess that housekeeping would not be a major part of it.

The Mistress brought Susanna and the baby to a bedchamber where she told Susanna to lay baby Lilith on the floor and remove all of her clothes. With fear and mounting excitement, Susanna freed her hair from its covering and unplaited it, leaving it to flow in ripples down her back, awkwardly holding the baby in the crook of one arm and then the other. She removed her stained cloak, awkwardly folded it and laid it on the floor as a pallet for the baby.

Mistress Alison watched, looking as though she had just heard a colorful story. She seemed pleased that Susanna had not presumed to hang her cloak from one of the hooks on the wall.

Soon Susanna was pulling off her shift, exposing her hard, round breasts, the charming little pit of her navel, her firm buttocks, gently curved hips and coltlike legs. To her amazement, streams of milk flowed from her nipples down the slopes of her breasts and over her belly.

"The Lord provides, dear," said the Mistress, winking.

Susanna held the baby to each of her breasts in turn, and Lilith drank loudly, slurping and smacking her lips before fastening them tightly on the source of nourishment and sucking with force. Susanna was shocked by the pleasure that flowed through her, and by the answering moisture that gathered between her lower lips. Susanna felt herself melting into her role as the nurse of her child and the servant of her Mistress, bound to both by remorse, gratitude and secret pride.


Susanna is shocked by how much she enjoys her new job in the local “house of ill repute,” yet as a nun, she was expected to be of service to others. Her new form of service also involves living with other women in a spirit of sisterhood. She can’t help rejecting the conventional morality that defines her and all the other wenches in the Lion Rampant as “fallen,” while celibate women are considered holy.

Susanna is also shocked by the pleasure of breast-feeding. Surely mothers aren’t supposed to be turned on while suckling their babies? (This was a controversial issue in the Erotic Readers and Writers lists several years ago.) Yet she feels what she feels, and she can't see what harm it could do. Note that this experience does not turn her into a pedophile; for sexual pleasure lower down, she prefers adults.

Eventually, the convent is destroyed after a cemetery full of baby bones is discovered on its grounds. Susanna is reunited with Sister Benedict, a.k.a. Joan.
To this day, two lesbians raising a child (or several) are not considered “clean” by conservatives, but if they are filthy, it’s worth asking: “Compared to what?”

Regarding the moral nature of young Lilith, the Angel Gabriel answers with exasperation (after being summoned repeatedly to make announcements) that she must decide for herself whether to be good or evil; it’s up to her. Even if the child’s origins are as mysterious as the origins of life itself, she is as human as the rest of us, and she can find her own definition of “filth.”


*This story is in my collection, The Princess and the Outlaw: Tales of the Torrid Past (Lethe Press, 2013). https://www.amazon.com/Princess-Outlaw-Jean-Roberta-ebook/dp/B00EW46W66

Thursday, May 25, 2017

Blueberry Brat #Dirty #Sploshing #Erotica

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/592916?ref=GiselleRenardeErotica

An excerpt from Blueberry Brat by Lexi Wood


The sign said OPEN, but the stand seemed closed. Then Karl spotted what he was looking for sunbathing on a lounger that must have been from the seventies. They didn’t make ‘em like that anymore.

But it wasn’t the chair he was interested in. It was the brat in the blue bikini, wearing sunglasses and chewing a licorice lace. He couldn’t believe the gall of this girl, lying out next to the road for every passerby to gawk at. Had she no shame?

No, of course she didn’t. That’s what brought him back to her.

Karl stood at the foot of the lounger, blocking her sun. She raised her glasses lazily, but she didn’t say a word. Just stared at him with those emerald eyes.

“Did your boyfriend buy that for you?” he asked, indicated the licorice lace.

She set her glasses back down and said, “Colin’s history. I bought this myself.”

“You sure get around.”

“I sure do.”

Karl watched the girl’s white stomach rise and fall with every breath. He wondered how she stayed so white when she worked in the sun, or at least lounged in the sun. He wondered why she wasn’t asking him what he wanted. Maybe it was obvious.

He hadn’t come back for the blueberries.

“Aren’t you afraid?” he asked. “Lying out here all alone, nearly naked?”

“Afraid of what?”

“Afraid of… anything, really.” Afraid of men, he meant, but he didn’t want her thinking she should be afraid of him in particular. She’d already called him a pervert once.

