Dec 092013
 

Jason looked up as Jane sat down at his counter. “You take debit cards?” she asked as he poured her a cup of coffee.

“Five dollar minimum,” he said sourly, sniffing. “Pardon me for saying so, Miss-I’m-too-cool-for-a-name, but you smell like a whorehouse.”

Jane smiled good naturedly. “More like one particular whore than the whole house, but no offense taken – these things take time.” She grinned as his scowl deepened. “While we’re on the subject of houses of ill repute, though – I found Tony and Kitten…amusing, but not really roommate material. You wouldn’t happen to have an extra room available?”

Jason nodded suspiciously.” Yeah,” he grudgingly allowed, “but it’s a hundred a week, and I’m not putting that on your tab…”

“No need, my friend.” She rummaged in a pocket of her leather vest and tossed him a strip of plastic. “Run that like a credit card for two weeks rent. It’ll do for starters.” She leaned over the counter, looking left and right. “My rucksack still back there?”

Jason absently opened a cabinet under the register and handed her the leather bag, motioning towards stairs leading upstairs next to the counter. “Take room three. Alex is in two, and it shares a door with one, where his boy stays. There’s an outside entrance, too, door code is 4692.” When she didn’t move, he looked at her. “Something else?”

She was looking at the tied laces on the flap of the rucksack, and then up at Jason, her expression grave. “You didn’t open this.” It wasn’t a question, and as he returned her gaze steadily, she sighed. “Oh, Jason. You’re an honest man, aren’t you? What the hell are you doing in a shithole like this?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned and headed upstairs.

“Whatever I can,” he answered softly, and pulled a cel phone out of his pocket. Pressing a button, he began to talk in low tones, his eyes never leaving the staircase.

The next morning Jason had her pancakes and eggs ready as she came down the stairs, and she saluted his timing with a quick snap of her hand and a brilliant smile. Alex sat at the counter with a small boy of about 4, the two of them sounding out words in a Seuss book. “Sam-I-Am!” the boy said happily, pointing at a sad moustachioed figure in the book. Then he looked up and noticed Jane sipping coffee in the booth. “Who dat, daddy? She pretty!”

Alex hushed is son with a whispered “Don’t bother her, Joey, let her eat alone.”

“Hello, Joey.” Suddenly she was standing next to them her hand offered to the boy. “My name’s Jane. You’re doing a great job on that book – it was one of my favorites.” She looked at the book critically for a moment, then at the boy. “Can I tell you a secret?” The boy nodded warily, and she whispered a few sentences in his ear. His eyes grew wide for a moment, then he looked at his father sitting next to him and started giggling. Smiling, Jane tousled his hair and went back to her breakfast, reading a battered paperback with some sword-wielding barbarian on the cover.

Jason came over and topped off the boy’s orange juice. “What’d she tell you?” he asked casually, glancing over Joey’s head to Jane in the booth.

“It’s a SEEKET!” the boy pronounced happily, then more quietly, “That means I have to whisper it.” Jason nodded gravely, leaning over. Joey whispered intently, and giggled as Jason began chuckling.

“Well, then, I guess it’s lucky for him you’re done! There’s your bus!” Joey squealed with excitement, hugging his puzzled father and giving Jason a high-five before jumping off the stool and rushing out the door.

Alex watched him go, and then turned to Jason, curiosity getting the better of him. “What?” he demanded.

Jason indicated the moustachioed fish in the book. “She told him that her father kind of looked like that fish,” he grinned. “And that if Joey didn’t eat all his food, it might happen to you, too.” Chuckling, Jason cleared away the plate, and in spite of himself, Alex grinned back. Taking his coffee, he turned around and walked over to her booth. She looked up at him and waved him into the seat.

“I ran into your wife earlier this morning,” she said bluntly.

Alex’s expression didn’t change. “Yes, I heard. Thank you for not involving her in your little…demonstration.” He sipped his coffee and Jane thought she saw just a glimpse of the deep pain he felt at the mention of his wife. “I didn’t watch the tapes, but Tony and Kitten were quite impressed.”

“What’s the deal with them, anyway?” Jane asked. “With a sweet set up like they’ve got there, why can’t they make ends meet? Those camgirls and boys I saw in there – man, talk about walking poster children for the Big Burnout.”

At this Alex chuckled, a soft, bitter sound. “Yeah, that’s a good way to describe just about everyone over there. The problem isn’t the infrastructure – it’s that it’s a castle under siege.” He looked up at Jane, then, and she was startled by his eyes, which had looked brown, but now revealed a vivid green ring around his dark irises. “The Incubikers won’t let any new talent in, and if old talent goes out, they don’t come back. That talent you saw? They haven’t been out of that building in three months. Tony and Kitten are able to get supplies in and out, they have that much pull with the teamsters, but people…” He trailed off. “When the Doukas’ catch someone trying to get out, well, if they’re lucky, they disappear. Some they keep… for their own amusement.”

Jane sipped her coffee and speculated out loud. “And in town known as “the Murder City”, I guess it doesn’t take much of a donation to keep the police out of the whole thing.”

Alex laughed again. “Police? You kidding? The Doukas not only have them paid off, they have them procuring. Notice that Juvenile Detention facility down the street? Both Tony and the Doukas brothers used to take advantage of that, scooping up people close to the edge. Doesn’t take much paperwork to get a pretty not-quite- 18 year old released on a ‘work apprenticeship’. By the time his or her birthday comes around they’re strung up on smack or in debt or both, and they just start working the cameras.” He waved out the window in the vague direction of the Incubiker enclave. “Or the clients.”

“So what changed? What put Tony and Kitten are on the defensive?” Jane snorted. “For that matter, why doesn’t Doukas just roll right over him?” Her tone dropped low. “And why do you get to come and go freely?”

Alex looked at her steadily. “I really don’t know the answer to the first two questions. At some point the détente failed, that’s all I know. The Doukas brothers just decided one day to make a move on one of Tony’s stars.” His eyes were expressionless. “That’s part of the answer to your last question, though.”

His voice quickened, as if he wanted to get the telling over with quickly. “Isabella. That’s her name. The one you saw in the alley, the star that the Doukas brothers took from Tony.’ He took a breath, eyes glued to the table in front of him. “Joey’s mother. My wife.”

Jane said nothing, simply waited, and after a long moment Alex got his emotions under control and continued. “She was an indie model, came to work for a month-long exclusive contract with Tony. She’d just finished a great trip to New York, worked with some really high-end photographers, and we thought – that is, I thought – ” his voice cracked, and Jane simply sipped her coffee and waited, silent, for him to regain composure.

“I wanted to stay in the city, keep working the contacts. But she told me she had gotten something really good during her time in New York, something that she wouldn’t show me…I never really understood what it was, or what she thought it would do, but…fuck, I don’t even really care anymore. She just seemed to think it would be our ticket to the dream – for her to stop traveling all the time, for me to stop having to scrambling for freelance gigs, for us to do what we wanted.”

“What is it that you wanted, Alex?” Jane’s voice was soft.

He looked at her bleakly. “Fuck if I know. Never had enough breathing room to actually figure that out.”

Jane nodded, solemnly. “Fair enough. So what happened?”

He sighed. “Again, I don’t really know. I couldn’t meet her when she landed at the airport because of Joey’s school stuff, and from what I heard, Incubikers were waiting there to take her. That was three months ago. Since then, they’ve intercepted every talent Tony and Kitten have tried to hire – and anyone who gets out of Kitten’s building gets disappeared, or worse.” He stirred his coffee and gave a soft chuckle. “The last two times it was a bund from Russia. Tony thought they might be beyond the Doukas brothers’ reach.” Alex gave a bitter laugh.” Didn’t matter where they came from, though,” he pointed out the window again, “that last mile is where they grab them. Didn’t even have to use force; just convinced the girls that working for them would be much more convenient than working for Tony and Kitten.” He chuckled again, sounding tired

Jane tapped a sugar packet thoughtfully. “Why the laugh?”

