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.
Earlier this month the most exciting thing happened to me. Rose Caraway, The Sexy Librarian, and her husband and business partner, Big Daddy Dayv Caraway came to my home in Half Moon Bay, where I’ve lived with my husband and Sir for nearly thirty years — traveling all the way from their home in Sacramento, where Dayv set up a sound studio in our living room, while Rose interviewed me for The Kiss Me Quick’s Sexy Librarian’ Erotica Podcast!
I can hardly express how honored I feel that my erotic journey begun in the mid-70s — and the sex-positive way I’ve chosen to live my life from then on — is deemed inspirational to others, and a story worthy of being told.
I met Rose and Dayv twelve days after suffering a stroke, when I attended the reading of Best Women’s Erotica , Volume 1. The reading, which took place appropriately enough, at the Good Vibrations sex toy store, on Polk Street in San Francisco , was an amazing experience. I was frankly thrilled to realize I was sharing pages in a book with an incredibly talented, diverse group of female writers, in an outstanding anthology that I have no doubt will make its mark in erotica history.
But the highlight of my experience — aside from sharing a stage with BWE editor, Rachel Kramer Bussel.Jade A. Waters, and my Erotic Reading Circle buddy , Amy Butcher — was meeting fellow writer, Rose Caraway, with whom I felt an instant sense of connection. Although Rachel read my story for me, as the light in the room was too dim for my eyes, I joined the others on stage afterwards for interaction with our audience. I also managed quite nicely by signing copies of our X-rated book with an X placed beside the title of my story, since my left and dominant arm had been weakened by the stroke.
When the signing concluded, my 74 year-old husband who’d attended the reading with me, chatted with Rose and Dayv, expressing that I’d felt I’d earned the privilege of being there that night, and stroke or no stroke wouldn’t have missed the event for the world.
(In my view, the difference between a coward and a hero is the hero is not stopped by fear, and I’m delighted to report I was not.)
I’m as much of a talker as my Sir is a strong, silent type. I shared a bit about my three-decade long erotic relationship with him. The relationship resulted from a personal ad I placed in the late San Francisco Bay Guardian in late 1983, seeking a husband/Dom/life partner all rolled into one — a first date so dynamic it went on all night. At age 71, I’ve had sufficient erotic experience for a small sex-starved country. (My story in BWE, Two Doms For dinner, was real-life inspired, as is much of my erotic writing — a pleasure to experience and write about as well.)
Rose and Dayv expressed genuine interest that I’d written a memoir, now submitted to publishers, titled PERFECT STRANGERS: One Woman’s Journey Through The Swinging Seventies, about being a swinging single mom in an era of unprecedented personal freedom. They also appeared to enjoy our old-time tales of being a BDSM couple back in the 80s, and on into current times. By the time we’d parted company that evening, Sir and I felt we’d encountered a couple who mirrored us in their obvious love and dedication to each other and their chosen lifestyle. We left feeling we’d just made new friends.
I was thrilled when Rose contacted me soon after, requesting an interview for her podcast about my lengthy sexual history. Even more so when she expressed that my erotically adventurous nature had inspirational value to others, too important not to be shared.
So far I am loving my fifteen minutes of fame. It still amazes me how sadly undervalued erotic pleasure is in our culture. Enjoying the pleasure of the flesh has long been considered a traditionally made domain. But in recent years erotic literature written by strong, self-directed women has risen to the forefront, expressing sexual interaction from the female point of view. I want to shout out an enormous thank you to the Caraways. If my erotic adventures serve inspirational purpose and in any way enriches the body of sexual knowledge existing in the world — then Rose and Dayv’s brilliant and insightful documentation of those adventures has equal value as well.
And I ask you; if sexual delights were not meant to be enjoyed by women, what then would be the purposed of our having clits?
Truth is way stranger than fiction in my opinion, which is why my writing is mainly memoir based. Five weeks ago I went from a state of excited anticipation at having a story included in the soon to be released anthology shown above — to shock and horror at suffering a mild stroke on January 7th.
Lucky for me I was on the phone with a friend, who said my voice sounded slurry and asked if everything was okay — and that my husband who sat nearby said, “Look at me,” and saw the corner of my mouth droop for a second, before rushing me to the emergency room at Mills Peninsula Hospital in Burlingame, for two days and nights of medical testing reminiscent of the Spanish Inquisition.