Once was enough.

He spent so long watching her breathe that his every inhale matched hers. She stopped chewing the lace and just sucked it. Her dark glasses reflected the brutal sun, so he couldn’t be sure whether she was looking at him or she had her eyes closed.

“You want more pie?” she asked.

He didn’t know how to answer that question.

Sighing, she slipped both feet over the side of her retro lounge chair and into a pink pair of flip-flops. She walked toward the whitewashed hut, swinging her narrow hips as she went. Flipping the latch on the door at the back, she turned to Karl and asked, “Your wife run off with another guy?”

“No.”

“Is she climbing Mount Kilimanjaro?”

“Hardly.”

“Is she dead?”

That question stopped Karl in his tracks, or would have done if he’d been walking.

“She’s dead?”

The way the girl said that word, so casual and yet so final, made him wonder who’d failed to teach her proper manners. “Yes, my wife has passed.”

“So your kids are orphans?”

“They’re not orphans. They have me.”

“So half-orphans.” She opened the plywood door. With the end of a licorice lace hanging out of her mouth, she said, “I’m a full orphan. Both my parents are dead.”

Karl felt strangely numbed by this admission, but he said, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
With a shrug, she said, “It’s better this way. Now it’s just me and my grandma—and my grandma doesn’t drink.”

Karl’s stomach knotted.

She stepped inside the blueberry hut.

When he didn’t follow, she stuck her head out and asked, “What are you waiting for?”

He was waiting to wake up from this strange dream.

They’d covered quite a lot of heavy territory, which weighed Karl down immensely. This girl seemed to hop over tragedy like a jump rope.

As he approached the white hut, he asked, “How can you be so cavalier about losing your parents?”

“It was a long time ago,” she said from inside.

“Even so…”

“If you had the kind of parents I had, you wouldn’t have to ask.”

When Karl arrived at the open door, his mind drew a blank. He forgot their entire conversation. All that remained was the image before him, of a naked eighteen-year-old surrounded by baked goods.

“Come in,” she said. “Close the door behind you.”

He did as he was told, though he knew no good would come of it. He crossed the threshold and stepped inside, all the while staring at the girl’s small white breasts with their soft pink peaks.

Her pussy was shaved bare, which he would have guessed after seeing her in a bikini, but she stood there like it was nothing. Like she hung out naked in the blueberry hut all the time and why was he making such a big deal about it?

She hadn’t taken off her flip-flops, and she hadn’t taken off her necklaces. The beads and feathers and strips of leather danced against her chest as she made space on one of the low shelves. Karl’s heart clenched as she jumped up on it, because he was sure it would collapse beneath her, but either the shelf was stupendously well-constructed or the girl weighed next to nothing, because she sat easily upon it, not a trace of worry on her face.

“You haven’t fucked anyone since she died.” The girl leaned against the wall, which was painted the same glossy white as the rest of the hut. Then she added, “Your wife,” as if he wouldn’t know who she was talking about.

“That’s right,” he said. “I haven’t. Haven’t even thought about it, to be honest.”

She opened her legs. “Until now.”

He nodded. “Until now.”

Her pussy lips were the most perfect shade of pink. Though the closed hut had no windows, enough light came in through gaps in the loose slats to make her juices glitter like diamonds. He’d never seen anything so alluring.

“Lick it,” she said, kicking off her flip-flops.

When he didn’t move, she walked her bare feet up his chest and pressed down on his shoulders with her heels. He let her move him down to the ground, which was the same glossy white as everything else. Felt nice and cool against his knees.

She slid her feet down his back and said, “I hope you’re good at this. There’s nothing worse than a grown man who can’t eat a pussy.”

Karl wondered if she was speaking from experience, and how much experience, but put the question out of his mind. He inhaled deeply between her legs. All he could smell was blueberries and pastry. Probably because there was an open pie sitting beside the girl and she was idly picking away at the top crust, eating it while she waited for him to begin.

“How do you stay so slim when you eat sweets all day long?”

She flatly said, “I’m eighteen. That’s how.”

At least she knew it wouldn’t last. Most girls her age didn’t realize there was a best by date on their effortless figures.

