I suspected the young woman before me, petite and demure, was expecting just to be thrown over my knee cave-man style, skirt flipped up and panties pulled down before the walloping would commence. That approach has merit, to be sure, and while I’ve never embraced the full Daddy/girl dynamic there is a certain frisson of sexiness to the domestic disciplinarian. Hell, it doesn’t even have to be domestic. John Wayne teaching Maureen O’Hara the error of her ways on the streets of the wild west, that’s enough masturbatory fodder for years.
I know this for a fact.
However, that was not what I had in mind for her this evening. Our times together were too infrequent, her alabaster skin too pure and precious a thing to hurry the experience. No, it needed to be savored, and that meant, at least for now, that we would move slowly.
I saw her eyes flit around the room, not so much looking for escape – she’d invited me here, after all – as much as dealing with the nervous energy that seemed to vibrate from her. She was still at the door where she’d let me in, bolts fastened, lights out so that the curtains could stay open allowing the moon, street, and automobile lights to shine and flicker across the room and each other. Her self-imposed captivity had transformed into an erotic, nervous excitement.
“Turn around,” I commanded, not so much because I expected obedience but more to see how she would react.
Two things happened – there was an involuntary twist to her body, as if her first inclination had been to obey. This was followed by a flush of blood to her cheeks, a slight pursing of her lips in defiance as she caught herself. I could almost hear her inner monologue saying that she wasn’t going to be that easy, she was going to make sure I had to work for it.
I sighed theatrically at her defiance, inwardly delighted. I love having to work for it; truly a labor of lust.
I can’t speak for others, but my own erotica writing is not so much trying to turn on other people as much as trying to express and explain why I like doing the things I do. I’m a nice guy! Equal rights, equal pay, I just signed the “Ready for Hilary!” petition at Boston Pride Village. So what am I doing writing stories about imposing my will and my hand on the spirit and body of a lovely young woman?
That’s a good question. It’s what I try to answer, in part, with this story.
I’ll Tell You a Little (not-so) Secret…
Most of my erotica works are based on real experiences. “Savoring Little One” is no exception – it was a delightful evening with a delightful woman, full of sensuality and all the promise that is hinted at in the story. When I read the call-for-submissions from D.L. King, I thought I’d be writing about that. But the more I wrote, the more I felt that to focus on the activities – the spanking, the licking, the kissing, the moans and the breaths and the oh-my-god-I’m-cumming – would be to miss the point. Yes, all of that is well and good – but that’s not what keeps me coming back to this kind of situation. It’s not the actions, it’s the aura, the circumstances, the flavor of the interaction that feeds some dark part of us both.
I wrote the story, and immediately (as authors do) assumed it would never get published. It couldn’t be anything like what D.L. had in mind for this. Or else it would be too tame for Cleis Press. Happily, neither was true. There’s plenty of collars and whips and chains and skin and “greasy basement slave”-type material in this anthology.
But D.L. King is a master of her craft, and intermixed in these tales of submission and conquest are tastes of that feeling, that sensation, that makes this oh-so-politically-incorrect genre so fucking delicious. Check out what the other authors have to say as part of the blog tour, and pick up a copy yourself. It’s ok; they’re just stories…right?