Welcome to Elust #60 -

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #61? Start with the rules, come back August 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Shame Hurts

Of Cocks and Cunts: The Language of Erotica

#RealBodiesAreSexy

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

I may never suck another cock, but I’m still

The sofa

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

My Aftercare
YKINMK but My Kink is Not YOUR Kink either
Nerds, Pervs, and Jeffrey Dahmer
Sex Is Simple. That’s Why It’s So Complicated
Cuckolding. The Step Child of BDSM?
What Is A Man’s Role At A CFNM?
Happily whipping Jesus
What are your views on the ethics of kink?
FetLife and The Single Gal
How Porn and BDSM Helped Me

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Tall guys! You’re a bunch of sick perverts!
In Which I Fuck Up and My Uterus Saves Me
Why Is There So Much Shame?
Birds do it, Bees do it…
Little Lower Layer
Wooing, pursuing, romancing a dominant woman
Sexual Freedom. Why Do I Feel I Need to Hide.
Our Age Gap Shouldn’t Be Your Insecurity
Advanced kegel: stroking with only PC muscles
Impress your lover with these oral sex moves

Sex News,Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

The Hashtag Activism…It Burns It!
Sex Worker Etiquette
Rant Break: SCOTUS and Hobby Lobby Rage
Subs Need Classes Too!

Erotic Fiction

A Flight Attendants Secret
Relentless
Sit
Festival car park fun
Private Performance
And The Band Played On
Consequences Part One

Blogging

A warning for erotic writers and sex bloggers
Bloggy, Soggy, and Sexy

Erotic Non-Fiction

Don’t Ever Make Me Wait Again
Words

Poetry

Satan’s String – a Lusty Limerick

Writing About Writing

Writing Erotica for Trans Readers Pt 1

The post e[Lust]#60 appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

Today, 3 July, marks the second official blogiversary of Behind the Chintz Curtain. I’ve actually managed to babble smutty stuff at you all for a full two years.

Wow.

I’m not really going to say much in this post. Just thank all the awesome people who’ve supported me thus far (fellow bloggers, authors, writers, reviewers, friends, family) give you a little visual glimpse back over the past year’s worth of photographs (my favourite images taken for Molly’s Sinful Sunday – c.f. the collage at the top of this post), and leave you with the next little snippet from a story beginning I posted for last week’s Wicked Wednesday. This was the tale the majority of you wanted continued. And, of course, your wish is my command.

Hope you enjoy.

Jane

xxx

LOT – PART TWO

*For those who missed Part One, you can find it here. Simply scroll down to Story Two.

Oh, Christ, but I don’t want to go up there. Can’t think of anything more humiliating. To be stared at by all those men and then sold like a cow at a farmers’ market. Despite the pressure it puts on my windpipe, I find myself planting my feet as my handler begins to move forwards, trying to delay the inevitable, but as soon as he feels the resistance he stops and turns back towards me, his grey eyes narrowing. “Now, now. None of that, girl.”

I expect him to haul me forwards, much as the other girl’s keeper did, but it appears I have completely misjudged the man in charge of me. Before I can blink, his arm is clamped around my torso, we’re chest-to-chest, and a heavy palm is landing on the flesh of my bare bottom. The are blows strong, designed to hurt and, pinned as I am to his torso, I cannot pull away, only yelp in pain each time his hand makes contact with my flesh. On and on the spanking goes, until the cheeks of my backside feel as if they’ve been scorched beneath a hard desert sun. When he finally stops, I am crying, breathing hard against his chest, trying to get my head around the hurt and emotions roiling through me. I concentrate on sucking in air through my nose, releasing it through my mouth, and notice, bizarrely, that the shirt I’m pressed against smells of faintly of laundry detergent.

Fresh, clean and grassy.

“Ready to behave?” he says as he releases me.

His voice is gentle – completely at odds with the physical punishment he has just met out – and I find myself looking at the ground and nodding furiously, unable to meet his eyes.

“Good.” He tugs lightly on the leash. “Let’s get you up there.”

I keep my gaze fixed on the wooden floor as we move forwards, me slightly behind him, refusing to look at the audience, trying to forget that they’re there. But they begin to murmur as we emerge from the wings of the stage and, once again, it becomes impossible to avert my eyes.

