Pages

Thursday 29 November 2012

The Debt: a tale of lesbian bondage

It was not supposed to be like this. Sarah knew this was not the kind of game she wanted to play. The knots were too tight and the thin leather cords bit into her skin. She had agreed to indulge in a bit of kinky bondage with Nikki and Jade but it was not turning out how she had expected. It just didn't feel right. In fact, it was starting to feel quite scary.

Her arms and legs were already aching from being stretched to the corners of the X-shaped cross. Every muscle, every sinew, every sensitive nerve in her body was hurting. Her limbs were pulled so taut that her breath came in short gasps which made her shudder all over. She was completely naked. Never had she felt so vulnerable, so exposed, so utterly helpless.  Between her splayed thighs her pussy was lewdly displayed, its flesh-lips gaping like the open petals of a summer rose. Her pubic hair had been shaved off with a dry razor which had left her feeling sore and tender. The shaving had been done after Nikki and Jade crucified her. Each of them had taken a turn with the razor, giggling as they drew it slowly across her skin. They had deliberately chosen a blunt blade so that the tiny blonde hairs were ripped from her crotch. 

The cross was fixed to a gray concrete wall in the basement of an old warehouse on Ricken Street. In the dim yellow glow of a single lamp Sarah noticed that she was in a large, square room with a bare floor. It was empty except for a long wooden table in the center. To her dismay she saw that the table had metal handcuffs fitted to each corner. Upon the tabletop, arranged in a neat line like a workman's tools, lay ten strange-looking implements. Three were shaped like long, thick penises made of hard black rubber. She reckoned they were at least fifteen inches long, with bulbous tips pointing menacingly towards her. The largest was thicker than her wrist, longer than her forearm and had a raised brass ring halfway along the shaft. Merely gazing at it, and wondering what it would feel like inside her body, was enough to chill her blood. The other items were similarly disconcerting: a leather whip with five thongs, each of which terminated in a sturdy round knot; a thin bamboo cane; a ball-gag; a shiny metal rod with a rubber handle connected to an electric cable; a small hairbrush with stiff bristles; a pack of latex gloves; and a big tube of lubricant.

She had been left alone in the room for nearly an hour and she was stating to panic. Fear spread through her veins like poison as her mind raced with terrible thoughts. What if Nikki and Jade decided not to come back? They were supposed to be her friends, so surely they would not simply leave her in this awful place? On the other hand, why would anyone treat another person in such a degrading way, if they were truly a friend? After all, nice people don't strip their friends naked and tie them to crosses. Sarah now bitterly regretted her willingness to participate in this strange game. The only reason she had agreed to play the role of slave-girl was to please Colette, her lover, who owed money to Nikki and Jade. The session of kinky role-play was meant to pay off Colette's debt. It was supposed to begin with a couple of hours of light bondage, with Sarah being tied and spanked and gently flogged. This was to be followed by a sexy threesome - with Sarah still playing the submissive - and maybe later a foursome if Colette decided to come along after work. Sarah had refused to spend the whole night with Nikki and Jade. They were beautiful women and she certainly felt attracted to them. But she did not share their passion for extreme kink, nor did she want to spend more than a few hours alone with them. She reckoned they were slightly crazy. They were notorious around the local lesbian community for pushing the sexual boundaries too far, and for taking too many risks. Many of the things they reputedly did to each other went far beyond what most people regarded as acceptable.

Sarah began to shiver uncontrollably. Not because the room was cold. Indeed, the steam pipes running across the ceiling made the air hot and humid. Her nude, splayed body already glistened with sweat. But she was shivering nonetheless, because her tightly stretched muscles were going into spasm. The pain in her wrists and ankles was growing. She wondered if Nikki and Jade had left her alone to increase her discomfort, to make sure she was already hurting when they eventually returned to resume the role-play. She hoped they were intending to come back soon, even though she was not relishing the prospect of being whipped and abused. Her greatest fear was that they might not come back for a long time, and that she would be left in the basement, all alone with her pain and thirst. So she hoped they would return sooner rather than later, to do whatever they wanted to do, to have their fun with her, and then to release her as soon as it was over.

She wondered if she would be able to endure the ordeal without crying or fainting. Terrifying images flashed through her mind as she gazed at the table. Although not a person of vast sexual experience she possessed enough knowledge to realize what the latex gloves were for. The thought of being subected to such humiliation made her catch her breath. Her main hope was that the lubricant would be used generously, to ease the inevitable discomfort, and that the degrading ritual would stop if she screamed.