To say I wasn’t scared as the reality of my situation unfolded before me would have been a grave understatement. One health care professional after the other quizzed me as to the date and year and city we were in, attempting to determine how muddled my mind might be, and assessing the impact of the stroke on my cognitive abilities.
Thankfully the damage appeared to be minimal, although my left arm was affected, rendering my dominant left hand weakened. My mind and ability to speak was left intact — although it would be a while before I could utilize the muscle memory to properly lift an eating utensil to my mouth.
My husband stayed in the room with me on the second night of my stay — having returned home to care for our dogs the prior evening. By then all I wanted was to go home to them myself, but the doctors talked us into staying to do still more tests on the following day. We were running out of patience toward the end of the second day — but were convinced to stay a second night to wait for the results of an MRI, that would reveal an image of the inside of my brain.
That’s when the nightmare began in earnest. My brain scan showed evidence of prior strokes so small I ‘d been unaware of them — which led a well-spoken neurologist to present the possibility that I might have MoyaMoya Disorder. Now while this sounds like something to be ordered in a Japanese restaurant, it actually means puff of smoke, indicative of an almost unheard of brain condition affecting a tiny percentage of the population. These people begin experiencing strokes when young and rarely live to be my age. Because of the possibility of my having late onset MoyaMoya, she urged me to transfer by ambulance to the Stroke Unit of the California Pacific Medial Center, Davies Campus (CPMC), for further testing and observation. My husband and I gazed at each other horror-struck, as based on this information we left Mills Peninsula to be whisked away for three fun-filled days of further testing.
CPMC is located in an drafty old building in San Francisco’s Castro District. Much of the stroke floor had been modernized, but we were shown to a spacious two-room suite with a hospital bed in one room and a couch made up for my husband in the other. On the first night of our stay, he heard me crying and sat up in a chair beside my bed, holding my hand for the entire night.
The next morning we realized that it was January 10th and our 29th wedding anniversary. Upon hearing that, a kindly nurse brought a fold-out bed to our room and placed it beside mine. That night we celebrated our 29th anniversary on the stroke floor of a hospital, toasting each other with glasses of water and gazing out over the Land of Oz — while I congratulated myself that win, lose, or draw, I’d had the balls to pack up my kids and drive to San Francisco after divorcing their father in the mid-1970s– to begin a new life in a magical city where where I could be me and where my Sir and I would meet and embark on our BDSM lifestyle in late 1983.
We were considerably less peppy than on earlier anniversary celebrations — my husband leaning on his cane and I with my disabled hand and arm — but honestly, I doubt we’ve ever loved each other more than we did that night .
To make a long story shorter, brain surgery was suggested, probably in February. I was released from the hospital on blood thinners to return home to our dogs, and my wonderful younger son flew out from his home in Brooklyn to care for our household, and to arrange the details of obtaining second and third opinions from other neurologists. It was twelve days before the scheduled reading of Best Women’s Erotica, at Good Vibrations Polk Street store and stroke or no stroke, I wanted to attend that reading.
After endless debating about if I felt up to it or not, I attended the reading wearing my hottest red and black outfit. A friend helped me with my makeup, making me look as good as possible under the circumstances. She even drew on a pair of elegant eyebrows, which for me to do myself would have required an unimpaired left hand.
Still, I felt too shaky to read my own story. Editor, Rachel Kramer Bussel kindly read it for me, while I sat in the audience beside my Sir. But before beginning, she asked me to state briefly what had inspired it — and I replied proudly that the inspiration for my story, Two Doms For Dinner wasa small slice of my wonderful kinky life with my love.
I loved every minute of being a part of that reading.
As a single mom I taught my sons the importance of demonstrating courage under fire. I felt that by attending the reading I was doing just that. I loved being part of the warm, supportive erotica community at Good Vibrations that evening. Since I couldn’t sign my name, I marked each book I was asked to sign with an X on the first page of my story beside my name. I would not have missed it for the world.
I’ve recovered the use of my arm considerably in the three weeks since that evening. I haven’t eaten meat for twenty-five years, and have now eliminated all dairy products from my diet in an attempt to not ingest cholesterol. My wonderful techno-savvy son sent the disc of my brain images to other neurologists. A second opinion, was obtained from Stanford, which disagreed with the first — no MoyaMoya or surgery, with medical maintenance of the constricted artery at the base of my skull — and finally a third and last opinion by the head of neurology from UCSF, concurring that I didn’t have MoyaMoya at all, didn’t need surgery or more than one blood thinner, and agreed that lasting changes in diet and moderate exercise deserved a fair shot.