Faces. So many faces. They blur, the sea of men seemingly becoming one before me. My heart is beating so fast it aches.

“Watch the steps.”

The softly spoken command has my head swinging back to the man at my side; we’re at the very centre of the stage and he is waiting patiently for me to mount the auction dais. When I don’t move, he steps closer to me and drops his mouth to my ear. “If you don’t get up there, little girl, I’ll bend you over right here so that every man in this room can see just how wet that little pussy of yours is. And then I’ll spank your ass until it’s purple.”

I recoil, his words sending a volatile cocktail of shock and horror raging through my body. “You wouldn’t dare,” I whisper softly, face flaming. “And I’m not wet.”

His mouth hardens and I notice a glint in his eye.

“Did you just challenge me?”

What?! Oh, lord. “No!” I say frantically, reaching out to touch his arm with a placating hand. “I didn’t mean it like that!” I close my fingers around his forearm.

For a second he simply stares at me and I think he’s going to let it go. But then he looks away, opens his mouth to address the room, and I know I am done for.

“Gentlemen!” His voice carries across the rumble of voices swirling around the room. He waits for them to fall silent before turning and nodding to the man with the gavel. “Auctioneer.” The man inclines his head in response. “It appears that,” he looks down at the number written in permanent marker on my left breast, “Lot 14 doesn’t know her place.”

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

“In fact, I’m not entirely sure she is fit for sale.”

I want to hide in shame and fear as sounds of disapproval swell out from the audience.

“First,” this as he holds up a single finger to the audience, “she refused to come out onto the stage when instructed.” A second finger. “Then, she refused to climb on the block.” A third finger. “And, finally, she challenged me and denied her little cunt was wet from the spanking I just gave her.”

More disgruntled sounds from the audience.

“So, tonight, if you are all in agreement, I would like to propose an amendment to proceedings.”

An expectant silence.

“That I be allowed to purchase Lot 14, free and clear, and in return give you the opportunity to observe the corrective lesson that I intend to give her.”

He can’t be serious. He can’t be. I close my eyes and try to ignore the excited whispering that floods the room at his words.

“Does anyone object?”

A chorus of ‘nos’ hit us as the sea of men give their approval and I squeeze my eyes shut more tightly as if doing so will make them go away.

“Excellent.” My keeper’s voice holds a definite note of satisfaction and I feel his warm fingers clamp around my wrist. “You’ve just been bought and paid for, little slut.” The sound of footsteps tapping a steady beat across the wooden stage have my eyes springing open of their own volition; another guard is making his way towards us, a pair of antiquated metal shackles in one hand, a long, thin cane in the other. “Now. Let’s see about getting my money’s worth.”

The post Two: Best Sinful Sundays … and a little bit of spanking appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

Image: MAKY. OREL via Wikimedia Commons

There’s nothing quite like penning the first few lines of a new story. Realising a new character, allowing them to step out of your head and onto the page; setting a scene and creating a world for them to walk about in. In fact, I think I may have a slight addiction to beginnings because I’m particularly good at writing these as opposed to middles and ends! Looking in my Drafts folder, I’m greeted by a veritable wash of documents containing snippets of text – monuments to ideas that I absolutely had to get down before they disappeared into the black hole of lost thoughts and then, after typing those critical words, promptly did nothing with.

It’s not that I consciously abandon creative flashes, rather that I an idea strikes and nine times out of ten I’m working on something else that means I can’t give it my undivided attention. Inevitably, by the time I have the breathing room to explore it, the urgent creative outpouring I initially experienced has ebbed or I’ve forgotten that I had the idea in the first place. There have been quite a few occasions when I’ve gone to open a document up, seen a file I have no recollection of creating, opened it, and gone “Oh, yeah! Why didn’t I keep going with that?”

So, I need your help, my lovelies. Below, are snippets from three stories I started writing and failed to continue with. There is one that stands out more than the others to me but I thought it would be fun to see which introduction is most appealing to you.

Given the choice, which story should I continue to write? Which would you most like to read?

