At long last, another blog post! A bit after the fact, given the anthology I’m celebrating was published months ago. But in all fairness, I’ve spent 2017 recovering from breast cancer, consuming an almost vegan, organic food diet, with much time spent perusing videos and articles by alternative health experts about cancer and how to avoid re-occurrence — so far so good! Plus I’ve been caught up in my daily life with a husband who is gradually losing his ability to walk — and the care of our two senior dogs which falls mainly to me. Not to mention the political Patriarchy running a-mock in our country, and my time spent resisting it. Consequently the bulk of my writing time has been spent editing my soon-to-be published, creative non-fiction memoir, Perfect Strangers: One Woman’s Journey Through the Swinging Seventies. I’ve also fine-tuned other erotic stories which have found homes in other anthologies. I’ll be offering Sexy Snippets of those stories soon.
Without further ado, I’m delighted to announce my inclusion in an outrageously potent, erotica anthology from Stupid Fish Productions, Dirty 30 Vol. 2.
First, let me state that Editor, Rose Caraway isn’t known as the Sexy Librarian for nothing! Each of the thirty short stories in this collection is deliciously hot in its own distinctive manner. Each one is introduced by it’s own library card catalog of information. My story, I Really Do Belong To You, is categorized as M/F BDSM, involving: 1) Silver Seniors 2) Submit and Serve and 3) Public Punishment.
A worthwhile effort on my part, if I may say so. Here’s a Sexy Snippet from my story — enough, I hope, to entice you to purchase Dirty 30 Vol. 2 to read the rest — and of course, the 29 other finely crafted stories contained within.
I Really Do Belong to You
I’m silver-haired and in my mid-fifties when Sir and I meet at a friend’s birthday party. Our eyes connect from across the room, and his smoldering look summons me. My groin comes alive with arousal as long-suppressed yearnings rise up within me, of being swept away and compelled to submit to someone with desires stronger and more focused than my own. And in this finite, potential-filled moment of attraction, my everyday life is forgotten — adult children, successful art gallery, and feminist persona. I’m simply Claire. Pliant, yielding, ultra-female. I go to him in a trance, head high, hips swaying — drawn like an iron filing to a magnet or a prey animal to a predator. I stammer slightly as I tell him my name.
Sir, five years my senior, has a mane of iron-gray hair combed back from his face. He’s thick-necked and wide-shouldered, with high cheekbones,and full, kissable lips. Not strictly handsome, but with a robust male energy that steps up my heart rate. His voice is low and calming, and while the party swirls around us, we sit together in a corner of the room on an overstuffed sofa, sipping wine, laughing, and conversing for hours. His dark piercing eyes focus on mine as he listens with flattering interest to every word I say.
“Tell me everything about you. Your interests, tastes, preferences, passions.” Leaning closer, his large hand strokes the smoothness of my cheek. Unseen by others, he slaps it lightly, surprising me.
Did he really do that?, I think.
He pulls me to him, his fist clenching into the wiry fullness of my hair. He kisses me hard on the mouth. I melt into him, never wanting the kiss to end.
“You’re responsive,” he observes, releasing me.
I stare at him, blankly, still open-mouthed, my senses reeling.
“I treasure that quality in a woman. Female submission arouses me, Claire. I have a hunch it turns you on too.”
Arousal jolts through me at his words, accompanied by an icy stab of fear. “If you mean the fantasy of being spanked, bound, and controlled by a man, yes, it does,” I blurt, blushing. ” I visualize those images in my head whenever I’m turned on, but I’ve never allowed myself to experience them.”
“Has a man never pinned your wrist to the bed while he penetrated you? Or blindfolded you with a scarf? Or playfully slapped your shapely ass?” Sir inquires.
I meet his gaze. “No, those things have never happened,” I say.
“Would you like them to?”
“Yes, I’d like them to.”
“Then tell me what it is that frightens you about your submissive nature, Claire?
I’m silent. My mind races, deciding how honest to be about fearing the loss of my hard-won independence, while Sir waits for my response.
“Supposing I agreed to submit to you sexually,” I whisper, “what exactly would you do to me?”