Karl extended his tongue and lovingly fed on the sweetness of this stranger’s pussy. An eighteen-year-old pussy was like nothing else in this world—not that Karl had any recent experience with young women. He was around them all the time. Taught them. Evaluated them. But he didn’t see them as potential sex partners. He was too shaken up after his loss to see anything. And, prior to that, he’d been so happily married he forgot other women existed.

Sounds impossible, but that’s how much he loved his wife. While she was alive, there was only her. His whole world was her.

And now his face was buried between the legs of an eighteen-year-old blueberry vendor. He really ought to have some feeling about that, but he didn’t. All he felt was arousal.

Wicked arousal.

Wild arousal.

He still had all his clothes on, but he was already so hard it hurt.

“What, are you hourly?” asked the brat.

“Hmm?”

“Lick my fucking cunt,” she said, over-enunciating every syllable. “I’m trying to get off, here. This isn’t charity work.”

“Sorry,” he said, and licked her clit with focused intensity.

“Better,” she said in a tone that sounded undecided. “But still not great. Try sucking it.”

Karl wrapped his lips around her perfect pink clit and sucked, but the slippery thing kept escaping from his mouth.

“Were you ever any good at this?”

He pressed his face between her legs so his cheeks touched her inner thighs. Wrapping his mouth around her bare pussy lips, he slobbered and sucked. She wiggled around on the counter, like she was looking for a better position, which meant he wasn’t pleasing her.
Picking at her pie, she said, “Oh, this is going nowhere.”

Every jeer was a challenge. He worked harder, slurping her pussy lips, sucking her clit with ever more force. He’d wanted to start slow and build up steam, but this girl was obviously looking for a cold, hard fuck.

Or, more precisely, a hot, hard mouth-fuck.

He stuck his tongue in her pussy and reamed her in and out.

“That’s just pathetic,” she said. “Get up. Get off me.”

He didn’t, and she kicked him with both feet to drive the point home.

As he gazed up at her from the floor, she slid down from the counter. She moved the pie she’d been picking at to the spot on the counter that was wet with saliva and pussy juice. Then she jumped up and sat in it.

Karl watched in awe as this sulky teen with the perfect pink pussy wiggled her butt in a blueberry pie. He didn’t know what to do or what to say or what this was all about. “Would you like me to leave?” he asked.

She gave him a stunned look, then hopped down from the counter. “If you left, who would lick all this blueberry pie from my ass?”

When she peeled the pan away, the bottom crust went with it. All that remained on her perfect porcelain skin was a slick helping of pie filling.

She leaned against the counter with her butt facing him and said, “You might want to take off your clothes. This could get messy.”

https://www.amazon.com/Younger-Women-Older-Men-Scandalous/dp/1546844597?tag=dondes-20
You can read the rest of this story in ebook form but I highly recommend buying my latest release Younger Women, Older Men: Scandalous Erotica, in which Blueberry Brat appears. 

This anthology, which includes erotic fiction from me and Lexi, is so new it's not even technically available yet.  You can purchase the paperback now (and you should!) but you'll have to wait until Friday for the digital version.

Purchase Younger Woman, Older Men in print from Amazon! 


Wednesday, May 24, 2017

Reflections of a Dirty Old Man, Recently Showered





I keep struggling with this topic, because I keep asking myself – what is a dirty story?

The most influential book on dirty story writing  craft  that I’ve read has been a book by exactly that title “How to Write a Dirty Story” by Suzie bright.  In this book she goes from the point of view, which time has proven to me,  that what makes a dirty story or an erotic story is as personal as our erotic nature itself.

I wrote here in the past the most erotic story I’ve ever read was by a nameless amateur and would only be erotic to me.  It was in a chat room during the earliest days of the internet, when a purportedly young man, say around high school, turned up emotionally shaken because he had just lost his virginity an hour ago.  But how he lost it!

His mother, a single mother, had a best friend he had known and grown up with like a kind of elderly aunt and trusted  old friend.  About one night a week they'd get together to watch TV ever since he was a little kid.  

So,  on this night the TV shows offered are pretty boring, she doesn’t have cable, and sitting side by side on the sofa, himself in a T shirt and jeans, her, in a loose house coat, get on the subject of birth marks.  Like Hooper and shark hunter Quint in “Jaws” showing off their scars, they begin showing each other their birth marks.  The easyones first.  My arm.  Here’s my arm.  I have one on my knee.  I have one over here.  And then the less accessible ones,  in those sweaty places you have to dig down a little to get to.  Soon she is half undressed.  Soon his jeans are pulled down a bit.  Soon she is saying those weak words “I think we need to stop.”  Which a testosterone addled young kid with a visible erection poking over the top of his underwear will say with a lamb like bleat “Why?’ 