EXCERPT ONE: “CLEAN”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

I shriek, spinning around as I do so. Almost slip on the wet, soapy tiles.

He’s standing right next to the glass door of the shower cubicle, completely naked, a grim look on his face.

Busted.

My face flames and I drop my guilty hands to my sides, the hot shower spray washing the last of the frothy suds from my belly and between my legs, sending them swirling down the drain.

There’s nothing I can say.

We both know that I’ve broken my promise.

I’d hardly say that I’m a neat freak. I’m not the sort of girl who folds up her clothes after wearing them, who makes her bed neatly every morning before skipping merrily off to work. No, more the kind who leaves the washing in the dryer for as long as possible rather than putting it away. Leaves flowers in vases until the blooms have long dried up, withered and crumbled into dust.

In fact, I’m not really tidy at all.

But when it comes to cleanliness? Well, you know that old mantra. It really is next to Godliness in my book. Especially when it comes to my body. I shower at least twice a day, every day – and always, always after sex.

The drip and trickle of rapidly cooling semen coating my pussy and legs?

The sticky smear of my own arousal?

The urge to wash both from me pounces within seconds of him pulling out.

I know it’s irrational. I do. And he hates that I’m so eager to wash the evidence of his possession off of me, his disappointment seeping into me like a cold, dismal damp. I think we both knew that my promise to try and accept the mess of our joinings was a hollow one but to have my lack of commitment to our agreement confirmed is worse than I imagined.

His gaze bores into mine.

 “Get out of the shower. Go and lie on the bed.”

EXCERPT TWO: “DOCTOR’S ORDERS” 

Your eyes are as wide as saucers; white moons eclipsed by little planets of deep green. “I … I’m sorry?”

Mortification perfumes your voice, makes it vibrate and shiver like smoke.

Oh, this is perfect.

You heard me. No question. But on this occasion I’m happy to repeat myself – not least because I want to see the look on your face when the words finally sink in.

“You’re going to be examined,” I say blandly, careful to mask my pleasure at your reaction.

“But …” Your eyes skitter across to the shiny metal table winking beneath the bright, hanging lights and then dart quickly away, as if the sight of it burns your retinas. Even as I watch, the skin over your collarbone turns a delicious shade of strawberry. “You know I don’t like being …” You trail off again, wavering from the path of speech.

I remain silent, delighting in your struggle to find the right words. To admit the truth.  And your fear. Bless. There really is nothing more beautiful, more intoxicating, than a sub who’s just realised she’s about to be eaten by the wolf. That he’s going to sink his teeth in.

“People will see me,” you finally blurt out, your gaze locked to the floor, seemingly absorbed in watching your left foot paint awkward patterns on the wooden floor.

“They’ll see your cunt, you mean.”

The blush climbs your neck and threatens to scorch your lovely, pale cheeks.

“I can’t do it,” you say, almost defiantly, although when you finally look up, your eyes silently plead with me for mercy. Mercy we both know I’m not going to show.

For a time I simply watch you, enjoy observing the war you’re waging with yourself play out across your face: your ingrained sense of modesty versus your need to submit. To me. I know what the outcome of the battle will be, of course – knew before the skirmish was even declared – but I have no doubt your humiliation will be far, far deeper if you agree to this without any form of coercion on my part. None of this “he gave me no choice” crap.

I want to fuck both your body and your head. Invade every recess of both and turn you inside out until you’re nothing but a ball of shame and need.

You’re going to hate me for it, without a doubt. But you’re going to adore me in equal measure.

It’s just the way it is.

EXCERPT THREE: “LOT”

The auctioneer’s gavel strikes like an axe against a neck.

“Sold, for five hundred pounds, to the gentleman in blue.” Polite applause. “Congratulations on your purchase, sir.”

Don’t look, I tell myself. Don’t look. But, inevitably, I find my eyes scanning the audience of smartly dressed men, trying to spot the buyer. It isn’t difficult; he’s tipping his head slightly in acknowledgement of his purchase, a smirk on his too perfect face.  Arrogant shit. I stare at him for a few moments but the sounds of a struggle pull my attention abruptly away.

It’s the red-headed woman he’s apparently just bought. She’s being led from the auction block, resisting like crazy, by a huge blonde man.