Sir smiles and responds gently. Not one thing more than you’ll willingly agree to do.”
If you enjoy top-notch erotica, don’t miss out on Dirty 30 Vol 2!
July 31st, for those not in the know, is National Orgasm Day. I’m so taken with a day reserved for such an arousing occasion, I’ve decided to offer my readers a repeat of last year’s blog posting — which appeared headed by the forty-year-old image of a sculptural collage — featuring a certain ecstatic moment of my own.
I lay comfortably on a faded , old rug in my art studio, wearing paint-stained denim jeans, and nothing else. Outside, cold rain spattered the roof and ran down the windows. Inside the heat was turned up so high the room was almost tropical.
Jerry, gazed down at my half-naked body, his dark eyes widening with interest . He was half naked as well, his broad, muscular chest bare. He held the handle of a water bucket in one hand, and a shopping bag containing towels, a jar of Vaseline , and a huge box of plaster in the other. Grinning, he set the items on the rug beside me. “Hey, baby,” he said, “this art form has some distinct possibilities. Very hands on.”
I gazed up at him smiling, excited about his help on this project. I’d been working for months on a series of sculptural , female body parts, molded from multiple layers of plaster bandage. When the pieces dried enough to hold their shape I’d lift them from my model. When they were completely dry, they were painted, mounted on canvases, and transformed into collages with a variety of female images I’d cut from magazines and newspapers. There were almost enough faces, breasts, feet, backs, and thighs, for a show.
My boyfriend, Jerry, a fellow artist, had come to my studio that afternoon to make a mold of my reclining upper body — head thrown back, hair tumbling around me, shoulders relaxed. It was intended to be the centerpiece of my show. Squatting, he unscrewed the lid of the Vaseline jar and began coating scooped some up with his fingers, and began spreading it over my exposed skin. I closed my eyes and concentrated on remaining motionless while Jerry coated my face, neck, and head with the slick, dense stuff.
Vaseline is a necessary part of the mold making process. Carefully applied, it insures the preservation of body hair when the plaster form is removed. I closed my eyes and concentrated on remaining motionless while Jerry coasted my head thickly with the thick, dense stuff.
My long, chestnut-colored hair fell on the rug around my head and shoulders, in carefully arranged tangles. He smeared it over my face and throat and ears and over my shoulders, down my arms to the elbows, and up again — smoothing it evenly, in slow, circular strokes over my breasts.
My nipples hardened under his touch.
“Okay, you’re ready to be plastered,” he said.
I took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and tried to relax. Jerry began laying long, thin strips of cool wet bandage across my rib cage. Working slowly, he crosshatched them over my breasts, lingering over my nipples, then across my shoulders , over my face, throat, and ears — and over my head and hair.
I tingled with excitement under his touch.
“Sorry,” he said,, as drops of water dribbled to my ticklish armpits and behind my neck, making me fidget, while he continued to apply strips of bandage. I shivered when his hands moved over me adding layer after layer; meticulously smoothing plaster over my forehead and prominent cheekbones, working it with his thick, surprisingly sensitive fingers, around my eyes and half-smiling mouth. Two small openings beneath my nose were left uncovered, so I could breathe.
“Doing okay, babe?” I felt him arranging my hair as he bandaged it. Moving back down my body he strengthened the mold with additional layers. I felt him pause, and linger over my breasts, slowly stroking the smooth, wet plaster under his hands.
“Fine thanks,” I mumbled without moving my lips — without moving anything in fact, at the risk of ruining my creation. My muscles began aching slightly from holding so still. Intense little itches erupted on the side of my nose, beneath my chin, on my right arm, and on my scalp.
I longed to scratch.
“Almost done,” Jerry said, and I felt his fingertips gliding over the wet plaster, searching out any weak spots in the mold. “Hold on. Feels like we need more bandage around your rib-cage, There, Looks good. Okay, should be dry enough to remove in thirty minutes. Remember, ” he ordered, sounding stern, “no moving.”
The clock ticked, Minutes passed. I twitched. I itched. I explored immobility in my plaster bandage restraints. With my eyes closed and deprived of speech, I listened to soft guitar music playing on the stereo, and the steady sound of rain in the background, . Jerry was beside me, his leg pressed against mine. I felt his body heat through our jeans, and smelled his musky male scent combined with sweat from the heat of the studio.
