Fiction 6 (of 6): My Day in Court: Court

Friday morning, I’m back in court, sitting in a meeting room with my client, Eleanor Garner.

“You don’t believe me,” she says.

I say nothing in reply at first, surprised by her forward statement. I measure my words. “Here’s the thing,” I say. “The way this is shaping up, I’m going to get you off. The prosecution doesn’t have much in the way of pre-meditation evidence, and they don’t want a public image of sending a woman like you, that is, abused as you have been, to jail. It will be self-defense, and they may argue for something, but the judge will dismiss. I know this.”

Eleanor looks at me with the beginnings of a smile, relieved.

“However,” I continue, “just between us, to be perfectly honest, I think you planned this, I think you did this repeatedly, and I think you enjoyed it.”

I let that hang in the air, but she says nothing, offering not even a flicker of self-recognition in what I just said.

“However, Eleanor, however… I believe there are times when we do something we just have to do. We wind up planning it, then do it repeatedly, and actually enjoy it…”

Eleanor looks at me, her grandmother eyes now twinkling. She seems to know I’m talking about something else, not about her, something personal to me.

“Do you believe that’s morally wrong?” she asks.

I pause. “I don’t know…” I finally say.

She nods.

“But… sometimes the ‘why’ is elusive. I can’t judge you… or anyone else… for things we just have to do for ourselves, for reasons even we don’t understand.”

Eleanor’s face cracks into a smile. “It’s complicated,” she says.

In the courtroom, the judge is about to rule on the motion to suppress. He asks for final comments.

A prosecution lawyer stands to speak. “I’m standing in for my partner, Ms. Richards, who couldn’t make it today.”

Hearing his voice, I suddenly swivel toward the prosecution table, looking up.

“Your name?’ the judge inquires of him.

“My name, your Honor, is Anthony Gonzales.”

Fiction 5 (of 6): My Day in Court: Evening

Driving home, I make three stops.

The first is an old office building on Platte. I take the elevator to the third floor, and approach office suite 305.

“Alzheimer’s Association” is stenciled on the glass door.

“Hello, Anna,” the receptionist says. “Good to see you again.”

“Hi, Gina.”

“Have a drop off?”

“Yes.” I pull the envelope out of my purse. “It’s $8,000 this time. In hundreds.”

“Oh, my! Wonderful. You know how much this means to people here. Need a receipt?”

“No, it won’t be necessary.”

My second stop is off of Circle Drive.

I ask for her at the front desk. “Here to see Margaret Jackson.”

The receptionist makes a call, then turns to me. “You know the way — Anna, is it?”

“Yes, right, Anna — yes, I know the room.”

She is sitting in the corner looking out the window. The evening is settling in outside but she can see the mountains.

I take a chair beside her. “Hello, Mom.”

She turns to look at me and her face is blank.

“It’s me, Anna.”

“Anna,” she repeats.

“I’m your daughter,” I remind her.

Perhaps there’s a glimmer of recognition, or perhaps I’m imagining it.

“Anna,” she says again distantly. “Are you being a good girl?”

My third stop is McCabe’s.

The gang is in the corner where an Irish flag hangs, occupying two circular tables pushed together. Stace sees me looking for them, and runs up to me. “I didn’t think you would come.”

“I didn’t either.”

She walks me back to the corner. “Grissom isn’t here,” she says.

“Thank god.”

“I told him you wouldn’t show.”

“You’re a dear, Stace. I don’t pay you enough.”

“No, you don’t.”

As I sit, the group conversation lulls. They aren’t used to seeing me at these things. Someone asks me if they can get me a drink, and I say I’ll go to the bar and order something myself. Conversations resume, and I feel more comfortable.

“How was the board meeting?” Stace asks.

I pause, wondering how to answer, then just say, “The usual.”

Danielle, one of the firm’s general assistants, asks innocently, “What board is that?”

“Just a non-profit group I’m part of.” I want to stop that line of conversation, and say, “I think I’ll get that drink now… be right back.”

At the bar I order a vodka gimlet and am surprised to find myself standing next to Davis. “I didn’t know you were here,” I say.

“I had a meet-up with a college buddy. He just left. Was about to join the group.”

“Sounds good,” I say, turning to the bartender making my drink.

“Anna,” Davis continues, “actually, I’ve been looking for you. Was thinking, well, maybe you and I could have dinner sometime. Be nice to get to know each other better.”

I thought about my options. I could say yes to a dinner date, and say no to anything further. I could beg off, claiming busyness and a killer work schedule. I could say I’m in another relationship. Or I could tell him the truth.

“Davis,” I finally say, “I’m flattered, but I have to say no. The thing is, I’m not looking right now.”

“You know,” Davis presses, “people think you’re cool and aloof. I think you’re distant but shy. Stacy says you’re terrific.”

“I’ll have to talk with her about that,” I say sarcastically.

“It would just be dinner. No strings. Just conversation. I just think we would enjoy each other’s company.”

“Davis, you’re an attractive man. You seem nice. But you imagine that you and I are compatible in some way. We’re really not. See, I’m really not who you think I am.”

He nods, smiles, and says what men tend to say when they’ve been rejected. “You’re in another relationship.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Ah. Unfortunate… I wish the other guy well, but if you’re available again, we really must have dinner.”

I return to the corner tables, realizing I’ve just cemented my reputation as the office ice queen. Stace will scold me in due time.

As I sit with my vodka gimlet, Danielle immediately continues her curiosity about my board meeting. She is relentless. “What sort of non-profit is it, Anna?”

I sigh. “Actually, Danielle, it’s a group that wishes to remain anonymous. Let’s just say they do good work. No big deal, but I can’t reveal more… It’s complicated.”

Fiction 4 (of 6): My Day in Court: Afternoon

There is no formal beginning to the afternoon’s event, the real work of the board. No one says, “Let’s start.” Instead it’s a slow dance of casual gestures. Chaz asks everyone what more they want to drink. Jameson stands as he talks about his staff problems there at the mansion. Richard ambles to the far corner and puts on some soft music, classical piano, Chopin.

I excuse myself to the restroom. There I change into a different outfit, freshen myself, re-apply my lipstick, and do what I can with my hair.

I return. All the men have changed too — now in bed pants or boxers, some in smoking jackets. They stand with drinks in hand. Jameson is chatting off to the side with Gonzales, presumably to fill him in on how things are done.

As they see me stride in, they stop their conversations and turn to me.

It is one of my joys each time to find an outfit for the men that is distinctive, something that wows in a fashionable way. I love seeing their staring wonder and feeling their lust. Today, I’m wearing a crisp retro shirtdress in royal blue, with a wide white belt around my waist, and five-inch heels in matching blue with an ankle strap. I know my blonde hair, pooling over my shoulders in waves and broad curls, sets off the blue of my dress.

Chaz winks at me with his Glencairn in hand and comes close. “This is glorious,” he says, and I smile in his approval. He kisses me on the lips, slow and lingering, and I remember his kiss from times before, firm and smoky.

To the left of the seating area of leather chairs is now a circular platform, six feet in diameter, actually a bed, padded and sheeted in white. Chaz ushers me toward it, and the other men come around me close.

Richard begins to unbutton the top of my dress.

Jameson and the visitor Gonzales, for now, watch.

The ritual is for the men to undress me. They want to be in control, for me to submit. They unwrap the package themselves.

Richard is behind me, reaching around to my front buttons as the other men watch. “Love the dress,” he says.

“A little retro,” I say. “Thought you might like it. It’s a pretty shade of blue, I think. Like how sometimes the sky is still blue at midnight.”

“It’s lovely, Anna,” Jameson says. He then turns to Gonzales and says some things I cannot hear. I presume these are explanations of what we do and how it works.

