Prompt #111: Masturbation Fodder

(Second related theme : selfies)

You take a pic. You angle it for your best assets to show. You write a short piece. It’s hot sweaty sticky and delicious. You make these public, you share. Do you care what the viewer or reader does with them? Does it turn you on to know that you stimulate? Do they ask you for permission bringing you into their pleasure? Does it humiliate you to be reduced to their masturbation fodder, you a merely specimen of the species?

Conversely, that picture, the light, the angles, something’s clicks. The words, the ideas, the movement of the story. Your body reacts. You save it for later. You know why. A private movement and moment. Do you value it less for it’s immediate function? Is it art or literature when you masturbate over it? Are they human or porn in that moment of pleasure? Do you read the words or stare intently at the picture, or use it just to get you going? Do you return to favourite pieces?

Sorry, folks. I know my header clip is beyond obvious but I adore this Divinyls song – excellent memories of dancing about to it at university with a dildo and a whole bunch of other girls for the visual pleasure of a single guy (long story) – and just couldn’t stop myself from including it here.

Before I start babbling, can I just say that this is a bloody awesome Wicked Wednesday prompt by @tigger_sub. It made me realise that in the entire two years of blogging here on Chintz that I’ve never done a post on masturbation, which is both extremely shameful (not the act of masturbation, the fact that I haven’t written anything about it) and incredibly ironic considering that of all the sexual acts I enjoy and partake in, it’s the one I engage in most frequently.

Before I get to the crux of Tigger’s prompt, a little background …

I stumbled upon this rather delicious form of sex at a relatively young age and quite by accident. I used to ride a lot as a child and although it’s something of a cliché, I invariably discovered that when I sat astride a pony and my bottom was connecting with the saddle in a certain way (generally at a walk) something bloody amazing happened:

I got this incredible feeling between my legs.

A feeling that, provided I maintained whatever friction and rhythm I had going on against the tack, invariably spread over my whole body before peaking and leaving me feeling unbelievably good. Cataclysmically good … although on occasion pursuing it almost made me fall sideways off my horse. Needless to say, it didn’t take me long to work out that I could recreate this very moreish sensation with my fingers, and the rest, as they say, is history.

I don’t recall specifically when masturbation and fantasy started to hold hands with one another but I can tell you that when I discovered eighties bonk-busters, just before hitting my early teens, that the two become irrevocably intertwined. And that to this day, the written word remains my masturbatory aid of choice.

Why?

Well, while I definitely find certain images arousing to look at, I get far (far) more mileage and satisfaction out of scenes that I am able to paint in my own mind through textual cues. I like to be able to imagine – to spin a situation in my head to make it suit my purpose, i.e. getting myself off.

So, what sorts of things, exactly, will cause my fingers to drift south? And do I return to the same masturbation fodder over and over again? In asking myself these questions, I am reminded of a different one asked of Molly Moore during a session at Eroticon 2013:

“When did you know you were submissive?”

Well, if you were to ask that same question of me (and I consider myself to be a pretty messy mix of bottom and sub), I’d say that my textual masturbation choices gave me some pretty damn strong cues as to my sexual proclivities very early on, even though I didn’t acknowledge them or understand them properly until much later. Indeed, to this day, it is very, very unusual for me to get myself off to something that doesn’t have an element of D/s in it. And I’d go so far as to say that my ‘go-to’ masturbation texts over the years outline pretty clearly my personal sexual trajectory …

Age 14: Defy the Eagle, Lynn Bartlett

As a young teen, this scene absolutely fascinated me. It still does. It’s incredibly tame but even though there’s no actual sex in it, the forced bondage element fairly shouts its erotic intent. These few words had my hand (and mind) very quickly occupied.

Jilana lowered herself onto the pile of furs and, while Caddaric towered over her, stretched out full length. He knelt beside the pallet, dropped the rope and then his hard hands bit into her shoulders. When Jilana gasped at his touch, Caddaric merely raised an eyebrow at her and flipped her onto her side so that she faced the tent wall. He released her shoulders and a moment later, Jilana felt the bite of the rope as he coiled it around her ankles. Her arms were pulled behind her back and her wrists bound by the same length of rope which tied her ankles. In the space of a few minutes, Jilana was trussed in a manner that left her immobile. Even as Caddaric rose, Jilana could feel the strain in her muscles and joints as she was arched backwards over the rope.
.
.
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She had to strain in order to turn far enough over her shoulder to see him, and when she did he smiled mockingly. “Wait for me, Jilana.”

