My Secret Fetish

Erotic photographs have been a guilty pleasure of mine for some time now. I find them on Tumblr, and sometimes my friends send them to me. I keep them for inspiration. Or sometimes just because I’m pervy. 
I love artsy photos, black and white photos, blurry photos. I love ones that show the connection between two people as they pleasure and explore each other.
But over the years, as I have continued to indulge in this habit of mine, I’ve slowly narrowed in on the one thing I am perhaps most drawn to in pornographic imagery. It’s a guaranteed turn-on, a big red “YES” button in my brain, and it is surprisingly hard (heh) to come by.
You know what it is?

**WARNING. This post is NOT SAFE FOR WORK. 18+ only.**

Normal male body hair.
Yup, that’s right. Hair. I like it on chests and legs and sacs. I prefer it trimmed on the latter, mind you, but I’ll still take something over nothing. Oiled, perfectly smooth male bodies? Meh. They just don’t do it for me. I like that visible evidence that this man produces testosterone. That he’s real.
Oh, I know that nothing in porn is really real. But indulge my fantasy, will you? Give me men who look like men. Men who don’t need to go to a salon to get naked with their partners. Men who (presuming they’re stright) strike a contrast with the softness of their women. 
Because in the end, that’s my biggest turn-on. Men.

Wank Wednesday :: Cloud on My Tongue

The first thing I thought of when I saw the #WankWednesday prompt this week was Tori Amos’ Cloud on My Tongue. Lyrics by Ms. Amos are included in italics.

Warning: This post is NOT SAFE FOR WORK. 18+ only.

The stereo is set to repeat, and it is the wistful sort of music that echoes how she feels. Alone inside a tiny bed, she thinks of touch. Of how it felt to be touched. Kissed.
She can almost taste it.
Don’t stop now, what you’re doing.
What you’re doing, my ugly one.
She feels ugly.
But she was good at what she did.
Shivering, she remembers the way it felt to twist her hand around a cock, heavy and wanting and smelling of something dirty and good. Her fingers trail their way along her torso to memories of sweat and motion and the scent of whatever she’d smoked. Of anesthetic and orgasm.
Got a cloud sleeping on my tongue.
And that’s exactly how it felt.
A cloud on her tongue, the fog pierced only by the way her body peaked around his.
Her lonely hand finds it way between her legs, and the memories lose their words. There are only images now, and the faint reverberations of heat beneath her skin. In the same sort of rhythm that he used, she strokes at wet flesh until she feels that heat again.
Building.
Aching.
Circles and circles and circles again…
She chokes on bile and on her own pleasure
Got to stop spinning.
But she can’t. She won’t.
If anything, the room spins faster as her hand does, and she lets it. Everything inside of her spirals up until it crashes, spasms echoing in dull throbs that leave her more alone than she was before.
And the cloud on her tongue is not numbness enough.
Thought I was over the bridge now…
She’d thought she was, too, she thinks, as she comes back down to earth. Hard.
But she’s not.

God help her, she’s still not.

Power Play Anthology On Sale Now

I’m so happy to announce that my short story, “The Next Step,” has been included in Power Play, a new anthology from Xcite Press, edited by Miranda Forbes.

It’s currently available in ebook format from All Romance Ebooks or from Xcite, and should be available in paperback later this year.

Here’s a quick (naughty) excerpt:

By the time she reached the platform, her thighs were slick, her sex swollen, and she found herself shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other as she waited for the train. Per her instructions, she stood at the very edge of the platform, right where the last car would soon be pulling in. All around her, people continued to fill in the spaces and, with a tingle of anticipation, she recognised that the train would be full.
That soon, she would be amid a throng of bodies, encased in their heat, with nothing standing in the way of any stranger’s roaming hand and her flesh.
A rush of warm air bombarded her, pulling her from her thoughts as the roar of wheels on steel drowned out all of the surrounding voices. Her skirt was pressed against her thighs, riding up dangerously high with the force of the wind created by the train. As if on cue, the moment the hem drew up to flutter across her pussy, the doors of the last car slid open in front of her, and she was left burning beneath the stare of a half dozen people, all casting lascivious, judging gazes down her form.
Sucking in a deep breath, Cynthia met each pair of eyes and stepped up onto the train. Bodies parted to make way for her, but she still felt her sides being brushed as she reached forward to grab onto the pole. There were a couple of open places to sit in the filling car, but her master had told her to stand, so she stood, her hips pressing to the half wall between the aisle and the first row of seats, her knuckles white as they clung on.
As it roared back to life, the lurching motion of the train sent another thrill through Cynthia’s body, and she moved with it, swaying with every turn, vibrating with the heady rush of turning wheels. At every stop, more and more people filtered into the car, and it wasn’t long until she felt the crush of heat she had anticipated, bodies all around her.
Then there was a touch – a hand dragging over fabric, rough fingertips on overheated thighs.
She was ready to panic, her whole body tensing and her mind finally returning to rationality, reminding her that she was not that type of woman. That this was wrong.
But then the man behind her spoke.

View : Fuck Me Friday

For Aisling Weaver‘s FuckMeFriday prompt.

View

In my mind, I lie beneath him, arms restrained above my head, my own panties in my mouth. Rough lips and teeth move up and down my skin, a finger between spread legs and then a bite against my hip. There are harsh words.
Slut. Whore. Cunt.
In my bed, I am still dressed. The hand against my clit is my own, my wrist tucked underneath the waistband of my pants, and I am close.
As they do in fantasies, the scene behind my eyes jumps erratically, escalating in a rush of touch and taking. His breath is hot beside my ear, and I rub faster, harder, to the thought of how it feels the moment that he shoves himself inside. I sneak my other hand beneath my clothes and slide a fingertip along my flesh, probing and then curling inside until my back arches, toes curling.
Pounding into me, he tells me that he’s using me. That this is really all for him, so he can cum inside my worthless cunt.
“Fuck, yes,” I breathe aloud. “Fuck me.”
“If you wish.”
My eyes snap open, my head turning to the door in horror to find him standing there, nonchalant. I start to pull my hands away, gasping hard to catch my breath, but he tsk’s and shakes his head.
“No, love,” he says, eyes dark, lips wet. “Keep going. Please.”
“But—”
“Touch yourself. For me.”
It isn’t so easy now, but I obey. My eyes drift closed to try to find the space, so close to the edge, where I had hovered.
“Look at me.”
With effort, I do. His gaze intent, he slides a hand across his own body to press against the line of his cock, obvious beneath his pants.
And watching him is better than imagining.
I quicken my pace to the thought of him jerking hard at himself, cock slick from fucking me. Fantasy and reality merge as he takes himself out and makes a long slow pass, fist closing around the base. And I want it.
I want it bad.
“Please,” I beg.
So close…
“No,” he breathes. “Just enjoy the view.”
My whole body tenses, and I watch him stroke and touch, twisting at the tip to slide back down.
I know what it looks like when he comes. The way he seizes. How he seems to explode.
“Look at me.”
My eyes meet his, and I feel my own body arch. The pleasure slams over me, hot waves that make scream. It is all I can do to keep my gaze on his, but it’s better this way.
It’s so much better when he watches me come.
“Beautiful,” he whispers as I come back down. He stalks toward the bed, dick bobbing, and then climbs on top of me. Grabbing my arms, he pins my hands above my head and sinks his teeth into my neck. “My beautiful, dirty girl.”
And then he makes my fantasy reality.