It was Jameson’s idea to bring a visitor in. He thought having “a new guy” would keep it interesting to the group, to me. Personally, I never felt there was any danger of this getting stale, considering all that’s done to me, but I don’t get to vote on what the group decides. And in the execution, I don’t deny having a new man there each time makes it unpredictable to me, maybe a little more uncertain and often surprising.

Richard has finished my top buttons. He pulls the panels of my bodice open slightly, revealing underneath a glimpse of my bra in ecru-and-black lace. My breasts fill it and then some, spilling out over the top lace scallop of the décolletage.

Chaz now squats in front of me so he is level with my waist. He unbuckles my white belt, then undoes the bottom buttons, from my waist to the hem. My dress parts, revealing my stockinged legs and ecru-lace panties.

He helps slide my arms from the sleeves and pulls my dress over my shoulders.

The ritual is for the guest to “do the honors,” which is my final unwrapping.

Anthony Gonzales stands in front of me and does what he has been tutored to do. He wears a cologne of smoky spice, and has a shock of dark hair that is attractively unruly. He may be new, but he is confident.

“Hello again, Anna,” he says, his voice husky. “Pleased, very pleased, to make your acquaintance.”

“The feeling is mutual, Mr. Gonzales,” I say with a smile.

He leans down close to my face and kisses me, a long, lingering kiss between strangers. His hands reach around me and find my bra clasp in back. I extend my arms around his shoulders to the back of his neck, as if he is my long-lost lover. We kiss again.

In a short second he has my bra undone.

“I think you’ve done this before,” I whisper to him.

Gonzales steps back and loops my bra straps over my shoulders and down my arms. He pulls my bra forward, peeling it from my breasts. “Oh, my,” he says in a hushed voice.

Chaz, standing with the other men, says in a half-whisper, “Every time I forget how full she is.”

“Impressive, yes?” Jameson says to Gonzales. “Go ahead and get a feel of these.”

Gonzales takes my right breast in his hand and palms it, lifting it as if weighing it, then letting it bounce.“Indeed,” he replies. “Beautiful.” He leans in to kiss me as he cups my other breast. I give him my lips. His hand is warm.

“You have more to do, Anthony,” Jameson advises.

Gonzales nods and then steps back, looking down. He kneels before me and slides his thumbs under the waistband of each side of my panties. He slips them over my hips, and carefully eases them over the clasps of my garter belt and stockings. They slide to the floor. Gonzales helps me step from them, guiding them over my heels.

I stand now fully naked in the Great Room before the gazes of the four men. My garter belt of ecru lace and lace-topped stockings frame my pussy, shaved bare, my labia puffy and pale pink. I never feel uncomfortable before the men, but always a little self-conscious, as if this time as I’m naked before them, they will find fault. They never do.

I feel the drafty air of the Great Room between my legs.

Someone has changed the music, putting on soft jazz in the background.

Gonzales has stepped back now, joining the others who gaze at my naked flesh.

“She looks ready,” Anthony remarks.

“She always is,” Chaz says.

Richard slips out of his bed pants and crawls onto the bed, situating himself behind me. His legs, hairy and muscled, straddle me, and I can feel his cock slowly harden into the small of my back. He reaches around me, cups my breasts and starts to knead them softly. I close my eyes, moan, and turn my head into his chest.

Chaz comes to the edge of the circle bed and spreads my legs. My knees bend and my heels hook along the edge. He finds my eyes and I smile back at him in my condition of quiet bliss. I feel drugged even though I’m not, my ether the whiffs of masculinity now surrounding me. Chaz’s eyes move down, and it’s as if I feel his eyelashes dancing upon my labia, now wet and gaping.

Jameson slips out of his boxers and crawls up to where Richard cradles my head. He kneels there inches from my head, his cock throbbing close to my lips. “sir Jameson,” I say, my voice throaty, “you know how I love you this way.” He nods, with a wide grin.

Richard steps back from between my legs and says to Anthony, “You take the helm.” Anthony strips off his lounge wear and wedges in between my legs, his penis long and becoming hard. I watch him as he guides his cock head, mushroom-smooth, right at the ridges of my pussy lips. I feel him there, probing, pushing, yet waiting.

“Again, Mr. Gonzales, it’s lovely to make your acquaintance,” I say.

They are all my lovers, separately and together, as one at the same time. Yet each is my paramour in a special way. Beyond their teeming masculinity — Jameson’s smooth and luscious balls, Richard’s thick manhood, Chaz’s magic fingers — beyond it all, each man possesses my heart as well, our romances developing over months of my regular fuckings, in the spaces between, the interstices of our drinks and chat, wrought in the cracking of jokes and the sharing of sins.

To them, I am all kinds of things. Most of all, I know, I am to each one the other man’s daughter, though no one will say it. I am perhaps a fantasy with one of their C-suite female colleagues, spread ingloriously on a board room table made of cherry. I am certainly the submissive woman who will do anything on command in this Great Room, yet who maintains dignity and poise and strong will in a public life they will never know me in. I am to each man their classic image of any blonde with big tits and long legs, their adolescent fantasy of Marilyn, albeit with a different beauty, a more angular face, and perhaps a healthier psyche.

I thrill to all of their visions of me, being used in the private harbor of their minds. Yet, I know they each also fuck me as Anna Jackson, a woman who loves them and loves being loved by them. I see it in their eyes during their intercourses of me, and I swell to hear them, in the throes of their spasms, call my name, “Oh, Anna!”

Gonzales pushes into me now, his manhood filling me. He is not familiar like the others, of course, a new presence inside me, yet so very welcome and invited. I sigh, my juices thickly coating him. His hips pull back, and he slides out of my vagina to the precise point his cock head is all that’s inside. Then he pushes in once again, a slow and slippery fuck of me.

Richard replaces himself with a pillow to support my head, then comes alongside me, still fondling my breasts and flicking my hardened nipples. I take his cock in my hand, fondly remembering its fleshy girth, and I start to stroke him.

Jameson has leaned himself closer to my face, rising up on his haunches so that his balls descend right onto my lips. They are, despite his age, unwrinkled, though not taut in their sacs, and he shaves himself (I like to think for me), so they are smooth and soft and succulent. I take one into my mouth and coat him, sucking and swirling my warm, wet tongue around it. Jameson is my pacifier, and I close my eyes in his oral comfort.

These are moments when I cannot imagine feeling more pleasure, when every part of me is throbbing and tingling and about to explode. But I don’t, not yet, and the men enjoy themselves with me on and on, a beautiful torture.

How this came to be is another story, a circumstance of a random encounter and the timing of my personal discontent.

It was at a conference that I first met Jameson, leading to a dinner with him and subsequent dates, flickers of romance though not sex. He was careful not to reveal too much of himself nor to probe too deeply into me. It was as if we knew what might be proposed and how anonymity would be important. I was later introduced to his friends Richard and Chaz, just hand-shaking and smiles, though each pursued me in his own way, and over time I dated them one by one, enjoying the company of all three, older, confident, maturely appealing. There was something about all three that just felt right.

In my law career, I’d vowed not to get involved with anyone at the firm — a good policy, for sure, but one that left me without a social life, cultivating for me a reputation for being aloof and unapproachable. Even so, the men there kept trying, as if bedding the ice queen would verify their masculine prowess. In fact, my sexuality is ardent and deep and insatiable, but sadly, they will never know.

It was Jameson who first intimated something vaguely sexual, notable to me because of its subtle implication. It was more than his telling me he wanted me that way, though it was that too. But it was more inclusive than that, an inference that all men in his position would desire to have me, and, by the way, specifically his good friends, Richard and Chaz.

Whatever he meant, the truth was I had my own ideas. While I’d come to love each of the men in his own way, I was drawn to the three of them somehow collectively. I’d had my fantasies, not of the generic “woman with a group of men” variety, but specifically the act of making love to the three of them together. In my dating life with them, this fantasy started taking shape in my mind as a real possibility. It became part of my larger plan.

