Remittance Girl's Blog, page 28

Podcasted: 15 Rules of Good Sex Writing

For the Sh! Christmas Pleasure Hunt – Princess

To celebrate, we’re hosting our Christmas Pleasure Hunt and Sh! are kicking off their Filthy Friday!

Authors playing along are: Janine Ashbless, Justine Elyot, Kay Jaybee, KD Grace, Lexie Bay, Lily Harlem, Lucy Felthouse, Remittance Girl, Sommer Marsden, Tabitha Rayne, Tamsin Flowers, Victoria Blisse

That’s quite a line up, no? The aim of the game is to find a word from the following Kate Bush lyric in a post from each of our participating authors:

Come to sparkle the dark up …Come to cover the muck up

That word will link to a sexy Sh! product. Check out the link, note down the price. At the end of the hunt, add up all 12 prices you’ve collected. That total is your answer!

There will be three posts per day, starting today, going across the weekend, and finishing on Monday. Each post will link to the three authors who’ll be posting on the following day.

After Monday, email your answer (the total price of all linked products) to Sh! (renee@sh-womenstore.com). All correct answers will go into a draw. One lucky winner gets a bumper bag of goodies from Sh! Thirteen runners up will receive a book (print or digital) from one of the authors on board (including me). It’s a snowfall of smut!

to read a complete set of the game instructions, click on the banner or go to Kristina Lloyd’s Post here

 ____________________________________

Princess, he calls me.

He lets the ess hang in the air like a match struck in a dark room.  The phosphorus of the consonants flare to life, illuminating a secret, shameful world I had not thought was there.

Having never been anyone’s ‘princess’ – certainly not my father’s -  I was not expecting the reaction I had to the proprietary weight of his hand on the nape of my neck. This sin of regression we commit when he pulls me onto his lap and smoothes my unruly hair behind my ear, and whispers those words against the shell of it with perverse intent, is unfathomable to me. The obscenity of being turned from fifty into fourteen with two little words.

Half a lifetime of tired sexual charades fall away. I’m a quivering, excited mess with awkward and confused ideas about how to cope with the bulge of his erection that presses insistently against my hip.

The first time he said, “Call me Daddy,” I laughed like the sensible, self-assured adult I am.

“You’re joking,” I replied.

He shrugged.  “What are you scared of?”

“I’m not scared. I’m just middle-aged.  That’s ridiculous.”

“Then say it.”

“No.”

“Just once. Go on.”

“I’m not saying that out loud.”

“Then whisper it,” he said, pulling me onto his lap, turning his head, offering me an ear.

“Why?”

He pulled my ample hips closer.  “You’re scared.”

“I am not!” It came out too loud. Too adamant. I sat rigid in his lap that first time. My whole body stiff with the implications, I was careful to distribute my adult weight in accordance with my dignity.  When I couldn’t manage that, I fought to stand. “Stop it.”

He held me tighter. “Say it once and I’ll let you up.”

“If you have fantasies about fucking preteens, don’t you think you should have picked someone younger?”

He ignored me. “I’m still waiting,” he sing-songed, with a tone of authoritarian forbearance.

I took a deep breath and let it out theatrically. “Oh, alright!”

“Just once. You can do it.”

“Daddy.” It came out flat and rancid.

“Not like that. Put your arms around my neck and whisper it close.”

Draping my arms on his shoulders I repeated it. “Daddy.”

“Better. Try it a little softer. Right at the corner of my mouth.”

I had to smile, and pressing my lips to the crook of his, I said it again.

“Once more,” he cajoled.  His hand slid between my thighs. His fingertips pressed into the crease of my cunt, worried the tender nodule of my lust. “Just one more time for Daddy. You can do it, Princess.”

The esses hissed, the match flared. My thighs parted to give his fingers room enough.

“Daddy.” It slid from my lips in a breathy, high-pitched protest, caught between too much and not enough.

“That’s my clever Princess.”

The perverse praise tugged at my nipples. A hot river seeped past my panties. I squirmed on his lap like a cat in heat until he thumbed the viscous fabric aside and breached me with his middle finger.