It means nothing that she’s old.  It means nothing she’s his mother's friend.  It means nothing they’ve known each other for years.  His jeans are down, her house coat is open to reveal the final birthmark where a young man might hope to find it.  And she says, reluctantly, probably feeling irresistibly, terribly, gloriously dirty “Unless you want to go into the other room.”  The room down the hall.  That room.  He doesn’t know what to say.  She gets up and goes to that room and closes the door.

What happens in the next ten minutes will mark his life.  In his last moments in this world, hopefully many wonderful years from now, if his mind is clear at all, his last affectionate vision before going into that good night will not be of his wife or his kids or of Jesus.  It will be that woman, her clothes heaped hastily on the bedroom floor, the sheet pulled chastely up to her chin, the peaks of erect nipples tenting the thin fabric and those frightened, hungry eyes.  He will stand eternally in the doorway, right up to the instant he decides what he will do with that concealing sheet she is clutching.  And that is the power of woman.

Is that a dirty story?  Or a sweet story?  I don’t think it turns anyone on but me, but it reveals me.  It reveals what I might have wished, what would have turned me on, and how many times I’ve envied that young man, not for what followed next, but for that moment in the doorway when it’s all in front of him and there is a woman in the room waiting for him to choose.  A woman he thought he knew, and realizes now he doesn’t know shit.  His inexperience on these things falls on him with a humiliating thrill just as the rediscovery of her own thrilling vulnerability falls on her.  What will they do?

What is erotic is not the consummation of the act.  It is the offering.  The presence of untested desire, unproven manhood.  The possibility of physical failure or rejection, which would be experienced so differently by the boy and the woman.  The eroticism is what is hidden until it becomes revealed and then becomes sex and maybe sordid and disappointing or gorgeous and transformative.  Someday he’ll be married and it’ll become routine, something he does after brushing his teeth.  It will never be as terrifying and raw and primitive as it is in that first earthquake of his core.   Maybe she will have to show him how to take up the masculine posture between her knees.  Her hand on his back will lower him carefully onto her as though taming a wild animal with gentleness then her other hand will guide the tip of his shivering phallus in like a ship to a dock.  He'll get off a few thrusts before he grunts and shivers, feels something leave him and marvels over the strange hot slickness all around his cock and the sheer weirdness of inhabiting the body of another human being and ask himself is this really what people do.  He'll be too proud and jazzed to ask this woman, who looks like she should be his grandmother, if he did everything right.

 That is the power of woman also.    The eroticism is not the satisfaction of the penis stroking  for the first time.  The eroticism is all that leads to that moment that has pinned him wriggling to the wall like a bug in a glass frame, pinned between her thighs, the mystery of approaching her bed, standing next to her and looking down into her eyes and seeing the offer there, and the realization, which must always be a shock the first time, that a woman has called his bluff.  That she is standing wide open, radically and insanely nude, behind the door which she requires him to open by himself and step through.


Tuesday, May 23, 2017

My "dirty" is pretty tame...

I've recently come to realize that, in the grand scheme of the erotica genre, I don't really write dirty stories.

In terms of erotica put out by traditional publishers, I think I'm on par with the level of dirtiness and sexy filth. Anytime I pick up a Cleis anthology or other erotica book from a physical bookstore, the stories contained in the pages are more or less on par with mine.

But in the Wild West of self-published erotica? Compared to all that's out there, my stuff is pretty tame.

My stories tend to have some story set-up, the sex scene, and some story wind-down. In the case of longer pieces, sex might be a regular highlight of the book, but the story comes first. (And the sex tends to be people just having sex.)

I don't do dub-con, mpreg, aliens, shifters, various bodily functions, hypnosis, non-con, vore, tentacle, or anything else like that. I barely even do BDSM. If I were to compare my fiction to the gay porn industry, my stories are like videos from Helix Studios. They feature clean-cut and attractive men -- often twinks -- who have sex. A large chunk of self-published erotica is like the gay porn studio Treasure Island Media -- macho, hairy men who are aggressive and dominant with each other and demean one another in the act of very kinky sex.