So, when Jameson’s vague intimation opened the door, I walked through it. I said, “We are a foursome, are we not? Maybe the three of you should have me together.”

In turn, the men wedge between my legs. They seem to have a silent count: an unspoken sense of male timing, a precise knowing when to hand me off to the next, a gentlemen’s agreement about sharing the space inside me. It makes the collective feel to me as one.

But it is individual as well, each man finding his own unique intercourse with me.

For a time, Jameson has me, his balls slapping against my now gooey flesh, his hands caressing the inside of my thighs as he pumps me. He is steady and faithful, the father-figure I never had, strong and silent, yet with an inner warmth toward me. He reaches his hand to mine, takes and holds it, a special tenderness.

Jameson soon hands me off, pulling out of me, returning to my side, to my mouth and tongue, where he prefers to have me. I beckon him close, my hand behind his neck and whisper, “I love you.” He smiles, then guiding his manhood down to my lips once again.

Richard has taken his place between my legs, splaying me open and stuffing me full. The girth of his cock, pushes and pulls my whole body more than the others, rolling my breasts like ripples in a pond. He has from the beginning been my show date, my debonair gentleman caller, my “Mr. Darcy” a generation older. I am thinking this as he does me, and in a brief moment when Jameson’s balls are not in my mouth, I look up to Richard and say, “You’d be perfect with a drink in your hand.” He laughs, but Chaz makes this very thing happen, going to the wet bar, returning, and handing Richard a scotch. Everyone laughs, Richard too, as he continues to push himself further into my vagina and my heart.

Chaz is by my other side, his cock erect. He guides me free hand to his manhood, and I fondle him, cupping his balls, and eventually stroking his shaft. He has a more pronounced ridge around the head of his cock, making this an interesting landscape for my hand to travel. Chaz and I are famous for our playful sarcasm and teasing repartee, almost as if we are best college friends, although this, of course, is far beyond Platonic.

I feel a different presence. It’s the stranger, Gonzales, now lodged between my thighs. It is with him I have my first orgasm. I look up at him, my eyes dreamy from the haze of lust. “I remember you,” I say with a smile. Gonzales grins back at me and does me again. His signature is his slow rhythm, an unhurried in-and-out with a pause at the moment he is fully impaled inside my vagina.

As he pulls back, there’s a sucking sound, my thick juices falling into the vacuum of my cunt. I become dizzy, my blood rushing toward my sex, and my breathing becomes short staccato gasps. I tense, my hands grabbing sheets, and my flesh shudders. The men watch as I squeal, then climax.

Jameson, by my side, leans over and kisses me, my lips, where his balls have just been. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers. I smile, still glazed in my wooze and soaring come.

There is always the visitor, like Gonzales, who is a stranger, but all the men are strangers to me. I don’t know them anywhere else but in the Great Room with drinks and cigars, and on this circle bed where they use me. Yet I know them more personally and intimately than any other in their lives, as they each reveal themselves in this primal, feral way. Likewise, they know me as no one else in my life knows me: as the wanton, sexually driven woman I, here, allow myself to be. It is in this sexual elementalism we are who we really are to each other as strangers. It is in this rawness of unspeakable urges that we find intimacy. And a kind of love.

It becomes a random round-robin of comes and climaxes.

Chaz takes over from Gonzales, his deep-ridged cock flicking my clit as he pumps me. I look into Chaz’s eyes and moan, “God, I love you,” my words ambiguously expressing either my romantic ardor or my current, impaled, sexual high.

Chaz gets my meanings and, never stopping, says, “You’re only saying that because I’m fucking you like this,” he says.

Through gasping breaths, I manage to say, “Yes, that’s the only reason…”

He grins, then pulls himself back, just to my opening, pulling and pushing his cock head in and out, a bare inch each way, repeatedly. His ridge is catching my clit each time. “You love me because I do this to you,” he says.

I squeal, and in an unholy voice, say, “I do,” words sounding almost like a wedding vow. I shiver like I am cold, even though I’m hot in my lust. I come now, a second time, dizzy again, and shuddering.

Jameson groans, his balls ever-suckled by my lips. His cock, resting across my face, twitches, then releases, his white juice oozing in cascades across my nose and cheeks, dripping back to my ear and into my hair.

Chaz tenses, thrusts deep into my pussy, and catches his breath. There he ejaculates his semen, coating my vagina with his seed.

I turn from Jameson to my other side. Gonzales is standing there, his cock primed and ready for me. I take him in my mouth, a slow such at first, then faster.

Richard steps between my legs.

Jameson fondles my breasts. Chaz, done, sits at the side of the bed and strokes my legs.

I come again, this one softer and more tingly.

It’s a slower rhythm now, a metronome winding down, the explosions less frantic, now inevitable.

Gonzales jerks and groans, his cock bursting forth with shooting streams of cum across my lips into my mouth, along my tongue, and onto my face.

Richard finishes the symphony, the fourth movement erupting just as his cock has fallen out of me. He ejaculates onto my pussy and thighs, a final fanfare.

There is an “after meeting.”

The men leave me on the bed. I am, as usual, exhausted, and fall asleep for a few minutes. They clean themselves up, and get dressed, re-assembling in the conversation area of leather chairs and couches with one last drink and cigar.

I rouse, coated in cum, knowing this is what they wish to see. So striped and splashed, I stand, still in my high heels, finding my legs, a bit wobbly, under me. In a moment I walk, naked, over to the men sitting in the conversation pit, drinking and smoking.

“You guys,” I say, “sure know how to paint a girl.”

They laugh and make jokes that would be offensive but for the fact that they are true.

Richard, ever the gentleman, offers to fetch me a drink. “White wine,” he asks. “Thank you,” I whisper.

Jameson invites me to sit down.

“I’m a mess,” I say.

“You’re beautiful.”

“I’ll ruin the chair.”

“The leather can handle it,” he says.

“The leather will be grateful,” Chaz joked.

I grinned, shook my head at him, finally sitting down, my legs together and angled, as if now is the time to adopt propriety.

They talk and drink. I fall silent, content to be the image of their handiwork. They look at me for time to time, framing me in their memories, pictures to be recalled during this next month until we meet again.

There is a lull in the conversation. It is time for me to clean myself up, for the evening to end.

I stand and walk to each man’s chair. I extend my hand and whisper to him, personal thoughts and feelings and thank you’s. Richard, of course, lifts my hand to his lips for a kiss. I come to Gonzales, and say, “It was a pleasure to meet you. You were wonderful.” He nods and tells me I am amazing.

I walk off to the bathroom.

As they leave, each places hundred-dollar bills on an occasional table near the door to the great room. It’s always hundreds in crisp new bills. This is the group’s fee, which they just voted to increase.

No one calls it a payment.

Naked and drip-drying in man-cum, I roll my case behind me to put myself back together. There is no shower, so I do my best to clean myself at the sink. It’s in my hair, though, and I rinse my hair in the sink, brushing it out, and blowing a hair dryer at it till it’s just damp not dripping.

Even so, the men’s cum has found secret places and some public ones I will overlook, and I know my sin is marking me.

I make this quick, slipping into a pair of jeans and a tunic top. I have more to do tonight.

I return to the Great Room. The men have left. I collect my things packing them in my rollaboard, then stop at the occasional table.

I reach into the jar and take the wads of hundred-dollar bills, left for me, stuffing it all in an envelope.

I tell myself I would do this anyway.

It’s just once a month.

It’s complicated.

Fiction 3 (of 6): My Day in Court: Board

I drag myself through the business of my morning.

My meeting with Mrs. Garner is fraught. She’s a mess emotionally, certain now that the jury will find her guilty. Some innocents have such fears, of course, but often what prompts the emotion is a deeper sense of one’s own guilt. Even so, her tears and sobs seem genuine, and I can use the emotional meltdown in court, if she is so disposed on the stand.

