Thursday, November 24, 2016

A Little Public Naughtiness - Part Two


The Way Back to Play Novella  
Solitaire  
Part Two
Read Part One Here
.


To read the rest of this story, please check out this novel of interwoven stories with Deep Desires Press!

Kinksters call it play for a reason. Come have some fun!

Life can make love hard, especially in the kink community. Follow an eclectic, kinky ensemble, through a series of interwoven stories, as they struggle to put a little more play into their lives.

Especially when the marriage between Kat and Peter Richards starts to fall apart. It’ll take this community of kinksters to bring them back together again. After four years of marriage, Kat and her husband’s relationship seems so…nice. Not bad. Just average, ordinary. Nice. They haven’t played in forever and she desperately misses it. She wonders if they’ve lost their spark and worries her happily ever after came at the cost of her sex life.

Peter will need the help of their friends  — from an exhibitionist learning to reconnect with her body and appreciate being looked at again, to an exhausted, off-duty cop having a rough night with an unexpected partner, to a Little struggling to keep her roleplay fantasy fresh against the toll of reality’s ticking clock — to remember that, with trust, communication, and the right partners, play can make life and love so much better.


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BETTER!
See what happens after Kat & Peter's happy ending in my story from Deep Desire Press!
And Listen to an Excerpt

LEARNING A NEW WORLD
Please check out my novel The Taming School from Sizzler Editions that explores discovering kink!
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LOVE EROTICA? LOVE CONSENT?
Please check out my story in The New Smut Project's anthology and see how consent makes everything sexier!

REBEL WITH US!
Please check out Coming Together's defiant, charity anthology that celebrates diversity and equality!
And Listen to an Excerpt
OFF-HOURS OFFICE SEX
Please check out my story "Overtime" in this sexy collection & let it whisk you away from the office and into sixteen stories that explore sex in the working world.
Available Now On



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Also, find out how you can support me and collaborate with me on my Patreon Page!

A Little Public Naughtiness - Part One

The Way Back to Play Novella  
Solitaire:  
Part One

With an agonized groan, Peter Richards held his wife, Kat, still while he came, spilling his seed down her throat.

For a moment, he couldn’t move, couldn’t for the life of him pull out, pull away, from her. But, drained, he felt his legs give way. With a shudder, he slipped out of her mouth and fell to his knees to hold her close. “Katherina.” He sighed before he took her mouth with his.

He always loved her taste, the sweet warmth of her kiss. But, when she tasted of sex, tasted of them both combined, it was almost enough to make him hard again. “Katherina.” He dragged them both down onto the plush rug, wrapping her tight in his arms.

God, when was the last time he had called her that? Had really thought of her like that?

Too long.

Far too long.

“Thank you, Peter.” Kat yawned and cuddled close.

“I should be saying that to you.” He wiped the corners of her lips. “I came. You didn’t.” He’d change that as soon as he could move again.

“It doesn’t matter,” she muttered against his shoulder.

“Of course, it does.” He snorted. Silly girl.

“It was still the best—” She stopped suddenly, her relaxed body suddenly going tense.

He twisted to look down at her. “What?”

She bit her lip.

“Tell me.” 

She turned away. “Nothing.”

“Katherina,” he warned.

She shook her head again.

“Kat,” he said, pled, softly before he stroked her shoulder and arm. “Please.”

She shrugged, before saying very quietly, “It was the best sex we’ve had for a while.”

“Excuse me?” He straightened his glasses on his nose.

She shrugged again, burrowing closer to him. No matter how he turned or tried to hold her so he could look at her face, look into her eyes, she hid from him.

“Hey,” he said, holding her away from him by the shoulders so she met his gaze, “talk to me.” He frowned when her eyes widened with anxiety before she shifted her gaze downward. “What is that supposed to mean?”

First, they weren’t having enough sex and now the sex they were having was bad.

“Have I not been—” He shook his head, not sure what he wanted to ask, wasn’t sure what he wanted her to answer. “Have you not been satisfied? Have I not been good enough for you?”

“No, you’re always good,” she said, biting her lip and shrugging, “enough. Of course, you’re good enough.”

Enough. Good enough? Why didn’t that sound like a compliment?

He winced. Probably because it wasn’t.

“It’s just.” She sighed, sitting up, curling her arms around herself as if she were taken by a sudden chill. “We don’t really...”

“Really what?” He hated how defensive he sounded and fought hard not to pout.