“Please. Not him. Please, not him!”

Her feet scrabble at the floor as she tries to pull backwards but her jailor pays her absolutely no attention, remains completely unperturbed. He just marches her relentlessly forwards until she stands, trembling, before the blue-shirted man who has paid for her.

The buyer doesn’t bother to get up, doesn’t touch her. Simply regards the naked woman in front of him with a detached expression. A faint smile plays about his lips, though, and it appears that he is pleased with his purchase.

A tug at my neck startles me and I jerk in fright before remembering the collar at my throat and the leash dangling from it like a thin, black snake. I turn and glare at the man holding the latter.

“Watch it,” I growl.

He chuckles slightly. “You’re next, darlin’.” Nods his head towards the stage and the auction block at its centre. 

The post Wicked Wednesday: Beginnings appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

Next month, on 3 July, it will be my second blogiversary. Flake that I am, I didn’t actually do anything to commemorate the first year of Behind the Chintz Curtain – mainly because I was preparing to move countries – but this year, I really do hope to mark the occasion in some way. With the two-year line looming, though, I thought it was a good time to take a look at the blog and how it’s evolved.

Scrolling through the various posts published over the past twenty-three months, it’s amazing to see how much Chintz has changed in content and emphasis. In the beginning, there was a much stronger focus on book and sex toy reviews but, as time has passed, I’ve found that I’ve taken things in a rather different direction and posted more and more commentary articles and more and more photographs. I like to babble much more than I thought I did – about censorship and portrayals of women’s wants and needs by large corporations, apparently! – and have discovered, thanks to Molly’s Sinful Sunday meme, just how curiously addictive photographing yourself in various states of undress can be. I never would have imagined that I’d find such freedom through self-portraiture (I’m one of those people who hated having their picture taken) but in this age of media-perfect bodies I feel its becoming more and more important to get images of real ones, like mine, out there.

What do I hope to do more of going forwards? Writing. Both long-form and short. I have actually been writing erotic fiction for various submission calls outside of my blog (there are some stories that I’m really pleased with waiting in the wings that will, fingers crossed, find a booky home before too long) and want to continue with that, but I’m also keen to get some more Five-minute Erotica pieces out there, too.

As for The Garden of Earthly Delights? Well, as some of you have already noticed – Hi Connie! – the serial is no longer on the site. I finally finished the story (huge 60,000 word achievement, the longest tale I’ve ever written) but, unfortunately, I’m not happy with how it turned out (probably because I wrote it over such a protracted period) and I know that I can pen a better, more cohesive story. The more I write, the more I realise that I’m better when I give myself permission to really let go. To give all those ideas in my head, no matter how odd or kinky they might seem at first glance, room to breathe and see how they work on paper. That said, if you were reading Garden and really want to find out how it ends, please email me via the contact page. If there’s enough interest, I’ll mark off some time to finish editing it and create an ePub for those who want it in its entirety.

So where to from here? More articles, more photographs, more erotic stories. I’m still going to review toys and books that interest me but beyond that? Well, that’s the joy of blogging. Whichever way the wind blows the curtains.

Oh, and I’m on a boat for the next seven days so things will be a little quiet around here. Feel free to listen to Mr Young in my absence.

See you all soon.

Jane xxx

The Times They Are A-Changin’

Come gather ’round people
Wherever you roam
And admit that the waters
Around you have grown
And accept it that soon
You’ll be drenched to the bone
If your time to you
Is worth savin’
Then you better start swimmin’
Or you’ll sink like a stone
For the times they are a-changin’.

Come writers and critics
Who prophesize with your pen
And keep your eyes wide
The chance won’t come again
And don’t speak too soon
For the wheel’s still in spin
And there’s no tellin’ who
That it’s namin’
For the loser now
Will be later to win
For the times they are a-changin’.

Come senators, congressmen
Please heed the call
Don’t stand in the doorway
Don’t block up the hall
For he that gets hurt
Will be he who has stalled
There’s a battle outside
And it is ragin’
It’ll soon shake your windows
And rattle your walls
For the times they are a-changin’.