Alex grimaced. “It’s not really funny. Another bunch of girls are supposed to come in today. Tony is nothing if not persistent. I’m just thinking it might not be so easy for the Incubikers to convince this group to switch sides.”

“Really? Why’s that?” Jane’s tone sounded speculative.

“Because the only guy they have who speaks Russian is in the clinic with his jaw wired shut,” Alex grinned with a bitter triumph and tapped a finger on the table in front of Jane. “Thanks to you.”

Jane stood up from the booth and was gathered her things. Alex looked up, surprised at the sudden exit. “Hey, where are you going?”

Jane gave him a big smile. “That, Alex, was some valuable information. In fact…” she handed him a small card. “Here. PIN is 1469. Take out a hundred, get Joey something nice. And hang onto that card. Anything else you hear about that you think I might be interested in, pass it on, and I’ll authorize more.” She snugged her fingerless leather gloves over her hands, and carefully dogeared her place in her book before tossing it in the rucksack. “Place like this, the right piece of information can be worth a lot to a woman like me.”

Alex looked at the card with a bewildered expression. “I don’t understand. What are you doing?”

She smiled and slung her rucksack over her shoulder. “Going to see Michael Doukas about a job. I hear he might be in need of a Russian translator.”

Alex still looked confused. “And…you speak Russian?”

Jane gave him a wink as she went out the door. “Vot tak!”

Nov 252013
 
2013-11-11 10.18.42
Only slightly posed.

Only slightly posed.

So, a while back, I told some friends of mine “I’m a simple man of peace!”

They laughed.

It bothered me. More than it probably should have, and so I tried it out on other people. Exactly one person – my oldest friend, in fact – didn’t snicker, laugh, chortle, or guffaw when I said I was a simple man of peace. They pointed at the San Francisco GRUE, at Dark Odyssey Surrender, at the upcoming Washington DC GRUE (which conveniently comes right after Thanksgiving). They pointed at my self-employment, my public work, my private relationships, my kinks and hobbies and goals and gadgets.

And you know what? They were right. I was – I am – about as far from a “simple man of peace” as I can be.

And that bothers me.

So I decided to take arms against a sea of brainweasels and do something about it. The lovely Miss Ali had asked me if there was some special way we could spend a weekend together, and as I outlined what I had in mind, she enthusiastically agreed. Thus, SMOPcon was born.

The idea was to find an environment both reclusive and also inspiring. To pare things down to a minimum, to cut down on the noise just to see what kind of signal might actually be coming through.

For my part, the rules I made for myself (the aspiring SMOP) were relatively simple:

  • No technology more complex than paper and pen. That meant no clocks, watches, smartphones, computers, whatever. I was OFF THE GRID.
  • I would sit zazen three times a day, for 1/2 hour per session.
  • I would do yoga twice a day.
  • I would eat simple and healthy (mostly) meals.
  • I would go to bed when tired, get up when rested, fuck when horny.

Miss Ali, for her part, was taking on the role of “Service Muse.” This meant that she was accepting the responsibility of:

  • Locating an appropriate space for the SMOPcon and negotiating its use (AirBNB for the win, btw!)
  • Planning & preparing the menu, usually
    • Fruit, coffee, and toast for breakfast
    • Vegetables and fish or sausage for lunch
    • Salad and (possibly) meat for dinner
    • Fruit, nuts, other snacks as needed
  • Minding the technology:
    • Monitoring my phone for emergency messages
    • Changing the music as I requested
    • Keeping track of time when I sat zazen
  • Leading yoga workouts twice a day
  • Courtesan/bedwarmer/rope bottom services as requested
  • Providing stimulating conversation, a sounding board, or a silent companion as needed.

I could write. I could read my books. I could smoke cigars, drink whiskey, listen to music (though I couldn’t actively use the iPod, see rule 1). I could bounce ideas or thoughts off of Miss Ali, or simply enjoy watching her do the work she’d brought along for herself.

This lasted from Sunday afternoon thru Wednesday noon.

So, Did It Work?

That’s a good question. Am I now a SMOP? Well, no. As the zen saying goes, first mountains are mountains and rivers are rivers, then mountains are not mountains and rivers are not rivers, and then mountains are once again mountains and rivers are once again rivers.

To put it more clearly, did something happen? Yes. Was it enlightenment? Come on, are you serious? Here’s the way it broke down:

  • I had thought that going off the grid would drive me crazy. It didn’t, not at all. I surrendered my phone when we got in the car to go to the location, and never had the slightest temptation to check it, check in, or anything else. That surprised me just as much as anyone.
  • I also thought that sitting for 1/2 hour 3x/day would be hard. It wasn’t – even though that’s six times longer than I sit any other day. In fact, I grew to really look forward to that part of each day.
  • The location was SPECTACULAR:

pirateShackSmall

 

  • …which probably had a lot to do with how easy it was to monotask.
  • I found that my days went pretty much as I’d planned them, with the big chunks of time spent on each making them feel more…nourishing, I suppose. Like eating real food instead of fast food might taste.
  • I found that for the most part I didn’t want to listen to music, but I really treasured the time I spent talking with Miss Ali. We discussed her own work (some career planning) and I would talk to her about where my thoughts were leading. Like a true muse, her comments often led me in directions that led to breakthroughs.

And yeah, while I didn’t achieve enlightenment, I did have an epiphany or two (life-changing, even) and also came out of it with a pretty nice outline for a cigar-themed erotic romance. Also some unforgettable sights, sounds, and memories.

I can’t speak for Ali, except for two things she shared with me: one, she did get a great deal of her own work done, and two, she would have liked to have a third service provider there to “…do the meals. And the yoga!” So maybe her calling was more towards the muse; I only know that she gave me exactly what I asked for and several other things that I needed but wasn’t aware enough to ask.

The hardest part of the weekend was the aftercare – or rather, the lack of it. I mentioned that leaving the grid behind was no problem; coming back to the grid has continued to be difficult. I find myself much less tolerant of noise, of bustle, of busy-ness. I came out of the SMOPcon right into managing and hosting a variety show/street fair night at Dark Odyssey Surrender, and the number of times I wanted to just scream “FUCK RIGHT OFF!” and go find some water to sit by was more than I was comfortable with.

It’s been a couple of weeks now, and that urge only hits once in a while. Meanwhile, I find myself monotasking more – every chance I get, in fact – and guarding jealously my morning rituals of yoga, meditation, and caffeinated journaling.

For me, it was a SMOPcon, but you can easily remove the gender and call it STOPcon – whether that’s Simple Top of Peace or even a non-power-dynamic Simple Time of Peace. But oh, do I ever recommend it. That silence, when all the rest goes away?

Glorious.

Sep 292013
 

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My friend Lochai once told me about his time in some of the Florida sex clubs, where doms would come in rolling large cases – practically cabinets, like the kinds of things you see mechanics keep their tools in. To hear him tell it, it was a kind of pissing contest to see who could have the most tricked-out case: special racks of shiny toys, neatly hanging ropes, maybe an internal lighting system.

I confess, I’m enough of an equipment nerd to see the appeal. Hell, I think I’d throw in a fog machine too, and maybe a large speaker that would blare Carmina Burana as I opened the case. But I’ve found that with age comes…well, I could be charitable and call it “maturity”, but as Heinlein once said, it often resembles “too tired.” That is, I’m tired of lugging a big case of toys, rope, safer sex supplies, snacks, and maybe even a change of outfit or two up the seemingly-prerequisite steep staircase that leads to most dungeons. It’s tiring lugging them up the stairs, and even more tiring lugging them back down – usually having only used a fraction of the toys in the bag, if any.

