Discarding inhibitions

Happy National Orgasm Day!

 

 

 

 

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.

  PLASTER ORGASM

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.

 http://directory.libsyn.com/episode/index/show/kisstherose/id/4539860

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.    

http://www.beautifulagony.com/public/main.php?page=about

So come one, come all, enjoy this delightfully, designated day as nature intended — or for that matter, any other day of the year. .

DOW (THAT’S DIRTY OLD WOMEN TO YOU)

dirty-old-womensmallcover

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 anywaya 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.

 

“Love Sling”– Available in For The Men: And The Women Who Love Them

 

For_The_Men_And_The_Women_Who_Love_Them_Dorothy_Freed

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

    

 

 

Happy National Orgasm Day

 

Face2

 

July 31st, for those not in the know, is National Orgasm Day. In honor of the arousing occasion I offer a forty-year-old image of a sculptural collage of an ecstatic moment of my own.

The piece of artwork was created in the mid-70s,  when as a visual artist, involved in creating a series of plaster bandage sculptures of female body parts, I engaged in collaboration with a fellow artist (and lover) in casting my upper body; long flowing hair and all.  This necessitated my being nude to the waist and coated with Vaseline — so as not to lose body hair when the plaster mold was removed.  

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, half-naked as well, 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.  He looked down at me and grinned. “This art form  has possibilities,” he said, ” it’s very hands on.”

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. My hair fell around my shoulders in carefully arranged tangles. He smeared it over my face and throat and ears and over my shoulders — 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.

“Almost done,” Jerry said, and I felt his fingertips gliding over the wet plaster, searching out any weak spots in the mold.  “Okay, looks good.  Should be dry enough to remove in thirty minutes. Don’t move a muscle,” he said, sounding stern.

The clock ticked, Minute passed. I twitched. I itched. I explored immobility in my plaster bandage restraints. 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.

This is what it must be like to be in bondage, I thought. I wonder if he’s turned to see me like this? Oddly the the thought turned me on too. I imagined Jerry gazing down at me with a hard-on in his pants.

“You’re so hot bound up like that,” he moaned, like he was reading my mind.

“What are you doing?”, I asked, which because I was attempting to speak without moving my lips came out muffed and disjointed.  I drew in my breath as I felt him sliding down the zipper of my jeans, and slipping Vaseline coated fingers inside them, cupping my pussy, moving rhythmically, in a slow circular motion . A rush of heat shot to 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.  Then 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 ecstatic  moment  — 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 hot. Listen, I haven’t mentioned this before, but the whole idea of bondage and discipline in turns me on.” He grinned and kissed me. 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 called 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 had 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.

 http://directory.libsyn.com/episode/index/show/kisstherose/id/4539860

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.    

http://www.beautifulagony.com/public/main.php?page=about

So come one, come all, enjoy the day as nature intended, on this designated day — or for that matter, any other.

 

Being Sexual In The Seventies

8/25/14

We were fearless in the 70s. Our sexual adventuring knew no bounds. The process of erotic liberation that began with the sexual revolution of the 60s continued on, in spades, in the decade that followed. It was a time of discarding inhibitions and prohibitions, and of embracing personal freedom, and of self-discovery above all.

It was a time of living out sexual fantasies, via impromptu hook-ups anywhere and everywhere:  on sandy beaches, and swimming pools, and hot tubs, and saunas, and on water beds with black satin sheets. We did it in vacation cottages, and at ski resorts, and nudist colonies, and on cruises — and at organized events , and encounter groups, and alternative lifestyle playgrounds, such as swing clubs, and BDSM party houses, not to mention our own private homes.

It was a time when female sexual gratification was viewed as a birthright — and casual sex with perfect strangers was as easy as shaking hands.

If it felt good we did it. If it felt really good, then, by god, we did it again!

Still, by the end of the 70s, having accrued enough sexual experience to eroticize a small, sex-starved country, I’d taken a giant step back from my promiscuous lifestyle. But not because I felt I had an out-of-control addiction requiring a twelve-step program for recovery. Or fear of disease either — believing as I did that God protects both fools and innocent, and I fit somewhere into one or both of those categories. 

Instead, I stepped back for two primary reasons: First, I’d learned over time that for me, as a woman, sexual freedom was not necessarily synonymous with sexual satisfaction — and casual sex with strangers, exciting and potentially perfect as they appeared to be, often left more to be desired. Also, by then I’d come to understand and accept my intrepid erotic nature, and perceived how easily I could continue on as I was, until my life evolved, or devolved, depending on viewpoint, into an unending series of casual, sexual encounters.

And in the end, I realized I wanted and needed a greater level of intimacy than that.