I wonder if he’s turned on seeing me like this? And oddly, Oddly the thought turned me on too. I imagined Jerry beside me, gazing down at me with a hard-on in his pants.
“Baby, you’re so hot bound up like that,” he moaned, like he was reading my mind.
“What are you doing?”I asked, (which came out sounding like “waarardoink?”), when I felt him unzipping my jeans and slipping my his big warm hand, slick with Vaseline, inside them, cupping my pussy, moving rhythmically, in a slow, circular motion.
A rush of heat shot straight my clit and I gasped with pleasure.
I could feel the plaster beginning to dry, growing tighter and more restrictive the drier it got. Jerry continued to play with me, and in some way I didn’t understand the restriction heightened my excitement.I moaned, clenching my ass-cheeks, longing to grind my hips against the rug. Then my guy upped he upped the ante, finger fucking me with what felt like three fingers, plunging deep and hard the way he knows I love it, while rubbing my clit with his thumb at the same time.
I tried to say, “No,! You’ll ruin my sculpture!” and remain motionless. But then, he parted my ass-cheeks, teasing my tiny puckered rear opening, and I gave it up for lost. Moaning steadily, my inner muscles clenched, my heart hammered in my chest, and the exquisite sensations claimed me. Distorting my carefully crafted plaster lips, I screamed, as the orgasm built and crested, and washed over me like a giant wave.
And in that moment of ecstasy — with muscles tensed, chest heaving, shoulders contorted, head thrown back with a grimace of pleasure on my face — the plaster mold hardened, documenting my orgasm for posterity.
When I was coherent again and the mold was removed, I lay propped on an elbow gazing at it in awe. Jerry sat looking down at me, a satisfied look on his face.
“Now that was hot,” he said. “A little twisted, maybe, but baby, that was way hot.“
Listen, I haven’t mentioned this before, but the whole idea of bondage and discipline turns me on.” He grinned and kissed me lightly. And after this scene, well I have a feeling you’ll be turned on by it too.”
“You’re right,” I said, and blushed, realizing it was true. “But Jerry,” I smiled picking bits of plaster from my hair, “Could we try something less messy, like ropes, next time?”
I titled the piece, Plaster Orgasm. I mounted it on a canvas surrounded by images of naked female figures cut from magazines and news papers.
For the record, it was the hit of my open studio show I held years ago.
It was also the title of my first published erotic story, which appeared in the Tenth Anniversary Seattle Art and Literature Festival, in 2012. It was recently narrated by the incomparable Rose Caraway on her podcast. Click on the link to listen to her lovely voice make my words come alive.
That’s my personal orgasm story. But anyone who cares to check out the origins of National Orgasm Day on the internet will find a plethora of articles and information on that delightful subject. Click on the link below to view the homepage of a site called Faces of Orgasm. This is a pay to view site, but the home page is there for all to see the faces of human beings in ecstasy.
So come one, come all, enjoy this delightfully, designated day as nature intended — or for that matter, any other day of the year. .
2016 was a hellish year for me — no doubt about it, the worst health year of my life — jam-packed with high-octane events beginning in early January, when I experienced a stroke affecting my left and dominant arm from which I mercifully made a full recovery. In the spring, a retinal exam revealed a worsening of the sight in my left eye, due to dry Macular Degeneration. During the summer I discovered a gum infection that threatened to jeopardize the future of my four lower front teeth. This necessitated a root canal in September, which didn’t help the situation and a flap surgery in November, which actually worked.
After almost an entire year of struggling with health maladies , I couldn’t help but wonder what might go wrong next — obviously a big mistake.
The final medical test on my agenda for 2016 was a mammogram, prompted by a tender spot in my armpit . Imagining it a benign breast cyst which had troubled me in my premenopausal days, I underwent a mammogram and an ultrasound in mid-December. I received the diagnosis on December 23rd, my husband’s seventy-fifth birthday — happy birthday, dear Sir — when the radiologist called to inform me that I had a modest sized, malignant tumor in my right breast.
