Our Sexual Fantasies

I am anonymous.

I’ve written more pornographic works of fiction than you’d care to imagine. I want you to be anonymous too. I want you to log out of your blogger accounts and talk dirty to me. I want to hear your sexual fantasies and I want you to hear mine.

Fantasy can be a paler version of reality or it can be an end in itself, allowing us to imagine what we can't or would rather not try. Here are three of mine.

Sshh, gather round. Draw the curtains and promise not to tell.


Fantasy 1
I’m in a room like a large prison cell, all whitewashed walls and tiny, barred windows. I’m naked and hog-tied, suspended on the horizontal, my legs held open by the ropes. Leaning casually against the wall, a gang of mean, muscular soldiers are watching me. They’re grimy and shaven-headed, and they’re wearing camouflage pants and dirty combat boots. They’re waiting till it’s their turn to fuck me or stick their cock in my mouth. I feel exposed and ashamed, horribly aware that my cunt is on display and I'm wet.

One guy strides forwards, unzipping. He’s brawny and arrogant, and I sway on the ropes as he moves between my thighs. He penetrates me, gripping my hips as he pounds hard and fast. The other soldiers are smiling and sneering. Another steps forwards. ‘Make her suck your dick,’ says someone, and he does.

This fantasy doesn’t have an ending. It’s not that kind of narrative. More men fuck me. ‘Can she take another?’ ‘Yeah, she's a slut.’ Sometimes they leave me alone, or push me on my ropes. I sway gently. I might get impaled, mouth or cunt, on a cock or dildo. They laugh, making jokes and talking about me as if I don’t exist.

Fantasy 2
I’m a subject in medical research. I’m naked, strapped in one of those reclining, gynae chairs, my knees bent and fixed open. I’m hooked up to monitors and various bits of bleepy, flashy equipment.

There are two guys in white coats, one by my side holding a clipboard, the other standing between my thighs. They’re friendly but aloof - professionals interested in my reponses not in me. The guy between my legs examines and touches me – my breasts, cunt and inner thighs. He crouches down to study me, peeling my labia apart and holding me open. Standing, he deliberately arouses me, reporting his findings to his colleague: ‘She’s getting very wet’ or ‘I think she’ll come soon.’ Sometimes, he gives me a kind smile. ‘Is that good?’ he’ll ask, working his fingers inside me.

Fantasy 3
It’s night time and I’m walking down an alley in a seedy part of town. On the street I’ve just left, there are shabby strip joints, neon signs and narrow doorways. A man steps out of the shadows. Before I can scream, he slams me up against the wall, clamping his hand to my mouth.
‘Shut it, bitch,’ he hisses, fumbling with his fly. I’m fighting back, screaming into his hand, but it makes no difference. He’s strong, he’s horny and can overpower me without much trouble. He enjoys his strength and the fact he can torment me. He grins. ‘You’re going to like this,’ he says, slowly jerking his cock. He fucks me up against the wall. He’s rough and ruthless, grunting and panting. Sometimes he orders me to turn around and he fucks me from behind. Sometimes, he forces me to my knees, clutching my hair in his fists as he fucks my mouth.

Again, this fantasy is never ending.

*
So where will you to take me? What goes on in the murky corners of your mind? What are you thinking when you’re on the edge of coming?

I don’t care if you’re man, woman or undecided. I don’t care how pretty the writing is. Give me scenes, give me snippets, give me truth. Put your inhibitions away with your identity. Be anonymous. Be brave. Be yourself.

Let’s melt this blog.

What is it? Go on, I’m listening.

*

The Deprexor pic is © Steve Savitz. Steve's a friend of, um, Kristina Lloyd. Kristina is, er, a friend of mine too and she's kindly posting this on my behalf to preserve my anonymity. I'm so grateful. I may even read her dirtiest book. I'm told it's really hot.

"It's Got to Have a Human Head!"