I suffer from a form of FOMO (Fear of Missing Out), though perhaps it’s more FOFIANI: Fear Of Forgetting It And Needing It. So I tend to overpack – several sets of rope, an array of canes, three or four floggers, some specialized toys, a paddle or two, knives, condoms of varying types, clamps, ass hooks…the list goes on. Then I’ll do a scene and use my hands, my teeth, and four pieces of rope. It’s a good scene, usually, but then I look at my fancy-dancy gear bag and wonder: Why?

So I’m moving towards a change. My basic gear: three ropes, a knife, and my leather gloves. The three ropes idea actually goes back to an interview I did with James Mogul for the Ropecast, years ago, when he was saying that he enjoys the creative constraint of deliberately limiting equipment. “I like to show up at the dungeon with just three ropes,” he said, “and see what kind of trouble I can get into.”

Leaves oh-so-nice bruises...

Leaves oh-so-nice bruises…

I love that idea. At the same time, things should, as Einstein supposedly said, be as simple as possible – but no simpler. Occasionally I’m going to need to do a suspension, so on those nights the gear will expand to something like six ropes, with a ring and some carabiners. And occasionally I will acquire a toy that just begs to be used – such as this cocobolo brat bat that I acquired from Maui Kink.

But only one toy. Only the tools necessary, and force the rest of my scene – whatever it may be – to rely on me and my bottom to make it good, not on trying to pick out a toy from a vast selection. This doesn’t mean I’m throwing away my toys, or that I’ll stop practicing, especially with gear like bullwhips that need recent muscle memory to really use safely and effectively. But it’s not because I want to bring that kind of equipment with me. I’m ok with being known for rope, leather gloves, and knives alone. But I do have this silly little fantasy:

There’s a movie with Tom Selleck and Alan Rickman called Quigley Down Under. It’s about a sharpshooter specialist who travels down under and gets into troubles of various kinds. Without giving too much away, my fantasy is similar to the plot of that movie – maybe even with some hot Australian babe just for verisimilitude – where she snubs my rope and my leather and holds out some exotic toy, assuming a “rope guy” would be intimidated by the unfamiliarity.

In my fantasy, I smile softly, take the toy, and rock her world. And as she’s recovering in a quivering orgasmic puddle of beautiful post-scene bliss, she says “Oy. I thought you didn’t know how to use that toy…”

“I never said I didn’t know how to,” I’d reply with a smile, stroking her hair. “I just said I never had much use  for it. Here, let me show you what I can do with this rope…”

Sep 032013
 
NaiiaWords

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I have a real problem with this video.

The problem does not lie with the dancers – frankly, from a purely choreographical perspective, they are pretty good (especially if they are actually in shut-off booths – that’s hard!). Nor from the idea of subversive street art: from Banksy to Blue Man Group to that guy busking on the corner singing Nickelback, I’m all for public performances.

Well, maybe not Nickelback.

No, my problem lies with five simple words: “Sadly, they end up here.” The implication being that, after being promised a career as a “dancer” in Western Europe, women who are lured to the Red Light district end up just dancing in a window for the pleasure of the men passing by.

I’ve had some twitversations with people who feel that this is a grand thing, a clever way to use few words to draw attention to the problem of sex trafficking. I disagree; I think that instead, the words imply first that the shop (and by implication, the entire red light district) is filled with women who have been trafficked, and second, that anyone who uses their body sexually to make a living is at best a deluded victim of the patriarchy.

Both of those are very slippery slopes.

It’s Her Body

If you agree with that statement in terms of reproductive rights, it seems imperative to me that you agree with it in terms of ALL reproductive rights – such as “I’m going to cash in on people’s urge to reproduce with me to make a living.” Any evidence I give from a personal point of view – the many friends I have who do that – would be suspect as anecdotal, but let’s look at articles like this one, where New Hanover County Assistant District Attorney Lindsey Roberson asked “Find me a college educated, well adjusted woman who’s had tons of opportunities in her life, who understands what a healthy relationship is and who’s actually experienced one and then chooses to sell her body for sex.” In the first ten comments, ten women did exactly that.

Especially in places like Amsterdam or Australia, where prostitution is at least somewhat legal and regulated, it’s just another job.Models Escort Agency” will provide a pleasant adult companion for your evening, and the odds are you’ll be able to have a conversation as well as physical pleasure from the exchange. But for some reason the idea that there is sexual attraction involved means this is somehow “shameful” – whereas if you paid a lifecoach to pretend to like you for an hour, that’s fine. Or a masseuse to put their hands on your naked body and make you feel good – that’s fine.

But while you’re traveling, tired and weary from the road, if you hire Sydney Select Escorts to help you relax? OMG!! Suddenly you’re part of a worldwide conspiracy of sex traffickers, contributing to the “sad” state of affairs these poor women are trapped in!

I got news for you: it’s not the sex industry that is the “sad state of affairs.” It’s the entire economic structure of the world.

“Yer Gonna Serve Somebody”

Bob Dylan had it right: it doesn’t matter who you are, there’s somebody higher on the totem pole that you’re going to try and please because you need what they have. Riddle me this: if you take “sex” out of the equation, how is a smart young woman stripping at a club worse than a smart young woman sitting at a desk doing data entry? Or a smart young man waiting tables? Or a divorced mother working a register at Wal-Mart. “No girl dreams of becoming a stripper” is a common refrain, but you know what? When I was a National Merit Semi-Finalist getting Rotary Scholarships in high school, I didn’t dream of becoming a short-order cook, working double shifts in a greasy kitchen.

You want demeaning, try cleaning out the drain trap, full of soggy bagel, old scrambled eggs, and cockroaches, just before walking out to the parking lot to pick up people’s cigarette butts. How is that somehow better than spending an hour making someone feel good about their body?

I know a young woman who, when she turned 18, had a choice between working at Starbucks or working at Visions, the local strip club. For her, it was a no-brainer: “I can make more money in one night at Visions than I make in two weeks at Starbucks.” How is being paid less for being on her feet and making lattes supposed to be more fulfilling or dignified than taking money from eager viewers (men and women, let’s remember) unless you feel sex is somehow to blame?

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the next stop is a flash mob at a Hollywood restaurant, where the waitstaff all burn their B.A. diplomas in Film Studies because they were promised acting careers. Or it’ll be a group of bloggers and podcasters at NewMediaExpo, demanding the freedom to write unsponsored posts instead of press releases and content filler.

But no, that’s not as sexy as a bunch of half-naked women dancing in a window. Which is my final problem with this method: they are using the fact that sex sells to protest the selling of sex. They are deliberately using the provocative dancers to draw attention and support for their message. If you tell me that the dancers chose to be there of their own free will, then I guess we finally agree that yes, women can choose to use their bodies in this way for whatever cause they feel is right. And sometimes that’s putting food on their table.

But if you feel that the only trafficking worth fighting has sex at it’s core, then you are, in my opinion, slut shaming. At which point I say: shame on you for taking the easy way out. You have an important message: find a better way to express it.

Addendum: Eithne Crow has a much more eloquent analysis of what is wrong with this video in her piece “Why This Video Needs to Fuck Off.” Better comments, too, so read ‘em!

Aug 272013
 

After the guard had opened the door to a small dormitory-style room, her clothes and belongings neatly stacked on the bed, he’d shut the door behind her with a deliberate click. She didn’t bother to check the knob, hearing the tiny extra click of the lock. She dug into a pocket of her folded denim jeans and pulled out a small box. It was a dark wood with brass fittings and with swirling pearlescent inlays. On one side was a rounded hemisphere of black rubber, about an inch and a half in diameter, which she snapped off and fitted over one ear. A long black cord coiled down from her ear into the side of the box. She pressed her thumbs into a swirl of brass and mother-of-pearl on the face and whispered softly: “Audio mihi.”  The box let out a deep click and the side slid gracefully up on a telescoping brass rod, tilting back and forth like a small radar dish. Inside the base of the receiver were several small rheostat knobs and a dial with a red needle waving irregularly as the rectangular antenna rotated. Jane’s earpiece squawked a hiss of static, and she bit her lip as she slowly turned the dial, patiently adjusting until the red needle settled into a steady state. The little rectangular antenna was steadily pointing towards the wall opposite the bed. A faint aroma of ozone that came from the device, and Jane smiled. She contentedly perched on the bed, legs folded easily under her ass, still pink from Tony’s spanking, and closed her eyes to listen.