Breast cancer? Me? Surely there must be some mistake? I was a near vegetarian who’d even banned cheese from my post-stroke diet. I was a light drinker and had quit smoking cigarettes three decades ago. I’d never moved beyond a little pot in the drug-taking department . I’d never taken hormones as a means of birth control or to ease menopausal symptoms . I used cruelty-free, environmentally friendly cleaning products in my home. I was a writer who loved my work and enjoyed a low-stress lifestyle.
But my husband, who’d held my hand during the Ultrasound, saw the dark mass within my breast, himself — and no, there was no mistake, the mass turned out to be a malignant tumor. The newest of my ongoing list of maladies was breast cancer.
Isn’t life just crammed full of surprises?
During the consequently somber holiday weekend, my nineteen-year-old grandson told his dad how deeply impressed he was by my show of strength. Poor kid, his other grandma, also in her early seventies, died of cancer the week before my diagnosis. He must have been terrified that his grandmas were dropping like flies. The least I could do was exhibit courage under fire — although truth, if I thought falling apart might positively impact my health, I’d have given it a go.
What a blessing to be surrounded by family during the holidays . Our older son’s employment in Portland Oregon ended when the building he managed was sold , and opted to seek work in a drier climate for the sake of his own health. His plan was to stay with us temporarily, while he sought work in the Palm Springs area. But given my health situation and my husband’s increasing lack of mobility, he decided to remain with us for the foreseeable future . He couldn’t have come at a better time to brighten our spirits and would make much-needed repairs on our home during his stay.
We occupied ourselves with family activities during the holiday season, until our grandson’s return to college, and our younger son and his partner’s return to their home in Brooklyn in early January. A stand-out entertainment for me was treating us all to an evening at the Exploratorium in San Francisco. I hadn’t been there since my sons were young.
What fun that was! I enjoyed myself so much , I actually spent the entire evening, and was in the car, on my way home before remembering I had cancer — and when I did, I cried. Since then, my emotions have run the gamut from unbending intention to regain my health, to sobbing like a child.
Being an optimist by nature, I tend to stay strong and do what I must to not only survive, but thrive. In spite of my incredible run of negative health luck, I visualize myself strong and healthy.
On January 5th, my husband and I met with a surgeon at St Mary’s hospital in San Francisco, to review my options. She confirmed that I had stage 1 breast cancer, and offered the choice of a lumpectomy or a radical mastectomy. The thought of having my entire breast removed was so terrifying; I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. Instead, I opted for a lumpectomy, and the removal of the Sentinel node and one other node. If neither proved to be cancerous, the recommended follow-up treatment was a course of radiation, and the estrogen-blocking pill, Tamoxifen, to be taken for five years — after which I’d be considered cured.
And although my surgeon informed me that each cancer was uniquely individual, she advised, as well, against Internet searches on the subject of cancer, and seeking out the medical experience of other women.
But that’s not my nature. I was raised by a gutsy woman who’d protested the spraying of alleged “wonder chemical” DDT on food crops in the early 1950s, and was an outspoken critic of the fluoridation of the public water supply as a means of preventing dental cavities. She purchased organically grown flour and other products from Walnut Acres Farm, one of the first organic farms in the country, when I was a small child.My mom read environmentalist, Rachel Carson’s book, Silent Spring in 1962, the year it was published. She and her two closest friends who joined her in protest all lived to be over ninety, while enjoying healthy bodies nourished by organic food.
I am my mother’s daughter, after all…
I had the first surgery on January 25th, and a second on the same breast to widen the margin for error, a month later. Neither node was cancerous.
Ding Dong, the Wicked Cancer’s dead!
Now, I’m two months past my second surgery. After considerable perusal of books such as Knockout, by Suzanne Somers, recounting her successful recovery from cancer without conventional treatments, and a series of in-depth interviews of alternative medical practitioners, as well as Heal Breast Cancer Naturally: 7 Essential Steps to Beating Breast Cancer, by Dr. Veronique Desaulniers . I also gleaned information from medical websites ranging from the conventional, such as Susan B. Komen .org, and Cancer.org, to a variety of alternative sources such as the lengthy Mother Jones article, The Business of Cancer — and in particular, a nine part documentary titled The Truth About Cancer, featuring alternative medical practitioners from around the globe.
