Hitting [it on] the Treadmill

(WARNING: No profanity, but explicit. True story.)

Ever since college, I try to wake up by 5:30am and do a quick, 3 or more mile run. If it’s too cold outside, I run on the treadmill instead. I don’t really mind running on the treadmill because I get to wear what I would wear if I knew nobody was watching and/or I wouldn’t get arrested. Sometimes, if nobody is home, or if it’s just hubby and me and I feel particularly horny, I like to run in the nude except for sneakers and a sports bra.  (Okay, I admit, I really like being a nudist at home anyway, so it’s not really that big a stretch, I suppose.)  Anyway, I like to feel super-sexy when I run, like I still have my pre-baby body from back in the 80’s, so I wear the skimpiest, closest-to-porno clothes I can find.  Before post-baby-body took over – you know what I’m talking about, you’re still fit and lean, but you never quite get rid of that poochy – boys at my college always gawked as I flew by in my tiniest, cheekiest, baby blue dolphin shorts.

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Erotica & Religious Guilt

You wouldn’t know it from reading my books, but I’m a Christian.

That’s right.  I released two books chock full of sexually explicit scenes, (with four even smuttier books on the way!), I blog at a site I call, “Risque Reveries,” and I still call myself a Christian.

I don’t profess to be a good Christian, just that I happen to be one.

Most rational people would say that authoring erotic fantasies and living a Christian life are in fundamental conflict.  That’s especially true when it comes to writing about BDSM, swinging, and other forms of adultery.  The Christian Bible is awash in passages that speak to the evils of lust, promiscuity, and “unnatural relations.”  Christians are also encouraged not to cause others to “stumble,” which you could argue every single one of my fantasies does since they depict men and women living in open marriages, swapping, and getting intimate with people they barely know.

I should feel guilty about the debauched state of my mind.  I should stop and consider that the words in my books might make someone on the receiving end have an unholy erotic fantasy, doing their own strokin’ and pokin’ as they visualize fucking (and being fucked by) the characters in my works.

So why don’t I feel guilty?  Why do I continue writing erotica if I know it’s “wrong?”

Could it be that we are all born sexual creatures with the natural urge to copulate and populate?  After all, if you believe that “God” is the creator of all living things, it’s seems obvious that “God” designed us for sex.  However you describe the way the two sexes came to be a roiling stew of testosterone and estrogen, cock and pussy – evolution or divine design – our bodies are formed to experience the mind-scrambling beauty of orgasm over and over and over again.  God created us with complementary physiology, each equipped to fulfill the natural urges of a member (or members) of the opposite sex.  That urge is not limited to heterosexual partners, either.  As a bi-sexual woman I have equal cravings for pricks and pockets.  Whether by an accident of in-utero programming or as an expression of an animal nature, I hunger for endless, sweat-soaked, shriek-inducing, cum-spurting fucks, whether given to me by men or women, though preferably by my hubby.

Sadly, that word makes most Christian’s cringe.  “Fuck.”  My faith-centered mind should feel horrible referring to the beauty of sex as getting “fucked.”  On it’s face that word lacks the tenderness of the phrase, “making love.”  Nevertheless, the sad truth is I do like to get fucked.  I especially like to get fucked hard!  When it comes to the pinnacle of sexual fulfillment, nothing gives me more joy than being on the receiving end of my husband’s penis when he fucks me to the point of a blackout.

I understand why “God” wants us to keep our minds pure.  For people who have a hard time differentiating fantasy from reality, it’s just one small step from a masturbatory fantasy to acting out that fantasy in a way that could destroy a relationship.  There are some who, by their very nature, are inclined to stray.  If such people read my books they might come away imagining I’ve somehow given them license to do so.  Notwithstanding the fact that my stories are filled with spouse swapping and stiffy stabbing, I’m obsessed with bringing every ounce of my passion and energy to spicing up my monogamous marriage with my long-suffering hubby.

There are those in my community of faith who will tell me that that my spiritual walk is weak.  They would argue that my commitment to godly sexual purity is frail.  It would be hard for me to argue with them.

All I know is that I find no guilt in letting my fantasy mind run free, especially if it feeds and fuels my intimacy with my forever lover, my husband.