Come mothers and fathers
Throughout the land
And don’t criticize
What you can’t understand
Your sons and your daughters
Are beyond your command
Your old road is
Rapidly agin’
Please get out of the new one
If you can’t lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin’.

The line it is drawn
The curse it is cast
The slow one now
Will later be fast
As the present now
Will later be past
The order is
Rapidly fadin’
And the first one now
Will later be last
For the times they are a-changin’.

- Bob Dylan

The post The Times They Are a-Changin’ appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

“The above screenshot comes from an article of The Guardian, which was linked on Twitter. If you have anything to say about trigger warnings, now is your chance. But you might want to read the article first.”

Wow. This is one hell of a Wicked Wednesday prompt. Where, oh where do I start?

Firstly, by saying that I don’t believe in the censorship of books. Period.

Secondly, that I’m well aware that this liberal view of mine comes at a price. There’s no question that there are grotesque things out there in written form, things that I have no interest in reading. Ever. But I know that for freedom of expression to be truly ‘free’, then we must allow writing on all subjects, whether or not they offend us. When we start drawing lines, defining what is and isn’t okay from a personal viewpoint – and, ultimately, all censorship comes down to an individual (or individuals’) own set of judgements and beliefs – we risk getting ourselves into serious trouble: persecution, marginalisation, oppression.

The beauty of freewill is that we get to choose what we read. And what we don’t. You only have to look at the various books that have been banned over the years to see just what a blunt instrument censorship is. It doesn’t understand fine detail, it doesn’t make subtle distinctions. It is wrecking ball that smashes its direct target but also tends to take out everything else within a hundred-mile literary radius.

So, then. Trigger warnings. We’ve all seen them. In fact, it’s actually becoming increasingly difficult to purchase a book without being hit in the face with one. They run the gamut.

From the very simple:

To the incredibly detailed (A.K.A. ‘the entire book in a paragraph’):

To the vaguely humorous:

But if we accept that we’re not going to censor the written word, that we’re going to allow the publication of books of all kinds, regardless of whether we personally abhor or champion the content, shouldn’t we as readers expect to be explicitly warned about potentially distressing content (in the manner of the above) lest we encounter something we’re not prepared to deal with?

Well, no, actually.

Because giving a reader a pre-emptive Get Out of Feeling Free card has the ability to be more harmful than exposing them to potentially controversial content.

If we are only ever advised to read books that detail the safe and happy and benign, are warned away from texts that have the ability to shock, challenge and make us question our beliefs, our conduct – our morality – then are we not devaluing our humanity? Our ability to feel? Our ability to make our own informed choices?

The idea that reading should spare us tough or difficult emotions, that we should live in a perfect bubble where we pretend nothing bad ever happens, frankly, scares the living daylights out of me because it suggests that we could very easily become a society that doesn’t acknowledge or deal with anything difficult. An apathetic human race.

Just think about what that would look like for a second.

I’m personally guilty of using trigger warnings in my own work. Have employed them in the past to alert readers to content that I think they might not be expecting – pseudo non-consent in my short story Frostbite, for example. In writing this post, I’m actually starting to feel a little unsure as to whether I should have done so. My intention was to ‘protect’ readers who may have stumbled across my blog (and thought they were going to get something light and fluffy and ‘floral’) from an unwanted textual encounter. But in using trigger warnings, have I not made assumptions about their expectations? Censored their experience of my writing? Pushed them away and told them that I don’t believe that they’re capable of making a decision about a story’s content for themselves having read the first few lines?

The irony is that I pay little attention to trigger warnings when I’m deciding what I, personally, do and don’t want to read because I’m not prepared to rely on another person’s judgement of a text. I am my own barometer and I’m far, far more concerned with writing quality, an engaging story and an author’s ability to engage my head and my heart. My emotions.

It’s our reactions to books to books that count.

Hate.
Compassion
Distress.
Peace.
Anger.
Love.

These are normal human feelings. And we shouldn’t be warned away from them.

The post Wicked Wednesday: Pulling the trigger appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

Photo courtesy of Pandora Blake

Welcome to Elust #58 -

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #59? Start with the rules, come back June 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Do NOT take my rapeplay fantasy away from me!

