Embracing Personal Freedom
I’m in Dirty 30 Vol. 2!
At long last, another blog post! A bit after the fact, given the anthology I’m celebrating was published months ago. But in all fairness, I’ve spent 2017 recovering from breast cancer, consuming an almost vegan, organic food diet, with much time spent perusing videos and articles by alternative health experts about cancer and how to avoid re-occurrence — so far so good! Plus I’ve been caught up in my daily life with a husband who is gradually losing his ability to walk — and the care of our two senior dogs which falls mainly to me. Not to mention the political Patriarchy running a-mock in our country, and my time spent resisting it. Consequently the bulk of my writing time has been spent editing my soon-to-be published, creative non-fiction memoir, Perfect Strangers: One Woman’s Journey Through the Swinging Seventies. I’ve also fine-tuned other erotic stories which have found homes in other anthologies. I’ll be offering Sexy Snippets of those stories soon.
***
Without further ado, I’m delighted to announce my inclusion in an outrageously potent, erotica anthology from Stupid Fish Productions, Dirty 30 Vol. 2.
First, let me state that Editor, Rose Caraway isn’t known as the Sexy Librarian for nothing! Each of the thirty short stories in this collection is deliciously hot in its own distinctive manner. Each one is introduced by it’s own library card catalog of information. My story, I Really Do Belong To You, is categorized as M/F BDSM, involving: 1) Silver Seniors 2) Submit and Serve and 3) Public Punishment.
A worthwhile effort on my part, if I may say so. Here’s a Sexy Snippet from my story — enough, I hope, to entice you to purchase Dirty 30 Vol. 2 to read the rest — and of course, the 29 other finely crafted stories contained within.
I Really Do Belong to You
I’m silver-haired and in my mid-fifties when Sir and I meet at a friend’s birthday party. Our eyes connect from across the room, and his smoldering look summons me. My groin comes alive with arousal as long-suppressed yearnings rise up within me, of being swept away and compelled to submit to someone with desires stronger and more focused than my own. And in this finite, potential-filled moment of attraction, my everyday life is forgotten — adult children, successful art gallery, and feminist persona. I’m simply Claire. Pliant, yielding, ultra-female. I go to him in a trance, head high, hips swaying — drawn like an iron filing to a magnet or a prey animal to a predator. I stammer slightly as I tell him my name.
Sir, five years my senior, has a mane of iron-gray hair combed back from his face. He’s thick-necked and wide-shouldered, with high cheekbones,and full, kissable lips. Not strictly handsome, but with a robust male energy that steps up my heart rate. His voice is low and calming, and while the party swirls around us, we sit together in a corner of the room on an overstuffed sofa, sipping wine, laughing, and conversing for hours. His dark piercing eyes focus on mine as he listens with flattering interest to every word I say.
“Tell me everything about you. Your interests, tastes, preferences, passions.” Leaning closer, his large hand strokes the smoothness of my cheek. Unseen by others, he slaps it lightly, surprising me.
Did he really do that?, I think.
He pulls me to him, his fist clenching into the wiry fullness of my hair. He kisses me hard on the mouth. I melt into him, never wanting the kiss to end.
“You’re responsive,” he observes, releasing me.
I stare at him, blankly, still open-mouthed, my senses reeling.
“I treasure that quality in a woman. Female submission arouses me, Claire. I have a hunch it turns you on too.”
Arousal jolts through me at his words, accompanied by an icy stab of fear. “If you mean the fantasy of being spanked, bound, and controlled by a man, yes, it does,” I blurt, blushing. ” I visualize those images in my head whenever I’m turned on, but I’ve never allowed myself to experience them.”
“Has a man never pinned your wrist to the bed while he penetrated you? Or blindfolded you with a scarf? Or playfully slapped your shapely ass?” Sir inquires.
I meet his gaze. “No, those things have never happened,” I say.
“Would you like them to?”
“Yes, I’d like them to.”
“Then tell me what it is that frightens you about your submissive nature, Claire?
I’m silent. My mind races, deciding how honest to be about fearing the loss of my hard-won independence, while Sir waits for my response.
“Supposing I agreed to submit to you sexually,” I whisper, “what exactly would you do to me?”
Sir smiles and responds gently. Not one thing more than you’ll willingly agree to do.”
***
If you enjoy top-notch erotica, don’t miss out on Dirty 30 Vol 2!
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. .
Happy National Orgasm Day
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.
The Kiss Me Quick’s Erotica Podcast — And Me
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?
Dorothy Freed 