Now if you’ll pardon me, I just imagined my husband doing me doggie style and I’m starting to feel really wet.  Now where did I put that vibe…?

The (Uncensored!) Review of Blakely Bennett’s “Stuck in Between” (18+)

stuckinbetween-web-scale(WARNING:  Graphic language and depictions follow.)

I already published a PG-13 review of Blakely Bennett’s, “Stuck in Between,” the first installment of her new “Bound by Your Love” series.  If you want to read my opinion about the overall quality of her writing, that’s the place to turn.  In a few words, she’s fantastic.  I love her voice, tone, style, and pacing.  I’m looking forward to more from Ms. Bennett, because I love great writing.

But this is erotica we’re talking about and there’s really only one reason we read erotica as opposed to romance novels.

Masturbation.

This is the review where I tell you what every woman really wants to know.  Is this book going to fill your mind with smut?  Is it going to make you want to finger yourself silly?  Is it safe to read this book during your lunch break or will you find yourself racing to the ladies room to rid yourself of that tingling in your crotch before your panties are so wet you won’t be able to return to your desk?

Make no mistake, “Stuck” is a drama (You can read chapter two here)  There’s not much suspense in this book aside from the obvious tension of the central love triangle.  From a BDSM or D/s perspective, it’s not going to rival her earlier “My Body” series which, from what little I’ve read so far, is a much darker landscape.  From the earliest pages of “Stuck” you know there will be tears, a few laughs, and multiple, thigh-jolting, cum-loaded orgasms.

I started petting my pussy from the very first pages.  As the book opens, Ms. Bennett describes bad boy “Bond” and his first interlude with heroine, “Jacqs,”  I already knew I was in for a crotch-soaking treat.  I smelled Bond’s sandalwood scent.  I knew his face.  I envisioned his body.  I felt his dick dipping into me as if I was Jacqs.  More accurately, my fingers were a poor stand-in for Bond’s cock, but the fantasy played out nicely nonetheless owing to the quality of Ms. Bennett’s writing.

When Ms. Bennett introduced “Red,” I shivered for the man with the dangerous edge and a slightly controlling streak.  As I mentioned in my other review, I’m not usually aroused by men with back tattoos and small gauge earrings, but her portrayal of the mildly threatening Red got me hot nonetheless.  Red was a tease, desiring me but not fulfilling my longing until he was damned good and ready.  But once Red jammed his thickness into my mouth, I closed my eyes, I fell into Jacqs place, and let him have his release.  He held me captive with an iron grip, throwing me down and giving me a long overdue spanking.  In a later scene Red helped me achieve perfect posture and a toe-curling orgasm at the same time!

There are stretches of this book where it is more dramatic than erotic.  To her great credit, Ms. Bennett knows how to seamlessly flip between the two in a way that feels realistic and believable, not contrived or forced.  In those moments when the erotic is prominent, I gripped my tablet with one hand and reached deep into my my panties with the other.

I unwisely read the hottest scene in the book as my husband drove us home from a romantic interlude in the mountains.  Before I realized what I was doing, I had plunged two fingers into my cookie and was fucking myself wildly.  I nearly caused my hubby to drive off the side of the road when, in a fit of passion, I unwisely reached over and grabbed his cock through his trousers.  Whoops.

It is often said that Red Phoenix’s “Brie” series contains some of the most graphic, titillating sex scenes ever written.  Having read just two installments of that series, I can understand why.  At times, “Brie” almost feels like non-stop word porn.  Ms. Bennett’s deft touch and vivid portrayals left me similarly wet, wanting, and eager to play with my own not-so-bad boy, but with dramatic respites in between.

I give Blakely Bennett’s “Stuck in Between” 4.5 soaked panties out of 5.  As realistic, dramatic erotica worthy of self (and other!) love, it is an exquisite, memorable read.

Review: “Stuck In Between” by Blakely Bennett

stuckinbetween-web-scaleSince releasing my erotica series, I have paid more attention to the works of my fellow authors. It’s a ballooning sorority / fraternity, with hundreds, perhaps thousands of active authors releasing everything from 3,000 to 150,000 word erotic escapades. Every kink, fetish, and sub-genre under the sun is represented. Different tastes, different books.