 ” – I don’t care how good she was, she’s fucking dangerous, Tony! Can you believe that she topped us both? From the bottom?”

I know, Kitten, I know…” Tony’s voice still sounded confused and tired with the post-orgasm rush of endorphins,and Jane quirked a little smile. “But that’s just why we should use her. Imagine what that tape would have been worth if we put it on the site – what it could do for your career –

Jane winced as a shriek filled her earphones. “That tape of me licking your jizz off her foot! You’d love that, wouldn’t you? I am always a fucking top, asshole!” Kitten’s voice sounded close to tears. “I’m not going out a fucking cumslut, you bastard. I’m Kitten Ma’am, and just because some skank with a hyperactive tongue got me to come a couple of times doesn’t mean she’s worth more than m – ” She cut herself off before she could finish the statement. “Worth anything,” she amended.

She’s worth a fucking fortune to the right clients, Kitten, and you know it!” Tony’s voice was hard and bitter. “Our cam girls are wearing out, and the fucking Incubikers won’t let any new talent through. Site traffic is down twenty-fucking-percent and falling, and we need fresh blood like her, who won’t be scared of those fucking clowns across the street.” There was a sound of shuffling, and Tony’s voice changed, as if he’d moved across the room. “Look at how she took them out! I’ve never seen anyone use a snakewhip like that! Never!

There was a silence, and then Kitten’s voice came softer. “Yes. You’re right, dear, we could make a fortune from her on camera. But she’s still too dangerous. Talent like that is never satisfied with just being talent. You and I both know that.” Something changed in her tone, a note of scheming malice creeping into her words. “But there’s nothing that says that we have to keep her after we get enough content to make up our losses.

Now you’re talking my language, shela…” Tony’s voice took on a low, calculated tone. “We could use her for a while – fucking use her up, in fact, wear down some of those edges, push her hard – and then when her cunt is fucked dry, we show the Doukas boys her early tapes and offer her as a kind of…peace offering.” He giggled, then, with a sound like a flatulent hyena. “We’ll just get her working an ‘exclusive’ contract, make up a production schedule from hell, and when she breaks down trying to keep up, dump the remains on the Doukas fuckers.

Kitten’s voice was almost cheerful. “We’ll give her the works – speed in her water, sand in the lube, pthalates in her toys… Just let them try and pawn her off on a client then. They’ll be lucky to get a two dollar handjob out of her by the time we’re done. Meanwhile, we get the little bitch fucking her brains out for us on camera. Hell, with any luck she’ll fall for the profit share deal and we won’t have to pay her at all.” There was the sound of a click, and then Kitten said “Mickey! Get Jane in here. Be nice to her – tell her we’ve got an offer she’s gonna love…

Moments later Mickey tiptoed to Jane’s door and opened it abruptly, as if he hoped to catch her in some illicit act. He frowned as he looked in the room. Jane was sitting fully dressed on the edge of the bed. She looked up at him unsurprised, and sighed. She held up a hand as he opened his mouth, and stopped the words.

“No, Schmuckballs. No words. It’s hard enough as it is. But I’ve come to realize,” she stood quickly, and he stepped back, threatened by the enigmatic tiny woman. “It’s just not gonna work between us.” She sighed theatrically. “Let’s not make this more complicated than it needs to be. ” She tapped him lightly on the chest.as she walked past him into the hall,  “I think we both know this is for the best.”

Walking down the corridors to Tony and Kitten’s bedroom, Jane stood outside the door expectantly, not bothering to knock. A moment later it opened, and Nesmith stood there, looking annoyed. “Ah, Jane, m’love, come in.” Jane didn’t even look at him as she walked in and directly over to the side of the bed. “Kitten and I were just talking about how, um, impressed we were by your audition. And we think that we have a place for you here at Kitten’s Toy Shoppe that will…what the bloody hell are you doing?”

Jane had showed no sign of hearing a single word he said. Instead she was rummaging under the bed, ignoring Kitten reclining on the satin coverlet. The older woman had a strange expression on her face somewhere between anger and confusion. Finally, anger won. “Hey, little fucktrash, my husband’s talking to you! He’s about to offer you a sweet profit sharing deal so you’d better listen up.”

“Aha!” Jane suddenly exclaimed, and her hand came up from under the bed, holding up the ring with the amber stone set in it. “Good thing I found it. I was about to have to look in the only other place I might have lost it.” She looked meaningfully at Kitten’s crotch, and the woman suddenly shifted and crossed her legs. Jane chuckled. “A little late to play demure, babe.” Standing, she sauntered towards the door. “Profit sharing, huh?” Her face looked vaguely amused. “Thanks just the same, I prefer cash directly into my account. And to be honest, I don’t know that I really could do much more business with you. I just get the feeling you might…I don’t know…take advantage of me, somehow?” She delicately extended the middle finger of her left hand, slipping the ring over it, and it glinted anachronistically warm in the cold black and steel décor. “Thank you both, though. It has been educational.” She patted Tony’s chest, and reached up to mime a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for the pedicure, big boy. Call me when you’re ready to try the other foot.”

She was almost to the bottom of the stairs before their arguing voices raised enough to reach her. Glancing up, she saw the balcony of the third floor again filled with the faces of the camgirls and boys, all looking down at her with blank, weary resignation occasionally mitigated by curiosity. Jane looked back at them all for a long moment, expression thoughtful – and then she blew them a collective kiss and sauntered out the door.

Aug 112013
 

So I just finished “Banging Rebecca” (don’t I wish!) and thought I’d actually post a review to Amazon. Much to my surprise – and VERY quickly after I submitted it – my review was rejected. I’m still not sure exactly why…but fuck ‘em if they can’t handle the word “cunt” when I’m writing a review. Here you have it, in it’s original and uncensored form.

I’ll get the one thing I didn’t like about this novella out of the way first: safer sex. There isn’t any mention of it in the whole shebang (see what I did there?) and as a sex-educator that’s a little disconcerting.

But I got over it, because DAYUM, this has some very hot stuff. Outside sex. Bondage. Impact play. Dominance/submission, all set within the kind of conflicted tangle of emotions and desires that really accompanies that kind of play. There is a real story here, with conflict, with foreshadowing, with character development and everything else English Comp teachers teach us about. But it’s also dripping with (and built by) amazingly rendered sexual encounters, one after another, building up to the surprising and satisfying finish (see, I did it again!).

It’s a short read, yes. But it’s also full of scene after scene of cock-throbbing cunt-drenching sex, so if you’re in for some wank material, this is the best deal you’ll find. If you’re just looking for a good story, though, it’s also just a good buy.

Oh, and Alison? I’m a pretty experienced BDSM educator and enthusiast. So thank you for a new idea that I can’t wait to try out…

Aug 052013
 

In case you missed it, this is the fifth chapter of my serially released new novel “Kumir.” You can find the other chapters with a simple search for KUMIR on this blog. Like what you’re reading? Take us closer to the print version by donating there on the left, just under the MBE performer logo.