She cringed and looked up at him, her black eyes pleading. “Play,” she answered, her voice quietly apologetic. As if it were her fault. Even though they both knew it wasn’t. “We don’t ever really play anymore.” She shook her head. “Not like we used to.”

He sat up too, staring at her dumbly. He gaped, at a complete loss of words.

“We don’t go to Donovan’s. We barely see our friends anymore. And this,” she said, gesturing to the bed and the array of toys spread out around her, “we never use any of this stuff anymore.” Her gaze, desperate and ashamed, met his for a moment before dropping, a furious blush climbing her cheeks. “I miss it.”

He did too.

Didn’t even really realize it until she’d said something. But, yeah, things had felt off with them for a while. Was this it?

“I feel like you don’t want to play with me anymore.” Her voice cracked, a sure sign of tears.

Peter’s heart broke.

Scooting closer to her, he grabbed her by the elbows, turning her toward him. “Kat,” he said gently, letting his hands rub her arms soothingly, “why did you never say anything?”

She still wouldn’t look at him, her face kept determinedly turned, shielding her eyes but not the tear that trickled down her cheek. “You’d made such a point about not wanting to just have sex anymore. You wanted to make love. How things were different now that we’re married and planning for a family. I didn’t want to push.” Her face crumpled, killing him. “I didn’t want to ask for something you didn’t want to give.”

He swallowed hard. God, he’d messed up.

He cupped her face with his hand, sweeping his thumb under the feather-soft skin under her eyes. He sighed. “If I’m honest,” he told her with a frown, “it does feel different now that we’re married. You’re my wife and the idea of hurting you...” His voice died. He shook his head and looked up at her, sorry and sad. It — the very thought of harming her at all — seemed wrong now. “But I did hurt you, didn’t I?” His brow furrowed and he brushed her hair off her face.

“I just don’t understand why it’s so different.” Her arms crossed over her naked body to pull her hair off to the side. Her hands fisted in the strands, pulling. Her knees clenched tight and her arms hugged over her breasts, like she were shielding herself, protecting herself. From him. “I don’t understand what changed.”

He grimaced. He didn’t think he really did either. He shrugged his shoulders, uncomfortable with being so closely examined. “I guess, before I met you, I never really saw myself getting married, you know. I figured it would happen one day, but never really gave it much thought until you.” He looked at her, curled tight away from him even as she sat in his arms, a bit helplessly. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Kat,” he said almost inaudibly, ashamed. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“You don’t know how to be married,” she asked cautiously, “or you don’t know how to be married to me?”

He shook his head. He didn’t know. “I just want to be able to give you what you want. What you deserve. All the things men give their wives. Security. Love. Respect. A home.” He touched her cheek softly. “I want to take care of you, Kat.”

He just didn’t know how to do that and do this at the same time.

He shook his head, disappointment — in himself, only himself; never her — filling him painfully. “I’m sorry.”

She nodded and swallowed, her lips thinning into a tight, unhappy smile. She leaned in to kiss him gently, almost perfunctorily, on the mouth before reaching up to grab ahold of one of the strong, oak bedposts, pulling herself up to stand before heading for the shower.

He watched her go, her head lowered, her shoulders slumped and resigned, her feet falling silent on the hardwood floor with each step like a sacrifice to slaughter. His jaw clenched as his heart lurched.

She stopped to stand in the doorway of the bedroom for a long, silent moment. Without turning to him, she said softly, “I love you, Peter.”

He heard an unsaid anyway hang heavy in the air.

Peter slumped on the floor at the foot of the bed, watching her walk away from him.

Damn it...



Read Part Two Here

Tuesday, November 22, 2016

Behind the Erotic Pen – A ‘For the Men’ Interview

I was interviewed by Emmanuelle de Maupassant for the For the Men anthology:

1)  Which themes / emotions does your story explore?

-- This story explores kink, polyamory, and primacy and the darker sides of jealousy, insecurity, and inadequacy that can make us lose sight of the love in our lives.

2) As this story is written primarily with a male audience in mind, in what ways did you write with particular themes / style in mind 'for men'?

-- Feminism and the sex positivity movement have done amazing things to empower and embolden women in terms of sexuality but, odd as it may sound, men need a sexual revolution as well. So many of the toxically coded traditions and norms that the female sexual revolution sought and still seeks to dismantle affect men too in just as many, if different, harmful ways. Like the pressure to be your partner’s soulmate, their "one," their all and everything. Too often, when a man discovers that his partner has desires or needs outside of him—no matter how much his partner and he may love and desire each other—it causes him and the world as a whole to question not only the validity of the relationship but the validity of his masculinity and value as a man. And that doesn’t and shouldn’t have to be. This story is all about confronting those loaded sides of our psyches and making the conscious decision to not carry that weight around anymore.