I’m not normally into the tattooed, ear-pierced bad-boy genre. I don’t often drool and go weak in the knees over a man with small-gauge ear piercings and a tattoo spread across his back. I like my men suited and shaved, successful in a Wall Street kind of way.

So when I picked up an advance review copy of Blakely Bennett’s new novel, “Stuck In Between,” the first installment in her new “Bound by Your Love” series, I did not know what to expect. I knew from the very first pages I was reading a story set in an unfamiliar world, with characters I might not recognize from my daily life.

What I encountered was some of the most beautiful writing I have read in erotica or any genre. Concise. Crisp. Flowing. It moved effortlessly from scene to scene and evoked a vivid mindscape without burdening me with bloated prose. Ms. Bennett has a way of weaving dialogue that brings back-story to the fore without feeling heavily expository. You find yourself immediately parachuted into a close-knit tapestry of friends and lovers and you quickly feel as if you are in on the latest gossip. These people feel real, with real depth, and each has rich emotional ties to the main characters.

(Read a sample chapter here…)

“Stuck in Between” had me hooked within pages and kept me flying along. Perhaps the telling trait of this book is that it practically begs you to carve out a Saturday and read it beginning to end. The plot is straightforward, but the game of emotional cat and mouse between the three main characters is fraught with volleyed, troubled hearts and heated, sexually-charged returns. Chapter after chapter, my affections and affinities teetered this way and that, first loathing one character, then fearing the other, only to find out that none were as flat or as simplistic as I had first anticipated.

This is not the kind of writing you might anticipate from the “Indie” world, where we occasionally run into sloppy prose, with piecemeal imagery and relationships plucked from the scrap heap of “been there, done that” erotica. Ms. Bennett expects more of her readers, that they will put their hearts into the journey along with her characters. Her writing style is mature and evolved, and would fit right in with mainstream works from the major publishing houses…

If it were not for the fact that this is, after all, erotica.

Ms. Bennett’s flair for the first-person erotic is as effortless and as visceral as any I have read. At the risk of sounding like an over-sexed cougar – which I am – I found it impossible to read her work without experiencing the desired effect. If the quality of erotica were ranked by the shade of the blush on my cheeks, my scoring of Ms. Bennett’s sex scenes would be the most brilliant crimson. I am still reliving the images of the main characters as they moved from the mundane activities of daily life – eating, sleeping, working, bathing – into the heady pursuits of three lovers engaged in a partner-swapping waltz. This is more than a simple, “Tab P into Slot V” smut novel. You feel the tingling effects in your saturated core.

I cannot say whether the setting or plot of “Stuck in Between” will resonate for everyone. This isn’t my normal fare. I usually go for stories set in and around certain professions. Advertising. Medicine. Law. My own series is a topsy-turvy take on the “Billionaire” erotica sub-genre, so to each her own. Only the reader will know whether the multi-dimensionality of this band of familiar friends will be to their taste or not.

What I can say is that I see enormous potential in this series and this gifted author. I feel as if I’ve been blessed to read the work of a woman who’s words are deeply affecting. I’m hooked.

Pushing the Erotic Edge: Truth in Labeling

Sex is simple.  Insert Tab P into Slot V.  Plunge.  Retreat.  Repeat.

Though we erotic authors are always trying to find new ways to describe the basic act – new positions, new kinks, new fetishes – the underlying mechanics are the same.

Doesn’t matter.  As a sub-species, erotic authors are positively obsessed with coitus.  We can’t get enough of it.  We imagine it, research it, and write about it over and over and over.  If you’re like me, you push yourself to envision, invent, and experiment with new and ever more creative methods of seasoning that simple act; with ropes, whips, handcuffs, paddles, and such.

With my series, “The Chronicles of Staffordshire,” I push the kinky edge about as far as I feel comfortable, not because I set out to shock people, but because that was where the story took me.  At times I tiptoe at the precipice of the taboo, not because I have a penchant for taboo-busting, but because that was where the story took me. In the penultimate conflict in my fourth book, I fell over the edge of that precipice and dangled from the taboo cliff by my finely manicured digits.

But my favorite erotic author raised a good point recently as we were discussing “Staffordshire.”  What she said as we dished about our erotic writings made me pause and reflect about some of the sex scenes I wrote.

