Yes! I’m delighted to announce that I have a story in The Big Book Of Submission Volume 2: 69 Kinky Tales! in fact, I can hardly describe how good it feels to be included in the company of some of the most talented erotica writers in the genre.
When my copy of the book arrived in the mail, I tore open the envelope and scrolled my way down the table of contents — it read like a veritable Who’s Who of prominent names. If you ask me, Rachel Kramer Bussel has worked her editorial magic once again and has done Cleis Press proud. This anthology contains an broad range of kinky stories of submission — literally short — since each tale in this collection tops out at 1200 words.
And did I mention that my story, Plug Play is among them? I think I did, and now let me offer my readers a sexy snippet from my story — not too many words, mind you, since it’s very short — but perhaps just enough to whet your appetite and make you want to purchase the book to read the rest of my story — and all of the others
“Please, Richard, tell me you’re not serious,” I say, when he shows me the plug he has in mind. “That thing is enormous. It’s not going to fit in my ass.”
“Really, Kira,” he asks with that crooked grin of his, “that remains to be seen, doesn’t it? Kneel on the edge of the bed, face down and ass up.”
Richard, an ass man from way back, has been training mine since I became his sex slave six months ago — moving gradually from the finger-sized plug he started with, to the big bruiser he’s selected for today. We both know I’m Okay with it — we have safewords for serious objections and I’m not saying them. Richard, looking amused, arches his brow and waits for me to comply. I huff with indignation, but I do.
“That’s it. Higher even. Legs farther apart. Good girl,” he croons, stroking my asscheeks, spreading them wide, exposing me completely.
To read the rest of this story and all the others, you’ll need to purchase the book. I feel confident you’ll find the investment well worth your while.
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.
At first I felt terrible about not getting this post out on time. July, 31st is National Orgasm Day, as I’m sure everyone reading this already knows. Curious about the origins of the day, I did considerable online reading about it. For those interested, just type the day into your browser to access articles galore in publications such as: Glamour Magazine, the Daily Mail, the Huffington Post, Feminista Jones at BlogHer — not to mention the informative, and arousing post titled the Big O and a Party Down South, by Cara Sutra, a top UK blog sex blogger and sex toy reviewer on whose site my writing has been featured, and to whom I subscribe.
Still, after all that reading I have to confess to still not knowing how it all got started, but the designated days seems to have been with us for several years now — and really, however it came about, what’s not to love about a day devoted to the celebration of pleasure?
As far as missing the boat on a timely posting goes, I took heart after discovering a plethora of sites about World Orgasm Day, celebrated on 8/8/15. My favorite among these is the site of artist ,Alexander Hirka, whose website proclaims the day as the seventeenth annual, One World Orgasm Day. What a great idea! This very cool site features multiple links: the most interesting one to me being Beautiful Agony: Facettes De La Petite Mort—a pay to view site that offers a generous selection of close-up photo of both sexes in the throes of orgasmic delight.
What a delightful idea (pun intended). In fact, viewing this link took me back in time almost forty years to when as a visual artist involved in creating a series of plaster bandages sculptures of female body parts — I engaged in collaboration with a fellow artist and lover, in casting my own upper body, long flowing hair and all. Since this process called for my being nude and coated with Vaseline, so as not to lose body hair when the bandage was removed, I lay naked on a blanket on my studio floor, while my friend applied strip after strip of moistened bandage over me, and smoothed each one carefully in place. To make a long story short, while waiting for the plaster to dry, my friend became bored and began teasing my clitoris — and despite my best efforts to be still, so as to not ruin my sculpture, nature had its way with me. Moaning, mouth open and shoulders contorted, I erupted into orgasm at the exact moment the plaster hardened — thus preserving my ecstatic moment for posterity. I titled the piece, which unfortunately met its demise years ago, the Plaster Orgasm. This was also the title of my first published erotica piece, in the Tenth Anniversary Seattle Erotic Art Festival, Literary Art Anthology, in 2012. An excellent use of a chance happening, if you ask me.
But I digress. There’s still another day devoted to orgasm, and my personal favorite,which is World Orgasm for Peace Day, complete with the compelling slogan, Come Together. This special day is celebrated on the winter solstice, 12/21 each year. So pick your day or better yet, celebrate them all. Come one, come all and let’s make this troubled world a more peaceful place.
I’ll be doing my part. How about you? @dorothyfreed1