Rules

My personal rules for writing erotica this summer:

1. Do not play out actual power dynamics (dissimilar ages, teacher/student, boss/employee, experienced/non-experienced) and instead write about created dynamics between peers

2. Explore negotiated (even if implied, inferred, or prior) BDSM instead of scenes of coercion or force (even if obviously fantasy/metaphor)

3. Write about characters of diverse body types, gender presentations, and especially races

4. Stay away from both white-centric language (i.e. idealizing pale skin, pink parts, etc) and not using “colonialist” type descriptions of skin tones (i.e. ivory, chocolate, coffee)

5. Write beautifully, descriptively and in an unrushed manner. Create tension. Write poetically without fear.

6. Seduce the reader. Make them squirm. Make them physically react.

His

He takes her fingers out of her own mouth when she sucks on her fingers. He will not let her pull on her own hair or bite her own wrist or the dozen other things she does to cope or process the pain and the pleasure.

He puts her in leather mitts when she makes fists so tight she leaves four little crescent moons on each of her palms. He slaps her hard across the face when she drifts too far away into sub space.

She is starting to learn that when she is in his bed she is his. Her reactions are his. Her orgasms and her tears are his.

The thought makes her knees weak and her thighs clench.

She finds herself playing his games even when she is alone, chiding herself when she goes back to her old ways of doing things. She sits up straight. She doesn’t curse. She meets people’s eyes when she speaks to them. She cleans up her messes.

She keeps herself smooth and waxed even though she hasn’t seen him in weeks. She keeps herself up at night wondering if it would be okay to text him to ask permission to come.

She fucks herself too hard, pretending her thin fingers are his thick ones. She wishes she could make herself sore the way he does.

She feels guilty when she breaks his rules. She gets red in the face when she imagines confessing.

Every buzz of her phone brings delight or disappointment. She saves his emails like the best part of dessert; a thing to savor last.

She is his. She is his. She wants to write it in notebooks in math class and on bathroom walls and across the sky.

End

Tips accepted here.

The Orgy on 8th Ave

They come in one at a time.

They are well dressed, usually larger gentlemen, portly, all black. Their suits are colorful, Sunday best, just come from church. Vivid purples and blues, sherbet orange, pastel green. Matching hats, everything perfectly pressed.

They have the stance of addicts, milling about with clenched fists and occasional ticks.

They know each other, if not personally than as members of the same club. People with the same shame. They eye the door for wives or children or anyone else who could rat them out, or worse stop them.

I’m the only white boy in there, but that doesn’t get a second glance. I’m safe and their secret is safe with me.

The man in front is up and he stands at attention as he is called.

"You know what you want, baby?" she asks.

She is a wonderfully large woman. Both maternal and sexy. Buxom to overflowing, hair covered in a cloth, lips glossy, skin shining with the slightest patina of sweat. Her words are honeyed and slow and weighted.

And he knows what he wants. He knows with a specificity and hunger that makes other in the line reconsider what they want.

"The smothered pork chops, over rice. But," he stops her before she scoops form the mountain of snowy white rice, "put the turkey gravy over the rice and then some black eyed peas and a side of yams!"

There are nods from the others in the line. It’s a good order. It’s a solid choice.

The next gentleman’s order is equally detailed.

"One chicken breasts-in fact that one there," he points through the steam fogged glass. "No, next to it, the well done one. Right. And a large macaroni and cheese."

The word large is emphasized.

The shame in the room is complicated. Men getting away with something they promised their wives they wouldn’t do. Or promised themselves.

I’m in the second camp. I have a good enough list of justifications though. I had a long week at a new job. I walked a mile and a half this morning. I had a low fat yogurt for breakfast.

The woman behind the counter gives me a slow and sultry smile. A little growl in her voice before she asks, “what do you want, baby?”

"Two thighs," I start and she smiles wider and her eyebrows raise.

"Collared greens, no rice."

It’s an easy concession.

She nodes and fixes my Styrofoam plate. She looked up at me through thick lashes and adds a drumstick and a wink.

As I leave I see many of the men wolfing down their food wearing napkin bibs. More are in the alley nearby, hurriedly eating before rejoining their family.

The ones who have finished have smiles on their faces and loud laughs. Children who got away with cutting school or stealing a piece of candy.

I go home with my grease stained parcel. To wash it down with iced coffee and silly television shows I pirated.

It’s a lovely Sunday.