Have I gone to far?  Have I adequately warned the reader that my books push the edge?

Many of the sexual encounters in “Staffordshire” series are tainted by a single character’s youthful indiscretion, a secret she has kept from everyone for decades.  That single secret impacts her lovers and her offspring over and over and over again.  Her secret finally comes full circle in the fourth book in the form of a dungeon conflict.  It is a sexual conflagration that for some readers might feel a little too taboo.  Although I believe the scene resolves in a redemptive, loving way – (I love happy endings!) – the journey might be a little dark – perhaps disturbing – even for some aficionados of dark erotica.

My friend’s squeamishness when she heard about the scene gave me pause.  When she shared her heart and why even imagining that scene made her cringe, I took a long, deep breath.  No matter how redemptive or healing the outcome, I can see why the subject matter might be a little too tender for her tastes, even though she otherwise likes her erotica dark and dominant.

As erotic authors we use the grand genre of “erotica” to cover a multitude of pursuits, ranging from the hopelessly romantic to the endlessly debauched.  The way-stations we visit as we sojourn through books labeled “erotica” can range from the mildly titillating to the graphically excessive, covering everything from vampires to gender swaps to Sci/Fi to S&M to D/s and everything in between.  

Including the taboo.

But with so many niches in the genre, if a person picks up your book, first seeing the “erotica” label, what do they really expect to see?  The cover might give a hint, but not enough of one.  After all, one person’s Japanese Kinbaku rope fetish is another’s bondage nightmare.  One person’s “innocent,” consensual sex between non-blood step-siblings might be another’s reanimated horror of a childhood abuse.

I suppose I am just now realizing, after thinking about my friend’s reaction, that it is important to do a better job of forewarning our readers of the minefields ahead.  Is it sufficient to disclaim, “M/F/M sex, Group Sex, BDSM themes, Profanity, and such” at the end of the jacket, pat our hands clean, and just walk away?  Or do we owe the reader a better form of spoiler-free warning, something that does a more effective job of hinting at the journey without giving away the itinerary?

I now know that I will do better next time, with some non-spoiling language that does a better job of warning the reader that the journey may take them to some disturbing places, perhaps even places known as, “The Taboo.”  I’ll do it because even though we’re all big boys and girls, I still want to respect the reader and be certain they are adequately prepared for the journey ahead.

Turning the Page

Deep breath.

Exhale slowly.

It’s coming and I can’t stop it.

I feel the nervous anticipation already building in the pit of my stomach.  The butterflies.  The knots.  My life about to enter a new, alternate reality and I can’t do anything to stop it.

I’ll probably open the mailbox when I get home tomorrow night and find my first piece of collateral from the AARP.

Tomorrow is the BIG 5-0.  (I’ve always had a thing for Alex O’Laughlin.)  The timing is bad.  It’s my last chemo day of the latest round, which is a helluva way to mark the passing of a half-century of life.  No pity parties, please.  That’s just the way it is.

So assuming they release me, which they should because I’ve been doing really, really well lately, (still having PLENTY of sex, so I’d call that really, really well), it’s just going to be a quiet night at home with hubby and me all cuddled on the couch watching “Blue Jasmine.”

Oh stop your snickering.  Yes, that’s what I call a romantic way to celebrate my birthday.

I stopped celebrating birthdays a long, long time ago.  It’s kind of a joke in our family that Mom finds some excuse to disappear for the day while Dad makes a HUGE deal of every birthday.  Some cancer survivors love celebrating their birthdays as a sign that they’ve beaten the disease for one more year.  For me, though, it’s a countdown to the inevitable exhaustion of my life.  Instead, I prefer to celebrate my birthday quietly, in my husband’s arms, thanking God for another day of feeling the warmth of an soul-welding embrace I never want to lose.

Of course I can’t completely dodge the “Big 5-0” (even if Alex O’Laughlin won’t be coming by for a visit.)  (Getting the hint yet, Alex O’Laughlin?  Just sayin’.)  So my family will throw some kind of crazy, blowout, not-so-secret party this weekend and I’ll endure it and I’ll smile, and mingle, and be oh-so-fabulously witty and chatty and then I’ll disappear at the end of the night and curl up into a fetal position in the bedroom and wait for my husband to come by, huddle around me, and tell me I don’t have to go through it ever again.  Once 5-0, never again 5-0.  Thank God.  A blip in time.  A moment of torturous passing I will never again endure.