3) If you were to cast actors for your protagonists, who would play the leading roles?

-- Personally, I love the trend in using non-traditional or even non-actor performers in porn, like with Make Love, Not Porn and Pink & White Productions. But, if we're talking recognizable celebrities, after seeing The Nice Guys promotional YouTube videos, I can’t help but see Ryan Gosling as Rob, my protagonist, and Russell Crowe as his self-proclaimed romantic rival, Rand. And I think I see someone ethereally beautiful, like Olivia Wilde, as the woman in their lives, Cara.

4) From where did you gain inspiration for this story/what compelled you to write it/what do you want your readers to take away from the story?

-- I’ve been in open relationships, some that went really well. And some that…well, didn’t. I really wanted to write a story that, yes, explores the fun fantasy part of this type of relationship, but also shows that, like any kind of relationship, they’re not perfect and require work and maintenance. That they can exist outside the unrealistic and often unsustainable fantasy so many of us long for and the trainwreck tragedy too many of us fear. 

I also wanted to explore the idea that “happily ever after” is a promise we all, whatever your gender, were sold that rarely ever works out in real life the way it does in stories. We are never and cannot realistically expect each other to be the same people years into a relationship that we were at the beginning. And, yes, that can be scary and even disheartening but, instead of looking at it as a relationship-ending inevitability, it can be seen as a necessary opportunity. To grow as individuals as well as partners. Because, the more I age, the more it seems as if the only way to keep that promise we all bought into when we were young is by being open to change and growth in our ever-evolving, and therefore ever-adapting, relationships as adults. By realizing that happiness isn’t some achievement at the end of our stories, but rather ought to be something strived for everyday and in everything.

READ THE FINISHED INTERVIEW HERE



LET'S GET INTENSE FOR THE MEN!
Please check out my story in The Sexy Librarian's anthology that gives us a bold peek into lust and love from the male perspective!
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BREAKING THE RULES!
Please check out my story in this hand-held library of erotica & explore to your libido's content!




DON'T STOP, EVEN IF I ASK
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YOU KNOW YOU WANT 
TO DO WHAT I SAY
Online dating has become an inevitable and undeniable part of the modern dating landscape. Follow a couple making their way from digital space to the real world in my Playbox Exclusive story “Ready to Play.” 



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Monday, November 14, 2016

Hold Me. And Don't Let Me Go. - An Election Story - Part Two


When There Are No Words: 
An Election Short Story – 
Part Two
Read Part One Here

Check out the rest of this nasty woman’s story, as well as my other story “The Help,” in this defiant anthology that celebrates diversity and equality in the face of our uncertain future. There is power in art and expression; it's why freedom of speech is such an important right in our country. People may not think that kind of power extends to genres like romance, erotica, and porn, but it does.

These are the genres that tells us about humanity's wants and desires more than any other. These are the places where we explore and push our taboos.

Where we dare to be more—and less—than we normally are. Where things like identity, power, and structure are fluid and malleable. This, more than most, is a space were we are invited to play.

These stories are so often expressions of rebellion. Rebel with us.

From suffrage to sin and everything in between! This collection of erotic fiction will stir more than one type of passion. All proceeds from the sale of this special anthology and subsequent releases in the line will benefit Move On. 

TABLE of CONTENTS: Introduction (Alessia Brio) Moving On (Kally Jo Surbeck) When There Are No Words (Sonni de Soto) The Help (Sonni de Soto) Hypocrites (Alyssa Turner) Kayla's Birthday Present (Ashlyn Chase) The Stoning (Michael Swanson) Checklist (B.K. Bilicki) Divided We Fall (Lisabet Sarai) For Their Own Good (Lola White) We Desire Many Things (Skilja Peregrinarius) The Aisle of Lesbos (Allison Wonderland) A Healthy Passion (Mary Winter) Passion's Pull (Corbin A Grace)


AVAILABLE NOW ON:
And Listen to an Excerpt
Read the Rolling Stones article featuring my story:  
"Trump Erotica: How Smut is Getting Political Again."