Now, let’s join Mr. & Mrs. Nesmith as they prepare to give Jane her audition…

Moments later Tony was hitting the return key on his keyboard before turning to look at the bed. His wife was laying back against the pillows, head thrown back in abandon as Jane’s blonde head rotated and bobbed between her spread legs. Without the tight dress and thong his wife’s full figure was voluptuous, tanned soft curves rounding out the muscle painstakingly maintained by daily sessions with her personal trainer. Jane’s body was a lithe collection of creamy soft angles. She was on her knees, using her hands to spread Kitten’s labia as she lapped and sucked. The older woman moaned again and Tony saw Jane’s ass give a little wiggle as if in response. In the dim light of the bedroom he thought he could just see the glint of slick desire at the center of that peach of an ass. The sight made his cock throb and used up the last of his patience. “Alright, shela, there’s your money,” he said loudly, interrupting the sapphic delight.

Jane looked over her shoulder at him and then at the computer screen, which showed “REC $1500″ in glowing green letters on a black background. She flashed him a smile and turned back to Kitten. She moaned louder as Jane’s tongue went back to work. Tony was about to protest when he noticed the blonde’s ass lifting higher, obviously trying to attract his attention. Jane’s legs spread a bit more and she arched her back, deliberately present him with as tempting a target as possible.

“That’s more like it, eh?” With a growl he moved out of his chair and towards the bed, closing his hands over her buttocks. She let out a happy hum as he squeezed. Tony swore softly as he felt the smooth muscle moving under his hands. He moved his thumbs to her cleft, spreading her cheeks wider. Finally he was rewarded with the sight of her pussy, dripping wet and thighs slick with desire. She gave a lower, louder moan as his thumbs plunged into her vulva, spreading it open like a dark pink blossom. “Yeh like that, my little blonde slut?” he said with a low rumble.

Her voice was muffled and punctuated by her slurping tongue as she coyly spoke directly into his wife’s cunt. “Yes, Mr. Nesmith, oh, fill me, fill me all the way, but please let me feel your hard paddle on my ass, I’ve been such a – ” slurp “- bad, bad girl.” Jane’s reached up, feeling her way along Kitten’s body, fingers feeling along each arm and seizing the woman’s wrists. She drew them down until the woman’s hands were entwined in the thick mop of blonde hair. Kitten opened her eyes then and looked down, a feral expression coming over her face as her grip tightened and pulled Jane’s face harder into her pussy.

“That’s right, little bitch, eat my pussy! I’ll fuckin’ drown you in cum, you little slut. Be my whore! Be my whore!” Kitten’s voice was ugly and harsh as her breathing quickened, and her eyes rolled back in her head as Jane’s met the challenge enthusiastically. Suddenly Kitten’s body rocked as an orgasm shook her, her moaning lifting into a scream.

Tony’s hand came down on Jane’s ass then, a large leather paddle in his grip. The smack filled the room and Jane let out a liquid yelp, face still buried in Kitten’s crotch. He smacked her again with the paddle, and then again, entranced by the round globes of Jane’s buttocks reddening and dancing in front of him. He looked down beyond Jane’s back and saw that she was no longer just licking her cunt. One small hand was buried up to the wrist in his wife’s pussy, while Jane’s tongue still fluttered against the dark pink bud of Kitten’s clit. For a moment the blonde woman lifted her head, catching her breath, and he saw his wife’s clitoris engorged and popping out of its hood like an tiny nocturnal animal venturing into the night. He brought the paddle down again on Jane’s ass, taking satisfaction as she cried out. She looked back at him for a moment, flashing a glance at him with a startling expression. He didn’t see pain or lust there – she looked at him with dispassionate evaluation. With a shock he realized that the paddle in his hands was not driving her wild with passion.

As he looked at the red cheeks, still moving under his hands, he realized the reverse was true. Her ass mesmerized him even now with serpentine movement. Suddenly uncertain, he brought the paddle down in a half-hearted swipe. At the same time, he felt a growing pressure at his crotch.

Looking down he saw her feet moving, prehensile toes moving at his waistband, pulling down his zipper with unbelievable speed and disappearing into his gaping fly. His eyes widened and he let out a grunt as he felt the toes do something unspeakably dirty and wonderful to his cock. Shuddering, he almost lost his balance, catching himself by dropping the paddle and grabbing Jane’s ass with both hands, leaning against her even as her feet continued to work inside his trousers. His breath was hoarse, a percussive counterpoint to his wife’s guttural moans as Jane’s fist and tongue drove her into cascading orgasms. The bed under Kitten’s crotch was sodden with ejaculate, and Tony’s eyes widened as he saw Jane’s pumping hand draw another squirting stream out of his wife as she came again.

Jane looked back and caught his eye again, and he wondered if he’d imagined it the first time, because now her eyes were filled with a dark lust, as if she were daring him not to come all over her questing toes as they stroked and squeezed and…

Tony let out a ragged screaming roar as he felt his cock erupt and shoot all over her foot, still inside of his trousers.

Jane gave a low chuckle and slowly drew her foot out of his pants, white semen glistening across the arch and toes. He sagged then, falling to his knees against the side of the bed, watching with pleasure-dulled awareness as she twisted with a gymnast’s flexibility. She extended her leg up past her still-pumping fist inside Kitten until her foot was inches from the woman’s face. “Come on, Kitten,” Jane coaxed, punctuating her words with rhythmic thrusts. “Lick the hot cum off your dirty slut’s foot. Let me feel that sweet mouth on my toes…” Without even opening her eyes, still moaning softly as another orgasm rolled through her, Kitten’s mouth opened and her tongue lapped out, tasting Jane’s foot and suddenly sucking her husband’s cum from between the toes, licking and slurping up the instep as far as she could reach. “That’s a good kitten…” Jane softly murmured. She slowly pulled her wrist out of the incoherent woman, patting her cunt affectionately before sitting up and turning to look at Tony.

The man was sitting at the foot of the bed, a confused look on his face.

“What…” he began, looking up at her, trying to find words through the haze of endorphins. “What just happened?”

“Mr. Nesmith!” Jane’s tone was one of mock indignation as she pulled a blanket from the side of the bed and covered Kitten with it, the woman’s snores starting to gain volume as she fell into sated unconscousness. “You know as well as I do what I just did.” Standing, she stepped daintily over him, patting his thinning hair as he sat there, still dressed in the suit he’d been wearing when she’d come in his front door. A dark stain was growing on his trousers, just to the left of his open zipper.

She gave him a merry smile. “I just passed my ‘audition’.” A thoughtful look crossed her face, then, as she paused at the door. “Of course, I wonder how pleased Kitten will be with a video of her licking your cum off my toes while my fist is rammed up her cunnie.” She watched with a satisfied look as Tony’s face began to fill with horror and realization.

“Then again, Mr. Nesmith, I don’t remember you ever taking the time to turn that thing on.” Nodding to the corner of the room, she directed his gaze to the video camera mounted on an expensive tripod, red recording light conspicuously absent. “Lucky you, eh, Mr. Nesmith? Don’t worry, I’ll see myself out.” With a final smile that didn’t reach her eyes, she slipped out into the hall.

As she shut the door and turned to go down the hall, she almost bumped into the tall guard. “Ah! Schmuckballs!” Again she lifted her middle fingers in a double salute, both fingers naked and still glistening with Kitten’s fluids. “Remember me? I was just coming to find you. They’ve given me a room here, right?” The man nodded grimly, as if unwilling to open his mouth for fear of what might come out. “Great. Show me to it. I’m powerful tired.”

He paused, then seemed to simply deflate, unable to muster any defiance in the face of her post-coital glow. As he wordlessly led her down the hall, she softly sang to herself. “A woman’s work is never, ever done…”

Jul 202013
 

Apologies for the tardiness of this next installment; I let other priorities distract me from my goal of releasing a chapter a week. I will endeavor to be more prompt, promise, especially as things are about to REALLY heat up…

Crossing the street, they approached the dark building that housed “T.S. Enterprises” according to the burnished steel letters on the side of the building. As they approached the door the woman saw the camera she’d sent the message through was accompanied by more cameras at regular intervals all around the building. The doorway itself was a seamless black slab resembling black slate, no knobs or hinges visible in the twelve-foot tall slabs, each half that in width, that formed the front entrance. As her escort paused in front of them, she looked expectantly up at him.

