Monday, July 27, 2015

The Pleasure Center: Miser's Vacations

The Pleasure Center series isn't all baths and sexy. Sometimes, pleasure is about dreaming of a different life. My mother used to call these dreams and fantasies Miser's Vacations, because they cost no money but still refresh.

The Orient Express
One of my favorite Miser Vacations is fantasizing about glamorous rail travel. I love this thought so much, I've written and re-written variations on train sex and finally got it on in Vamping It Up.

I am fascinated by comfortable, leisurely travel since I love to visit new places. Can you imagine dining like this??
The Orient Express in Andaluz
I love writing on trains, too. You are away from your usual demands. I use the time for daydreaming and brainstorming.

And just for a tease, here is a section of my heroine Holly's train fantasy, just for you.

Her Marine knelt behind her and rested his face against the inward curve of the small of her back. He inhaled as though smelling her deepest essence. Holly rested her weight on his chest and closed her eyes.
He wrapped his arms around her abdomen and placed his hands below her navel. His teeth tugged her tee-shirt higher. He licked the small patch of skin he revealed. Holly shuddered. The hairs on her arms raised in response to his soft tongue.
He blew cool air against the wet spot. Her nipples hardened.
Holly pressed her bottom into his body, wanting his tongue and hands on more sensitive places.
He obeyed her silent command. He cupped her ankles and caressed her legs up to her hidden ass cheeks. Her bare, sensitized skin registered the lines on his palms and the whorls of his fingertips.
He squeezed the hem of her shirt over her ass and hissed in excitement when he saw her panties. A pink satin bow sat right above her tailbone. Thin red straps of lace led from the bow out to the leg band, creating a fan-like pattern over her dark skin.
“So beautiful,” he breathed against her cheeks. He cupped the sides of her hips, just over her saddlebags, and squeezed.
His action shocked her. Her hips were her least favorite part of her body, and he was worshipping them as though they were delectable.
“You have a perfect ass,” he growled. His lips vibrated against her. The buzz traveled through her pelvic bone and set her clitoris alive.
She couldn’t help herself. Holly ground her butt against his face. She willed him to go faster, to put that delicious tingle where it would do the most good.

Monday, July 20, 2015

Self-love and The Beauty Myth.

Naomi Wolf
I was doing some wandering in my old files and found these words of wisdom from Naomi Wolf, from The Beauty Myth.


            Can there be a pro-woman definition of beauty? Absolutely. What has been missing is play. The beauty myth is harmful and pompous and grave because so much, too much, depends on it. The pleasure of playfulness is that it doesn’t matter. Once you play for stakes of any amount, the game has become a war game, or compulsive gambling. In the myth, it has been a game for life, for questionable love, for desperate and dishonest sexuality, and without the choice not to play by alien rules.  No choice, no free will; no levity, no real game.
          But we can imagine, to save ourselves, a life in the body that is not value-laden; a masquerade, a voluntary theatricality that emerges from abundant self-love. A pro-woman redefinition of beauty reflects our redefinitions of what power is. Who says we need a hierarchy? Where I see beauty may not be where you do. Some people look more desirable to me than they do to you. So what? My perception has no authority over yours. Why should beauty be exclusive? 

Admiration can include so much. Why is rareness impressive? The high value of rareness is a masculine concept, having more to do with capitalism than with lust. What is the fun in wanting the most what cannot be found? Children, in contrast, are common as dirt, but they are highly valued and regarded as beautiful.

        How might women act beyond the myth? Who can say? Maybe we will let our bodies wax and wane, enjoying the variations on a theme, and avoid pain because when something hurts us it begins to look ugly to us. Maybe we will adorn ourselves with real delight, with the sense that we are gilding the lily. Maybe the less pain women inflict on their bodies, the more beautiful our bodies will look to us. Perhaps we will forget to elicit admiration from strangers, and find we don’t miss it; perhaps we will await our older faces with anticipations, and be unable to see our bodies as a mass of imperfections, since there is nothing on us that is not precious. Maybe we won’t want to be the “after” anymore.
 How to begin? Let’s be shameless. Be greedy. Pursue pleasure. Avoid pain. Wear and touch and eat and drink what we feel like. Tolerate other women’s choices. Seek out the sex we want and fight fiercely against the sex we do not want. Choose our own causes. And once we break through and change the rules so our sense of our own beauty cannot be shaken, sing that beauty and dress it up and flaunt it and revel in it: In a sensual politics, female is beautiful.

          A woman-loving definition of beauty supplants desperation with play, narcissism with self-love, dismemberment with wholeness, absence with presence, stillness with animation. It admits radiance: light coming out of the face and the body, rather than a spotlight on the body, dimming the self. It is sexual, various, and surprising. We will be able to see it in others and not be frightened, and able at last to see it in ourselves.


Monday, July 13, 2015

The Pleasure Center: A little schoolteacher smut for your day.

A friend once asked for a little snippet of sexy teasing with the classic School Mistress/Student fantasy. This is what my strange brain spit out. :)

Principle Jones and Student Smith
He knocked on the principle’s office door, armpits and hands clammy from nerves. During third period, her calm voice had announced, over the loudspeaker, to entire population of St. Katherine’s Academy that Mr. Smith should report to her office immediately after school. A horrified flush of shame swung over his entire body before the speaker had even clicked off. Had she discovered his secret? The same secret that had gotten him kicked out every prep school on the West Coast and now starting over at the age of eighteen on the Eastern seaboard was his only hope.