LEARNING A NEW WORLD
Please check out my novel The Taming School from Sizzler Editions that explores discovering kink!
Available Now On
And Listen to an Excerpt
LOVE EROTICA? LOVE CONSENT?
Please check out my story in The New Smut Project's anthology and see how consent makes everything sexier!

Available Now On
MAKE-UP SEX MAKES EVERYTHING BETTER!
See what happens after Kat & Peter's happy ending in my story from Deep Desire Press!
And Listen to an Excerpt
THINK YOU OWN ME?
Please check out my novel Show Me, Sir from Sinful Press that celebrates feminist kink!




SHOW ME WHAT YOU’VE GOT
Please check out my LGBTQ+ burlesque story in this anthology that captures women on stage & screen in all their glory from Supposed Crimes!
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OFF-HOURS OFFICE SEX
Please check out my story "Overtime" in this sexy collection & let it whisk you away from the office and into sixteen stories that explore sex in the working world.
Available Now On




Find even more great reads and Put Your Money Where Your Orgasm Is!




Also, find out how you can support me and collaborate with me on my Patreon Page!

Hold Me. And Don't Let Me Go. - An Election Story - Part One

When There Are No Words: 
An Election Short Story – 
Part One

Peter Richards laid in bed with his wife in his arms, feeling more helpless than he could have imagined feeling before this moment.

He didn’t understand it.

Kat had been fine twenty minutes ago.

Well, as fine as she could be, after tonight’s election results.

He sighed and gave a small shake of his head. He hadn’t seen it coming.

No one had.

In the shadows of the bedroom, Peter couldn’t see much more than the barest outline of the top of Kat’s head. But he knew her body better than he knew anything in this world. The slim length of her limbs. The sweet curve of her hips.

The beautiful look and feel of her amber-colored skin against the pale balsam of his own.

And, for the first time since he’d met her, the full weight of that contrast hit him. The fact that, even in this day and age, in this country, her darker skin meant the world could be crueler and more dangerous for her than it was for him. And there was so fucking little he could do to protect her from it.

Sometimes—most of the time—it was far too easy to forget this. To look at her pretty, petite form and think that there wasn’t anyone in this world who would see anything other than innocent beauty. She was this slim, sweet, five-foot-nothing slip of a thing. Who would feel threatened by or feel hate toward someone like her? 

To be honest, he didn’t think about her race often. It wasn’t like he forgot that she was of Cambodian descent—how could he forget, when he looked at her everyday—it just never really mattered to him. It was part of her, full of beauty and culture unlike his own that he found alluring, but so were many of her other qualities. Like she had a way with words that he didn’t, that could stitch sentences together to make stories out of nothing. It often let her see the world in ways he couldn’t and certainly allowed him rare and precious glimpses of her insight. She was Asian American, of course, just like she was a storyteller and a wife and a woman. To him, she was his Kat, richly complex and could not be boiled down to one thing.

And, even though she’d told him that she’d met people who looked at her and never saw past the color of her skin— had dealt with things that seemed inconceivable to him—it’d never seemed to stop her. To weigh on her. To change or harden or beat her down. It had always seemed like some distant part of her past that no longer affected her.

Hell, she’d been cracking jokes tonight and laughing. She’d smiled and acted—for the most part—normal, even as the results came in. She wasn’t even much of a political person. He knew that she’d voted, like him and everyone they knew, against Tom Rosen and his promises that “America Will Rise Again,” a message that echoed Confederacy romanticism, harkening back to a time that had been cruel to people like her. He knew that she’d, like everyone they knew, rejected and mocked Rosen’s invitation to “Rise With Us,” not that the candidate’s words had really been meant for people like her. No, Rosen had promised his followers to lift them up, while he cleansed the country of those he considered undesirables—people of color, immigrants, the LGBTQIA community, feminists, and anyone who didn’t think like them. Kat had been disgusted by his supporters’ chants to take his opponent—Kevin Wu, who’d had both their votes—and “Raise Him Up,” which could have been inspirational, as the Rosen campaign had claimed in the press, if it hadn’t been for the noose imagery that too often accompanied the slogan.

And, sure, Peter had heard her talk about the election and about the direction the country was moving. He’d read the blog pieces she’d written, cautioning people against this kind of hateful rhetoric and the casual racism, sexism, homophobia, xenophobia, and general disregard for people who didn’t look, live, love, and believe like Rosen. But he’d never seen her get angry or upset over it, like he had with his other more politically active friends. She hadn’t gone to Wu rallies. Hadn’t campaigned for him. Hadn’t seemed terribly passionate about the whole thing, even as they’d watched it all unfold tonight.