Then I couldn’t stop saying it.  Clinging to him as if I was going to slip off his lap, face pressed into the crook of his neck, burning with shame as the monstrous orgasm built and climbed over the matrix of my arousal.

“Daddy. Daddy. Daddy.” I muttered as I pushed myself onto him, thighs twitching, cunt contracting around his violation.

“Filthy little Princess,” he hissed, working a second finger inside and fucking me as I came.  “You’re Daddy’s little cunt now.”

And I did come. Silently, smothering my moans against his skin. In the awful, secret pleasure of being reborn to the names he called me.

Since then, everything’s gone downhill in the most despicable way. Being the perfect filthy little Princess takes practice–lots of it. But you’re never too old to learn.

Tomorrows Smutty Story Teller Links

Janine Ashbless

Sommer Marsden

Tamsin Flowers

RG’s 15 Rules for Writing Sex Scenes

Because, strangely enough, there are 2 #13s. Clearly I’m not superstitious!

View the story “RG’s 15 Rules for Writing Sex Scenes” on Storify

And before you consider me a smug bitch, I can assure you, I’ve broken every one of these, to my everlasting embarrassment. If you can think of any others please feel free to add them below.

Rude Poets Entry: Fruits : Lychee Love #rudepoets

“See what I mean?”

Her tongue tipped pink

skittered the swell

of the taut membrane;

a lychee fruit

weeping opalescence

as the moon rose

coloured just the same.

Juice seeped through

invisible pores.

She smoothed closed lips

over its curves,

then pressed an open kiss

to the milky globe

and sucked.

“Exactly like it,”

I mimicked her indulgences.

“Same size.”

“Same shape. Feel the cleft?”

“M-hm.”

We sat on the stoop

in the moonlight,

companionably fellating

imaginary lovers.

Holding it delicately

with thumb and forefinger

inches from her mouth,

she said: “It’s not polite

to bite into a lychee

in front of a man.”

I closed my teeth around

the plump roundness,

a flood of nectar

streamed down

my chin.

“Makes them nervous.”

Gaijin & Splinter re-released on Kindle, ePub and PDF #burningbookpress

Well, it doesn’t rain but it pours.

I’m really glad to announce the re-issue of two of my novellas: Gaijin and The Splinter.

I confess that Gaijin was a disturbing story when I wrote it, and it still is for me now. In retrospect, I’m proud of myself for having the balls to write it because, at the time, I thought it wouldn’t have a hope in hell of getting published due to its non-consensual sex scenes.

If you are likely to be traumatized by a fictional encounter with rape, please don’t read the book. Although not particularly violent, the sex is, for the most part, non-consensual and, although it was my intention to erotically disturb the reader, it was certainly not my intention to trigger anyone’s trauma memories, so please be warned.

That being said, what compelled me to write Gaijin was the theme of how people play ‘tourists’ in other people’s cultures – fetishizing what catches their fancy and ignoring complexity. Both the characters in this story are guilty of ‘consuming’ the other’s culture in superficial and exploitative ways. I explored both the eroticization of culture and cultural appropriation.

A few critics have accused me of ‘orientalism‘ and, indeed, casting a Japanese male as the rapist in the story does follow the narrative framework of earlier western literary exploitations of ‘the mystery of the orient’ as a place to situate their own culturally unacceptable sexual fantasies: the evil white-slave-trading-Sheik, the dastardly ‘foreigner’ who corrupts nice white girls, the manipulative and seductive Asian dragon-lady who uses the hapless young Christian for her evil ends.

I was aware of these tropes and familiar with post-colonial criticisms of them long before I wrote Gaijin. I wanted to revisit them as a metaphor for how, by being fascinated by the superficial trappings of ‘foreign’ cultures, we’re still doing this. But I also wanted, having cast these characters into that narrative landscape, to give each of them solid, complex identities that break past that cliche.

Yes, it is a ‘foreign devil’ who misuses the heroine, but he has been simplistically judged by her. She is saved, both mentally and physically, by the very culture she has objectified.

Gaijin is my attempt, however poor, to interlace eroticism and cultural difference, without trying to escape the gravity well of earlier representations of the dangerous and mysterious orient or pretending it still does not play a part in the way we see ‘the other’.  I hope you enjoy it.