Hubby has plans to celebrate the way I really want to celebrate.  A trip to Austria some time next month after my ever-looming tether to the hospital has been severed.  Vienna.  Salzburg.  Just the two of us disappearing for a week to the land of Maria and those singing (highly fictionalized) Von Trapps.  That’s my idea of fun.  For as bitchy and as horny and as crazy as I can be, and for all the headaches I give my boy every day of the week, I wish I could spend every minute of life with him and only him.  And my baby girls.  I’d take the girls on the trip, really I would, but they’d get in the way of the sex and – sorry girls – I’d rather be having sex with your dad in Austria than hang with you beauties.

So that’s it.  Less than 24 hours from now I’ll be officially ancient.  I won’t be able to stop the inevitable march of time, but I will draw one more breath on one more beautiful day of life.  And with my first breath tomorrow, I’ll thank God for all the people who have taught me what love is really all about.

Survive.  Thrive.  Be alive, my beauteous bitches.

A Book is a Book is a… Short Story?

The advent of eBooks has created a bit of a wild west landscape in the world of publishing.  It’s not uncommon to prowl Amazon (or other eBook sites) and find a “Book” selling for “$2.99” or – if you catch it on the right day – for FREE.  That sounds like a huge bargain, especially when the “paperback” price of the same book is listed at, say, $7.99.  You go to the information page, you read the listing, and you are intrigued.  Sexy plot, interesting sounding characters, and a bunch of 4-star reviews.  Hmmm…  I might buy this one.

Then you read the fine print.

The “Book” is about 12 pages long, 30 at most.  Or maybe, if you’re lucky, 50 pages.

If you’re old enough to remember this movie, it’s like that line from, “Crocodile Dundee.”

“That’s not a book.  Now THIS is a book!”

At 12, 20, or 30 pages, or 5,000, 8000, or 12,000 words, that “Book” is a “Short Story” at best.  At 50 to 90 pages it would be a stretch to call it a Novella.  But to call it a “Book” is a little disingenuous.

Sadly, Amazon doesn’t give you a way to differentiate for page length on its search page.  So you don’t know if you’re digging into a novel or a short story until you look at the “book’s” information page and discover you’re about to pay the equivalent of $.25 per page for the author’s labors.  Steve King’s “Under the Dome,” by comparison, clocked in at 1100 pages and, since it cost $14.95 at Costco, it comes out to $.013 cents per page.  And even though Stephen King is a prolific writer and probably produces 5,000 or more words a day, I doubt that 5000 word erotic short story that’s selling for $2.99 took more time to produce and publish than Mr. King’s last novel.

I’m not knocking short story erotica authors.  Some of my best bitches on the Internet are short story authors.  And I’m finding some really, really good writing in the short story class.  And if I tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, when I want to lay back, relax, and have a quick fantasy in mind before I pick up my Hitachi, (I call it, “Mr. H”), I’m not reaching for one of my feature-length novels.  My books are erotic, but at 380 pages the erotica is wrapped up in much deeper plot and character development.  You have to remember here to look for the erotica in a novel-sized book.  After all, it can’t be all-sex all-the-time in a novel.

In a short story, though, you know the sex is coming aaany second now.

Gabrielle_Blaine

If I want something quick and sexy, I’m picking a guilty pleasure like Gabrielle Blaine’s, “Friendly Skies.”  She gets into the story quickly, sets just enough background that you “get” the main character, an then things get steamy (and a little dark!) in a hurry.  The sex is graphic, my mind smutted up quickly, and I got wetter with each page turn.  Regrettably, I was at a doctor’s office when I started reading this little story and had to recover with a little “me” time in the loo afterward.

My point is not to denigrate the Short Story as an erotic art form, so much as to say that we have some pricing and “full disclosure” issues to work out when it comes to what we erotic authors all call a “book.”  For example, my own series, “The Chronicles of Staffordshire,” is almost 1800 pages spread over 5 books at a total cost of $25.00.  That works out to – you guessed it – just $.013 per page, just like Stephen King.

