My take away quote (although there are many), by Malin James: “While a great deal of erotica falls Remittance Girl erotic fiction quote Bataille transgression Emmanuelle de Maupassantinto a realistic vein, much of what people actually want is that which they can’t (or don’t feel they can) have in real life. This is why rape fantasies, incest and other transgressive sexual acts continue to sell erotica and generate clicks. The appeal of the forbidden is as old as the Bible, when Eve and the apple laid the foundation for centuries of sexual taboo. The fact is that we get pleasure from doing that which we’re not ‘supposed’ to do…
This article looks at the nature of transgressive fiction, and tackles issues of censorship, including the paradox of themes being permitted for exploration in other genres (such as young fiction and horror) but not in fiction classed as ‘erotic’. It is a starting point for discussion rather than offering any definitive answers.
To learn more about the 130 participants who contributed to debate on these subjects, visit here.
The Nature of Transgression
Erotic literature has traditionally worn a face of transgression, of the defiant questioning of cultural norms, based on the premise that knowledge is to be found by pushing to the edge of experience.
Adrea Kore notes her authorship of erotic fiction as a political act, as well as a creative one. She asserts that finding words for women writing and speaking about their own desire is still seen as taboo in corners of Western culture, let alone…
View original post 4,791 more words
Martin was tormented to the point of near insanity on two fronts. First, olfactorily: The brownies had been in the oven over twenty minutes. The intense aroma emanating from the oven was making him drool.
Second, his fingers were beginning to tingle. His arms had been suspended over his head since just before the brownies went in. The leather wrist cuffs were attached to the hooks he had drilled into the kitchen ceiling the week before. There was just enough play that he could stand on his toes and relieve the tension. Looking down for like the thousandth time, he saw that his cock was still pointing straight up at his chin, quivering.
“Lizzie, please,” he begged his wife, her back to him as she beat the bowl of chocolate frosting with a long wooden spoon. It was the only part of her more voluptuous than her frontside: her backside. Like Martin, Lizzie was nude. Unlike Martin, she wasn’t cuffed.
“Stop fidgeting,” she snapped over her shoulder. “Almost done here. Your whining is intolerable.” He watched, entranced, as her ass cheeks shook as she worked the frosting.
“I’ve never come without being, you know, jerked,” Martin pleaded. “But I’m close.”
Lizzie shot him a hard look. “You’re under orders. You’ll have your orgasm when I say so.” She went back to torturing the frosting.
The oven timer went off. She leaned over and opened the oven door. Almost simultaneously, the rich aroma of fresh-baked brownies collided with Martin’s nose as his cock jerked in excitement as he gazed at his wife’s pussy, nestled between her asscheeks as she maneuvered the hot pan out of the oven.
“It’ll have to cool before I can put the icing on,” she said, untying the apron. She faced Martin, breasts jutting, and hung it on his cock. “Hold this.”
She picked up a spatula out of the sink. It was wet and crusted with cheese from last night’s pizza. Hand on hip, she approached Martin. His cock twitched and the apron fell to his feet.
“You fidgeted.” It wasn’t a question. Lizzie put the plastic spatula between Martin’s legs, forcing them apart. Not that they could spread that far. Turning it, she lifted his balls and churned them. Martin whimpered.
Whack! His dick sproinged up and down. She hit it again with the spatula. A piece of cheese flew off and landed on his cheek. Lizzie laughed at his penis, smeared with cold pizza sauce and cheese.
Enough spatula fun. Putting it back in the sink with the other dirty dishes, she picked up the wooden spoon, laden with chocolate frosting. Martin’s eyes brightened.
She stood in front of him, just beyond his quivering dick and turned her back to him. Leaning forward, she reached back between her legs and smeared chocolate on his cock.
Martin groaned. His wife’s ass, just beyond his dick, all fuck-me-doggy-style, tormented him in its utter, undeniable and breathtakingly beautiful femininity. As she pushed and prodded his straining member with the spoon, her pussy swelled and opened. Her pussy musk blended with the aroma of brownies.
“Lizzie,” he croaked.
She stood and turned, wagging the spoon in his face like a finger. “I was going to let you fuck me. Then you had to say something.” A fleck of chocolate landed on his other cheek, just beyond the reach of his tongue.
She walked around him. Male asses really don’t compare, Lizzie thought as she surveyed his behind. The hips are too narrow. Not round enough. And that hair. Yep, she reminded herself again, women are the bearers of beauty in our species.
Whack! Martin jolted as she assaulted his ass with the spoon. Whack! Whack! His cheeks reddened and clenched. Incredibly, his dick got even harder.
Lizzie danced around him, and flung the spoon in the sink. “Poor boy, does he want to come?” she teased, leaning into him, her breath in his ear, her tits brushing his chest. “What would my wittle hubby give for a blow job?”
A mangled syllable that sounded like “mrmph” escaped his lips.
Lizzie sunk to her knees. Placing her hands on his hips, she maneuvered Martin’s chocolate-smeared cock to her mouth. Slowly, tenderly she took him, her tongue swishing his glans as she sucked. Her hands slid down his bruised backside, and she pinched his ass.