I was honoured to have it reviewed by Janine Ballard at Dear Author.

Gaijin is published by Burning Book Press. It is available in the following formats:

Amazon.com Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/Gaijin-ebook/dp/B00A82NCGY

Amazon.co.uk Kindle: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Gaijin-ebook/dp/B00A82NCGY

Smashwords ePub, Mobi, PDF: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/255351

The Splinter is one of the strangest works I’ve ever written. It grew out of a fascination, verging on obsession, with religious women like St. Teresa of Avila, St. Catherine of Siena and Santa Rosa of Lima: women who engaged in ‘mortification of the flesh‘ – extreme acts of self-harm to attain states of religious ecstasy.

Having grown up in Madrid and having spent time being educated in a Catholic convent, I have always been deeply conflicted by how much religious devotion intersects with eroticism. This is not a particularly original idea. Georges Bataille wrote extensively on the religious aspects of eroticism and so did many others.

But this sort of spiritual quest has been seen as a thing of the past. I wanted to write a modern story. I wanted to explore how a modern Catholic church coped with what would now, in our day, be redefined as simple acts of ‘self-harm’. And I wanted to write it in the framework of a rather extreme and erotic ‘coming of age’ story.

I think The Splinter might be considered, by devout Catholics, as a rather disgusting piece of blasphemy.  But I would like to reiterate that this was not my intention. Although I am agnostic myself, I do have a genuine fascination for what draws people into religious lives, and this is obviously a fictional story of extremes and not a comment on anyone’s personal faith.

The Splinter is published by Burning Book Press, and is available in the following formats.

Amazon.com Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/Splinter-ebook/dp/B00A82N9V2

Amazon.co.uk Kindle: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Splinter-ebook/dp/B00A82N9V2

Smashwords ePub, Mobi and PDF: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/255340

 

 

Beautiful Losers – Published

Finally, after many years and many miles, and a lot of tears and fears and gnashing of teeth, my novel Beautiful Losers has been published by Constable and Robinson – a UK publisher.

At the moment, it’s only available electronically. The release date for the print version is December 27.

‘Would you like to watch us?’

Shira is deeply, achingly in love with her best friend, Jean. This is unfortunate, because he’s gay. But with one flippant invitation, Shira, Jean, and his boyfriend, Sebastian, begin their obsessive journey into the dark heart of sexual excess. When even their own edgy subculture refuses to accept them, Sebastian builds a new world with new rules to shelter the threesome. But the baggage they’ve brought with them can’t simply be left at the door and, when the real world breaches the carefully constructed walls, it does so with tragic consequences.

Beautiful Losers is the first novel-length work by erotic fiction writer Remittance Girl.

In the meantime, if you’d like to buy it:

Amazon US : http://www.amazon.com/Beautiful-Losers-Modern-Classics-ebook/dp/B009ZVJXH6

Amazon UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Beautiful-Losers-Modern-Classics-ebook/dp/B009ZVJXH6

 

Touch Deferred

Until you touch me

I am not me to you.

If you never

slide your fingers

along my thigh,

I will never move it

to allow you in.

Unless you brush

my nipple

with the knuckle

of your right hand,

you can never know

whether it will seize

the moment of contact.

The gaze that stills

your reach and touch,

defers the real,

and keeps you

safe from me.

You are right

to hesitate:

my flesh

eats everything

it touches.

(Upon reading the second chapter of

Resisting Nudities

by Florence Dee Boodakian.

2008, Peter Lang Publishing, New York)

Resistance in Red

Between the gaps in the lace there is skin.

But we are not here for that.

At the hip is a sweet red bow,

cleverly situated over the bone

where my hip juts out.

It has its reflection on the other side.

And between them,

the triangular spider’s web

gauzy and seven-veilish,

a dream-catcher of

erotic possibilities

no woman can

ever really offer.

Hidden, it can be

anything :

the gates of hell,

the well of comfort,

the thieves’ cave

of a thousand treasures,

as yet unaudited.

A convenient receptacle

for a smug fuck or

a reluctant deposit.

The panties are

a mask of possibilities.

Once they’re off,

it’s just a cunt.