Even so, I can’t quite shake the feeling the poisoning of her husband brought her more than relief from his abuse.

I really do think she enjoyed killing him.

On board meeting days, I forego lunch, hop in my car, and drive a full hour and a half to Columbus, a world away. I don’t mind — it’s important that The Board be distanced from my work, both in miles and acquaintance. It also gives me a chance to transition from my career life into this other one.

I make the turn off the rural route onto a private road that winds through a forest and past a small pond. Across a bridge, I finally come within sight of the mansion, rolling up the half-mile drive to a roundabout in front. I park my car on the circle, and walk up to the front door, my small rollaboard in tow.

The door is open, and I wend my way through some front rooms to the back, my heels clacking on the atrium tile.

“Hello, gentlemen,” I announce as I enter. “I’m sorry I’m late.” It is called the Great Room, cavernous with a high ceiling and tall windows on two sides. My high heels click-clack on the hardwood floors.

The four men are at the far end as usual, sitting casually in leather chairs, smoking cigars. Three are regulars; one is always new, a “guest,” so to speak.

Richard stands as I approach, coming alongside and wrapping his arm around my waist in back familiarly. “Traffic?” he asks.

“The office.” I don’t share much with the men about my life, least of all specifics about my partner position at the law firm. They think I’m a female executive somewhere, which is close enough, I suppose. They don’t ask for more about me, and they maintain with me a veneer of anonymity as well. Besides, in me they know they have a rare thing and dare not upset their chances at this continuing each month. They don’t ask and I don’t tell. “A project dropped on my desk at the last minute,” I simply say.

Richard nods. He’s about my height — five-eight — slightly heavy, with dark hair slightly graying. “Anna, may I get you something to drink?” he asks.

“Thank you, yes, a Sauvignon Blanc or Viognier, if you have it.”

Jameson stands from his chair and walks to me. He’s the wiry white-haired owner of the mansion, the host of these evenings. He prefers being called by his last name. “How are you, Anna?” he asks. “Everything well?”

“Yes. Been hectic, but I’m here.”

“Well, take some time first, so relax. Care to sit down?”

“I’ve been sitting in the car. I’ll stand for a while.”

Behind Jameson, the third of the regulars has risen to his feet and walks over to greet me.

“Chaz,” I say with a smile, “I remember you. A whole month ago.”

He puts his hands on either side of my waist. “I sure hope so. As for you, my dear, you are very memorable.” He kisses me on the cheek.

Jameson waves over the fourth of the quartet, tonight’s guest. “This is Gonzalez — ah, I’ve violated my own rule against surnames, my apology — anyway… I’ve invited him in for our evening together.”

“Call me Anthony,” he says, shaking my hand. “They told me you were beautiful, but you are more beautiful than I imagined.”

“You’re too kind. I’m actually a bit of a mess, I’m afraid. Hectic morning.”

Anthony appears to be a bit younger than the others, maybe late forties or so. Age doesn’t matter to them or to me, except it does. Jameson is, I believe, around sixty. Chaz and Richard are in their fifties. At thirty, I am a generation younger, and that’s a sweet spot in their fancy. Young enough in certain, obvious ways, yet mature and experienced enough to converse intelligently and make for them a sophisticated experience.

Chaz is back and hands me my glass of white wine. I take a sip. The Viognier is cool and light and instantly I begin to unwind.

For a while we talk, standing, drinking. Conversation is about city politics, social trends, often global matters. No one talks about work. I have never known what these men actually do, although it’s clear they are exceedingly wealthy and powerful men and probably CEOs of corporations.

After a short while, Jameson invites us all to sit. Several re-light cigars. We continue to converse. I hold my own in the dialogue, able to speak about the labor markets in China, which by chance I’d read about earlier in the week. Someone mentions baseball, and I share the fact that for fun I play fantasy baseball, which Jameson and Chaz have no clue about. I take a couple of minutes to explain.

They like this intellectual interaction with me beforehand, that I am engaged with them in the talk. It enhances everything for them later. I know this, and it’s fine.

Presently, Jameson calls the meeting to order. Even though the agenda is always the same, Jameson reads from a piece of paper. He starts with the official welcome of the visitor, Gonzales. There is always a visitor, often for just the one time, but sometimes invited back. Not much is said about him, and he offers little about his work and career, but mentions interests in jazz and soccer. I sensed he is acquainted with Richard, who must have sponsored him in.

Jameson brings up again the usual retread of discussion about venue. His mansion, especially this Great Room, is ideal, but the men wonder if it is too familiar now. They talk on this for twenty minutes and land at the same place they always did — they’d stick with the Great Room now. Motion to table the item for next time.

They also bring up again the matter of fees. This is entered into the agenda every few months, and while there is conversation about it each time, there’s never any opposition to raising the fee levels, usually fifteen percent. To these wealthiest of men, this is nothing more than loose change in pockets, and it’s a wonder they seriously discuss it for any length of time as they do.

There are other motions, also familiar fodder month to month: The idea of adding a member to the permanent board and the notion of introducing a second “visitor” each month. In fact, I am not a voting member, but Jameson nonetheless turns to me and asks how I would feel about adding another. I smile and say that it’s not my call, but that it couldn’t hurt to add “even more testosterone into this room.”

The men laugh.

“To that point,” Jameson adds, “there’s a new motion for discussion: that of introducing another woman to our group.” This sparks fresh talk, the men excited for the idea in a certain way, but then also concerned about losing their primarily male identity as a group. It’s an old boys club, wanting to preserve its masculinity. I have no argument against this, for I have come to it as such — indeed, because it’s precisely this. Jameson again turns toward me.

“Another woman,” I say, simply repeating the proposition.

“It would be a new dynamic, of course.”

“I’m not sure if to feel jealous or relieved.”

“You must know we love you, Anna,” Richard says. “No question about that. We’re just thinking about new experiences.”

“We wouldn’t do it without your blessing,” Jameson says. “It really is a question for you about, well… compatibility.”

Despite his euphemism, I well know what he means. “I’m not against the idea,” I finally say. “I may need to think about it a touch.”

Jameson tables the motion till next time, saying that, as an action item, he will have some side conversation with me in the meantime.

For the board, business is always about when and where the next meeting will be, who the stranger is, and now, who else to add to the ranks. The board is a board of nothing, of course, an executive group without an organization, a syllogism proving only itself, men who meet officially to make decisions about how it continues to meet officially.

There’s all that, and then the one real thing it is truly about.

Fiction 2 (of 6): My Day in Court: Morning

I walk into the law office at about 10:00, and Stace, one of our paralegals assaults me with an assignment: “Jameson needs you to review a case. He wants you to second chair him next week. You’ll need to get up to speed,” she says, handing me the file. “Also, you have two meetings this morning, then that client, the wife, Eleanor Garner, is due in around 11:00.”

“Good morning to you too,” I reply.

“Back at ya…” She pauses, realizing my energy isn’t matching hers. “You need time to wake up…”

“I’m awake. I just like a little hello first. And I haven’t had my coffee yet. The line at Starbucks would have made me late for court.”

“How did pre-trial go?”

“We got one. The other is under judge’s consideration.”

“One down… So, you also have that board meeting this afternoon. Just to remind you, as it’s not on your calendar. As you know.”

“You know, Stace, you’’ll have to repeat all this for me in a few.”

“OK… Also, head’s up: Davis is looking for you.”

“What’s he want?”

“Personal, I’d say. He wants to take you out is my guess.”

“Not interested.”

Stacey pauses her morning ambush of me and takes a personal tone. “You know, Anna — just humble girlfriend advice — you might do yourself a favor and open up some more. Socially, I mean… And maybe in other ways.”