Though he tried to maintain his disdainful composure, he finally gave in to her inquisitive gaze and said “What!?!” with the desperate tone of someone who feels harassed but is not sure why.

“Are you kidding?” she said, gesturing with a hand at the doors. “C’mon, with doors like this, I’m just waiting for you to toss a bone in the air so it becomes a space station or something.” Her expectant grin faltered as he just stared at her with a blank, faintly hostile stare. “Oh, c’mon, you’ve never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey?” She shook her head, muttering to herself “Honestly. What are they teaching the children these days…” She reached out and tapped the wall with a knuckle, the tiny brass rivets on her fingerless gloves making a rat-at-tat sound. “So, what do we ‘Speak, friend, and enter?’” Glancing up at the guard’s blank face, she shook her head. “Never mind. What are we waiting for.”

The guard held a finger to his ear, listening to an unseen voice. Then he looked at her with a smug smile. “Seems you’ve got a few items we don’t exactly feel comfortable with around the boss. So I’m going to have to do a…” he licked his lips suggestively “thorough search.” He flexed his hands in anticipation and stepped towards her.

She held up a hand. “I’ve got a better idea, Schmuckballs. Let me save everybody some time.” Under his astonished gaze she rapidly unbuckled, unzipped, and unbuttoned her entire ensemble, a pile of brass, denim, and brown leather slowly pooling at her feet. In less than a minute she was completely naked, nipples pink and hard in the cool morning air, a thick tuft of blond hair at her pubis trimmed into a neat triangle. Her breasts were full and round, looking mature without being out of proportion for her relatively tiny body, and her skin had a soft cream color that was almost luminous. She stood with her weight evenly distributed on both feet, looking up at the flabbergasted guard with a calm, expectant expression. Then she very deliberately lifted her middle fingers in a double fuck-you, a thin silver band on one and a large amber stone gracing the ring on the other. “There. That satisfy you?” She waited, but the guard seemed mesmerized by the tiny nubs tipping her breasts. She sighed. “Oh. Right. I’m supposed to satisfy someone with more brain cells, obviously.”

Looking up, she noticed another video camera, and smiled at it. Lifting her hands behind her head, she cocked her hip jauntily and stepped forward, pivoting like a beauty contestant displaying the goods. As she turned, she revealed an ass of cream-colored skin broken by long lateral bruises like thin shadows across each cheek. As he saw them, the guard’s breath left him in a long hiss, and she shot him an inquisitive look as she finished turning. “What? A girl can’t enjoy a good caning once in a while? Ask your Master’s voice if we can go in now, Schmuckballs, it’s fucking cold out here.”

At this he seemed to recover himself, growling at her. “Stop calling me that, you cu-” his voice broke off and his eyes unfocused in widened surprise as he listened to unseen commands. “Sir? Yes, sir. Of course not, sir. Right away, sir.” Swallowing, he stepped back from the door as it opened and without looking at her motioned for the nude woman to walk in. “Please come in, Ms…” again he left it a question, and again she ignored it as she sauntered past, patting his arm as she went past.

“Be a dear and fold up my kit, won’t you, Schmuckballs?” A vein in his forehead bulged, but he simply said “Yes, ma’am,” and bent to gather the clothing as she disappeared inside.

The lobby of T.S. Enterprises continued the black slate and steel theme of the outer doors, this time with a stone floor leading to a glass and chrome latticework stairway leading up to a ring of offices, the atrium continuing up six stories to a skylight filtering the gray-bright morning sky. The woman walked up to the base of the stairs, ignoring the security guard at the tiny desk and looking up them to the man descending. “Tony Nesmith, I presume?” she said, her voice not quite a purr as her weight shifted, one hip cocking a little further in front.

“None other, shela, and I’m beginning to like making your acquaintance more and more.” Tony unabashedly looked her up and down, eyes evaluating with a professional detachment that nonetheless showed a happy grin on his face as he took in her body. At a slight gesture of his hand she turned, with the calm smile of one who is simply replaying a gift already given. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of her ass striped with bruises from a past caning, and his nostrils flared slightly. “Mmmm…I do like a woman who knows what she’s got and isn’t afraid to flaunt it.”

“Like me, honey?” came a soprano, slightly nasal voice from higher up the stairs, and both of them looked up to see Kitten descending to meet her husband. Her outfit did certainly flaunt something, though how flattering it was seemed a bit more debatable. The naked woman seemed to have some trouble keeping a grin off of her face as she watched the former star descend, a skin-tight spandex dress painted on her rubenesque curves, a keyhole neckline showing off cleavage like a miniature ass crack in her chest. The implants in her breast seemed to move slightly out of sync with her body, and there was a definite dimple in the curve of her hip where a too-small thong bit into her waistline.

Her perfect teeth smiled predatorily at the young naked woman at the base of the stairs, scarlet lipstick opulently lacquered under the smoothest unwrinkled cheeks money could buy. Impossibly long lashes surrounded eyes that would have been liquid in a more slender face, but which now seemed to squint out from the round fleshiness surrounding her visage. Her hair was big and sweeping in frosted blonde and sandy brunette strata that would have been almost still in style a decade before. Like her breasts, it seemed to move somehow independently of her body motion or, for that matter, gravity, and as she finished her descent and took her husbands arm, he seemed to deflate a little, the sag of a man who has been too long in battle and now simply has resigned himself to his fate.

“Yes, dear.” He smiled at her, and there was the echo of real affection in his gaze. “Of course like you. Doesn’t she look like a yummy little treat, though?” His heavy Australian accent made the word sound like “trite.” “I daresay you’d like to sink your teeth into that cute little arse yourself, darlin’.” Addressing the woman, still contrapostally posed at the base of the stairs. “What should we call you, Little Miss Stripey Butt.”

A coy smile crossed the woman’s face. “Cute as that name is, I’m actually called ‘Jane’.” Her smiled dimpled. “It’s an honor to meet you, Miss Kitten. I’ve been an admirer and fan for decades.” Kitten’s eyes widened angrily, but there was too much innocence in Jane’s words to take real offense.

Instead she laughed again, a false staccato sound. “Jane? As in, Plain Jane?” Her hand tightened territorially over her husband’s arm while he simply endured their verbal fencing.

“Actually, ma’am, more like ‘Calamity’, as those Incubikers found out.” Jane straightened, all posing gone from her figure. “Which is, I think, why you wanted to see me, right, Mr. Nesmith?”

The man chuckled and nodded, motioning her up the stairs. “Yes, yes indeed. I have a…few proposals for you, in fact. Especially with the way you handled that singletail. A switch,am I right?” As he walked between the two women up the stairs, his hand fell with casual grace across Jane’s ass, tapping the bruises there. “Looks like you had some fun at some point in the recent past…care to tell?”

“I could do that,” Jane replied, not reacting to his presumed intimacy at all in spite of Kitten’s glaring from across her husband’s shoulder. “Or I could just show you. I have heard about your legendary paddle on Kitten’s beautiful ass, and…well…” She gave an apparently unconscious wiggle to the curve under his hand, and just as Kitten’s mouth opened in protest, she continued. “Of course, my real fantasy is to be under Kitten’s hand. Or…well…ma’am, if you don’t mind me saying…” As they reached the top of the stairs she looked demurely at the woman, seeming oblivious to the jealous fury filling Kitten’s eyes.

The older woman simply stood there, glaring, until a suggestive throat-clearing from Tony reminded her that a reply was expected. “Oh. Yes, dear.” The word dripped like acid from her lips. “Please, do share with us your true fantasy.”