With those sarcastic words he was gone and Jilana was alone in the dark tent. Wait for me. Jilana laughed a trifle wildly. As if she could do anything else.

Age 15: Till We Meet Again – Judith Krantz

This one, I read over and over and over and over and over and over. In fact, I don’t have enough fingers or toes to count how many times my teenage self got off to this particular interaction between Sabine de Koville and Bruno de Lancel. I had no idea that what I was reading at the time was a D/s scene. All I knew was that it appealed to me. A holy hell of a lot.

“Madame must stand absolutely still. Madame must do whatever I tell her and nothing else,” Bruno said harshly. “Does Madame understand?” She nodded gravely, feeling the hot, heavy congestion grow between her thighs as she looked at the boy’s suddenly fierce features.
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.
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“Madam must stand against the wall,” he muttered. Madame will not remove her shoes.” She complied, her back straight and her breasts proudly high. He stood over her, only inches away, his thumbs roughly weighing her heavy breasts while his thumbs and forefingers sought her nipples under the thin folds of silk. He found them and pinched them, knowingly and repeatedly, with stern fingers that came perilously close to causing pain.

Age 36: Kaylee’s Keeper (Masters of the Castle, Book 2)

Skipping ahead a fair few years, lest this become a post of excerpts, a book that I picked up about a year ago and have returned to over and over again. There are a number of scenes in Kaylee’s Keeper that really hit the mark for me, but I do so (so) love this one, where the heroine, Kaylee, is punished in front of an audience.

“Look how wet she is,” Alan announced, and soft laughter filled the room. He laughed too, even as he purred down at her, “What kind of naughty girl gets wet during her punishment?”

“My favourite kind,” Master Marshall drawled, winning another round of chuckling laughter from everyone. “Open your legs for him, pet, nice and wide. Give him your naughty little pussy and ask Master Alan to spank it for you.”
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“I’m waiting, pet,” Master Marshall said. Is there something you want to say to Master Alan or do I need to put you across my knee first?”

She shivered even harder, but dutifully raised her chin and, horribly embarrassed, whispered, “Please spank m-me–”

“Spank what?”

“Please, sir.” She moaned, hiding her eyes behind her hand as if that could somehow shield her from this wanton debasement. “Please don’t make me say it.”

And even more recently? This edgeplay scene from Cherise Sinclair’s recent Edge of the Enforcer.

As to the question of selfies … Do I care that people might get off on the pictures that I take of myself? Feel ‘reduced’ in any way? Nope. If anything, it kind of gives me hope that people are embracing the idea of everyday men and women with everyday bodies being sexy and erotic and desirable. Because, as I’ve said before, that’s my ultimate objective when I photograph myself in various states of undress.

I could very easily go on about this topic for another few thousand words but I’ll haul myself back at this point before I bury you any more than I already have done in a grave of verbosity. A thought to end if I may, though:

“To masturbate is to imagine: physically.”
― Mokokoma Mokhonoana

The post Wicked Wednesday: I touch myself appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

Anyway, brave lady that she is, Tamsin chose to include a snippet from an unpublished story of mine, Dark, in her line-up. Centred around erotic humiliation, it’s a tale I’ve had kicking about on my hard drive for a while now (I’m hoping to find a home for it in an anthology and am thus holding onto the full version with a death grip) but, as we head towards Valentine’s Day, I thought you were all deserving of a smutty little morsel to get you past the cheesy hearts and flowers currently coming at us from all sides. And it’s been a while since I posted some of my own stuff on Chintz.

I hope you enjoy this little taster of Dark; I’ll let you know if and when it finds a place beyond my laptop so that you can read it in its entirety.

Jane
xxx

PS – Tamsin’s up to yet more mischief with Superotica Valentine posts; she’s currently on Day 9, so hurry on over and catch your smutty selves up!

DARK

‘Give me a number.’

It takes me a moment to work out what you mean. My normally agile brain is completely sodden, struck dumb beneath a chaotic waterfall of thoughts.

You want to know if I’m okay. To gauge if this – whatever this is – is too much.

My lips part, a number that I know will bring everything to a halt perched like fluttering bird on the tip of my tongue. But then I press them together again, caging it in. Forcing myself to think before I let it fly free.

Am I scared?