“That’s the second time I’ve heard that this morning. Including the sexual innuendo.”

“See, maybe it’s something you should consider.”

“The first time was from Grissom.”

“Oh. That’s unfortunate. But even so—”

“Again, I need coffee first.”

“I’ll get it for you.”

“Stace, I can get it myself — for goodness sake, you don’t need to waitress me. I’ll get my own… Come into my office in five. I’ll need you to repeat my schedule. I didn’t hear a word you said.”

Normally I take Stace’s whirlwind in stride, but today I’m distracted. It’s not the work, but so much else is going on.

I pour myself some coffee in the break room, find my way back to my office, and close the door. My day started too early, as I couldn’t sleep past four. I perch my face over my coffee mug and inhale the aroma. Not very good coffee, actually, but it smells just fine. My eyes close for a moment.

Stace knocks at the door, and it feels too soon, but knowing her, it’s exactly five minutes to the second. I beckon her in. We’re friends from way back, and we served together at the firm as paras until I became junior partner. Stace never has had aspirations to higher rungs of the ladder, somehow enjoying the paperwork.

I apologize as she sits: “I’m distracted today. Sorry.”

“No worries. I know I need to give you a chance to breathe when you walk in.”

“Yes to that.”

“What’s distracting you?”

I don’t want to get into that with her, about the board meeting. I make up something else for now: “Mrs. Garner, who’s coming in.” It’s a fib, but still true — this case is distracting me too.

“Seems clear to me,” Stace says, “She had been abused, was afraid for her life. You yourself said before it was clear self-defense.”

“I did. Just something about it that bothers me.”

“She’s so timid and frail. Seems her appearance alone could get her off. She’s everyone’s grandmother.”

“Agreed. She’ll get sympathy from the jury. It probably won’t be hard. ”

“So what’s bothering you?”

“I just sense there was more to it than that… What if I suggested to you, Stace, that Eleanor had planned it?”

“I’d say that every murder requires some planning and still be a crime of passion. She poisoned him, which indicates she needed to be free of him but couldn’t bear to use a gun. That speaks in her favor.”

“It does, and I’ll use that if the judge rules against us on the discovery… But what if I said that Eleanor had done this repeatedly.”

Stace laughs. “She can only poison her husband once.”

“Actually, she may have poisoned him in mild doses multiple times before.”

“There’s evidence for that?”

“No. I just have a hunch. A thing or two she has said. It’s more in the way she said it. Makes me wonder.”

“Yeah, that would start to swing my jury vote. Still, self-defense, though.”

“Then there’s the question of whether she had other options.”

“You’re sounding like a prosecution attorney.”

“A good defense requires thinking from the other side. Certainly poisoning her husband wasn’t the only way out.”

“You told me she was isolated by him,” Stacy countered. “She has no friends, no outside connections. You talked about this with me before, that she considered calling the police but then read some articles online about how cops had been unhelpful with other abused women, even compromising them to their husbands, leaving them open to further abuse.”

“True, that’s what I’ll argue… but I have a sense she planted that online trail… she’s a smart cookie.”

“Still, she was abused by him — Anna, you have the pictures — and she needed to be free of him.”

“Yes. I don’t doubt she was abused. And that’s the legal case. I’m struggling with the moral one. Law is based on societal morality, but it isn’t always about the moral truth of something. Things niggle at me… See, I think Eleanor had other options — she didn’t have to do this. I think she planned it and did it repeatedly, maybe in trial runs. And ultimately I think she enjoyed it.”


“Pure speculation, a sense I have.”

“Why do you think these things?”

“Just in the way she phrases responses, in her demeanor, how her eyes flicker around certain things. She’s withholding.”

“Right. But none of that is evidential.”

“No. But it suggests a moral culpability, even if not a legal one…”

I continue my inner dialogue as Stace again recites my schedule. You do something the world considers wrong. If you can show what you did was necessary for your survival, the law will justify your act. But what if you hide behind the necessity of it, what if there were other options, but you did this anyway. What if you enjoyed it and did it repeatedly? Is your action still moral and acceptable?

“What was that time again — when she’s coming in?”

“Eleven,” Stace says with understandable impatience. “You aren’t listening to me today, Anna.”

“Just distracted.”

Stace repeats my day’s agenda, this time more slowly and with less breathless energy. “Your board meeting,” she says. “I know we discussed this before, but it would help if I could put it on your office calendar.”

“No, I need you to keep it separate. It’s not work product. I just need to keep it accounted for apart from official business. Off the servers. I know it’s an extra process for you. But it’s just once a month. And don’t ask — it’s complicated.”

“I don’t mind the double entry. It’s fine.”

“Stace, you can mark my time as ‘unavailable, out of office.’”

“If someone asks…?”

“Just tell them I’m out on personal business.”

“Sounds good.”

“And keep Grissom away for the morning. I’m unavailable. To him, at least.”


“Him too.”

Stace pauses, and I know what’s coming. “Again, as girlfriends, OK, but Davis seems like a decent guy. I know it’s not my business—“

“No, it’s not,” I say with a dismissive smile, fully aware that won’t stop her.

“You’s do well to open up and get out more.”

“You already lectured me on that this morning.”

“They think you’re an ice queen.”

“I don’t care.”

“I know, and I don’t care either, but you come off that way, and I think you would be happier if you… well, made yourself more, well, available. You need—“

“To date more.”

“‘More’ is not even in your equation. To date ever.”

“I’m busy, Stace, you know that. I value my down time.”

“I get that. But you’d be happier if you—”

“Had a drink with Davis.”

“No, although I think he’s kinda freamy, but I don’t mean just him.”

“What are you saying, Stace?”

“You need to get laid. Have some sex. With anyone.”

I smile at her and shake my head. “I think we’re done here, girlfriend.”

“Fair enough. Just remember to thank me if it ever happens sometime this millennium.”

I laugh.

“By the way,” she adds, “some of us are going out for happy hour this evening, after work. McCabe’s. You should join us for a change.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“I’m putting it on your calendar.”

Fiction 1 (of 6): My Day in Court: Courtroom

This is a long “short story.” It has six parts, which I’ll post in rapid succession. It is erotica, but takes a while to get there. For those looking for the juicy parts, stick with it. For others, I hope you enjoy the fuller story.

As always, this is a work in progress. That’s what all writers say of anything they write, no matter what stage it’s in.

“Your honor,” I say, “Mr. Grissom has been delayed, but I am prepared to proceed in his absence.”

The judge peers over his glasses. “Very well… Ms.?”

“Jackson. Second chair. Anna Jackson.”

“Hmm… Well, let’s proceed.”

There are two pre-trial motions. One is our effort to suppress a particular testimony. The second is from the prosecution, about the disclosure of new evidence. I am prepared, as a second chair should be, to argue both.

As to the first motion, the prosecution is advancing a so-called “witness” to my client’s conversation with a friend. I argue it is hearsay: “The conversation is twice removed. It was overheard.”

The judge looks down at the prosecution lawyer, a woman named Richards. “You need, obviously, to get the friend directly.”

“Your Honor,” Richards insists, “this witness was in the house, another friend of the defendant, part of the conversation. What was said was directed to her as well.”

“We don’t know that,” I contest. “This witness was in another room, the kitchen.”

“Ms. Richards,” the judge says impatiently, “just get the other friend, to whom this was supposedly said directly.”

“Well, sir… we cannot. She died of a heart attack several weeks ago.”

“Ah.” The judge pauses. “So the defendant was allegedly talking with Friend A. Friend B overhead the conversation. But Friend A has since passed.”

“I’m afraid so, sir.”

“OK, that won’t work. Motion to suppress is granted.”

Regarding disclosure, the prosecution had found a gun in my client’s house. It had been included in the sweep of other items, the usual collection of anything that could be deemed as important. Now the prosecution wants to introduce it as evidence.