Pulp Fiction

“O” is for Outlaw No More

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

The Second Letter

The Wake

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Orgasm Denial Games and Ideas
What is “Normal,” Anyway?
Abject Submission 3: Only the Gift
Is All BDSM Sexual? #KinkySex
A new Dom asked me for advice
Let’s Talk Sex Stigma
What I want
On Being Submissive
Dildos in Wonderland – Fantasy Sex Toys

Sex News,Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

My sexual Assaults
Risky Business
What is feminist porn?
Butt Plug Weekend (Humor)
The Shaming of Slut Shaming
Do Bisexuals Need To Be More Upfront?
Why I Don’t Support CatalystCon

Erotic Non-Fiction

The ‘Good’ Girl vs The Whore – Marriage
Well Laid
The sheer poetry of pegging a homophobe
The Missouri Misery’s Maiden Voyage
On the Edge (Touch Your Cock for Me)
Parking On A Dirt Road
Masturbation: The Big Finish
The four-day orgasm
Dear lover

Writing About Writing

Imagining Disabled Characters in Erotica

Poetry

Simple Needs – a Lusty Limerick

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

On Happiness and Risk
Sex addiction – a primer
More Than Bend Over Boyfriend Toys

Erotic Fiction

Neverland
X marks the spot
Chain Links and the Rail Marshall
The Devil and the Golden Ring
A lonely day in Paradise
Mine Is Bigger Than Yours
Rub It Harder
Face Splash – Part 1
Stray Kat
Sneaky Sexy Snippet of A Work in Progress

Blogging

56 posts later …

The post e[Lust] #58 appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

Photo courtesy of Cammies on the Floor

Welcome to Elust #57 -

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #58? Start with the rules, come back May 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

I’ve Got 99 Problems

Vasectomy Blues

I’ve always wanted to call myself queer.

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Aoyama Yuki and My Very First Times

I don’t know how to be happy

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*

Sex News,Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Prostitution Laundering
That Body-safe Sex Toy Could Make You Sick
“Nice Shoes. Wanna Fuck?” — On Pick Up Lines
Rape prevention
Life of a Sheltered Child: Sex Toys (Part II)
A Tour of Fucking Sculptures Sex Toy Studio
Bashing Belle Knox: Because You GET Porn
Would You Pay $133 to See Midori Eat Fruit?

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Heart of Glass
Talking BDSM: Are safewords really necessary?
45 Seconds
I want
Whispered Words
Aftercare: In Kink and Erotica
Ariel Castro: The Man in the Mirror?
We Are Ethical
Apology tokens, punishments, and forgiveness

Erotic Fiction

Very Short Stories – If We Hadn’t Had Sex
Billy
Larry Knew Better
Lasting Impressions
The Boys
Sounds of a Kitten
Chemical (se)X
Shopping Together
Enjoy Being Seduced on the South Bank
Room 6
Caught In The Act
Packing Light
For your thighs only (007 Parody)

Erotic Non-Fiction

Dental Torture
My hand around your throat
Conversations With My Owner
Cuming Without You.
On My Knees Again
It Always Starts With A Kiss
World Champion, Yes, I Can!
Omne Trium Perfectum
When Good Sex Tapes Go Bad
Submission: An Initiation (Part Four)

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Hidden No More
Female condoms are fucking awesome!
Female Ejaculation and How to Achieve It
Mommy Doesn’t Want Sex
How To Train Your Vagina
Camp Dildo
Being slut shamed made me want more sex
Don’t say my name

Blogging

“Hidden” memes
A Brief History of Sex Blogging

Writing About Writing

Openings and Grabbing Your Reader

Poetry

Sense Memory – a Lusty Limerick

The post e[lust] #57 appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

Image: “We have it rich.” Washing and panning gold, Rockerville, Dak., John C. H. Grabill [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Is anything ever truly original? Have we already explored every unique avenue, theme and possibility when it comes to creative content? In art? In writing?

I believe that someone who is inherently creative will always manage to show us something new. Will demand that we look at things in a different way or engage us in a manner we never expected. Which is why I think the self-publishing movement is so important: not only does it give writers permission to take risks – those that a traditional publishing house would deem unacceptable – it also allows them to explore themes that may not be in vogue or are ‘off brand’.