And now, five weeks later, my son has returned home to his family in time to celebrate Valentine’s Day with his love — and my husband and I are alone in our home once again, gazing into each other’s eyes and looking toward a future that sill involves sex.
At this point I am able to hold an eating utensil properly and am now able to once again write my name This health incident I’ve experienced is a wake-up call for both me and my husband, but in no way does it indicate the end of our sexual life.
I feel in my bones that my left hand and arm will enjoy a full recovery. In the meantime I thank the powers that be that I masturbate with my right hand.
I ‘ve finally finished reading Master of O, by Ernest Greene. This is no small commitment since the book is 763 pages long, but I found it well worth the reading time. The story, which resets Pauline Reage’s classic, Story of O, to glitzy contemporary Los Angeles is told from the Dom’s point of view, and Greene, a longtime pornography director and real life husband of porn star, Nita Hartley, based his lead character, Steven Diamond on real life experience. Greene is a skillful storyteller. His natural dialogue and great interplay between Dom and submissive, provides a keen insight into the inner workings of a hard-core BDSM relationship. Not only did his sex scenes sizzle on the page, they’re so well described, I felt I was watching a film inside my head as I read his words.
I love the fact that Steven, is an unapologetic sadist and libertine, who does not in any way blame his penchant for power, punishment, and pain on any disturbing childhood incidents. Instead, Steven, whose ideas of erotic play is not at all for the fainthearted, savors each command given and each stoke of the whip — because, simply stated, that’s what turns him on, makes him hard, and is part and parcel of who he is. All in all, Master of O, makes E.L James hero, Christian Grey seem like nothing more than an uptight, neurotic, wanna be Dom.
Steven’s new slave, O, is a gift to him from his brother, Ray, her current owner, who first proposes that they share her, later surrenders her to Steven when he realizes that her lust for pain and domination are greater than he can satisfy. And, as predicted, Steven finds in O, a talented photographer and heavy-duty masochist — with her acute appreciation of “quality pain”, in exchange for her submission — to be the perfect complement to his no holds barred brand of sadism. Steven and O are authentic characters, who come together form a place of mutual respect and understanding of each other’s needs and requirements. Together they embark on a high intensity, hardcore, BDSM relationship that continues to flourish until the story’s end, when Steven learns that O’s enslavement is not without its limits, after all.
As a kinky reader with an animal rights point of view, I found myself having to struggle a bit with descriptions of certain grossly decadent details of indulgences in the LA party scene — such as the wearing of endangered species shoes or the eating of pate fois gras, since such details unfortunately jerk me right out of the fantasy and into activist mode.
Aside from those discordant elements, I enjoyed reading about the inner workings of a kinky, high fashion magazine quite fascinating. And as one with a with a longterm familiarity with the scene, Master of O, with its quirky cast of desire driven characters reads like the real thing to me. I whole heartedly recommend this book to anyone with a genuine interest in the relationship dynamics of BDSM. Tweet @DorothyFreed1
I got a kindle as a gift over this past holiday season on which I’m planning to use as an erotica library The first book I downloaded into it was Sex and Cupcakes: A Collection of Juicy Essays, by Rachel Kramer Bussel. I’d been wanting to read this book since it was published in the latter part of last year. I’d heard it was exceptionally good. I read it in bed the same evening I purchased it, and my only disappointment with it was how quickly I devoured each of her nine gemlike essays, which whetted my appetite for her writing and left me hungry for more. Rachel is not only the excellent editor of more than fifty erotic anthologies, each of which contains a story she’s written, she also writes for Bust, Dame, Salon, the Daily Beast, Elle, Glamour, and well, you name it — if it’s about erotic issues she writes for it and she does it well.
The first essay in the book, I Have Trouble With Orgasms, touches on a subject near and dear to my heart — not to mention other key portions of my anatomy. It is, in fact, a major theme in my now completed, but not yet published book, PERFECT STRANGERS: One Woman’s Journey Through the Swinging Seventies, which deals with the tremendous pressure put on women of that era to have vaginal orgasms — simultaneously achieved ones prefered, if you please — and my personal torment as a young married woman, and later as a still young divorced woman. when I fell short of that goal. I was consequently impressed, not only by Rachel’s unflinching honesty about such an intimate issue, but also to learn that one of the foremost sex writers of current times, doesn’t come easily either — although as a thirty-something, post feminist woman, she seems to be far less hard on herself about the issue than I was at the time.
