Excerpt from Girl, Crushed

She said she had a crush on a boy.

She didn’t look at me as she explained that he had a girlfriend and “they weren’t like us.” He was just a boy and he didn’t know any better, but he was tall and charming and had a crooked smile and a she liked him.

"I see him all the time at work and sometimes we have drinks," she said as she pulled her underwear up her long legs.

Sometimes when we got dressed after sex it felt like an affair. It felt like we were in a hotel room and we had to gather all of our things and get out before checkout, with husbands and wives somewhere worried and waiting. It was one of those feelings that was both wonderful and horrible, because it reminded me of the wonderful and horrible fact that she was not mine. At least not all mine.

"He comes to my apartment sometimes," she admitted, gauging my reaction from the corner of her eye.

I raised an eyebrow.

"Nothing like that, we just watch movies and lay on the couch," she explained, slapping me on the arm for my look.

I could imagine them on the couch, innocently cuddling. He was her age, not my age. They were similar heights and similar builds and he was perhaps more her type than I was. Perhaps. Though she had scoffed at this and said in no uncertain terms that she “liked older men.”

She sat in her panties and a bra, slipping on her socks. As she bent over to pull them up, her ass was right in front of me, plump and perfect in pink boy cut glory. I wanted her again and wondered if my body was capable.

I wondered if I was capable of laying in bed with a woman completely innocently anymore. I felt very old and very jaded and for a moment very broken. I worked to keep up my masks.

"What goes on, on this couch, I wonder."

She shrugged. She didn’t seem playful anymore. She had a crush. She had a crush on a boy she couldn’t have.

I let myself be jealous. It felt good to feel heat in my veins. It was nothing, but still, I wanted to be her crush again. I wanted to be desired and forbidden. I wanted to be worth breaking rules for.

"We just lay there for hours, like cats. We watch stupid things on YouTube. Sometimes he brushes his fingers along the inside of my arm," she said, her eyes closing and her chipped nails slipping against the vulnerably soft skin inside her arm.

My teeth gritted.

"Nothing more?" I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

She sighed.

"I told you, he’s not like us."

The Shaving Lesson

The Shaving Lesson - Short Story from the Dirty Boys Reading

To meet the husband of you lover is a strange thing. To realize he was flirting with you was quite another. Henry, poked at his eggs and smiled nervously as Adam and Kay whispered to each other, both pairs of their pretty eyes sparkling at him as they conspired.

Henry squirmed under their eyes and attention. The whole thing wasn’t going the way he had planned at all. He had expected brunch to be…

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Smut as Art

nomakesknots asked: Mr. Stratton, of all such arts in which to delicately unfold and write upon why does smut appeal the most?

Maybe we all gravitate to the language we learn first.

As a kid wandering around the burgeoning internet, I found erotica pretty early on. It took less time to download a story than a picture. They were scanned smut novels, fan fictions, wild tales where people wrote about the most outrageous things they could think of just to stand out.

At the same time I spent most of my school days in the public library. I wondered if there might be dirty stories on the shelves, like the ones on the computer.

So I found Anaïs Nin who has been a lifelong guild. And the Beauty series and De Sade and the Story of O. And then Nabakov, who shook my world up. Henry Miller, then the beats. Later I ended up inheriting a box of discarded pulp novels from the 70s with every manner of fucked up kink.

So with those things as my guides, it always seemed natural for me to write smut. Plus from early on it has been a way to meet like minded people and seduce them, which is really the greatest goal of art in my opinion.

I really do consider what I write here and in my books to be art. Sometimes they are silly or serious or very direct and graphic, but these little tales actually mean a lot to me and I’m trying to say some important things with them.

I write smut because it is the art form that can stir the body and the emotions at once if done right.

The Blackboard

It was a thunder crack when he smacked her, then a still moment as the world went silent, then lightning behind her eyes. Everything vibrating and swimming. Blood rushing in her ears, her face heating and turning red, her vision blurring, and then finally his face coming back into focus.

He was right in front of her, filling her line of sight, his hand closing back around her neck.

Rope made her strong. Her muscles stayed tense, always fighting against her bonds, never resting, never giving up, even when she knew how good his knots were and how well he knew her wiggling ways. She would show him.

They sat on the blond parquet floor, both cross legged, her back against the cool eggshell wall. He sat in front of her, just as straight backed as she was, facing her, their knees touching.

Next to them was a thick metal radiator and above it the window, with a splash of blue sky visible from their vantage. A little late summer breeze tickled her sweaty naked skin.

She wore nothing, except for the little blackboard. It was about the size of a composition notebook, smooth wood framing a rectangle of dark gray slate. On the surface were two short stark white lines.

Her feet were tingling from the position she was in. Her arms were behind her back, wrists tied together. The little blackboard hung from a coarse piece of twine that she felt cut into the tender skin of her nape.

She was confused and wanton. Her head spinning, her body nothing but the begging need to get fucked, her brain nothing but the compulsion to get his questions and rules and instructions right.

"And so why did you think it was okay to come this morning before work?" he asked, one hand on her throat and the other holding a piece of chalk.

She blushed, on top of the blush that was already there. There were so many rules in place, rules she had requested, about when and where it was okay to come. She tried to remember the email he had sent about what to do the mornings before she saw him.

"I don’t, I-" she started to answer but he cut her off, taking his hand off her throat just long enough to smack her hard across the face again.

He marked the chalkboard with one more short white line.

She didn’t know what the lines represented. He’d just tied her down when she got to his apartment and started asking her questions and slapping her and it was all so much. So many feeling. She felt like she was going to burst, but she couldn’t because he wouldn’t let her. She could even wipe away the tears because her hands were tied.

The chalk marks could mean hits with the cane or orgasms or something horrible she couldn’t imagine. He might opened that closet of his and take out anything.

