It’s coming…

I know it’s been a few days, Dear Reader. Have you missed me?

I have missed you, but rest assured that I have been thinking of you.

Just you.

I know what you want.

I’m working on it right now.

I want to scratch that itch, to ease that pull, to satisfy that ache deep within.

The words are coming, teasing words, hard words, titillating words…not the words you may want, but the words you deserve. And you know, in the end, that you do want them.

It’s coming, Dear Reader.

Wait for it.

 

Seize the moment right now

I just started writing a new story–and it’s in present tense. Oh, the never-ending battle of tense! I am a fan of the present–John sits, John stands, John is moaning and crying out for release–I love the immediacy, the tension that is happening right now at this very moment before my eyes as the reader.

But that kind of tension is hard to maintain over the long term. And my stories tend to lean towards the long term–not as in relationships, but in actual length of the tale. I am never quite ready to be finished with things–and that extended use of the present tense starts to seem like too much, like a good movie that just doesn’t end. I’m still loving every second, still twitching in anticipation of the next line, the next motion, but it’s hard to stay keyed up like that for so very long.

And if I’m not reading it in one sitting, then I really don’t like present tense. It’s awkward to walk right back into something that is still happening after a pause, sort of like “Oh! Hi guys. Have I kept you waiting all this time? My bad.” I love tension, but there is a point where it’s just too much. At some point, you need release.

Past tense is standard, I tell myself. It’s what most readers will expect, I insist. Why am I writing a story in present that I’m just going to have to go back into and edit for every single verb? I’m just making this more difficult in the long run.

But that damn present tense still calls out to me, beckoning, and I can’t seem to resist. Maybe if it’s just this time, maybe just for a little while, maybe I can rub up against it for now, enjoy the moment and worry about the rest in the morning.

After all, the past tense will always be there. The present is just for right now.

 

 

 

Tab A, Slot B

Recently, I found myself surrounded by accomplished writers of erotica, and an interesting conversation about the very act of writing about sex ensued. I contributed little at the time, my thoughts subdued by awe and wonder at the forces sitting around the table, but I’ve thought about a lot since then.

The general idea was thus: there are only so many ways to write about the physical act of sex. For writers of erotica, this is a shocking thing to admit, at least at first. Some of us make a living out of words, specifically, words describing the copious amounts of mind-blowing sex being had by  heroes and heroines. If there are only a limited number of positions to write about, won’t we all run out of things to say someday? Maybe, but if we do, it won’t be for lack of trying.

Ok, let’s be honest. There are a limited number of ways to have sex. That number may be somewhere around 500 for the more limber, but eventually, there is going to be an end to the variety. Though it may not seem like it, the human body can only move, bend, twist, torque, and wiggle in so many ways! So if one were to write all of those stories, and more, once you have characters playing all those moves again and again, eventually, one will reach a point where there is nothing new to say. But herein lies the rub–that’s not the focus anyway.

In smut, and I call what I write solid smut, there is a lot of sex–straight-up sex, oral sex, twisty outdoor patio table sex, strap-on sex, blindfolded bondage sex, and then some–but while that may be a part of the story, it’s not the whole thing. The fun part, at least for me–as a writer and a reader–is the build-up. I love watching the characters flirt, play, tempt, and quiver while they wait for the big moment. And then that first moment is always awesome. And then, there’s even more fun afterwards as they get familiar and continue the relationship–but if they don’t, then that’s it. The focus of the story is the build-up and the big moment. So even if there are only so many positions under the sun, it doesn’t matter because the situation changes even if the position doesn’t. We can imagine cowboys, policemen, bad boys, doctors, and athletes–even if all of them end up traditional missionary, it’s still different because of the characters, because of the build-up, because of the desire that grows slowly or strikes hot and fast.

So while it may seem like it’s a dead-end road to write about tab A and slot B, there is infinite variety in writing about sex, not to mention love (something I occasionally touch on, but is not usually my focus), and it looks like we will be able to keep peddling our words as long as we can keep thinking of new characters to explore.

“Come in,” the voice says.

You walk inside the room, the low level lighting revealing the dim shapes of furniture. Your eyes can just make out the long edge of the bed before hands touch your shoulders from behind, slim fingers curling over to press into your chest, forcing you to stop moving. The hands move away, leaving your skin warm in the cool air, but before you can turn to see your companion, you hear the whisper of satin and the blindfold covers your eyes, sending you into a world of pure sensation. Your skin prickles at the thought of what’s to come, your hearing heightened, carefully attuned to every sound as you imagine what it means.

The hands return, this time gently tugging you forward, and you take two tentative steps into the darkness. Your companion turns you around, and then presses hard on your shoulders, bidding you to sit.

You feel the cool leather of what must be an ottoman through your clothes, and then the hands are working at your feet, deft fingers removing each shoe and leaving your skin bare on the carpeted floor. The hands vanish and you hear the faint snick a few seconds before cool metal encases your wrists.

You are pulled to your feet with your hands bound together, and those delightful hands run up your legs, caressing your skin before settling at your waist to remove your pants. You hear the clothing puddle at your feet, and those hands hold you steady as you step first out of one leg and then the other. The air is cool, and you shiver, your skin taut and eager, your teeth nibbling at the edge of your bottom lip.

The hands retreat to your bound wrists, tugging you forward again with the short length of chain between them, spinning you around, and this time a soft voice whispers, “Kneel.”

You fall to your knees, hands pulled tight before you across the leather ottoman, bare skin pressing against the cool surface, knees sinking into the soft rug. You hear a snap as your wrists are locked in place before you, turn your head to follow the soft sound of delicate footsteps walking around behind you.

You feel the soft caress of the leather whip across your lower back, the sensation causing your hair to rise in a silent salute of excitement. The whip leaves, and there is a loud snap in the air next to your hip. You jerk involuntarily, though you haven’t been touched.

You repress the urge to moan in anticipation. You want to whisper, “Please,” but you don’t. Not yet. The time for pleading will come later.

For now, you wait for the next stroke.

 

 

 

I bid you enter…

Welcome. Here, you will find yourself surrounded by words, some naughty, some nice, all sizzling with thrills and ready to entice you with chills.

Ali Whippe uses words like the whips of her name, sometimes soft and sliding against the tender flesh of your mind, sometimes hard and vicious but just the way you like it.

Sit back, relax, and let the words wash over you. Let them titillate, invigorate, tempt, and ultimately satisfy.

That wasn’t a request, dear One. The Mistress is waiting.