Yes. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me. And like most sane people, I fear the unknown. This you, the you that’s managed to surprise me, is someone I’ve not met before. At least, not in a way that’s made such an impression. I think he frightens me a little. But … I’m not entirely sure I dislike the feeling. Really, it all comes down to whether I trust you. Whether I believe you’ll stop whatever it is you’re doing if it transcends beyond what I can bear. Do I believe that?

That answer is easy.

Yes. Absolutely.

So what is the number, then? I’m not hurting. I know you’re here with me, even if I can’t touch you. But I am further from my comfort zone than I can remember being for some time. Amazing, the games your mind can play with you.

Think, think …

A different bird flies free of my mouth, ghosting across the air between us.

‘Six,’ I hear myself croak. ‘Six.’

‘Hmmph.’ A satisfied grunt. Has my answer pleased you? Was it what you were expecting? I can’t see your face, so I have no idea.

‘Position her, please.’

What?! What do you mean ‘position me’? Who are you talking to?

Even as I ask myself these questions, prepare to voice them to you aloud, hands, firm but gentle, wrap around my upper arms and press into the curve beneath my bottom, pulling me backwards and down. I yelp in fright and kick my legs in panic – partly because the hands are not yours and partly because I don’t want to fall – but then I feel something firm meet my upper thighs and I steady. It feels like the hard edge of table. I’m dragged backwards over its surface until the backs of my knees hit the edge, and then someone cups the back of my head before pressing their palm against my sternum.

The unspoken command is unmistakable. Lie down.

I do.

The clinical detachment in your voice as you instruct an unknown someone to raise my dress and lift me feet onto the table is mortifying. Yet even as I feel fingers circling first my left ankle, then my right, the skin of my soles pressing into the smooth wood, I feel something else.

Humiliation. And it is making me wet.

Worse, exposed in this way, my legs crooked and spread, I know you can see that shameful truth. As can whoever else is with you.

A laugh. Not yours. ‘Quite the little whore, isn’t she?’

Oh, god. My skin tightens and burns with embarrassment, even as a sly feeling of pleasure at the base assessment spreads insidiously through my chest.

There is a smile in your voice as you answer, ‘Yes. She is.’

‘Pretty cunt, too.’ Another man’s voice this time, casually observant, as if he were discussing nothing more interesting than the weather.

‘It is a rather lovely pink. Especially when it’s wet like this.’

The rattle of ice in a glass, as if someone has tipped a drink to their lips.

‘Perhaps you’d like a closer look?’

‘Please.’

The burn of embarrassment turns into a prickling inferno. I suspect I know what you’re going to say next.

………………..

The post A little morsel: Dark appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

Image: courtesy of Tech Affair

‘Do you talk during sex? Do you like to be talked to during sex? What do you say or what do you like to hear? Does it excite you or does it turn you off?’

Words. They have the ability to steal the breath more effectively than a cane, settle beneath the skin more deeply than the thud of a flogger, bind and hold us more firmly than any rope.

When I saw that this was the topic prompt for this week’s Wicked Wednesday, I was thrilled (superb suggestion, Lord Raven). Why? Well, words are a huge (huge) part of my personal kink.

Sex, for me, is rarely silent. It’s always better when there’s verbal communication going on, because, in my opinion, while our bodies generally give our partners a pretty good idea as to whether we’re enjoying ourselves (or not), the right words have the ability to elevate and texture an exchange in a way that nothing else can. They give the speaker and the listener the opportunity to further engage the senses, to fall more fully into an experience and connect more deeply with one another. Over time, I’ve come to understand that I actually need the verbal element in order to reach the places that I find most satisfying. I don’t mean that I require a constant stream of words and chatter to orgasm. Far from it. Rather, that a few choice words and phrases have the ability to elevate sex or a D/s exchange to a whole other level. Put simply, my brain needs to be engaged for me to be aroused and language plays a massive part in its stimulation.