This plethora of medical information raised pertinent questions that made me seriously question the wisdom of attempting to heal my weakened immune system by poisoning my body. Radiation for stage 1 breast cancer, with its potential side effects of nausea, vomiting, appetite loss, and damages to breast, lung, and heart tissue, seemed like a less than idea healing modality to me. And Tamoxifen, chemical treatment, has its own set of of side effects: common ones listed are hot flashes and other menopausal symptoms , and a reduce sex drive which I didn’t experience when in menopause nearly two decades ago. Why then, would I wish to experience them now?
Two pertinent facts about cancer have resonated in my brain. Cancer loves sugar and loathes oxygen. With this in mind, I made my gut level decision to heal my body via an organic food diet consisting of lots of cruciferous vegetables, moderate protein rich in Omega 3 oils, such as wild-caught salmon or sardines, low carbohydrates, good fats, such as avocados, coconut and olive oil, and immune boosting supplements, such as mushroom extracts, plus a shit-load of vitamins. In the interest of oxygenating my body, I’ve added twice a week Pilates classes to my once a week Yoga class, with a Zumba class a week , in addition to my daily walk with my dogs,
I was lucky enough to find an MD who supports my decision. A bold choice, perhaps, to flout accepted medical treatment — but there’s no lack of boldness in my makeup.
I’m still uncertain about how to monitor my cancer-free state. I’m unwilling to submit to frequent mammograms, which deliver significant radiation to my recovering breast. The tumor I had removed was malignant, but slow-growing. The pathologist said it had probably been inside me for several years before my doctor felt it with a manual exam, and the mammogram and ultrasound revealed it . I’ve since learned about Thermograms, a modality based on signaling heat from inflammation that are over eighty percent accurate. There are as well, certain blood tests that indicate cancer markers. Perhaps a combination of all, along with regular manual exams…
I plan to resume writing and have with the completion of this new blog post. A dear friend, an editor of erotica, offered to set up my Amazon Author Page, which I eagerly accepted. So far this year I’ve been accepted into three anthologies, and taken second prize in a prestigious literary competition under my legal name.
My sex drive is returning. My husband and I enjoy an open marriage. My breast — although a bit less perky than it once was — is still pretty in spite of two, inch-and-a half long scars that are healing rapidly. I intend to come through this hair-raising experience with my sense of humor and adventure intact.
My father died of stomach cancer in 1960, when he was forty-nine and I was sixteen. The surgeons cut him open and sewed him back up, saying there was nothing more they could do. Back then cancer was a death sentence, although it wasn’t customary to inform patients of their impending demise. But my father, an editor and translator of technical books, including medical dictionaries , must have realized he was dying.
After his death a poem was discovered among his personal papers, attesting to his deep regret in departing this world, in which he’d found so much to live for. The poem, titled Sunsets, was lengthy. Each stanza dealt with another aspect of the life he was loath to part with — and each concluded with the haunting refrain, There Will Be So Many Sunsets Left Unseen.
Our home faces west. I observe many sunsets. Each time I do I remind myself , there’s another one seen — and wasn’t it lovely to behold.
It is my great pleasure to announce my inclusion in a new anthology, aptly titled, Dirty Old Women — an intriguing collection of erotica by women of experience, edited by Lynx Canon
Dirty Old Women know what they want and are not afraid to say so.
I invite you to come join me for an evening featuring free erotic readings and performance by twelve writers, at the book launch and pre-Valentines day party, on Wednesday, February 8, from 7:30 – 9:30, at the Makeout Room, 3225 22nd Street and Mission in San Francisco.
I hope to see you there!
Story Snippet from Full Body Massage:
Are there any tender or painful, body parts I should be aware of?” Don inquired before beginning the massage.
I lay naked, face down on her padded massage table covered by a light blanket. I sighed. “That’s pretty much any body part you can name after six weeks in this cast.”
“Why you poor woman,” she said, in a low, husky voice, “You are in need of attention, aren’t you? Let’s see if I can make you feel better.”