Her second essay, I’m Pro-Choice and I Fuck , wowed me as well — another dear to my heart subject that it’s hard to believe is still in need of discussion — but it absolutely is, and Rachel did it well. I also loved MONOGAMISHMASH, a discussion about her potentially monogamous relationship and what that might mean. This essay grabbed my attention because three decades ago, my husband and I began a committed and openish relationship, which luckily served us well, although after dropping out of the scene in the mid-nineties, we gradually evolved into a monogamous couple. But then a few years ago while in our sixties, we mutually decided that an occasional threesome, or moresome, and an occasional foray into the party scene, would effectively enliven our desire for each other and spice up our marriage. I’m delighted to say it definitely has and that, for now, we’re pleased with our monogamish relationship. Having now been partnered for over three decades, I ‘ll venture to say that the sexual evolution of a relationship is a work in progress throughout.
I’m also reading Master Of O, by Ernest Greene, husband of porn star, sex educato,r and sex positive femininst, Nina Hartley, and the capital D in their D/s relationship. The book is the Story of O, from the dominant male point of view and set in modern-day Los Angeles. I ‘m really enjoying this book and recommend it to anyone with a genuine interest in BDSM — it’s everything Shades of Grey isn’t, complete with skillfully written and natural dialogue, and great interplay between Dom and submissive.
Good news on the home front, Rachel Kramer Bussel recently informed me that the print date for Dirty Dates will be this November, and my story, The Corset is the first one in the book. I hope to have the book cover up on my site before long. I still have other stories waiting in the wings for publisher approval and will hopefully have good news about those very soon.
It seems that with the advent of the holidays and delightfully distracting visits by adult children, combined with the first nasty bug I’ve succumbed to in years — not to mention the unbelievable and stressful time-suck of composing an engaging query letter and story synopsis preparatory to submitting my now completed manuscript, PERFECTSTRANGERS: One Woman’s Journey Through The Swinging Seventies to publishers and agents — I’ve ended up taking an unplanned hiatus from my blog.
My best gift to myself this past holiday season was the purchase of a written critique by prominent writer and editor, Rachel Kramer Bussel, of two stories that I felt were well-written and hot, but never quite jelled into finished work that pleased me. The critique, followed by an hour-long phone conversation was money well spent. Rachel honed right in on the trouble spots in those pieces — to my credit, the very spots that troubled me from the first — and offered clear, cogent suggestions on how to write my way out of them. I was so impressed by her editorial abilities that I splurged and signed up for her four-week long, Erotic Writing class set to begin February 12th. Since meeting deadlines has never been my strongest suit, I’m a bit worried about keeping up the pace — but at the same time am looking forward to getting caught up in the momentum of fast hard writing, trusty feedback, and growing as a writer.
Good news from Rachel during our phone talk was that her forthcoming anthology, DirtyDates, isslated for publication in September of this year — with the even better news being that my story, The Corset, will appear in the book. I haven’t yet seen the table of contents, but knowing the overall quality of Rachel’s story collections, I’m sure to be keeping company with some awesome writers. Yea! I’ll never get tired of seeing my name in print. Hopefully my next piece of good news will be from a publisher or agent about my book, or from another well-respected editor awaiting publisher’s approval of one of her manuscripts with three of my pieces in it.
A recent literary adventure I shared with my husband was the celebration of our January 10th anniversary at San Francisco’s 1st Annual Sex Culture Book Fair, which took place that same day. The fair was held at Adobe Books on 24th Street — a collaboration between Adobe Books, Belle SF magazine, and the sex positive social club, Mission Control. Throughout the evening, we were treated to a series of interesting presentations of the trials and tribulations of independent publishing, the best information sources for polyamory advice, a sex worker’s panel, a kinky demo, a D/s demo, bawdy story telling, Naked Ladies Reading, and a whole lot more. The stimulating evening feature a variety of sexual literary luminaries such as Dr. Carol Queen, Violet Blue, Ron Turner, Allison Moon, and Polly Superstar, to name a few, who offered their educated opinions on the past, present, and future of publishing and sex.