The delightful taste of chocolate filled her mouth, quickly followed by the salty tang of Martin’s ejaculate. His hips thrust with each wave of his orgasm as he pumped his splooge into Lizzie’s eager mouth.
She stood, jism dripping down her chin, flowing down her throat, dribbling down her tits, and whispered in her husband’s ear.
“Next week, meringue.”
It was 82 in New York City earlier this week, so the ladies of the The Outdoor Co-ed Topless Pulp Fiction Appreciation Society were at it again in a private nook in Central Park.
But not too private.
“Did the lawn around us really need the amount of care the two city employees tasked with mowing it seemed determined to give it? We don’t know. But my goodness, that grass got a thorough mowing, lasting from 1pm to somewhere near 4. At one point, they were reduced to mowing the rocks.”
By the way, it’s legal for women to be topless in New York.
If I don’t brag about my successes, who will? Just got word that my main publisher, Boruma Publishing, sold its first book following a (very) recent agreement with the Italian publishing platform Stealth (a deal that will open up over 500 new large and small international publishers to Boruma authors).
The first sale? Seeding the Brat by K.C. Cave, my first PI story! It was sold by Kobobooks Canada, which (in my humble opinion) says a lot about the literary tastes of our friends in the Frozen North.
From Boruma (in a letter to its authors): “This partnership gives us an unparalleled opportunity to submit your books to new international venues that Amazon and its kind cannot touch. (Europeans are also far more liberal about the genres they will accept than most U.S.-based publishers!)”
Here’s hoping for more international sales of my books (and those of other Boruma authors).
I rushed out of the bathroom, trying not to be late. There was Michael, standing in the door of our bedroom in his pajamas. Or rather, pajama bottoms. His bare shoulders… so powerful, so sculpted.
Focus, Junie. Got to get to work.
“Not going in today?” I asked.
“Yeah, I’m going in. But not at seven o’clock.”
I looked at my watch. How did that happen? I’m not a morning person, yet here I was, ready an hour early. Christ, it’s usually a struggle for me to get out the door by 8:30.
Michael got that smile on his face. And a bulge in his pants.
“No, Michael, I’m all made up…”
He took me by my wrists, moved me against the wall, and raised my arms up, pinning me. “Junie, we’ve got an hour.” His lips found mine, devouring my mouth with light, loving kisses. He knew my weakness: morning sex.
I still resisted. “Michael, we still don’t have enough time. You’ll wrinkle my suit, you’ll…”
Ignoring my words, he put his hands to my face and pulled me in. I closed my eyes as the tips of our tongues touched. It worked. I moaned softly into his mouth.
Folding me into his arms, his lips brushed my ear. “Listen, Junie. We can do this. It just has to be fast, so I’m going to tell you what to do. Okay? Trust me?”
I answered by thrusting my hips into his. I could feel the thickness of his cock pressing back.
“I’m going to fuck you as hard as I’ve ever fucked you. But before I fuck you, I’m going to make you squeal and whimper and cry out. I’m going to smack your little round bottom and make you so wet your juices are going to run down your leg. I’m going to eat your pussy and make you cry like a banshee. Understand?”
“Yes, Michael,” I whimpered. My knees almost buckled.
“Take your skirt off.”
I unzipped and stepped out. He took it and neatly laid it over the stair railing. He slid my suit jacket off my arms and folded it on top of the skirt. As I leaned over to take off my shoes, Michael stepped behind me, put his hands around my waist, and pulled me in. I stood and his hands moved to my breasts. I started to tremble, the hardness of my nipples bulging against the lace of my bra.
His fingers stroked my breasts through the fabric, raking my hard nubs, rolling them between his thumb and forefinger. Unbuttoning the top of my blouse, his hand reached in, lowered a cup, and set a breast free. He cupped it, sculpting its shape and heft in his hand. The stiff nipple stood even harder in the cool air. My crotch turned liquid.
With a swift motion, Michael pulled my thong to my knees. I was nude from the waist down.
“Grab your ankles.”
I bent over and his hands explored the globes of my fully exposed buttocks. His fingers and palms brushed the sensitive skin, tracing the crease between my cheeks.
I wasn’t ready for the shock and heat as his hand landed hard on my ass. I lurched forward, but his strong grip held me in check. Then another slap, short and sharp, followed by several hard whacks on both cheeks. A hot flush traveled to my pussy. I could feel the wetness begin to pool between my legs.
His foot slid my feet apart, opening me to him. Head down, my legs spread, I was splayed to my lover like a whore ready to take a john in an alley. His hand reached between my legs and gripped my labia, rubbing them together. He gently pulled up, lifting me to my toes. Liquid gushed out of my cunt into his hand.
My naked and exposed lips were all sodden and swollen. His middle finger found the entrance to my shivering pussy and dipped inside me. As he slowly slid into my hole, my pussy made that squishing sound that usually makes me smile. Right now, though, I was too fired up, too excited.
“Michael, fuck me. Please.”
It wasn’t going to be that easy. Oh, no. Michael had an agenda….
Contents: Five erotic short stories with explicit M/F sex, oral sex, male and female masturbation (often at the same time), spanking, anal play, and mild pee play.
Word count: 12,000