It can’t just be any old dirty talk, mind you; the verbal cues I like are very specific and they all play into other aspects of my sexual personality and kinks. A set of instructions, orders, requirements, quiet threats; a commentary of what I look like in a particularly vulnerable position or perhaps following a perverted set of directions; name-calling. If the words have anything to do with control, objectification and debasement then, yeah, I’m pretty much a puddle of mush in my OH’s hands. There. I said it. I’m not sure why, but it took me a fair amount of time to admit, out loud to him, that explicit language, more specifically, derogatory explicit language, turned me on in a big, big way. That I was interested in far more than the standard ‘I’m going to f*ck you’ fare (which is all well and good but doesn’t really tap into anything for me psychologically). Is it because the things I like him to say would be completely unacceptable in an everyday situation? Maybe. I know that words can induce incredibly strong reactions, even when they’re on paper. (Check out the very unscientific Talk Dirty to Me experiment I conducted with four ‘vanilla’ readers last September.) Put it this way: it was far easier for me to come out and say ‘I’d like you to hit me with a crop’ than it was to say ‘It turns me on no end when you humiliate and debase me with words’.

It doesn’t work both ways, though. I’m not a talker. I would far rather be spoken to than speak to him during an exchange (although sometimes he insists that I articulate what I am feeling or wanting because he knows that it will add to the feelings of embarrassment). But I love to listen. Oh, man, do I love to listen.

Here is the important and most crucial, point, though. I am only okay with being spoken to in the way I’ve outlined by one person, and one person only. My other half. And only in the context of a sexual or D/s exchange (although, for us, the two are so closely linked they cannot be really be separated). If he, or anyone else called me a ‘whore’ or a ‘slut’ or any of the other words I like to hear in any other situation or context, believe me, you’d see and hear the nuclear explosion all the way from the North Pole. And perhaps that is why it took so long for me to confess the desire to be spoken to in this way. Words are extremely powerful things, but I finally understand that it’s okay to let myself explore, experience and enjoy them with someone I trust to know the difference between their use during sex/play and everyday life.

The post Aural Sex appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

Title:

You know how you’re not supposed to judge a book by its cover? Well, I took one look at Spanktastic and totally (totally) did.

Oh, my, is it hot.

But do you know what’s even better? The inside. Because does Spanktastic ever live up to its super-seductive exterior. In fact, I’d go so far as to say it surpasses it – and a barebottomed red-head draped over a velvet chair is pretty hard to top, in my opinion!

This book is an absolute feast for spanking gluttons. Twenty-two luscious stories, in which different women have their bottoms turned a delightful shade of pink by the various inhabitants of fictional town, Rock Creek – a BDSM-friendly community whose residents are free to indulge their fetishes behind closed doors or in front of them. (I should point out here that whilst Spanktastic is a collection of shorts, they’re all linked together by this common setting and, thus, intertwine to create an anthology with a ‘novelesque’ feel. So even if you’re not generally keen on short-form erotica, Spanktastic may just appeal to you.)

The stories are all delightfully different – with twenty-two in total, I was a bit worried that they might be a bit ‘samey’ – but, no. Author Sadey Quinn does a brilliant job of keeping the scenarios varied, interesting and – most importantly! – hot.

F/f, M/ff, FM/f, F/ff, M/f … Voyeurism, exhibitionism, medical, humiliation … And that’s just for starters. I’m struggling to think of types of play that aren’t included in Spanktastic. Yet all are handled with finesse, and even the scenarios that wouldn’t normally push my buttons, well, did.

My personal favourites?

The Sadists, in which a sub by the name of Fern has the misfortune – or should that be pleasure? – of being sent by her Master to serve two sadistic Tops …

‘When they paused once more, Mistress Natasha walked around Fern and stood right in front of her. Their eyes were only inches apart, and Fern shuddered when she saw the expression on the Mistress’ face.
“Don’t you know, Fern,” she said icily, “that I haven’t got an ounce of pity in my body?”’

… and Cleaning for Master Holden. Woe betide any girl who leaves dust bunnies beneath the bed at number Forty-five, Harper Hills:

‘“Come here,” he says.
Joanne walks to him and stands in front of his desk. He holds out his white gloved hand for her to see. To her horror, it is nearly covered in a very thin, yet obvious, layer of dust.
“What is this?” he asks. The edges of his lips are curled in a very small and evil smile.
“It’s … dust, sir,” she says.’

Spanktastic it really is. If you’re a fan of The English Vice, you won’t want to miss this one.

Tickle your fancy? Click on the following links to buy a copy:

Amazon.co.uk

• Spanktastic – Kindle
• Spanktastic – Paperback

Amazon.com

• Spanktastic – Kindle
• Spanktastic – Paperback

Kobo

• Spanktastic – ePub

The post Spanktastic – Sadey Quinn appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.