“Well…” Jane looked demurely at the floor, then up again at Kitten. “Ma’am, you’ve got the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen. I used to get off just imagining tasting you, having my mouth close to your…” she trailed off, looking down in embarrassment, one arm coming up to massage the back of her neck.

Kitten couldn’t help but notice how it lifted her breast on that side, the nipple seeming to quest towards her husband and herself. In spite of her anger, she found herself licking her lips. Then she suddenly shook her head. “Wait a minute! What the fuck is going on here?” She took a step away from the naked woman and her husband, seeming to shake off some sort of glamour that had filled her eyes. “She comes in here and barely introduces herself and suddenly she wants to eat me out? While you paddle her ass? Who does that?” Her hands fluttered agitatedly in Jane’s direction. “Why the fuck are you naked in my house, bitch?”

Jane looked at her with wide eyes, an innocent, wounded sadness welling up in them. “Well, ma’am, I imagine I’m naked for the same reason they are.” She pointed behind the woman to the opposite railing one floor above them in the atrium, where a row of naked and semi-dressed women interspersed with a couple of men watched the three of them with more than a little interest.

Tony noticed them, too, and bellowed out “You aren’t getting paid to eavesdrop you sloppy cunts! Get back in your rooms and make those perverts give us more money!” The crowd scattered with alacrity, and in a chorus of slamming doors the balcony was empty again. He looked at Jane. “Those are our cam girls, little Jane. You think you belong with them?”

“Well…not exactly, Mr. Nesmith.” She smiled at him, just short of an invitation. “I suspect that my abilities are…specialized enough to attract a more erudite and discriminating audience.” Looking at Kitten, she smiled. “And I’m sorry if I presumed, ma’am, but I just figured that like them you’d rather I prove my…abilities.” She smiled again, eyes flicking up to the balcony, and this time there was no mistaking the invitation. “Didn’t any of them get an audition?”

Kitten looked at Jane for a moment more with suspicion, and then, gradually, another expression – not quite predatory, but hungry and cruel nonetheless – came over her face. “Ah. I see. Well…yes, I’m certain we could arrange something, after the appropriate tests are taken care of. Can’t be too careful these days, you know…”

“My most recent AIM test is in my wallet that Schmuckballs has in my pile of clothes,” Jane said promptly, and she seemed to wiggle like a puppy while at the same time standing in place. “I really do have some skills I just would love to show you…” Somehow she managed to plead without whining, and Tony’s eyes now glittered with possessive intent.

“An audition it is, then, shela. Been a while since we’ve had this kind of toy, hasn’t it, Kitten-o-my-heart?” He smiled wickedly at his wife, and she suddenly seemed to acquiesce to her husband’s desire.

“Oh, yes, dear, it will be just like old times…” Looking Jane up and down again, this time with a lascivious gaze, she smiled. “And if the audition goes well, I’m sure we might be able to make each other a nice bit of money, indeed, all the while having lots of fun…” She caught her breath as Jane moved next to her, snuggling her breasts against the larger woman like a smaller version of her namesake.
“I’m sure we will. Though I think, since I’ve already given Mr. Nesmith a ‘screen-test’, this should be more of a work-for-hire deal. I know I would rather we had the cameras rolling, to have something to remember you by…” She smiled and looked at Tony, head not moving from his wife’s bosom. “Shall we say, $1500 for the video, no stills?”

“Um…well…we’ve never really paid for an audition before…” Tony began, but his voice trailed off as he saw his wife’s hand dip towards the golden curls of Jane’s vulva and come away slick with moisture. Looking at the expression on his wife’s face, he realized she wouldn’t brook more negotiation. “$1500 it is. We’ll get you a check mailed just as soon as…”

Janes hand floated up languidly and curled open at his nose. A strip of flexible metal uncurled there, which a moment before had been a ring around her middle finger. There seemed to be writing on it, and looking closer he could just make out a website. “You have a computer in your bedroom, don’t you, Mr. Nesmith? This will be so much more convenient for you and me both, don’t you think?” He took the ring from her, and her hand seemed to float down and brush the bulge in his pinstripe trousers. “Then we can get on to…other things.”

Jul 062013
 

Submission is a definite kink of mine. So I have some definite ideas about what I
think it is. These may differ from yours, and if so, that’s fine; write your own damn entry. This one certainly has come both in response to other people’s views as well as my own experience in relationships.

If you want me to submit to you, you’re gonna have to earn it!” “Make me submit!” “You might get me to submit, but it won’t come easy!” These are the kinds of things I’ve heard from people both intimate and non-. I’ve had a few thoughts I’ve had about it.

I’ve got nothing to prove. Here’s the first reaction: Honey, if I’m not good enough for you as I am, then that’s just too fucking bad. Personally, I look back on my life, with certain milestones like being a Marine, a single father, a business owner, a teacher, an author, a performer, and I am pretty satisfied with both what I’ve accomplished and how I’ve turned out. The only thing I really feel I need to do is maintain enough integrity to look myself in the eye every morning. If that’s not good enough for you, then it means one of two things: either you haven’t taken the time to get to know me well enough, or else I am not what you are looking for.

This doesn’t mean that I’m not going to work on our relationship, or that I’m saying “Take me as I am, I’ll never change for no one!” No, what it means is that your submission cannot be dependent on some transient quality of mine – such as being able to tie you up, to beat you down, to cook you dinner. Because there will *always* be someone who can do that one thing better, and more than that, I may not always be able to do that one thing that “made” you submit. And when it’s superseded or gone, where does that leave our power exchange?

Force is easy, and transient. When someone talks about wanting to be “beaten down” or “made to submit” I personally feel that they are not talking about submission. Submission is a willful act; it requires action by the individual. Think about it as a part of speech: you don’t say “I SUBMIT YOU!” (well, unless we’re doing it to something else: “I submit you for the competition.”). At the risk of Godwinning it, there’s a whole lot of theory about how the human body can be beaten down, damaged, etc, but the human spirit can *only* be beaten when the humans themselves choose to allow it.

So can I subjugate someone? Sure. That’s basically physics, or failing that, tactics, and if necessary even strategy. One of my key personal mantras, second only to “*Confusion to the enemy!*” is “*Old age and treachery will always triumph over youth and enthusiasm.*”Not only that, but I can be subjugated – and have been, in the military, in the dojo, even in one or two classes I’ve taught. Subjugation is even fun, and is a great way to build yourself back up after being torn down. But it is not submission.

Submission is a choice you make to dedicate yourself to something outside of yourself. That is sometimes something you believe to be “greater”- such as your religion, your country, or some higher principle – and it is sometimes just to something you believe *in* – such as your family, or an individual or organization you believe has potential. Your level of submission may be total, such as the “blank check” a soldier writes when she or he takes their oath, or it may be partial, such as going to church every sunday and reveling in the hymns and rituals that allow you to feel more a part of something greater.

But you have to choose to do it. If you’re dragged to the church against your will, odds are you are not going to feel that connection to the sublime that the draggers hoped for. And how well has compulsory service worked out in times of war?

Submission is a gift. Now, before I get a whole lot of people yelling about how it’s not, let’s note how I’m using it – as a verb, not a noun. It’s not a gift as in “*Happy birthday! Here’s my submission!*” It’s a gift in the same way that a person can have a gift for writing, for dancing, for building, for destroying. It’s a gift in the way that we call an individual “gifted”. It’s the *ability* to devote yourself to something outside of yourself, to surrender – which is something very different than being conquered.

I think some people have a problem with the idea of submission because they either see it as a weakness or else they fear that others will see it as weakness. Fair enough; everybody’s entitled to an opinion, and I’ve heard enough Doms say “I don’t have a submissive bone in my body!” in a tone of pride.