“Your honor,” I say, standing, “the defense argues that the gun is irrelevant to the case. It clearly wasn’t the cause of the death of this poor woman’s husband.”

Richards remains seated, speaking from her chair: “It goes to intent.”

I counter: “In this country there are 400 million firearms owned by 81 million Americans. It’s a constitutional right. Owning a gun is no indicator of motivation—”

“Ms. Jackson,” the judge says impatiently. “You can spare me the lesson in statistics and the Second Amendment.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” I reply. “But my point is that my client also owns a kitchen knife and a hammer and a razor blade. These indicate nothing as to any intent.”

“The defendant,” Ms. Richards asserts, “bought the gun just months ago. Timing suggests intent.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “admission of this as evidence prejudices the jury even though it has no bearing.”

This the judge decides to take under consideration.

It is quick, rat-a-tat, all of ten minutes, which is what pre-trial motion hearings tend to be.

Court adjourned till tomorrow, I turn to see Grissom now sitting behind me. “Looking good, Anna,” he says. “Good presentation. I like the outfit.”

“As usual, Grissom,” I say, “you have a way of being complimentary in an utterly inappropriate way.”

“I like the color.”

“It’s black.”

“That’s what I mean. Black looks good on you. Blonde hair, red lipstick. Makes you look authoritative.”

“Someone decent would say that I handled everything well in court just now. That I was professional and effective. But no, you sexualize me.”

“Well I said ‘good presentation.’ You know, you need to loosen up, Anna. I say good job and add that you look lovely. That’s all… Besides, you sexualize yourself just by looking like this.”

I can’t believe he just said that and change the subject. “You couldn’t get here in time?”

“Car trouble. Audi has a starter problem.”

“The Audi? Or you?”

Grissom responds in stride with a shit-eating grin: “Now who’s being inappropriate? You know, you always talk to me like you outrank me. As I recall it’s the other way around.”

“I guess with you, Grissom, it’s easy to forget that.”

“You know, I think we just need to find a time to clear the air and have a friendly chat. Maybe over dinner. Again, I think you need to get out and loosen up.”

I pause and breathe in deeply. I know he thinks I am considering his offer. I let him think that for some tantalizing seconds.

“Grissom, three things,” I finally reply. “One, you’re married. Two, you’re a fucking jerk.”

He is smiling in the face of my onslaught. “You said three things.”

“Number three,” I reply, “you’re a fucking jerk.”

“You said that already.”

“Yeah, it can’t be said often enough.”

q and a: writing my sex life

Another post about writing my erotic life. Some of these echo earlier q and a posts, but some reflect recent questions I’ve been asked. So here’s some more on writing my erotic life.

When you write about your sexual experiences, does the writing arouse you? [from my friend Nudo]

Yes, it does. Not always, but often. When I write my personal experiences, it’s a process of reliving my life in slow motion. I re-imagine what happened, but I replay it from different angles, perspectives, for the writing.

One viewpoint is through the lens of someone else and how they see me — say, naked and bound and spread open — an objective third-party view of me. This is not , of course, how I experienced it (I don’t see myself from outside myself in the moment), but it’s necessary for the writing, so readers can see me in the experience. This for me is not so much arousing as humiliating — although for me, being submissive, humiliation is arousing in a general way.

Another viewpoint is through the lens of my psyche — how I emotionally feel and think about what’s being done to me. Usually this is what I remember most vividly, though not moment by moment, but in general impressions. For example, after my recent experience with Kevin in the bondage room, I recalled the emotional impact his leaving the room had on me — how it felt like him pulling out of my vagina, leaving me feel empty and off-kilter. Going back to these emotions is powerful for me and sometime arouses me with their intensity.

A third viewpoint is through the lens of my physical and sexual sensation in the experience — my reliving of his body and sex, of him touching and whipping me, of his intercourse with me. And yes, of course, this arouses me all over again in the recollection for the writing.

Kevin, in this case, keeps on giving.

This is maybe more a general question about “writing real life,” but when you write about your sexual experiences, do they come out differently on the page than when you experienced them in person? [from Jeremy, my college friend and now follower]

Yes and no. What I write on the page is a reasonable facsimile of what actually happened. The order of events is the same, the mood of the moment is the same, my feelings and responses are substantially the same as when it all happened.

However, I could write an experience three times and it would come out somewhat different each time.

I refer to the three lenses in my previous answer: the objective visual lens, the emotional lens, and the sexual lens. If you imagine each of these as layers in photo software — I don’t know Photoshop well, but I understand its use of layers — it’s possible for me to write an experience with one layer taking priority. In writing the Kevin experience my emotional-lens layer was strongest — it just happened that I emphasized my state of mind and emotion more than the other lens layers.

Sometimes it just comes out a certain way. But sometimes it’s a choice, or maybe just my personal mood when I’m writing.

Also, I think I sometimes think of an experience in terms of a form or medium. When I have written about drawing a bath for Mistress Amanda here and bathing her, it feels like a poem, and I write it that way — a lot of imagery, word association, word sounds. When I wrote about being made topless in front of the landscaping crew last year here, it felt to me like a movie — a sequence of actions and back-and-forth edits between what they saw, how they reacted, and how I responded internally. When I wrote this last time about Kevin here and here, it was more like a short story to me — images and words reflecting my somewhat off-center emotional and mental state.

I’m not sure I go into writing these posts with these approaches in mind, but the experience and my mood in the moment of writing lead me there.

Do you feel especially exposed [vulnerable] when you post intimate and sexual blogs? [from my friend Lauren]

Yes, but I wouldn’t let that deter you from blogging.

I’ve gone through different stages in this. At the beginning, I was wide open in writing about my slavery, rather full of myself in talking about my submissive nature and slave life. If I was then somewhat more restrained in writing explicitly about myself sexually, it was only because I didn’t really know how yet. But of course back then I had almost zero readers.

At another point, I went through a time of apprehension in posting things that were too personal. I did feel very exposed and I had to deal with that. Of course, the whole idea of a blog is to be personal, and in my case writing a “slave blog” is somewhat meant to be intrusive and exposing. But I had developed a small following on WordPress and I thought, “Yikes, people are actually seeing me having sex!” In time, I got over it, pushed myself through my minor paralysis, and continued writing openly about myself.

I don’t talk about readership numbers on here, and I won’t now, but I will just say that these days I have quite a few more people “reading my life,” but that in itself doesn’t bother me as it used to. What I struggle with somewhat is that there are more people in my personal circles — people I see in daily life and interact with — who follow me and read what I post about myself.

So, yes, it’s a thing. No, it doesn’t deter me from writing.

You write so vividly. How do you recall/remember the experiences you’ve had [in order to write about them in such detail]? Do you just have a really good memory? [I’ve been asked this by several people]

Thank you, but no, I don’t think my memory is much better than anyone else’s. I’ve just developed some techniques, I guess, that help me reconstruct past events.

Quick aside: I’m a fan of an older TV show (2011) called “Unforgettable.” Its main character, Carrie, has the rare genetic ability known as hyperthymesia — the ability to remember everything one’s experienced in great detail. This is a real condition, but extremely rare. (BTW, the actress playing the part of Carrie is Poppy Montgomery; people say she and I resemble each other. I don’t know: maybe a little bit.) Carrie is a New York detective, and her hyperthymesia is the plot device that helps them solve cases. I suppose I am intrigued by the show partly because of this character’s ability to remember.

Which is an ability I don’t have. I wish.

While I can’t remember most things specifically, I am able, it seems, to reconstruct an experience from the few things I do remember.

I have a pretty good ear for dialogue, and I sometimes can recall a specific sentence someone says, even though I don’t remember the whole conversation. Often it’s not that the words or thoughts are so significant but the way a person delivers it. From that one line, I reconstruct a conversation, maybe not precisely as it happened but a close facsimile, hopefully.