... wailed the Black Lace editor.



by Janine Ashbless

A few years back I wrote a story, The Dragon’s Bride, in which a woman has sex with a dragon. (Have you any idea how hard I’d get my ass kicked if I submitted that story these days?) It was a Big Cock Fantasy really. Some people loved it, and some recoiled from it: “Sex with a talking dragon is still bestiality!” they squealed.

“Is it?” I asked, genuinely bemused. Is a free-willed, highly intelligent, self-aware creature who can talk, make moral judgements and understand the consequences of his actions just an animal? Because that doesn’t describe any animal I know.

What it is that makes the dragon/human liaison off-limits? The fact that Oromon is not biologically of the same species as Sheldi? - If I’d written a story about a human and an elf (or a Klingon) would that be as edgy? Or is it the fact he’s a quadruped and she’s a biped? Where’d you draw the line?

The fact one instinctively goes “Yuck!” or “Eeek!” when confronted with a particular sexual dynamic doesn’t necessarily mean there’s a sound basis to one’s reaction. I mean, personally I’m phobic of saliva – anyone who tried the Scarlet Sex Tip of “spitting into your lover’s mouth” with me would find themselves kicked clear across the room. That doesn’t make saliva a moral issue! Examine all motives. Don’t forget that when Captain Kirk first kissed Uhura, that episode of Star Trek was banned from TV - because it was obvious to the studios that the majority of viewers considered racial ‘miscegenation’ morally offensive. Nor is that attitude dead today – ask yourself what proportion of Hollywood movies feature a black hero getting off with a white woman.

Taboos (and violent, visceral revulsion) often manifest in situations where boundaries between categories are in danger of being shattered: black/white, male/female, inside/outside, animal/human, food/not-food, living/dead. Remember how genuinely offended and angry people got in the ‘60s when men starting wearing their hair long – because that mixed up existing gender signals and blurred category boundaries. Most Westeners would find the prospect of eating, say, dog, stomach-churning: dogs are Not-Food despite being edible. Fingernails on the living hand are beautiful; fingernails dropped anywhere else are repulsive. Perfectly acceptable feet or shoes suddenly become Dirty when put on a table.

It’s a very strange relationship we have with the animal kingdom. From a very young age we’re all fed with stories about bears that go on picnics, hedgehogs that spring-clean their houses, rabbits who shop for hats and ducks that want to fly airplanes. We are inculcated with the idea that Animals are People just like us, with feelings and aspirations and personalities. Then suddenly it’s flipped on its head and we’re told that no, animals are there to be crammed into battery cages and minced into hamburger and have oven-cleaner squirted in their eyes. Blimey, no wonder we’re confused.

Fantasy fiction expresses among other things our yearning to go back to that belief that there are beings with whom we share the world that look different to us but are People just the same. Fantasy stories are filled with talking animals, with mythic beasts possessing wisdom and secrets and tantalising mystery. We want to interact with people who share most of our biology but are still Other (Hey, isn’t that a part of all heterosexual attraction?). We see animals as a bridge between us and the natural world we are estranged from. And, being sexual adults, we load fantasy beasts with other significance: animals are spontaneous, they have sex without guilt, and they represent the power of instinct overriding rationality and cultural restrictions. One look at Furry communities lets you know how important the symbolic power of the animal-human is. Pony-girls are a favourite fantasy of many people. Cowboy erotica obsesses about horses and sex in stables. And what about the HUGE interest in lycanthropes in romantic fiction? The entire point of werewolf erotica is the fetishising of the fact they can turn into animals at any moment, isn’t it?

Does this playing around with taboo smack of hypocrisy? Or is it the hallmark of the erotic always to be dancing on the edge of the Forbidden?

My position, for what it’s worth, is …. I think we’re obligated by humane decency to engage sexually only with those of an equal mental and moral capacity to ourselves – anything else is exploitation at some level. And my feeling is that anything you can argue with, challenge, be moved by and empathise with AS AN EQUAL counts as a Person regardless of gender, genetic makeup or appearance – and I see no problem writing about sex between Consenting Autonomous People.

In the real world this category definitely excludes animals (along with children, adults in comas, corpses etc). In fantasy worlds it cannot exclude werewolves, vampires, mermaids, angels … or dragons*.