Don poured a small circle of heated massage oil into her hands and rubbed her palms together, releasing a soothing, spicy smell into the air. She began with basic Swedish massage, combined with acupressure; first working on my tension filled upper arms and shoulders, then moving down my spine to my achy lower back, and to my hips.
I felt the first small twinges of arousal between my legs when Don’s hands, slick with oil, slid over the smooth round cheeks of my ass, stroking, kneading and spreading them apart. The sensations became so exciting I squirmed with pleasure, surprising myself, because I wasn’t into women at all. But Don was tall, broad-shouldered, and somehow manly, particularly in the dim light of the room—and into women or not, this massage was turning me on.
Don continued to massage my hips—and I imagined, what if those talented hands were to slide between my legs, parting the swollen outer lips of my opening, and delve into the moist tingling flesh within. I waited, barely breathing, barely breathing, but then she moved on to the backs of my thighs and knees to my lower legs, and spent some time doing acupressure on my feet.
Calm down, Mia, I told myself, what are you expecting anyway—a full body massage?
“Mia, you can turn over now,” she said softly. Struggling with the cast I rolled myself over and with the blanket covering me, I lay back comfortably with a small pillow beneath my neck. Using her fingertips, Don massaged my head, face, and throat, even my ears, and the muscles in my arms and hands.
“You’re really tense. You need to remember to breath,” she said, firmly, continuing on to stroke my neck, and shoulders, and upper chest.
I was breathing alright, half gasping in fact, with my nipples jutting out at attention, breasts aching with excitement, and the muscles of my pussy clenching and squeezing down hard. Never mind becoming less sexual during menopause—by the time Don reached my lower belly, I was ready, more than ready for anything she wanted to do. But she folded the blanket back over me and her hands moved onto my thighs instead, and continued downward to my knees, lower legs, and feet—and then slowly, deliberately, back up again.
She paused, when her hands reached the tops of my thighs, with her fingertips almost but not quite brushing my pubic curls hidden beneath the blanket. A hot rush of excitement traveled like an electric current straight to my clit. I gasped with pleasure and opened my eyes.
Don gazed down at me longingly. “Beautiful Mia,” she murmured, and waited, her dark eyes questioning. Speechless with excitement, I smiled up at her and nodded my agreement. Full body massage, oh my god, yes! Please don’t stop now! I thought, and a ripple of pleasure went through my entire body when she set the blanket aside and reached for me.
It is my great pleasure to announce that my story, “Love Sling,” is out now in a brand new, super sexy erotic anthology edited by Rose Caraway, titled For The Men And The Women Who Love Them. Once again I feel honored by the quality writers I share pages with in this exciting collection.
In keeping with the For The Men theme, “Love Sling,” is significant to me in being the first BDSM piece I’ve written from a male point of view. This was an interesting and insightful experience for me, to get inside the head of a Dominant man and show what goes on in a playroom scene in progress from his vantage point. The story features Wayne and his sex slave dorrie — a well-matched, kinky couple in a hot, amusing romp. I had a great time writing this and am sure I’ve learned a lot about male/Dom motivations in the process.
Without further ado, here’s a snippet from “Love Sling.” Hopefully I’m offering just enough to whet your appetite and entice you to buy the anthology to read more.
“Love Sling” by Dorothy Freed
I’m the first one to admit it: I’m a pushover for a clever sex toy. Vibrating nipple clamps and dildos, posture collars, inflatable butt plugs, penis gags, rhinestone studded leashes, well you name it — I just can’t resist buying it and trying it out on my sex slave, dorrie. Poor girl, she knows she’s in trouble when the Fed Ex man delivers the package containing the heavy duty, black canvas Love Sling that I’d ordered online. In fact, I get so excited visualizing how her naked lady-parts will look once she’s fastened into it, I rip the package open like a kid on Christmas morning, ready to try it out the minute it’s out of the box.
“You’re gonna love this one, baby,” I promise dorrie, who eyes it with suspicion.
“What insane torment do you have planned for me now, Wayne?” she inquires, rolling her big chocolate-brown eyes at me and folding her arms across her chest. But I just give her the look that reminds her of the rules and regulations of our relationship, and as always, she’s my good girl and doesn’t spoil my fun.