These and other disturbing images were still floating around in her brain when she heard footsteps and voices outside the door. She recognized Nikki's voice, and Jade's, but a third woman was also there. Not Colette, whose French accent was distinctive, but someone else, someone unfamiliar. Sarah listened attentively. She could not hear everything that was said but the debt was certainly referred to a couple of times. Suddenly she froze. Her breathing paused. Her naked, sweat-soaked body turned rigid, like the polished statue of a crucified saint. She felt sure her own name was being mentioned in the conversation. Then she heard Jade's voice speaking loud and clear: 'Yes, Colette went away on a business trip. It was totally unexpected.' And then came Nikki's voice: 'That's right. Our plans have changed. Colette said we can keep the pretty slut for the next five days.'

Five days! The words tore through Sarah's heart like iron nails. Five days with Nikki and Jade! Five days of sexual torment and unspeakable depravity. Surely there must be some mistake? Colette would not abandon her like that, not without first retrieving her from the clutches of these horribly perverted women.

And then the door opened, and she heard Nikki's voice again: 'Hello, Sarah. Want to hear the good news?'

* * * * *

The Debt. Copyright © Yasmin Cavendish 2012.

######

Wednesday 28 November 2012

Writing lesbian BDSM: a personal view

I've always enjoyed writing lesbian bondage fiction. Soft or hard, consensual or non-consensual, the whole girls-only BDSM thing really fascinates me - but only as a theme for a story. Away from the keyboard it's a topic that has played almost no part in my life. I say almost because I've occasionally indulged in the kind of vigorous lovemaking that some people might call 'rough sex'. This was mostly with men, not women, but that's another story for another day. Even now, I am not averse to giving or receiving a firm slap on the bottom when fooling around with a playful girl. But I'm no spanker, and neither is my partner Bobbi. Nor is my sexual personality dominant or submissive. My stories of cruel mistresses and pretty slaves are not drawn from personal experience and derive entirely from my imagination.

Whenever I've written a BDSM tale I have simply chosen a scenario, switched on the computer and seen where the narrative takes me. But I would be lying if I said this kind of stuff doesn't turn me on. Writing about bondage has always felt a little bit exciting, like dabbling in a taboo. Some of my  kinky stories were certainly more arousing to create than others, and my fingers would leave the keyboard and go wandering down the front of my pants. Btw, I heartily recommend stroking as a useful way of dealing with Erotic Writer's Block. It usually works for me, anyway ;-)

The consensual bondage storylines were always my favorites. Writing them never failed to turn me on, even if I didn't always go as far as touching myself. With non-consensual stories it mostly depended on what kind of mood I was in. If I was feeling depressed or angry, I could complete a fairly sadistic tale without getting aroused at all. Sometimes I would finish writing and just end up feeling more pissed off than when I started. But if I was feeling happy and relaxed, I could get aroused by pretty much anything I wrote, even if it was something that came close to being extreme bondage. There was no pattern to any of this. When I sat down at the computer to write an erotic story - whatever the theme - I never knew if I was going to get aroused or not. I remember one occasion when I was writing custom erotica for a client. I got terribly bored with typing the narrative for a non-consensual lesbian bondage scene, but then everything perked up when the scene changed to male/female domination. It was extremely hardcore heterosexual action and it really turned me on. This happened at a time when I was supposedly a 'lesbian', having told everyone I was done with guys for good. Like I said: no pattern to it. A classic case of Go Figure...

It was always interesting to get the opinions of my chief proof-readers: my sister Trish and another author called Jen. Trish has always steered clear of hard BDSM in her own stories but she grudgingly agreed to read my preliminary drafts. I would give her a printed copy and she'd come back and say 'Well written, but too nasty'. Jen on the other hand is a total bondage freak in every sense and always gave my so-called 'nasty' stories a big thumbs-up. She was never shocked by anything and reckoned there was a considerable demand for hard lesbian kink among female readers of erotica. Maybe she was right. I saw her a few months ago and told her I was intending to publish my old stories as a series of ebooks. She asked me if I would do the same with some of hers, all of which are brilliantly written and exceedingly kinky. Look out for an announcement about Jen's stories in the near future.  

Over the years I've toyed with ideas for a lesbian bondage novel. I actually made three attempts, each of which fizzled out after a couple of chapters. The first was a historical tale featuring the Egyptian queen Cleopatra as the exotic captive of kinky Roman ladies. The second used the well-trodden idea of a women's prison with harsh rules. In both of these the bondage was non-consensual, but in the third novel I switched to a consensual theme based around a research institute where weird sensory experiments were performed on willing female volunteers. At some point I might publish all three as mini-novels in ebook format. I haven't done anything with them for a long time but recently I gave them a re-reading and, to be honest, I was taken aback by the severity of the BDSM scenes. My first thought was that I couldn't imagine writing such material now, because I've assumed my tastes in literary kinkiness have mellowed somewhat since my long break from writing. But last week I penned a new tale of consensual bondage and, to my surprise, it became quite 'hard' in terms of what the dommes were planning to do with their submissive slave-girl. It's a very short piece, like flash fiction, and it will appear on this blog in the next day or so.