***********

Here’s a short extract from The Dragon’s Bride

The same story collection, Cruel Enchantment, also had a short story about a werewolf initiation orgy. Do you wanna read the bit where the heroine actually had sex with a wolf? Brace yourselves; here it comes:

“As soon as she was released this time, Michel rolled her over onto her front. Someone took her from behind, quick and slippery and panting, his balls slapping audibly against her pussy, and after he had finished another mounted her. Her first thought was that this man had an extraordinarily hairy chest and thighs – and then her second though was a white streak of incredulity., but Michel held her down hard so that she couldn’t wriggle round and look behind her. She buried her face in his leg, half laughing and half sobbing, and pure shock wrenched another orgasm from her.”

Shocking, wasn’t it? You may never recover – though somehow I doubt it.

xxx
Janine Ashbless

* Or unicorns. See “The Unicorn and the Strumpet” by our own Teresa Noelle Roberts, which you can find in the anthology ‘Garden of the Perverse’: fairy tales for twisted adults. Oh, and wait till you see what’s coming up in Love on the Dark Side, the next Black Lace anthology!

Pictures:
1) What were you expecting - Dragon cock?
2) Mr Tumnus. Fauns are acceptable -
3) And werewolves, some of the time -
4) But this is just way too pervy, apparently.

Sex with Strangers: our short story collection

by Kristina Lloyd

"I had been Jonathan’s slave for about a year when he told me he wanted to sell me at an auction. I wasn’t in any condition to respond when he told me this – I was carefully licking his balls, concentrating on doing it the way he liked … "

I know, I know. It’s so damn good, isn’t it? This is the beginning of Carrie’s Story by Molly Weatherfield, a classic of erotic S/M lit. Molly (aka romance writer Pam Rosenthal) was on Lust Bites earlier this week in her first ever interview. Yes: first ever. Last year, Playboy.com put Carrie’s Story at number 12 in their ‘25 Sexiest Novels Ever Written’, sandwiched between Lolita (11) and Erica Jong’s Fear of Flying (13). Yup, it's that hot.

And, oh boy, thanks to Kate Pearce, we popped Molly’s interview cherry! Check it out. It really is a warm, wise, fascinating piece.

Anyway, I’m here to get hot and firsty with you because Sex with Strangers, the latest short story collection from Black Lace is about to be published (10th May, UK; 26 June, US) and it’s the first time a man’s big beefy arm has appeared on a BL anthology cover. Is that right, Lusties? I can’t recall any others. Did Tilly, our resident arm-nut, put our publishers up to it?

Sex with strangers is one of the most popular female fantasies, and is it any wonder? It’s dark, dangerous and risky, and there are no arguments about who has to sleep in the damp patch. Why do we like it so much? Is it the thrill of the unknown? The urge for instant gratification? Is it the edgy appeal of the faceless man in rape fantasy? Or simply the power of an encounter that it is pure basic sex, no sweet-talking lovey-dovey, just rutting for the hell of it?

Delve into Sex with Strangers to find some of our answers. The anthology features stories from top-notch Lust Biters Nikki Magennis, Mathilde Madden, Teresa Noelle Roberts, Olivia Knight, Dayle A Dermatis and me, Kristina Lloyd.

Here’s a taste of some of our stories with their first (and sometimes 2nd and 3rd) lines to tease and please.

'My flatmate couldn’t even imagine the desert that was my sex life.' Nikki Magennis - The Art of Fucking
A brief encounter with a life model reminds an artist just how beautiful life can be. I’m happy to say this is another Nikki M gem: sumptuously written, thoughtful and delicate - which makes the hard, messy sex all the harder and messier when it happens. Delicious. (And she swore in the title!)

'Tuesday nights mean only one thing to Gracie, William, Mark and me: Lust. Oops. Actually, that’s a bit of a Freudian one – not Lust, Lost.' Mathilde Madden - Lust for Glory
A single girl uses her mouth at a big nutso gay orgy. Witty and wonderful, and very, very dirty. Only Tilly could have written a story like this.

