Apparently, all I need is a kick in the ass. If I am going to produce erotic fiction, that is.
I went to an erotic writing workshop led by Rachel Kramer Bussel tonight at Come As You Are. She’s a prolific erotica editor and writer, and I haven’t stoked the creative fires in quite some time, so I thought, what the hell, why not.
I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t what happened. Basically, the entire workshop consisted of Rachel putting us through five-minute writing exercises. And you know what? They worked. She’d give us a theme and set a timer, and away we went. I came home flushed with the pleasure of having produced more creative output than I have in months, and proceeded to read all my little stories to Boi M, who promptly suggested I post them here for your salacious enjoyment. And since last I checked nobody was publishing 200-word erotic fiction, I might as well. So here you go! A departure from the standard sex geekery, if only a brief one.
It could have been used to tame a lion, or as the prop in a sexy cabaret dancer’s act. It could have served for a young mother to stand on, to reach the vase on the top cupboard above the kitchen sink, or for a kid to eat dinner from, with the help of a phone book, back when they still printed those things. It could have been piled with papers in a crowded student’s apartment.
But this chair, whatever its history, is none of those things today. Today, it’s a prison cell, a torture chamber. It’s not electric but it’s threatening nonetheless. He’s sitting on it, and breathing faster than he should. His skin is cold and clammy. The look on his face is strained, much like the skin of his anus, which is stretching to accommodate a large butt plug that he worked for nearly half an hour to take. His thighs are still shaky from the effort.
I can’t see his eyes because the heavy blindfold engulfs them. But I can hear his breath catch when he smells the rubbing alcohol and hears me tear open the package of the scalpel. His cock twitches. He knows he is expected not to move.
“No. Absolutely not.”
“But honey, please?”
“Don’t even call me honey. That’s a food. I’ve told you how I feel about this.”
“But hon- I mean sweetheart- I mean, um, darling, we haven’t done it in so very long.”
“You’re a sick fuck. First it was baby carrots up your butt. Then whipped cream on your nipples. And eventually ginger on your cunt lips. And I went along with all of it – didn’t I?”
“You did. I love you so much.”
“Yeah. Whatever. You know I find this stuff disgusting! What’s wrong with some good old-fashioned nipple clamps, or maybe a flogger or some handcuffs? Why the obsession with produce? I can’t even trust you to pick up our weekly organic food basket and have all the contents arrive home unslimed! I mean, really, this is getting out of hand.”
“But it’s so much better for the environment, love!”
“Oh, shut up. Listen, if you want to have someone truss you up like a turkey and shove an apple in your mouth, ask the greengrocer. I’m outta here. I have a date with Larry.”
“Aw, Larry? The balloon fetishist? How can you stand the squeaking?”
“Fuck you. Go boil a potato.”
Theme: “Set in a recognizable Toronto location”
Luckily, on domestic flights, they don’t prohibit carrying handcuffs the way they do on international ones. But Lara didn’t know that. So when she came to pick Steph up at Pearson Airport, she couldn’t quite have imagined what Steph had in her bag. Fresh off the plane from Halifax – it was a short flight, but Steph had had plenty of time to plan things out.
They walked away from the baggage pick-up and Steph said, “Honey, I need to pee. Come with me?”
They headed into the bathroom – one of those cavernous brushed-metal rooms with too many mirrors and terrifyingly loud hand-dryers.
The room was empty, as she knew it normally was at night. Steph picked the accessible stall. She rolled in her luggage, then grabbed Lara by the wrist and yanked her in. Snick – one cuff clicked shut. Snick – the other snapped around the support bar beside the toilet. Steph stepped out and hit the dryer button just outside the door. The machine flared to life and its screech filled the air. She locked the door and plunged her hand into Lara’s pants.
“Come before the drier shuts off or I’ll leave you here.” And Lara was already juicing down her wrist.
Theme: “Sex toys”
All she wanted was to make him pretty. For her, elegance was de rigueur. Her toys were made of nothing but the smoothest stainless steel, weighty enough to bludgeon an unwelcome guest to death and sleek enough to slide right out of a slippery orifice if one were to let gravity take over.
First, the shackles, of course – an unfortunate necessity with this one. Then, beaded weights from each nipple.
She selected a butt plug with a jewel-encrusted tip, so that the light caught it just so when it was properly held in place. Next, a cock cage – it was almost too late, he was almost too hard, but she clamped it around his half-swollen prick and locked it shut before the unsightly appendage made its presence more visibly known.
So many lovely orifices to use. She picked up the dental device, opened his mouth – two or three sharp slaps helped the process along – and then it all fit right in, and she ratcheted it open so that it forced his lips away from his teeth and exposed the wet pinkness of him.
And then, she reached for the funnel.
Theme: “Write a letter”
I never expected, when we first met, that things would turn out this way. Your blond hair and square jaw and the intense blue of your eyes certainly caught my attention, but then Mitzi was next to you, and you were totally absorbed by her. She seemed so sweet, I almost couldn’t bear to do it, but I did. She confided in me – apparently I inspire trust. She confessed how hard she had found your transition, how challenging to deal with you as a new man when before you had been happy lesbians. The lie came so smoothly to my lips – “Lesbians?” I said, feigning surprise. “I thought Wilhelm was a trannyfag!” She didn’t understand, so I said something brief about seeing you locked in a heated kiss with Karl after she’d left the party, and her face crumpled.
Perhaps you’ll hate me when you get this letter. But I regret nothing. You didn’t take long to find your way into my bed after she left you. Barely a week, and your stubble was scratching the inside of my thighs. And now I’m back home, but Wilhelm, those nights on the streets of Munich were worth every lie I told. The pleasure of your German tongue was worth the price of Mitzi. Or at least, it was to me.
Theme: “Write from a gender or orientation not your own” (I found this to be the absolute hardest!)
They call it man-boy love. It used to be jockers and punks, or wolves and lambs, in the mining camps and lumber mills of Oregon and Washington State back in 1910. But now, it’s 1938. All I know is that I’m an old man – ancient at 47 – and I can’t wait to get my hot, hard prick down your sweet little-boy throat. Oh, you’re plenty old enough to know what you’re doing. I’m not one of those true sickos, the ones who like ’em before puberty. No, you’re eighteen, or at least so you told me when I found you outside the boarding house, and I don’t ask too many questions.
Come here, boy. I’ll feed you in the morning. I’ll teach you how to hop a train – there aren’t too many of us migrant workers around these days. I’ll give you the shirt off my back if you need it. All you gotta do is give an old man some pleasure with that gorgeous young mouth of yours. Come here, boy. Daddy’s hungry and you look like you need someone to take care of you.