But then, when they’d gotten home, when he’d gone to climb naked into bed with her less than half an hour later, she’d wrapped herself so tightly around him. Holding onto him as if he were an anchor keeping her from getting lost in the rapidly shifting world. Even now, after holding her for what felt like forever, there still was such desperation in that embrace. 

He didn’t know what to do. Peter was a fully-grown man, there wasn’t much he was afraid of—it’d been decades since he’d let the dark or its monsters frighten him—but the strength of her fear sliced through him with chilling terror, leaving him weak and powerless.

He was her husband, her lover, her Dom, for God’s sake, but there was nothing he could do. Nothing he could tell her. It felt so wrong, but it was true. What was there to say? What words could fix what had happened? What could he do as the world around them shifted?

Then she started to cry.

At first, he didn’t know what was happening, just noticed a strange change in her breathing. In the dark, silent room, he heard a hitch—a small catch—as she inhaled. Somehow, it served to emphasize how forced and controlled her breaths had been a moment before. As if it’d taken all she had, all night, to maintain this façade of normalcy. As if every thought in her head must have been in, out, smile, laugh. It hurt to think that she’d felt, even in the middle of a home full of friends, even as she sat in that room next to him, the need to hide.

And he hadn't even really seen it until now. He bit back a castigating groan, feeling so blind. 

Lying in bed, he held her tighter and watched her try to cling to that control. But the harder she held on—by burying her face deeper against him, by holding herself as still and tense as possible, by holding her breath—the more her grip on the act slipped. He frowned and felt her tears soak his skin. Felt her shaky hiccupping sighs turn into wracking sobs. And every time she held her breath in a vain attempt to hold the tears back, his heart ached as he waited for her to exhale. It was as if he could almost feel her breaking apart in his arms and it was all he could do to try to hold her together.

He felt so useless. So helpless. He wanted to tell her that things would be okay, but how could he do that when they very likely wouldn’t? When the hate he knew she’d faced before, the they’d both hoped was part of her past, must feel right outside their door. When he could literally feel the fear she never let show—not even to him—shake her. When her world felt so unsafe and there was nothing he could do to fix that. What could he possibly do in the face of that?

He kissed the crown of her head and held her so tightly the breath she’d been holding huffed out on a staggered sigh. “What can I do?” His whispered voice sounded so loud yet so weak in the quiet night. “What do you need?”

Sniffling, she wiggled a bit, putting space between them to wipe her nose. She shook her head. Then shrugged. “I’m sorry.”

He would have laughed, if he didn’t feel like crying. Of course, she would apologize for the last thing she should; that was who she was. She didn’t want to burden him with her fear and sorrow, but tonight it was just too big for her to contain. He wanted to tell her not to be sorry, to tell her that she was never a burden, but he didn’t want to be one more voice telling her what she had to be or not. So he just pulled her closer and kissed her again. 

He panicked for a moment when her tears started back up in earnest. He almost let her go, worried he’d done something wrong. But she wrapped herself around him again, tangling her arms and legs inescapably around him.

Cupping the back of her head, he held her with her tear-streaked face buried against his shoulder and sighed. “I’m sorry.” He shook his head, rubbing his cheek against her hair. “I wish I was better at this.” He wished he knew what to do. Had the perfect words or actions. 

She sniffled. “Just hold me.” She took a shaky breath. “Just be here.”

He could do that. “Always.” He leaned down to kiss the top of her head again, but she tipped her head back and met his lips with her own. At first, shock made him pause, but then hesitation held him still. She’d been so overwhelmed tonight already; he didn’t want to add to it. She didn’t need his need—his fear and worry and desire to make her his, to make her safe—to add to her own. Tonight wasn’t about him. He just wanted, as she’d said, to be here for her.

But then she grabbed his face in her hands and pressed closer, licking and nipping at his lips. She tasted of her tears, but also of heat and need. He cupped her cheek and gently eased away. “Are you sure?” 


Read Part Two Here


Thursday, November 10, 2016

A Reminder As We Go Forward

A reminder to those trying to comfort minority friends who are distraught at the moment: For those who wonder why all these stories of hate are coming out now and wonder why you haven't heard about them before, I can't speak for everyone, but most of us don't like to talk about the things that hurt us. As much as we've been told it does, it often does not personally help us to share our pain with others.