'I stopped pacing long enough to glance at the clock. They’d be home soon, my boyfriend Gary and his friend Matt.' Teresa Noelle Roberts - A Stranger, and Yet Not
Karen's loving boyfriend finds a safe way for her to live out a risky fantasy. And I can safely say this story is m/f/m, and that’s hot.

'When she’s on holiday, she play-acts herself (unless, of course, she’s in Spain with other English people around, in which case she pretends to be French).' Olivia Knight - Barely Grasped Pictures
Olivia is a stunningly talented new writer. She crafts sentences that practically wrap you up in silk and dribble honey down your throat – which doesn’t mean she isn’t also completely filthy.

'This was it. Tonight. The biggest job of our short but so far quite illustrious career.' Sophie Mouette - Behind the Masque
Distracting a sexy security guard is just one of the perks of a jewel thief's job … or is it? Hot rocks, hot thieves, and even hotter sex!

'In ten minutes, the office would open. Claire sat ready at her desk, behind the window sprayed with photographs of clouds in blue skies.' Nikki Magennis - A Whole New City
Yes, that’s two stories from Nikki! She’s either a brilliant writer or a mucky little tart who’s had more than her share of casual sex. My money's on both.

'The bus station was lit up with colour, rain falling in yellow and orange drops, headlights fraying into the drizzle. I was trying to act natural, standing in the bus shelter like someone waiting for a bus.' Kristina Lloyd - Wet Walls
A journalist stalks a mysterious graffiti artist in surreal city streets.

I wrote this slightly odd story so I can tell you it was partly inspired by Edwardian supernatural and horror writer, Arthur Machen, partly by contemporary graffiti artist, Banksy. The picture of me here, acting coy against Banksy’s kissing policemen in Brighton, was taken around the time I wrote this story. And then some weird, nasty shit happened to the graffiti which made me very spooked indeed because it was as if the story I’d written had suddenly come true. But not in a good way. Sorry, I can't reveal any more than that because it will spoil the ending. Just read it ... and be afraid. Be very afraid.

I don’t know if this happens to other authors. It seems to keep happening to me. I write it, and it somehow comes true, and I have to ask myself: What am I? A writer or a witch? (Lusties, don’t even think about answering that one.) I really ought to harness this power and write a novel about, say, a woman being pursued by a randy football team, all David Beckham lookalikes. (Apart from the goalie, obviously. Goalies are always odd.) Plot spoiler: the final chapter takes place in the showers.

Of course, if you listen to any other of the Lust Biters, they’ll say I wrote the story because I’m obsessed with sex and seduction up against a wall, and they might have a point. Technically speaking, Wet Walls isn’t a classic of the Up Against The Wall genre (UATW is a genre, right?) but I’ve written others which are. Many, many others if you listen to Madelynne Ellis. (Don’t listen to her. She’s dangerous. She’ll tell you stuff about yourself you hardly knew.)

And if all this strangeness isn’t strange enough, click on this link for a mini excerpt from Portia Da Costa. Portia’s sex with strangers story, Eyes of Desire, will be published by epublishers, Phaze, in July and I’m guessing this is a Phazey first for Portia. No doubt we’ll hear more about it nearer the time. However, because I’m a witch, I can see into the future and read Portia’s first line. Here’s your sneak preview: “Good afternoon,” said the tall, blurred shape.

So, Sex with Strangers? Do you want it? Well, pop back tomorrow when I’ll be here to launch Lust Bites’ third whopping great giveaway contest. We’re giving away several Strangers (the book, silly), a delicious range of Alison Tyler edited smuttery and lots and lots of our hot, sexy novels.

I can hardly wait! But until then, I’d love to know your thoughts. What is it about strangers that makes them so damn appealing? And if you’re not fantasising about a stranger, who are you fantasising about? Your partner of 27 years? Ten Beckhams and a goalie? The guy in accounts? Do tell.

Also, what should I call my football novel?

And am I a witch?