Self-publishing gives writers who would otherwise have been marginalised the opportunity to be noticed. To have a voice. To be heard. Often, it is those on the fringes who have the most important and interesting things to tell us.

However, all that said, I am beginning to notice a somewhat frustrating and interesting irony: the very vehicle responsible for giving us exciting and innovative reading material is also responsible for giving us a load of same old, same old. A plethora of stories that stay well within the tracks of those that have gone before them, break no new ground whatsoever, and look like they’ve been edited in crayon by my eight-year-old. For the purposes of this post, I’m going to call this phenomenon ‘theme flood’. (Aquatic references ahoy-hoy!)

So what do I mean by this, exactly?

Well, basically that there’s an increasing deluge of stories in the erotic romance genre based around the same themes, the same types of characters, the same plot structures. To the point that I’m finding it increasingly difficult to identify books that I want to write reviews for. Why would I want to push you all towards a story you’ve already read, albeit in a slightly different guise, a billion times before? One that’s poorly written and edited at that?

I read constantly, although I’d estimate that about five percent of the books I actually consume make it onto Chintz. Quite simply, I don’t tend to write reviews for novels I don’t like. At least, not unless they really (really) tick me off in some way and I can’t contain my angst. But even that five percent has been squeezed over the past year as I struggle to find variety and diversity. One of the negatives of self-publishing, I am discovering, is its ability to push onto the market a veritable tsunami of books that regurgitate, again and again, a raft of flavour-of-the-month themes. Something starts to sell well, garners a few five-star reviews and everyone’s on the proverbial bandwagon. I get that writing is a job just like any other and that people are publishing to make money. And that self-publishing means that anyone – anyone – can get their book out there. I do. But I really, really wish there was some way of better filtering content so that the gold can be extracted from the dross.

Am I being whiny? Yeah. But at the time of writing there seems to be absolutely no escaping erotic romance books that revolve around the following themes and it’s driving me nucking futts:

• Bikers (everyone wants a bit literary Jax Teller);
• Tattooists (buttoned-up businessmen, ala Christian Grey, are out; inked-up boys with street cred are in)
• Mixed martial arts (MMA) fighters (can’t decide whether Warrior or Fighting is to blame)
• College girls going on holiday and getting kidnapped by a human trafficking ring (stories attempting – and badly – to emulate dark erotica fare such as Comfort Food and Captive in the Dark)
• Rock stars (especially those behaving like Guns ‘n’ Roses did back in the 90s)
• Angsty male leads who’re mindlessly screwing everything on two legs (of the female variety at least), have anger management problems, and are coping with some sort of personal tragedy. Enter saving grace female lead. (This theme pretty much accounts for everything in the load of bollocks ‘New Adult’ category that seems to be creepily infecting online bookstore after online bookstore. It’s the literary equivalent of a bloody chlamydia epidemic).

Whereas twelve months ago I would have taken a punt on a book based on its blurb and reviews, the ‘download sample’ and ‘excerpt’ functions have now become indispensible in relation to my eBook purchases. That one chapter – thank God – has been instrumental in preventing me from spending my cash on literary mediocrity. If you’re not using these features – and, thankfully, a number of eTailers offer them – you should be.

Romance novels and erotic stories are often described as formulaic by those who turn their noses up at such ‘low brow fare’: a love story is just a love story and sex is just sex; no real meat – boy meets girl, Part A slots into Part B, right? Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Authors writing in these categories break new ground and push boundaries in exactly the same way that writers in other genres do. And it is my sincere hope that as the self-publishing market matures, we’re better able to identify the writers and the stories that are doing so.

If you’re a writer reading this? I implore you: go where no man hath gone before. I – and a lot of other readers out there – will love you for it. (Just make sure you use a copy editor.)

The post Gold and Dross, A.K.A. more and more (and more) of the same appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

The idea of burning a book – any book – makes me physically cringe. And if we’re talking obscenity? Well, the below image pretty much sums it up for me.

Want to see who else is sinning (in no doubt far more sexy ways!)? Click on the banner below to find out.

The post Sinful Sunday: Obscenity 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.