Because, by retelling it, we have to relive it. Because we often meet disbelief or scrutiny even when we do. Because often we end up having to comfort the people we tell our stories to because they didn't know the world they lived in and are now shaken by its unseen reality. Because often the people we'd like to tell are so overwhelmed or desensitized to these kinds of stories that adding ours to it seems pointless or even cruel. Because, even after all that, we still have to live in this reality and it can be exhausting.

I don't talk about the details of most of the harassment I get about my race or gender or religion or sexuality. I'm a child of abuse; I've learned from childhood that letting others see my weak spots could be used against me. 

I tend to share the "cute" discrimination, the "cute" kind of hate with you. The kind we can laugh at. Because they can't hurt me with that.

The stuff I cry about, you will likely never hear about it.

Because I can't.

I, personally, just can't.

But I am proud of those who can. Because those are stories we all need to hear. Just remember the likely reason why you're hearing about these stories now from those of us who are hurting is that, even though it personally hurts and exhausts us to go through it and then relive it to tell you about it, is because, even though we're bleeding from our wounds now, we're hoping our pain prevents someone else's.

So thank you for the support, lord knows we need it, but just always keep in mind that, for every story you do hear and are shocked by, there are countless that you will never. We know we have been through this before and survived. And we will again. That, more than anything else I've personally seen, is--for better or worse--the enduring American story. 

Just give us a moment of weakness before asking us to find the strength to do so again.

Wednesday, November 2, 2016

We Need to Talk About The Uncomfortable Language Of Kink

I have such mixed feelings about what J.A. Rock calls The Uncomfortable Language Of Kink.

I’ve talked a lot, like A LOT a lot, about kink’s often problematic relationship with gender and with race. And I firmly do think that, like this article points out, what consenting adults do with each other is their own business. That kind of socially charged play does beg for introspection and awareness between partners, just to make sure that the social structures being played with are being done so with knowledge and respect and to make absolutely certain that there is a clear line between dynamics within scene and those outside of that play. But whatever happens between you and your partners, so long as it’s safe, sane, and consensual, have at; it’s none of my business and I don’t have, and no one else has, the right to interfere. I don’t think that people who play in those kinds of scenes need to defend themselves. I don’t think that they need to be held accountable by anyone. Not to me. Not to anyone not involved in the scene. What they do is between them.

But, as for what happens in the pages of fiction…

As an erotica writer—as an author of erotica that often plays with things like race and religion and age and gender—I think we need to hold ourselves to a higher standard.

Our introspection shouldn’t go inferred. That kind of play between partners begs further thought to its implications; our writing about that kind of play, our putting it out contextless into the world who may or may not have the understanding to consume it ethically, ought to require it. And not just on the author’s part. I haven’t read Slave Hunt, but it seems like Rock has done her research on the subject. Good on her. 

I would be curious if her book comments on that. If, at some point in the story, she allows her characters a moment to address and confront that history. Because shouldn’t they? If they were real people, in the real world, dealing with the same problematic social structures and historical baggage the rest of us are, wouldn’t they have thought about this at some point? 

I would hope that any character worth reading about would.

So show us that. Show us kinksters being the incredibly intelligent and conscious and woke people we are. Show us kinksters who are concerned about how their actions affect the world they live in and the people they share it with. Show us being more than the sex-driven, hedonistic, Bacchanalian orgasm-fiends we’re so often portrayed as.

We can be sexy while also being smart, I swear! Let us. 

I know that many writers, kinky and not, are afraid that admitting and acknowledging the awkwardness of walking this ethically-ambiguous line takes away the sexiness of the scene. Opens itself to heavy topics that no one wants to think about when they’re trying to get off.

Except, as real-life kinksters, we do. We have to.  And not only still manage to get off, we have a better experience for having done the extra ethical legwork. It is part and parcel of our stories. How we find a way to be okay with our kinks is a pretty universal everykinkster story. It is our hero’s journey. Never acknowledging it, choosing instead to just let that journey go assumed or unspoken, prioritizes the acts you as the author want us to act out rather than the story of who we are as people. It makes these tellings more catalogs of acts for the reader to wank to rather than stories about the challenges and joys we as kinksters actually face. It allows the world to continue to think of us as just a series of odd and deviant acts and never allows us to be known as more.

Because what is kink if not the strange alchemy that somehow takes traditionally horrific acts, like bondage and spanking and flogging and domination, and turns them into shared pleasure between partners. It is what makes our stories unique. It’s our brand of magic. Are you really telling our stories anymore, if you’re leaving the crucial spellwork that makes it all happen out?