I'm currently collating a few of my longer bondage stories for publication as an e-book anthology which will hopefully appear on Smashwords in January 2013.

Yaz xx

Thursday 15 November 2012

Shiver


.
Yaz xx

* * * * *

Writing Erotica: a family affair?

Over on Twitter my wonderful webfriend Ms Quote recently sent out a poignant question to her fellow erotic authors:
“Do your friends and family know you write erotica? If so, what do they think?”

I replied in a couple of tweets which Ms Quote later summarized on her blog. Here's what she wrote:
“Most of my friends know I write erotica,” Yasmin says. “My sister encouraged me to start, mom finds it amusing, and granny is none the wiser. My mom describes my erotic stories as ‘quaint,’ even the ones I think of as explicit. Hmmm. Not sure what she means by that.”
“Quaint”? Either Yasmin’s mom hasn’t read her books or maybe she’s more hardcore than Yasmin gives her credit for being.


Ms Quote is very perceptive. She's absolutely right: my mother is indeed worthy of the label hardcore. My sister Trish and I used to think of our dear Mama as open-minded, a genuine free thinker, like the hippy chick she evolved into in the 1960s, but hardcore is surely closer to the truth. How many women of her generation, I wonder, would gleefully read an erotic story - written by her own daughter - in which the main character was obviously herself. Yet that is precisely what she did, back in 2003 or thereabouts, when she was on the cusp of her sixtieth year.

The story in question is The Girl On The Bridge, one of my sister's fantasy tales about heroic female warriors in an imaginary land. It revolves around a beautiful senior lady with long, silver-white hair and a graceful figure. This character behaves flirtatiously with two handsome young men before interacting with them in a very intimate and totally inhibited way. As with most erotic fiction written by Trish the sexual scenes are very explicit, with all kinds of jaw-dropping kinkiness going on, but it is right up there among my all-time favorites.

Due to personal circumstances I didn't get to read The Girl On The Bridge until the summer of 2004, but I already knew of it from telephone conversations with Trish and our mother (whom we call 'Mama', rhyming it with 'La-Marr'). When I did eventually digest the story I really loved it, and I could see why Mama loved it too, and why she was happy to identify with it. Even the difference in age between the main character and her younger lovers reflected Mama's own relationship choices in the early years of the new millennium.

Without delving into too much detail, or breaking confidentiality, I can safely say that our mother has led a colorful life. It's almost like she never gave up the old hippy philosophy and chose a life with flexible boundaries and not many rules. I think both Trish and I followed in her footsteps, even if we plowed our own little furrows and went in different directions. Neither of us can be described as living a conventional life, at least not in the way such a life has a template or stereotype. It was inevitable that our mother would be a massive influence on how we turned out, because she was always a lone parent who raised us by herself without much help from anyone.

So, yes, I reckon our mother qualifies as hardcore, at least in terms of her attitude to the erotic fiction we write. The fact that Trish and I have always discussed the topic so openly with her, telling her about our latest storylines, probably makes us hardcore too. On a note of vanity, I am pleased to report that Mama's favorite story is my own Kath Personal, an oddball tale of voyeurism and bi-curiosity, which I've recently included in my lesbian anthology Smooth & Tight.

At the other end of the tolerance spectrum is our granny, whom I also mentioned in my Twitter conversation with Ms Quote. This venerable lady, still very much alive in her big old house, is my paternal grandmother, my dad's mom (Trish and I had different fathers). But she has always been 'granny' to both of us. I dread to think what she would do if she ever saw our naughty stories. Profound disappointment wouldn't quite cover it. Granny is quite a religious person and a staunch adherent of tradition. She goes into a mad frenzy if we walk out into the street without covering our heads, so I can barely imagine what she might do if she saw our names turning up on an erotic fiction website. I expect she would attack us with the antique cavalry sword she keeps in the basement!

And so we come to Trish, my sister, who is three years older than me. It goes without saying that she has no problem with my being an author of sexy stories. Her only gripe about my writing is my reluctance to explore heterosexual themes. She reckons my portfolio of fiction is too narrow to give full rein to my creativity. I understand what she means, but I really only want to write lesbian stories. This isn't because my lover is a woman, nor is it due to a lack of practical knowledge about heterosexual intimacy (my relationship history pre-2002 defines me as bisexual). It's simply a matter of personal choice. I enjoy creating stories about beautiful women making love with each other or indulging in kinky stuff like spanking and bondage. I don't feel any urge to create similar tales featuring male characters.

In my own past I've enjoyed moments of intense intimacy with men, but I'm unlikely to draw on these experiences when writing a story. I do, however, intend to share some of them on this blog, partly because I'm aware that not everyone who visits here is exclusively interested in Sapphic sex. This will meet with the approval of Trish, which is very important to me. In any case, I am sure she is right about the need to broaden the scope of my writing. Creating lesbian stories is what really turns me on, but blogging about my heterosexual experiences will be a kind of compromise.     