Both have their place and both have their fans. I admit to sometimes watching and reading the more aggressive type of porn/erotica.

There were two recent events that helped make it clear to me that I write fairly vanilla erotica.

The first is a review I received. The reviewer asked for some dirty stories and I sent along something I was proud of and thought he'd like... only to receive a review that rated my stories as average, typical erotica. That review truthfully didn't hurt (I've long since learned to not let reviews affect me), but it did set my mind to questioning/wondering about my place in the erotica genre.

The second is from analyzing my sales stats. My bestselling book, by far, is Seduced By My Best Friend's Dad (which I co-wrote with Sandra Claire). It was my standard erotica formula -- sort of like a Helix Studios video turned into written format -- except I had the "father-like figure" as the romantic partner. Sandra and I had decided to venture slightly into taboo, but still stay clear of it. (I like to refer to this story as pseudo-pseudo-incest -- it's not biological incest and it's not step-incest. There's actually no legal or biological connection, but the twink has always looked up to his best friend's dad as a father figure.)

I highly suspect that it's the "search engine optimized" title that's leading to high sales -- and thankfully the reviews have been overwhelmingly positive, so I've fulfilled the promise in the title.

These two instances helped clarify for me that I do not, in fact, write dirty stories in the eyes of those who read them regularly. I do, though, write dirty stories in the eyes of those who do not regularly read the genre. Perhaps it's because those who don't read the genre don't realize how kinky it can get, or perhaps they just haven't gotten bored with general erotica yet (which, I think, is why the super kinky stuff does well -- readers get their fill of the more vanilla erotica and then go in search of dirtier stuff).

The flash fiction I wrote here four weeks ago is honestly the dirtiest thing I've written as Cameron D James. I know my colleague, Master Dominic, makes a killing on sales of very dirty stories, despite only having a handful of titles and with none of them on Amazon.

However, I have always said and believed that one shouldn't write to market, just to chase the dollar. A writer should write the story they want to tell and then worry about market placement later. For that reason alone, I plan to keep writing fairly-vanilla and fairly-clean erotica. I admire those who can write the type of story that readers crave (but that readers often refuse to admit they desire it so much). Those writers are keeping readers satisfied and are also filling a niche that needs to be filled... just as I do with my Helix Studios style erotica.



Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is The President And The Rentboy. He is publisher at and co-founder of Deep Desires Press. With his erotica writers' group, he is a member of the Indie Erotica Collective. He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit http://www.camerondjames.com.

Monday, May 22, 2017

Absolute Filth (#purgatory #dirtystory #flashfiction)


Hell and demon


By Lisabet Sarai

Better shovel faster, Sister. Lucifer’s stallions will return any minute.”

Sister Mary Alexander surveyed the manure still clogging the stables. Minions had removed twenty wheelbarrows, without making a dent in the horseshit surrounding her.

A lock of hair escaped from her wimple. She couldn’t do anything. They allowed her neither gloves nor boots. Filth smeared her hands. Stinking brown excrement stained her white habit. Muck saturated her hem. The horrid stuff leaked into her sensible shoes.

Cleanliness is next to godliness,” she’d scold, examining students’ grimy fingernails before applying her ruler to their palms with righteous glee. How many mouths had she washed out with soap?

Her back ached, though they’d returned the lithe body of her youth. She paused to rest. So futile!

You know how to make it stop.” Aside from the horns and tail, the demon reminded her of that cheeky senior Mick O’Riley. Always undressing her with his pale eyes.

I won’t break my vows.”

You’re in hell already, sweetcakes.” He cocked a pointed ear. “Hoof beats!”

Oh, no!” Tears gathered. “Again!”

On your hands and knees, Sister.” Flipping her habit, he spread her butt cheeks.

Not—there! Please...”

Has to be really dirty for you, baby!”