Now what better way could there be for an erotic writer and her life-partner to celebrate thirty-one kinky years together than that? Well, yes, I realize that only a few years ago the question would have been a no-brainer. But aside from that, this book fair fit the bill. Here’s wishing a heartfelt happy anniversary to this happy and long-lasting couple — and to the book fair, as well. May we all live to attend many more.
We proceeded with caution as we moved through the 80s, realizing the potentially dire consequences of the “if it feels good do it” school of thought, regarding impromptu hookups and unprotected sexual encounters. But propelled by our lust and unflagging desire, and armed with rubbers, dental dams spermicides and the like, we proceeded, none the less.
When thinking back on the 80s, I remember big hair and over-sized shoulders — influenced by TV shows such as Dallas and Dynasty — strong-hued lip color, sharply accented cheekbones, enormous earrings, fingerless gloves, and darkly outlined eyes. We were hard-edged in that decade, in our Doc Martens, high platform boots and needle-toed pumps, and in our formfitting skirts and slashed jeans. Leather was in, bigtime, along with a rise in popularity of tattoos and body piercings — in a blatantly sexualized look that glamorized both Punk fashion and the trappings of BDSM Culture. Heavy chains worn as belts and ripped fish-net stockings; safety pins, studded leather collars and wrist cuffs became mainstream fashion accessories — worn by teeny boppers who were drawn to the look because it was in — with little or no inkling of the counterculture lifestyles they emulated.
Art at that time was hard-edged as well and designed to be decorative. Think Patrick Nagle and his stark female illustrations , and the deliciously strong-hued, lushly erotic individuals painted by Polish artist, Johanna Zjawinska. For me, strong memories of music videos recalls Robert Plant and his pale-faced, red-lipped, hypersexualized women with darkly made-up eyes, in the mid-80s video Addicted to Love — and, of course, Material Girl, Madonna, whose lyrics and images typified the aspirations of the decade — as did fictional character, Gordon Gekko’s memorable statement, “Greed is good”, in the 1987 film, WallStreet. Prominent books on my reading list at that time included, Anne Rice’s now immortal BDSM trilogy, The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty, published in the mid-80s, and 9 1/2 Weeks, the cautionary tale of a Dominant/submissive romance that escalates beyond limits, that was made into a film a few years later.
On a personal level, my entrance into a committed relationship in 1983, brought about a major shift in focus from the swing parties and indiscriminate couplings I’d experienced in the prior decade — as well as a shift from primarily vanilla sex.
My husband and I, as a BDSM couple, were fortunate in that our erotic fantasies were compatible, both in nature and intensity — and that we were both strongly attracted to the excitement of the party scene and public play. This led us to an ongoing erotic adventure involving an agreed upon power exchange and intense forms of foreplay, such as sensation play, bondage, and the use of sex toys. Such play occurred with or alongside other players, and was enormously arousing in itself, even to orgasm — without involving risky behaviors such as penetrative sex, thus radically minimizing our STD risk. For me, my new, non-promiscious lifestyle provided an opportunity to play and explore with multiple partners, within the confines of commitment — offering me, from my point of view, the erotic best of both decades.
At the time we entered the scene, the main venues for play among straight kinky couples was the now defunct, Gemini club, which catered to Male Dominant and female submissive pairings — as did its counterpart, the Scorpio club, in LA, where we once attended a never to be forgotten Story of O party. The still active, pansexual, Society of Janus, was dedicated to the promotion of safe, sane, and consensual BDSM play, with bi-monthly programs designed to educate, as well as provide the kinky community with a non-sexual, highly arousing sexual outlet.
My husband and I also attended parties at the Catacombs, which was originally a private men’s fist fucking club. When the club closed its doors in 1984 due to concerns over the AIDs epidemic and consequent restraints on freedom of play, the space reopened as Shotwell Meeting House, in SF’s steamy South of Market — emerging as the primary play space for straight and bi couples in the kinky community, as well as the site of Janus’ educational programs.
My husband and I continued to be active in the scene throughout the decade. By the time the 80s drew to a close, we were old-time members of the Bay Area BDSM community — and as we neared our fifth decade, the hyper-intensity of virgin experience was behind us, and the effects of late night parties began requiring abit longer recovery time. But still, we partied on.