Incidentally, Trish reckons she wrote me into one of her stories, in the guise of a dancer called Liana who performs a sexy routine for the Three Vixens (a trio of scantily-clad female warriors who appear in a series of tales). Trish says she based Liana on me, because I was dancing professionally when she wrote the first version of this story in the mid-1990s. Personally I'm not convinced, because Liana is a pale-skinned redhead who looks nothing at all like me. My own theory is that she's a composite character, a blend of me, Trish and our mother, subconsciously created by my sister as a literary nod to the fact that all three of us worked in dance at various points in our lives. The story featuring Liana is called Dancing With Vixens and will appear in an e-book anthology I'm compiling at the moment. The Girl On The Bridge, previously mentioned, will be published as a free download on Smashwords.

My sincere thanks to Ms Quote for starting the Twitter conversation that prompted me to write this blogpost. Please visit her fab website A Good Woman's Dirty Mind and follow her on Twitter.

#####

Friday 9 November 2012

Before Sunrise: an erotic story

I suppose I should call it 'flash fiction', but this is really about me and my girlfriend Bobbi.
Yaz  x

* * * * *

It's the perfect start to the day: being woken by her gentle touch in the early morning. She knows how much I love it. That's why she's doing it now, in the half-light of dawn, at the beginning of a lazy weekend.

Emerging slowly from a sleep of dreams I become aware of her soft caress. Through a drowsy haze I sense her fingertips on my thigh, tracing long oval shapes all the way up to my hip. Still drifting in the warm limbo between sleep and wakefulness I half open my eyes. I'm on my back. She's lying beside me, on her side, with her face resting on the pillow. My own pillow is almost totally hidden by my hair, a tousled black mane that frames my head like a dark halo.  

I roll onto my side, putting my back towards her. Not because I don't want to see her lovely face so early in the morning, but because I like it when she runs her fingers up and down my spine, and around my shoulders, and on the backs of my thighs, and over my ass.

We're both naked, of course. I don't like sleeping in clothes of any kind - not even nightwear.  Even though I'm now almost a year past 40 my hair is still long and thick, like it was 20 years ago, so my head and neck get hot and sweaty on a warm night. Maybe I should get my hair cropped short, like hers? Or maybe not. I know she likes touching it, and playing around with it, and brushing it after we bathe, and running her fingers through it.

I hear her breathing softly behind me. She's very close. So close, in fact, that I can feel the hard tips of her nipples pushing against my back. She's making a little purring noise, like a kitten. I want to turn over and kiss her, but then the caresses along my spine would stop. So, too, would the firm squeezing of my buttocks. Her pleasant stroking up and down the groove of my ass would also cease abruptly.

So I stay where I am, with my back towards her.

And now her middle finger is under my body, probing from behind, sliding along the narrow band of skin between my anus and pussy. I'm so sensitive there. I sometimes wonder if I've got more nerve-endings in that place than anywhere else in my body. Being stroked there, by someone who knows precisely where to touch, is almost unbearable. I start gasping frantically, like I'm drowning in deep water. And then her finger reaches the front. She touches my pussy-lips. Too heavenly!  But I don't want it to stop.

I'm nearly fully awake as she moves even closer. I can feel her breath on my shoulder. She whispers something but I'm too distracted to acknowledge it. Her middle finger draws back from my pussy, retracing its course until it reaches my butt-crack. There it pauses for a few moments, nestling in the dry heat, its tip resting on my anus. Then it slides forward again, going very slowly. When it reaches my pussy a second time I can't bear it. She's teasing me mercilessly, but she has gone too far. I'm awake now and I want more than a tease. Forget the gentle touching! What I need is Sex, and plenty of it. I want more than a couple of fingers moving around down there. A tongue would be nice, to really start the day. And then a pair of velvet-soft lips putting tiny kisses all over my pussy.

I roll onto my side again. Her arms are around me. Our bodies press together. One of her hands is buried in my hair, holding the back of my neck. The other is behind my waist, crawling over my ass. For the first time since the teasing began I open my eyes fully, gazing straight into hers. Our eyes meet - mine and hers, dark brown and pale blue - sharing a feverish, hungry stare. We both know what's on the menu. Our mouths join in a hot, slippery kiss. We're smiling as we do it, because we're tasting the flavor of the night before, and we're remembering the things we did to each other.

She whispers again, and this time I hear it: 'I love you.'

These are the only words she needs to say, and the only ones I need to hear. I echo them back.

'I love you, too.'

No more words are necessary. It's time for deep kissing, and more touching, before the session really begins. I slide two fingers inside her. We'll talk later, when the sunrise turns the walls of our bedroom to gold.     

#####