After turning up the thermostat so she won’t freeze her little ass off, dorrie obediently heads for the playroom — where she strips down and kneels before me, knees wide apart and hands behind her head in slave pose, while I set the thing up. It only takes a minute to suspend four lengths of chain from the seven-inch-long eye bolts that I drilled into the ceiling joists, years ago. Then, using heavy duty snap hooks, I connect the four d-rings at each corner of the sling, taking care to adjust it to the exact height of my cock.
“Okay, now lie back into it,” I order, “and scooch forward a bit so your ass hangs out over the sling’s bottom edge.” My girl rolls her eyes but does what I tell her to . “Yeah, that’s the way, that’s my good girl,” I say.
Once she settles into the Love Sling, I secure her in place by cuffing her wrists and ankles and snap-hooking them to the chains, raising her arms high over her head with her legs wide apart.
“Are you comfortable, baby?” I inquire.
“Sure, Wayne,” she says, sounding just a bit bratty, “I’ve never been more comfortable in my life.”
She’s adorable, I think, ignoring her tone. For reasons neither of us fully understand, being bound this way makes dorrie flush with embarrassment and her sweet little pussy-lips swell up with excitement — and I feel my cock begin to stiffen and my balls tighten up, as I step back to enjoy the view. My eyes linger on her full round breasts. With an evil grin I reach for the nipple clamps and move in closer.
That’s all for now. I hope you enjoyed the snippet. Wayne and dorrie move on into a hot little adventure together. I hope you’ll check it out and read “Love Sling,” in it’s entirety.
For The Men is available on Amazon, Smashwords, and itunes, and will be coming to Audible soon. Don’t miss it. Order your copy today.
You can’t see me in this iconic photograph, but I was present among the estimated 50,000 women to march down Fifth Avenue on August 26th, 1970 at the Women’s Strike For Equality in New York City. This was a stellar experience for me and one I remembered throughout my life. On that day I marched beside an original suffragette, who had marched with Susan B. Anthony to win women the vote. I knew then that someday I’d write about the experience and I did. Without further preamble here’s the story as it appeared in the Anthology, Times They Were A-Changing: Women Remember the 60 & 70s, published in 2013.
I still remember what she looked like all these years later — a petite woman with a quiet demeanor and a look of determination in her clear green eyes. Her silvery hair, parted in the middle came halfway to her shoulders. She wore no makeup I could see, except a little lipstick, and was simply dressed in lightweight cotton clothing and serviceable sandals — no being hobbled in high heels for her. And she was old enough to be my grandmother — in her early seventies, maybe, but straight backed and fast-moving. I liked her immediately.
We met on August 26th, 1970, fellow marchers in the Women’s Strike For Equality — a national event, celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of the Nineteenth Amendment, granting women the right to vote. The strike called for women across the country to stop work that day to spotlight inequities in the workforce, In politics, and in social institutions such as marriage. That afternoon in New York City, tens of thousands of women gathered on the sweltering streets of Manhattan and marched down Fifth Avenue to the lawns behind the New York Public Library — demanding equal rights under the law.
I was a twenty-six year old housewife. Leaving my husband home with our two sons and joining the march was a personal declaration of independence for me. I’d been married for eight years to a man who espoused equal rights and justice for all — but at home, as the assumed head of our household he felt entitled to be in charge.
He was okay with watching the kids three evenings a week while I took college classes — as long as I did the shopping, cooking, cleaning, laundry, and the balance of child care, in addition to my schoolwork. But he wasn’t pleased when I joined the National Organization For Women. Or when I read The Second Sex by Simone De Beauvoir and began questioning the male/female status quo. Or when I told him he’d be feeding the kids dinner that evening, because I was striking for equality.
My husband shook his head at that. “If you women had to deal with the serous issues men do, you’d stop complaining fast. Well, be home before dark. The streets aren’t safe at night.”
I sighed. His comments irked me, but I kept silent, not wanting to argue. I kissed my family goodbye and left the apartment, promising to return before dark.
How can we be equal, I wondered, if half of us can’t go out alone at night?