For example, one time Amanda had me tied to the wet bar (I wrote about it here. Later I recalled one thing she said: “You know you’re a whore, right?” It was the way she said it, matter-of-fact and baiting, with a lilt in her voice. It stuck with me, and I knew later that was the core of a whole dialogue she prompted with me about my being a whore. I was able to reconstruct the dialogue even though I didn’t remember it all precisely.

Another practice of mine is visualization of a place, a room. I don’t remember places specifically in the time I’m there — that is, say, I couldn’t tell you if there was a magazine on the coffee table that afternoon — but there are places I’ve been to many times, and so I can reconstruct the room from a lot of different memories.

Another technique is that, apart from my blog, I keep a private journal. At the end of a day, the end of an experience, if I have a chance to write in my journal, I’ll jot down some notes of specific thoughts, emotions, memories I had of the experience. It’s really helpful later when I come back to writing about something.

Any tips on writing about yourself sexually?

There are so many things I’ve learned. And am still learning. One thing I’ll offer here, for what it’s worth:

Telling “what happened” is necessary, but ultimately not the point. Yes, you have to convey to a reader what was done to you, the actions of the experience, but a little of that goes a long way, and if that’s all you tell, it winds up being flat and lifeless. The worst thing you want to do is make sex with you boring!

What matters more is how you felt during the experience, what your sensations were both sexually and emotionally, what it made you think and hope and dread and lust for.

So, yes, I have to convey to the reader that I unzipped his pants, but what brings that to erotic life is how I felt kneeling on the floor before him, what I thought of his power over me to bring me to do so, and what I anticipated lying behind his zipper. And how my mouth was watering.

on writing out loud

I have kept some sort of personal journal for most of my life.

In my early teen years, it was a diary; later high school and college it was a journal. It was private just to me and it was a way I could express all my teenage wonder and worry. It was often an explosion of angst one day, all to be gone the next. It was where I gushed about my first girl crush and later the man I intended to marry. In short, it was a mirrored reflection of my emotional ups and downs.

Two years ago, I started to post “out loud” — that is, publicly — on WordPress. It was my first owner, Master Michael, who encouraged me to do so. I entered into public posting as if I was opening up my journal for others to read.

That was scary at first, but I got into it, and the early reality was that no one was there to read it. In the beginning I had very few followers. Later my numbers grew. Now by no means do I have a huge following, but a dozen followers became dozens, then more than a hundred, then more than that. In time my very private journal was being read by a more people. I’ve never paid much attention to numbers, but I was happy about more people signing up to read my stuff — if mostly in a “They like me, they really like me!” sort of way.

What I’m getting at here is that the nature of my posts have changed over these two years. I don’t think for the worse, and maybe for the better, but they have changed.

When my posts were originally like my private journal, I would sit down to write and ask the question, “How do I feel today?”

As more people started following me, the additional question became “What’s going on in my life and lifestyle schedule?” This is a kind of news reporting.

Additionally, I found myself in the position of explaining my submissiveness and my slavery to others. It was informational, answering the question, “Why do I do this?” This became almost a kind of educational writing.

Along the way, I started writing more explicitly about my sexual responses and sexual uses in slavery. I would sit down and answer the question, “What did it feel like to be fucked by Master K last night?” This has been a form of true-life erotica writing.

All of this is perfectly fine, and I will continue writing all of this.

But I was realizing that my post yesterday, “Wondering,” was more like my original journal writing — a rather impulsive (and polished ) expression of something I’d been thinking and feeling. In it, I’m not coming up with an answer to anything, nor explaining myself to anyone. It’s not a public “essay” with intentions to explain or persuade. It’s just something in me that I’m expressing to… me. Another thing: A private journal is not labored over, edited again and again. It blurts out onto the journal page. Blog writing tends to be more prepared and polished, and takes more labor to make it “fit for publication.”

Seems I’ve gotten away from my original journal writing purpose. Maybe that’s not a bad thing. These other kinds of writing are forms I enjoy. I would write a lot of this anyway, just not as part of my private journal.

This is also a question of whether I’m writing for me or for you. The answer, I think, is both. Writing about my life is only of interest because it’s my life, and what I experience. It has to reflect my real responses to slave life and how I am used and played with. It has to be true to the raw angst that I used to pour into my private journal.

At the same time, it must be presented to you publicly. The fact is, journals are not that interesting to read. My private journal experiences must translated from my inner vocabulary into a more public language.

I think that’s what a blog hopes to do.

four tips on writing true-life erotica

I’ve been asked to write more about writing, specifically about non-fiction erotica — that is, based on my own life and experiences. I’m not sure most people want a writing course from me, but I offer a few tips here, for what they’re worth.

A disclaimer, or more like an asking forgiveness ahead of time — I am using mostly excerpts from my own writing here. It isn’t that I’m a perfect model of good writing. There are many things I write that violate these very principles. But my own writing is easily at hand for me to retrieve and use here as examples.

1. Be sure you want to put yourself out there for all to see.

At first, it was not easy for me to write about myself sexually. It was strange to picture myself having sex — seeing myself in the experience — and finding words to describe my experience “in sex.” And it was one thing to write for my own sake, personal accounts that would forever remain in my private computer files, but it was another thing to write for the purpose of making my sexual experiences public. Posting myself online was a scary thing.

Looking back, it was weeks before I actually posted something that depicted me in something of a sexual situation. This was one of the first experiences I posted about, back when I was with Master Michael:

Master orders me to take off my skirt.

I obey, unzipping my skater skirt in back. I step out of it. I stand before both men naked.

Mr. Richards’ eyes drift down my body. He sees my pussy, bald, moist.

“It’s OK. Touch her,” Master Michael says.

Mr. Richards pulls my leash, tugging me to him. When I am close, he cups my breasts and he fondles me. His hands roam behind, and one gentles my ass cheek. He leans down to my face. I look up. He kisses me. I submit my lips to his. His tongue enters, likely the only penetration he will enjoy with me today, which I am now regretting. His kiss is warm and good. He is a good man, I think. A slave has desires too.

Writing about yourself this way is not a casual, easy thing to do. My advice is to measure this carefully before you put yourself out there. Once you do, know that people will imagine you, fantasize about you. That’s not a bad thing. But it’s a thing, and you need to know that people reading you will have sex with you in the theater of their minds. That may excite you, as it does me., but if it creeps you out, obviously you shouldn’t do it.

2. Find nouns and verbs that evoke the sensual aspect of the physical experience.

The first part of this — nouns and verbs — is writing 101, but I don’t know of anything that’s more important to good erotica than this tip. The simple truth is that adjectives and adverbs are boring and tedious; nouns and verbs are what make prose exciting. Here’s one made-up example of bad writing with unhelpful adjectives and adverbs:

A large, ominous house is on the dark hillside.

The problem with adjectives and adverbs is that they make people work harder in reading. Here we had to wade through the adjectives “large” and “ominous” before we know what they refer to — “house.” It seems like a little thing, but a lot of this kind of writing tires out a reader over the course of an article or book. It’s why she stops reading before the end.

Here’s a better way of rendering this same sentence:

The mansion, brandishing spires like knives, perched high in the twilight.

The same sentence, without adjectives, using vivid nouns and a more specific verb is easier to read and picture specifically. The tip is to let your nouns and verbs do the describing.

It isn’t that adjectives and adverbs are wrong to use sometimes. They exist for a purpose — yet a more limited and targeted purpose that is usually how they are used. Often they don’t add what you think they add. Recently I posted this, which has minimal adjectives or adverbs, about bathing Amanda:

I wring the sponge on her breasts, dripping them with white suds. I let it coat her tits like milk, and I use my hands to make it an even layer all around. I reach beneath the water, below her breast curves, lifting each as I sponge her creases underneath.