(Upon reading the first chapter of

Resisting Nudities

by Florence Dee Boodakian.

2008, Peter Lang Publishing, New York)

What Else Could I Do?

When he desired me

my lead heart

turned in my chest

orienting itself

to his gaze.

This weak force

that has no name

the gap between

desire and the object

that boils space

only until it touches

then chills and dissolves

in the inevitable

disappointment

of the real.

And so I’m flattered

by his terror

of disillusion

until entropy

reigns supreme.

What else could I do?

Domination vs Oppression – the explicit version

I invited a number of Doms to write a post for my Order of Turbulence blog on why women’s reproductive rights mattered to them. One of the people I invited was @pissgums . He was kind enough to write a nice staid version of his stance here, on the political blog, and then he sent me another -  this one. More personal and visceral, and one that’s spoken to the body rather than the intellect. It deserves to be read.

When I wake you in the night with a slap on your ass, and give you the command, “Up, up!” and you raise your ass the air, and I kneel behind you and push my way into you and fuck you and tell you that you’re a good cumbucket and shoot another load into you …

When I reach for the rope and slowly, methodically tie you up, your arms behind you, awkwardly and uncomfortably, and I force your legs open despite your protestations, and torture you with my tongue, bringing you to the edge but refusing to give you permission to slide over … No, not yet … until my ‘Now’ sees you crash and fall into a slumber, despite your bindings …

When I knot my fingers into your hair and snarl the command in your ear, “It’s time,” and you take me into your mouth and focus all of your intelligence and wit and character on drawing another load from my balls into your beautiful mouth and down your throat …

When I ask, “Would you do the dishes, Love?” and you know that it’s not a question at all, but that it’s phrased like one because I’m raising my lads to be respectful and polite and considerate … and very good with ropes …

When I bend you over the bed and render your ass pink, then red, then purple with the paddle, the cane and the hurty thing, and you ask through your tears, “Why are you doing this?” and I answer, “Because it pleases me” …

When I use you like a jizzrag, when I use you like an overeager groupie, when I use you like a wadded up nothing that I found on the bottom of my shoe …

… In times like these, I wonder if Romney and Limbaugh and the gang are engaged in some sort of 24/7/365 TPE with the American people, if it’s cruel and capricious and non-reciprocal, and because of that it’s really hot. Maybe YOU didn’t vote to have your control over your own body taken away, but democracy is messy and inexact, and if it’s the will of the people generally, then it’s legitimate rape …

But you can whisper “Pineapple” through the wadded-up panties that I’ve stuffed in your mouth, and I’ll take my too-large hand out of your cunt, slowly and carefully, and I will hold you close and wipe away your tears and kiss you sweetly and bring you water. I will wrap myself around you while you sleep, and reassure you that I will protect you and keep you safe, and play won’t restart until I see that spark of craving in you again.

And it’s clear to me that a gang-rape, even if it’s the will of the neighbourhood, is not hot if the rapee doesn’t give particular consent. It’s clear to me that whatever pleasure Romney and Limbaugh and all take in giving the American people a thorough reaming, it’s an exchange of power with too much non-consensual non-consent to be legitimate. There is no escape hatch, no safeword that allows a woman to reclaim dominion over herself the instant she decides that it’s gone altogether too far. And that’s not hot.

And I cup my hand over your glorious breast while you sleep, and I pull your closer to me, and I listen to you breathe, and I kiss your back, and I love you dearly, deeply and ardently, and I think of the second categorical imperative of Kant, as I so often do. Never treat one another as a means to an end, but rather as an end withal. And when I use you, it is proximate service of my swollen balls, but more deeply it is to satisfy you and your cravings. Not the cravings that I project onto you, but the cravings that we discussed over eggs benedict that first day we met, in an empty restaurant … with that little blue and white length of rope in my pocket, that little length of rope that I tied around your wrist as we walked to the van, that has led to these years, these amazing years.

I am interested in male statements on why reproductive freedom and a woman’s right to choose, to consent matters. I think the kink community’s particular focus on consent is incredibly relevant to the political discussion of the state’s rights over a woman’s body. It’s not just a woman’s issue. If you’d like to contribute to the posts, please tweet me or email me.