Of course I’m not nearly as good as Stephen King, even on his worst day at the keyboard.  So maybe a penny a page isn’t bad for a a newbie?

My point is simply this…  12-page stories are not “Books.”  They are “Short Stories.”  They lack the long-playing arc of a book, the depth of a book, and the scope of a book.  That is, unless they are compiled over time into a larger work, which seems to be the M.O. of some authors who release mini-books in a “series” over time and then collect them together into a “book.”  Why pay $2.99 each for a 7,000 word “short story” when the chances are you can wait a year and buy the entire series for $2.99?

If I was Queen of the World – and thank God I’m not – I would wave my scepter and declare that anything over 100 pages qualifies as a “Book.”  Anything more than 50 pages but under 100 pages is a “Novella” and anything under 50 pages is…

Well…

A “Short Story.”

Okay, children.  That ends my whining and complaining for today.  Now I want each of you to visit your favorite bookstore, download a nasty SHORT STORY or BOOK, and have a nice, wet fantasy!

MuaH!

“Your Honor, I Plead the Fist.”

Sometimes I surprise myself.  I’m willing to try things today that I never would have considered 20 or even 10 years ago.

Take Tutti-Frutti ice cream, for example.  I have never, ever tried Tutti-Frutti.  Yeah, I think I’m going to try it!  I think that would be fun!

NiagaraFalls

Or, take squirting, as another example.  Just this past week I learned that with the proper stimulation, I could squirt and squirt HARD!  Niagara Falls HARD!  Shake, rattle, and roll my entire body HARD!

To those women who believe squirting is a myth, I say this…  I was once a skeptic.

Now, I bow at the feet of Poseidon.

I found out that if I played with my pussy with my Hitachi on my clit and a G-Gasm wand working my G-Spot, I could have an orgasm so intense I would soak the sheets.  It was an orgasm so mind-numbing I came close to blacking out.  That first squirt-gasm was so intense, I wished I’d had it 20 years ago because I could have had 5000 more just like it by now!

My husband walked in on me just as my first ever squirt dribbled to a conclusion.  From the other side of the house he heard me screaming like a B-movie horror queen and raced to my aid.  The look on his face was a little bit frightening and funny, kind of like he just watched a space alien invade his wife’s body and do things with it that one just can’t do without space alien technology.

Now I’m a squirt whore!  I try to replicate that squirt every time I masturbate.  It’s not as easy as I thought, but I’ve hit the plunger twice in the week since my first experience.  Gotta hit that G juuuust right with some stimulation going on outside and BLAMO!  Squirt-o-matic!

But squirting wasn’t the only new trick I tried out this week.  This next little sexual oddity makes double-team masturbation and squirting seem almost tame by comparison.

The other night I sent an Internet pen-pal a fantasy involving fisting her.  It was all fantasy.  I just made it up.  I’d never fisted a woman in my life.

But she came back and said that, yes, she’d actually been fisted.  She further went on to say that she came so hard she squirted all over the guy doing the fisting.

Hmmm…  Sounds like a challenge!

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Finally! The Hubby Seal of Approval!

Approved_ScaledEvery day at Casa de Simmons is a new opportunity for intimate exploration, orgasmic exhilaration, and spousal satisfaction.

For the past three years I wrote “The Chronicles of Staffordshire” in virtual isolation.  My family knew it was happening, but they never asked how it was going or what it was about.  Good thing, too, for the subject matter was too racy for any of my kids when I started writing.

About two months ago I introduced my husband to the first book, “Guardian Girl.”  His jaw hit the table.  Female bi-sexuality?  Partner swapping?  Bondage?  Oh my!

Then I introduced him to the second book, “Loaner Lovers.”  His eyes bugged out.  Mistresses?  MORE swapping?  A mystical near-death encounter with God?  Good grief!

Then I introduced him to the third book, “Drop Dead Daughters.”  That shocked him even more because the “daughters” in the story are about the same age as our own college co-eds.  An all-out dungeon orgy in the first chapter?!  An extended lesbian seduction scene?  A dungeon battle royal between a Mistress and her locked-up sub?  Hemena, hemena, hemena…!

Hubby knew I was a wild woman at heart.  He did not know just how much of a wild woman.

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