“Come in, Mr. Smith.”
A shiver ran down his legs at her perfectly modulated tones. Principle Jones never lost her cool, never lost control. Even when Precept Han had ridden the Motoguzzi up the stairs and into the library, she merely lowered her voice until her orders were ice-laden whispers.
His slippery palms made him twist the handle too hard, and he stumbled into her neatly organized office.  Ms. Jones looked up from her shiny new iMac. As usual, her mink-brown hair was knotted away from her face. Her dark suit and white blouse were as perfectly crisp as they had been at 9:00 am. His own shirt and tie hung limply on his frame after hours of studying.

“Please stand there for a moment, Mr. Smith.” She nodded at a spot on the pristine Oriental area rug in front of her blonde wood desk. “I’ll be with you momentarily.”      
Thomas took his place, and found himself staring at her shoes. He’d never paid attention to her shoes before, but weren’t those heels a little high for a professional woman? And the leather a little too shiny? Dimly remembered shopping trips with his glamorous, laughing mother rang in his head: “Nothing over three inches today, Armando! I actually want to wear these out of the house!”

Even at that young age, he knew his mother passionately loved his father. They were always kissing. In fact, they loved each other a little too passionately. Or else, why would they send him away all the time?

Sick and tired of that old train of thought, he shifted from foot to foot and looked around the rest of the office. A large window made of leaded glass looked out over the grassy playing field. Acres of built in bookshelves were not only filled with leather-bound books (probably dull treatises on education). He peered out the window, straining his neck slightly to see if he could recognize anyone out on the track when she snapped her head up and lifted an imperious eyebrow.

“Am I failing to entertain you, Mr. Smith?”
Anger and humiliation had him clenching his teeth and planting his feet. “I apologize, Principle Jones.”

At his resentful tone, the perfectly groomed eyebrow merely winged higher up her forehead. “Accepted.” She tapped a few more keys on the slim keyboard, then pushed it away. For some reason, the movement drew his gaze to her body. Her suits were always well tailored, but concealing. No one knew for sure the size or shape of her breasts, and in a school full of some the finest teenaged male minds obsessed with women that was an impressive accomplishment. But her skirts did manage to reveal an excellent set of legs. He dragged his mind back.

She stood. “Do you know why you are here, Mr. Smith?” Her heels clipped on the hardwood floor of the office until she stood in front of him. She leaned against the desk and crossed her arms.

“No, Principle Jones.”
Again the effortless eyebrow lift, but by no other motion did she reveal what she was thinking.

“Give me your book bag.” Horror swept through him. He was going to be kicked out, nay arrested.

Sick to his stomach, he handed over the sizeable leather courier bag. How was he discovered? He’d been so careful.

She took the heavy bag in one hand and didn’t even flinch at the weight. She walked behind the desk again. Unbuckling the flap, she looked inside the main compartment. A slight widening of the eyes told him all he needed to know.

 "You are carrying contraband reading materials, Mr. Smith.” She pulled the books out one at a time. “Hmm. MILF porn. MILF porn. Femdom porn. MILF porn Oh, look. You branched out with a strap-on story.” She spread the garish publications on her desk like she was fanning cards. “These will get you expelled.” She reached for the telephone.         
“Please, Ma’am, let me try. This is my last chance.”
“And what could possibly change my mind?” She circled him, silent, sleek, and perfectly scented. He swallowed.

“I can be good. I promise. Put me on probation. Give me extra work to do. Anything you want. Just don’t expel me.”

She stood behind him, her body head radiating into his back. Her voice tickled in his ear. “Anything, Mr. Smith. Am I to understand you will do anything I want to stay in my good graces?”

His cock understood before his brain did. The pressure against his fly told him he had no problems with what she had said. And that he did mean it.

“Anything, Ms. Jones.”

“Stand up straight, Mr. Smith.” Her breathy voice made him snap to faster than any drill sergeant could hope for.

“Bend forward and put your hands on my desk.”
          He did. The wood was cool and smooth under his fingers. He could only hope she could allow him the chance to compare her skin to the texture of the wood.
Strong hands settled at his belt buckle. “One last chance, Mr. Smith. My unknown tender mercies or the safety of your families disappointment. Do not make this request lightly.”
Thomas risked a glance over his shoulder.
 “Eyes front. Mr. Smith. If you say yes, I won’t appreciate having to say that again.”
But the look at her had told him everything he needed to know. She yearned to control as much as he yearned to be controlled. She was strong enough to control them both.
 “Yes, Ms. Jones. Please, Ms. Jones. Make me your boy, Ms. Jones.”
“Oh, you are an eager one.” She made short work of his belt and slid it through his pants loops. A wicked crack behind him had him sigh and lean forward even farther.

Half an hour later, heat rose from his ass. Now warm hands caressed the bruised and tender flesh and he shook with the pleasure.

“Very nice.”
The simple words of praise moved him more than he thought possible.

The heels clicked around until she moved into his line of sight and she sat in her chair.

She’d taken off her concealing jacket. Her hard nipples, as wide as his fingertip, pointed through the white blouse. He licked his lips.

She saw. “Later, perhaps, Mr. Smith. We have a long way to go before you earn that particular reward. For now, though…”

Ms. Jones opened a desk drawer and pulled out a curved, shiny, green cock. “I think you need a little more training.”

Monday, July 6, 2015

Vlogging It Up!

Can I tempt you with my latest book, Vamping It Up? It makes an excellent summer read. :)
Warning - naughty language!

Perhaps you need a second helping?
Go HERE if the video doesn't work.