That’s not my view, though. I have found submission to be amazingly beautiful when I’ve seen it, and incredibly powerful and humbling when I’ve been the recipient of it. There’s a level of dedication and trust that comes with submitting to a person that I envy. I haven’t found a way to submit to anything since my last child left our home; before that, family, community, and country were experiences of submission that molded me and fulfilled me in ways that I truly miss.

Now, however? Trust issues, I HAZ DEM. I can barely manage to be an adequate bottom, much less actually submit to a person, place, or thing. So when I see someone who really groks submission – like Mollena, for example, who has far wiser things than I to say about it – I listen to them, not only for what I learn but for the voyeuristic thrill of seeing something that I envy, that I don’t experience, and that I long to share with my partners.

Basically it’s a lot like porn. Or the food channel. Or IKEA.

If your attitude about submission is make me, that’s fine. But personally, I gotta say that I believe you are gonna have to make yourself.

And that will be a beautiful thing to see.

May 192013
 

Editor’s note: If you’re new to the series, start here. If you’re wondering about the chapter title, well, it’s a work in progress, remember? In fact, as I was editing this, I found myself questioning whether it really merited being a “chapter” at all – that maybe it should have just been tacked on to the end of Chapter 2. Mainly because while I love that there is exposition, witty dialogue, and pancakes, there’s not a lot of action here. Speaking of which, if you’re wondering “Hey, Gray, where’s the sex?” trust me…it’s coming. Got feedback? I’d love hear from you, either in the comments or directly.

“I knew you were trouble!” Jason glared at Jane as she came through the door. Crew Chief Jonesy just gave her a merry grin, though, as he accepte a tray with four large cups from the barista. “And you still can’t pay for anything, unless you robbed those poor fellas too…” Jonesy suddenly froze, looking distressed.

“You gotta pay for coffee now?” he said, sounding panicked.

“What?” Jason shifted focus for a moment to the wide-eyed medic. “No, no, Jonesy, you know you never have to pay for your coffee. Especially since you have to lug those poor guys to the clinic.” He glared at Jane as she sat in a booth, a small amused smile on her face. “Quit grinning like that! He told me what you said about getting three beds ready! How can you call that self-defense?”

She nodded thoughtfully, expression becoming more serious. “You’re right. That was a mistake.” Looking at Jonesy, she said “I’m sorry to cause you more work, friend. But I was wrong.” She held up a hand, thumb tucked. “Doc Jonesy’s gonna need four beds.” As Jason’s glare darkened, she gave him a nod. “Fire up the grill, Jason-my-friend, I’ve got a powerful hunger, and this girl’s work has just begun.”

Jason looked for a moment as if he would explode. Suddenly he sagged, leaning against the counter for a moment. “But…you can’t pay!” His objection was only half-hearted as he turned to the grill.

“Don’t worry about it!” Jane called to his back. “My moneyroll is on his way. Breakfast, and then some.” Jason looked at her over his shoulder, an eyebrow cocked in mute question. “Eggs, scrambled, sausage links, pancakes, and coffee.” She paused for a moment, thinking, then added “And throw some cheddar on those eggs, wouldja, darling?” She settled back in the booth, giving Jonesy a wave as he walked out the door. Her eyes closed and a serene smile came across her face at the sound of the griddle sizzling mingling with Jason’s muttered imprecations.

Shortly the man brought the plate of food to her table and sullenly dropped the plate with a rude clatter. “That’s another $7 added to your tab,” he announced darkly.

“Seven?” she said, surprised. “That seems kind of steep for, well-” she waved her hand around, indicating the shop’s decor, “– a place like this.”

“You get a $2 pain-in-the-ass tax,” he snapped. “I told you that you should just go. Now you’ve just gone and stirred things up that didn’t need stirring. Four men – Incubikers, no less – in the clinic. Not that they were really good men to start with, but still.” Jason looked up intently at her. “There’s been a truce, almost, lately. Uneasy, sucky for everyone, but mostly peaceful. Violence is not the answer!”

“Kinda depends on the question, don’t you think?” she said quietly, then took a forkful of eggs. She motioned for Jason to join her across the booth. He grudgingly sat downas she swallowed, humming appreciatively. “Good eggs.” Gesturing with her fork, she continued. “Question for you: who was that redhead they were escorting? She was…” she looked away a moment, seeming to go through several possible adjectives before finally settling on one. “Striking. Moreso than I’d expect from that crowd, that kind of porn.”

Jason chuckled bitterly. “Oh, she’s not part of the porn. I wish she were, it would be easier on…” He stopped and sighed, taking a different approach. “She’s Michael’s own little pet – he thought she was ‘striking’ too, and so he just had to have her. Any trace of mirth left his face. “So he took her.”

“Took?” Jane asked through a mouthful of pancakes.

“Took her from Alecs.” Jason nodded upstairs, indicating his lodger. “From him and from her little boy.” He looked down at the table again. “Continues to take her. Night after night.”

Jane looked puzzled. “Why doesn’t anyone – ” she began, but Jason cut her off.

“The answer to any question beginning with ‘Why don’t they – ‘ is usually…”

“Money,” Jane finished the quote. “Yeah. Figures. They pay off the police, eh? Can’t Alec go higher in the food chain?” Before he could answer, she held up a hand. “Never mind. Stupid question. He didn’t go quite high enough, did he? They found a way to discourage him from trying again.”

The barista set his lips, looking away before replying. “If you count his fingernails, you won’t get near ten.”

The woman’s face went blank. “Ah. I see.” She ate the rest of her meal in silence, and after a moment Jason got up and returned to polishing and re-polishing the glassware behind the counter.

Just as Jane was mopping up the last of her syrup with the final shred of pancake, the door opened and a well-muscled man in a dark designer sports coat walked in. Ignoring Jason, he walked over and tried to loom over the woman by standing too close to the booth. His attempted intimidation was a diluted by her complete disregard for his presence, and his face slowly grew red as she continued to idly draw little designs in the syrup.

“Hey, bitch. Mr. Nesmith wants to talk to you.” His voice had a nasal whine to it, making him seem more petulant than threatening.

With a glacierlike calm she turned her head to look up at him. “Really? And why do you think that is, shit-for-brains?” His mouth opened, but she continued before he could speak. “Do you think it might have something to do with the four assholes I sent to the clinic half an hour ago? And do you think,” her voice suddenly took on a strident tone, like a slap in his face “- that if he decided to just send one asshole to get me, he expects you to treat me like shit?” Eyes narrowing, her voice suddenly lowered, becoming a low, predatory purr. “Or maybe…tell me, schmuckballs, what did you do to piss Tony off? Did you say no when Kitten wanted you to take your turn? Because if he sent you to me alone…he must not be expecting to get too much back.”

The man’s face had gone white as the woman talked, and when she finished, his stance was a little more unsure, and finally he shifted away from the booth. “Mr Nesmith…requests your company,” he amended, voice surprisingly gentlemanly. “If you would be so kind as to let me escort you, Miss….?”

“Thank you, schmuckballs. That’s much better.” She didn’t move from the booth for a moment, taking a final, leisurely sip of her coffee. Then with a lithe movement she was out, the motion so sudden that the man jumped a bit as she suddenly was inches away from his broad chest. Looking up at him, she winked. “You can call me ma’am, for now. Pay the man, and let’s go. Mustn’t keep little Tony waiting.” She handed her rucksack over the counter to Jason. “Keep an eye on this for me, willya?” He nodded, a grimly amused smile on his face, her tab in his hand. “Oh, and don’t forget the asshole tax, Jason! Schmuckballs certainly qualifies.”

Jason presented the bill neutrally to the rough man who glanced at it with a look as if he were swallowing glass. With a muttered “Fucker!” he threw a ten at the counter, and stiffly opened the door for her as they went out into the morning light.