He took his hand off her neck and stood up in front of her. His knowing fingers on his thick black leather belt. His zipper meant his cock would be in her mouth soon. She swallowed quickly, trying to wet her dry lips.

There was a rush when she was going to suck his pretty cock. It was like nothing she had felt for a cock before. When he finally pulled it out, she smiled because it was hard. That meant, even if she didn’t know what she had done right, she was making him hard and that was a little victory.

He held her by the hair, cock millimeters from her lips. She whined and tried to connect. She pulled against the fist holding her hair and her scalp burned, but she just wanted it. She wanted it more then his rules at that moment. She pulled and cursed under her breath.

"Just-please-fuck-just let me-" she pleaded.

Then the lightning and thunder again. Two quick slaps. Vague recognition of two more marks on the chalk board.

"For language," he remarked coolly.

But more than the fear of what the marks meant was the sadness that his cock was gone, never touching her lips.

"Let’s start again," he said, sitting.

She didn’t even know what game they were playing anymore. The questions were all nonsense. Her whole body was on fire with need and shame. She rocked back and forth on the floor and let out a long wail of frustration.

Which lead to another slap and another mark on the board.

Preview: The Revenge of BatCatGirl

I’m super excited about this new short story I’ve been working on! It has the rather ridiculous title of “The Revenge of BatCatGirl.” The first draft is just about done, so it will be a little while until the final edited product is ready for public consumption, but I can’t help but post a tidbit.

It’s silly and pretty real and gets really fucking hot. So here is a bit of the first part. Let me know what you think.

Part 1: The Negotiation

Kay stood in front of the full length mirror and slowly slipped the Batgirl Underoos up her freshly shaven legs until they were half way up her thighs. She paused, looking at her reflection. She was naked except for the purple and gray fabric suspended between her open legs. Her fingers moved over her dark brown skin, pausing to touch at a tiny stretch mark on her hip.

What the fuck was she doing?

She pulled the comic book themed underpants the rest of the way up, watching the very naked looking triangle of her recently hairless pussy get replaced by a little yellow bat symbol on a swath of boy-cut whimsy.

The t-shirt went on next. It was purple and gray like the panties, with very short sleeves. It was far too tight over her bra-less chest and it didn’t quite cover her torso completely. A thin embarrassing line of belly shown between the shirt and the panties and she pulled at both to cover it. In the center of the shirt, right between her breasts, was another bat symbol, this one slightly stretched.

She felt like an idiot.

Was she really trying to be a little girl? She was thirty years old. She had five gray hairs and big tits and little wrinkles starting to form at the corners of her eyes. She wasn’t a little girl. She had thick hips and a big ass and a career. She was a full grown woman who was stuffing herself into silly little kid clothes and the most confusing part was that it was making her wetter than anything she could remember.

She picked up her phone for the hundredth time that morning and looked up his list again. How could a bullet list make her blush?

The worst part was that she had asked for all of it.

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.

Excerpt from an Untitled Thing

"This isn’t exactly how I thought it would go," he said with a nervous laugh like a cough. 

With wickedness in her eyes, Kay smiled her toothy grin and tousled his hair. 

“Oh no? Do you want to stop?” she teased, moving her hand down to his throat. 

"N-no sir, I mean, ma’am, I mean what do I call-" he said, his cock now hard and bobbing against his stomach as he tried to squirm out of her choke hold. 

"Sir sounds pretty when you say it, why don’t you stick with that."

Emma kneeled next to them, her eyes huge as she watched. 

"Doesn’t it sound pretty when he says it?" Kay asked Emma, who nodded emphatically. 

Kay took Alec by the hair again. 

"Now are you going to suck my cock like a good boy?" she said through her clenched teeth. 

His whimper was like that of a hurt puppy. His cheeks were on fire and his face twisted with confusion. 

“Don’t be scared. How about just a kiss to start? That would’t be so bad would it?” Kay said, her hand moving to his face, nails digging into his cheek.

He swallowed and she forced his head around, his lips inches from the thick purple cock. 

He licked his lips, animal fear in his eyes. 

Emma moved closer and pressed herself against both her boyfriend and Kay. 

"Just kiss it, Alec," Emma whispered into his ear.

“Kiss it once for me,” she said and let her lips brush against his neck. 

He closed he eyes and his lips touched her cock. Kay felt an electric shock shoot from her crotch up her spine. 

He seemed to be trying to hold himself back, but once his lips touched it, the animal instinct was let loose. He opened his mouth and pushed himself forward, taking an inch of the cock, his tongue slipping under it.

The way his eyes closed and his mouth opened reminded Kay of a thirsty man taking a first sip of water. It took all of her will to pull him off her cock, but it was worth it to see the want and the disappointment.

“Say please.”

He let out more puppy whimpers.

“P-please,” he said straining against her hand in his hair.

Emma was nearly jumping out of her skin as she watched, her thighs squeezing together rhythmically and she bounced on her knees.

“No, Alec, you have to say sir. You have to say ‘please, sir can I suck your cock,’” she explained with a tattle tale girlishness in her voice.

Kay held the boy’s hair tighter.

“Why don’t you show him, Em,” Kay said sweetly.

Emma smiled wide, licking her red lips. She took Kay’s cock into her mouth expertly, with the pride of a birthday girl who had gotten the most cake.

That Sort of Thing - Published

I’m excited to announce my new novella That Sort of Thing, the story of a woman named Valentine who meets a charming writer of risqué stories. As she is seduced by his words she is also confronted by the guilt of playing his taboo games. Will reality live up to the dirty fantasies?

This novella can be purchased as an ebook or an audiobook (recorded by me!) exclusively at writingdirty.com, though it will eventually be up on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.