Friday, May 19, 2017

Life After Life

In the mid-late 70s, my parents got into some parts of the alternative lifestyle which the hippy movement celebrated. At one point we moved to a 3.5 acre property, where we built a mud brick house and adopted some of the teachings of Permaculture. We had dozens of chickens, several veggie gardens and at one point, a goat.
Prior to that, and all through the same period, they were also into spiritual pursuits. I remember my mother meditating under a pyramid frame which my father made. We had all kinds of books, the titles of which have escaped me but which were heavily into self-betterment through external beliefs. At one point my mother even had my sister and me convinced that if we were to sit on our beds and concentrate—REALLY concentrate—then we might achieve levitation.
Of course, that last one turned out to be simply a way for her to get us out of her hair for a while, but the rest of it seemed to be a lifestyle they truly believed in.
Some of this possibly came down to the spiritual beliefs of my maternal grandparents. Though staid and ordinary in many ways, theirs was a form of Christian belief which memory tells me now was pretty non-standard.
One time when I was around ten years old, I recall lying on a bed (or it could even have been a massage table) while my grandfather conducted a spiritual healing on my feet. This was because my parents believed I was pigeon-toed. As it turns out, I'm just hypermobile—I have longer-than-average ligaments and soft muscle tone, which means I'm much more naturally flexible than most people. But my grandfather went for it, with my parents' permission, and they all seemed to get something out of the experience.
But probably the most lasting memory of this period (because I still have the written "proof" of it) is when my grandfather's fellow church-goer gave him a few pieces of paper on which she'd written out all my previous lives back to the birth of Christ. There were hand drawn pictures as well.
I never met the woman. I was told she puts herself into a trance-like state and channels the information. Indeed, the written page was signed off with "I remain, yours in Christ the Master, Alaxander of the Galaxy".
The haunting thing for me, at that time, was how strongly (desperately?) I wanted to believe all kinds of psychic stuff. I believe I was around twelve years old, and trying to come to terms with how damn much there was to learn about life. So who was I to question any of this stuff, especially when it was so fascinating?
It was also well done, in that she never claimed I was anyone particularly big or famous. Occasionally I was an official type person (a Bishop of York in the 13th century), or my life skimmed across people of note (I was one of Florence Nightingale's first young ladies). I was more often female than male, and I lost a hell of a lot of menfolk to war and conflict.
One of the other notable parts of the whole document is how inconsistent it is as a piece of narrative. I don't pretend to understand the language or the overall concept anywhere near completely. My first life listed was, apparently, when I was a young girl working at "the INN" (at the time of the birth of Christ, natch). Yet my second life listed is apparently that same life, at the point of "death into birth".
My lives occurred two centuries apart almost all the way through. 1st century, 3rd, 5th, 7th, etc. And then, in the 17th century came this:

It is the 17th century. You are a traveller from a planet far away. In this your first earth life you choose to become a Gipsey. You have a wonderful time. You marry a dark eyed beauty and have 10 children.

As I say, there is great inconsistency throughout the document, if the words are taken literally. That was the tenth life listed, yet it speaks of it being my first earth life. I'm not sure if that means all the other lives occurred on other planets, or other planes, or whether there's some creative used of a Delorean involved.
Now, I'm closer to 50 than 40, and I've seen some shit. I've been through a few things, and I've learned a ton of stuff. And every time I step into a new area of knowledge, it really is a whole lot like opening a door. You step through and suddenly realise the world, and all the things in it, are so much more complex and overwhelming and impossible than you ever believed. So again, I find myself saying "who am I to question any of this stuff?"
I've always loved stories of psychics and people with extra mind powers. "The Chrysalids" by John Wyndham, for example. "The Gift" (the movie with Cate Blanchett) as well. The Grave books by Charlaine Harris and the wonderful Miriam Black books by Chuck Wendig. Just because those are all fictional doesn't mean the powers the characters possess are actually impossible. And if I lie on my bed and concentrate hard enough...well, who knows what I might achieve?

------

My newest release came out not too long ago. It's my first time playing in someone else's sandbox (in this case, Milly Taiden's "Sassy Ever After" Kindle World). I've been making covers for Milly for nigh on three years now, so it was a ton of fun to put my words to good use as well.

Sassy Healing by Willsin Rowe

Skilled Chicago surgeon Adam Gunnarsson abandoned his wolf heritage—and elitist parents—when heartbreak tore his world apart. And he swore never to let love sink its fangs into him again.
When family commitments lure him home, though, his determination is tested by Simone, a spicy human with more curves than baseball, and the voice of a bourbon-soaked angel.
Pressured by his parents to mate—to a suitable shifter girl, of course—Adam is instead drawn to the sassy singer whose heat seems destined to heal the rift between his two halves.

But as passions rise, so too do tensions. And anyone who’s not a predator becomes, by default, prey.