The other part of the tip above is to use nouns and verbs that evoke the sensual. This is from an account of the first time Kevin had me:

He steps close, his cock touching my cheek. I lean toward it, opening my mouth and taking it between my lips. My mouth remembers it from before — it’s weight, it’s girth, the texture of its skin folds. He tastes like mushrooms smell, some combination of his musk and the earthy pungency of my ass, and it occurs to me that the comingling of our intimate flavors is kind of marriage, albeit a matrimony of domination, one consummated by a man’s cock sodomizing a girl’s asshole in bondage. It is this unequal mingling of flavors that coats my tongue. He remains soft but I like him that way too, and his cock even at rest makes my mouth its home.

(OK, that brings back the memory… back to the task at hand…) In writing this experience I focused on “weight,” “girth,” the texture of “skin folds.” I wrote about the taste of him, “mushrooms,” and “flavors” and “coating my tongue.” The point is that in writing erotica, you aren’t just reporting the physical act of sex (which is boring) but reporting your memory of sensations and senses in vivid and unusual nouns and verbs that capture the feeling of those experiences.

3. Use different words than are common, and feel free to coin new words to serve the purpose at hand.

I think the enemy of good erotica is sameness, triteness, commonness. Better writing finds fresh language for the familiar. This applies to writing sex as well. Here, I wrote about me and Amanda in bed one night:

Her fingers trace the folds of my labia in random patterns lightly gracing my sex, and it feels like something between a tickle and a spark, an arousal that makes me want to laugh and moan at the same time.

She lies alongside me, her head resting on my left breast like a pillow, looking down the length of my body, beyond my hills to the smooth vale below, where she continues to circle and trace and caress my landscape.

It is one of those times when we are nearly one, and there is no difference, and she slides into me, into my arousal of tickles and sparks.

I found some different words to bring into the memory — “tickle” and “spark.” I used them differently than their normal context, making them a description of my sexual arousal.

Sometimes you do well to make up words, coin new language to create a vivid image:

My body is exposed, variably and subtly, in glimpses and wishes, to those who who goggle a girl in a short coat showing lots of thigh and leg and boob.

“Goggle” as a verb conveys a sense of motion, bounce and bobble, and perhaps also echoes “ogle.”

She has granted me up to three buttons from the bottom, enough to close the sweater in front while still keeping it open on top, allowing my breasts to hang out and joggle when I walk.

Maybe I just like “oggle” words? Here “joggle” is a similar coinage as the one before. The point is to find freshness of language in describing your erotic experiences.

4. Transform the physical into the larger context of emotional and spiritual experience.

When someone fucks me, it is almost never “just” a physical experience. It is for me a swirl of desire, pride, doubt, humiliation, pride, purpose, and meaning. It is about love and not love, comfort and pain, guilt and pleasure and atonement. It is about the relationship with the one who is inside you, what it is and isn’t and what you wish it were.

The key to good erotica is to never allow yourself to write just the physical description, but to connect it with a larger sense of your inner and outer worlds.

Here I moved from the physical description to my state of mind and emotion at the time:

He pushes into my mouth. He pauses. Leaving it there on my tongue, his meat touching my cheeks, my saliva juicing and covering him. I do not assume it is a special intimacy with him, or that he desires such with me, but we submissives always dream that there is more, don’t we? Yet it is, to me, somehow lovely even as it is forced and rough.

It happens that I am a spiritual person, something I don’t write about often. But even in my slave and sexual life, I see things through a lens of spiritual meaning. This fragment is from a piece “Atonement,” which I posted as a fiction piece but is directly informed by my own experience:

I gasp. It has begun.

He pushes deep inside me, then slides back. Forward and back. My vagina grips him tightly, against my will as I would rather expel him from my body. But this is what I must do. This is what I am for.

He is slow, too slow, and I yell for him to finish. “Come, please come!” I scream aloud.

He doesn’t. He continues to impale me, over and over, and soon a vein along the top length of his cock slides directly against my clitoris, like a bow against the catgut string of a viola. I scream.

And now he grunts, tenses, and ejaculates. It happens just as my instrument breaks, and I explode into shudders.

He shoots his sin inside me. My orgasm is a sign. He is forgiven.

I hope this post is helpful.

method and madness in writing

I’ve been encouraged to write more about writing.

I resist doing so, because I think that attracts just a certain reader and might not be of interest to most. Also, I don’t like being in the role of teacher. I think there’s so much more I have yet to learn myself.

I expect my reluctance also has to do with my submissive nature and lifestyle — I’m not sure I have the right to teach.

Even so, I have written about writing before, and here’s a little something now.

As blog writers, we incline to write about the most recent thing — for me, my adventure in ballet boots yesterday, or what Mistress did to me on the kitchen island last night, or a thought I had about my slavery while standing submissively with the coffee tray an hour ago.

Blog writing leads us into the tyranny of the recent. As a result, we tend to write at the surface. We become reporters of our own news. We cover the who, what, when, why, where, but sometimes fail to unfold the deeper things that happen inside us.

Nothing wrong with this sometimes. I do this too, quite a lot and maybe too much — I often just report what’s going on in my life. Again, it’s something of the expected recipe for blog writing.

But better writing takes time to cook. Getting to the deeper things requires reflection, not only about what happened, but about what was felt and experienced. It requires not just the word that comes immediately to mind, but the better word that expresses so much more. And it requires time to pull random events together toward some coalition of meaning.

It requires time to simmer.

While I write posts about the “recent,” I rarely post them immediately. I find that stepping away from a piece for a day or even just an afternoon makes a huge difference in the quality and depth of what I write.

Something that works for me is to have a number of writing pieces in development at the same time.

I usually am writing five or six different blog pieces at once. Each is a separate experience or thought in my D/s slave lifestyle; each one is intended to be posted when done — eventually. Those five or six may take days to finish, although in the cycle of things, one gets finished almost every day, and I post that. This allows me to post frequently enough, but also gives my pieces time to simmer.

Meanwhile I’ll start another idea and keep it open with the others, adding to each as I have new insights. I constantly replenish the “pool” of five or six open projects.

One thing this approach does is to eliminate writer’s block. Almost every piece you write poses a problem or two, a writer’s block moment. If I were writing just one at a time, I would get stuck on something and have to wait until I got some epiphany or figured out a solution. By having multiple posts open at a time, I can move to the ones I have solution for.

This is true for my fiction writing as well. Right now I have about seven fiction pieces — short stories and one novel — started and at different stages of development.

I think it’s a good system, and it’s worked well for me. So if I have advice for someone (teacher voice), I’d say write a number of things at once.

One of the hardest things to do in writing is becoming your own editor. You have to be willing to set aside parts that are your favorite children, who simply don’t play very well.

But the biggest “editing,” I find, is the up-front question, “Why would anyone care about this?”

Often the answer is, “No one would.”

And then you shouldn’t write about it.

One of the age-old adages in writing — every writing book says this — is that there is writing by planning (method) and also writing by intuition (madness). Sometimes the terminology is “plotter” (one who lays everything out before writing) versus “pantser” (one who writes intuitively by the seat of their pants — or skirt, in my case).

Some writers are more one than the other, and most of us do both. Neither way is necessarily better.

I think much of the time I start a piece as a “pantser,” writing intuitively, allowing my “madness” to go wild, letting my thoughts go where they will.

Then I turn myself into a “plotter,” looking for some “method” — structure or progression — within the “madness” words I’ve put on the page. This is sort of like developing a “plot” within a non-fiction piece. Even in non-fiction, there are the same elements you find in fiction — conflict and rising actions and obstacles and climax and resolution. What you’re writing is what really happened, an actual experience, but the way you tell it is often through fiction technique.

Of course, not everything you write works this way. And each writer has his or her own approach.

And that’s perfectly OK.

My two cents….