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. .
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 was a 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