Female fantasies of female submission

by Kristina Lloyd

I know it’s all tinselly and the lights are so pretty but I’d like to talk about sex with dogs. Or, more specifically, about Nancy Friday whose collection of female fantasies, My Secret Garden, caused such a fuss when it was published in the 70s. Why? Because it was so dirty. For the first time, ordinary women were voicing their lusts, and society was appalled. Many scenarios centred on female submission and rape fantasy, and women, they complained, surely didn’t think like that. In Women on Top, published in the 90s, the submissive fantasies had largely disappeared to be replaced by those of dominatrices, closet lesbians, and a rather high incidence of gals who dreamed of getting it on with the family pet.

I don’t know where Nancy was getting her data from but the implication was that, thanks to feminism, women’s fantasies had suddenly got healthier. OK, so doing it with Fido might not sound that healthy but it does neatly evade the gender politics inherent in your more average hetero, human shag.

Today, there’s plenty of evidence to show that fantasies of female submission are still immensely popular. A fem sub fantasy can be anything from a good, hard kiss against a wall, to a mild spanking, to a hardcore gangbang in a fully-equipped dungeon. What all the scenarios have in common is that he, our object of lust, is the boss. We can flip this notion on its head and declare it’s actually the woman calling the shots: as the fantasist, she’s in control of events; as a role-player in BDSM games, she probably has a safeword to mean ‘stop’. This might be true but, for me, it misses the point. And the point is: many women get off on thoughts of being dominated by a man. Or by a couple of them. Or by a whole, badly-tattooed football team in a massive hot tub. (Oops, there goes another of my secrets.)

Not surprisingly, in our postfeminist age, this can make us uneasy. Our fantasies seem to be in direct conflict with our real-life hopes and expectations. But consider the inequalities of the society we’ve been brought up in, and it’s easy to see why these fantasies are so common. In our culture, nice girls don’t, and dreams of being overpowered absolve us of responsibility and guilt. The fantasy dom is also extremely useful because he knows exactly what we want and he’s staying in control – of us and himself. We don’t have to ask for a thing. We don’t have to try and please. Take a look at him. See? He’s already pleased. Very. And all you’ve done is show up. Heck, what a relief.

The desire to be desired is, I believe, at the heart of erotic fantasy. We can imagine ourselves to be so goddamn gorgeous that our man, Mr Slightly-Twisted Alpha (back off sister, he’s mine), can’t control his base, animal instincts. He wants it, and he wants it now, and our cries of ‘No, stop!’ don’t mean jack shit to him. My imagined man is seldom someone I’d want to have dinner with. But then it’s not his mind I’m after. It’s his smouldering masculinity, his arrogance, his charisma, his cracking pair of thighs. The dominant male archetype is something we’ve all been brought up with, inside the home and out. He’s there in film, books and TV. He’s Tarzan, he’s daddy, he’s the bogeyman in the dark. He’s the bank manager, he’s Shakespeare, he’s Heathcliff, he’s God. He is, in short, the product of centuries of male social superiority. Small wonder he’s so hard to knock off the top spot.

The fem sub scenarios I like to read and write about are fairly dark, grubby acts tinged with danger. I’m not into elaborate, ritualised behaviour or heavy equipment. I struggle to read fiction where the bloke is referred to, without irony, as 'master', 'sir' or, heavens above, 'He'. This stuff leaves me cold. I can’t see the characters for the role-play. Its world is artificial. I prefer my fem subs to be ordinary, believable women who are perhaps uneasy about what butters their muffins. I want conflict, internal and external. I’ve written about rape fantasy. Sometimes it’s called ravishment, being taken, forced submission or consensual non-consent. It sounds better phrased that way but it amounts to the same thing: he made me do it, and it was raw, scary, debasing, sweaty and hot. (And here I'm obliged to add, for the hard of thinking (Wow, you made it this far? Here, have a biscuit.): no woman wants to be genuinely raped. As a concept, it's really not that tricky to comprehend.)

In Asking for Trouble, my second novel, Beth agrees to play a game with Ilya, a virtual stranger, in which they explore fantasy. Reluctantly, Beth admits to having rape fantasies, making it clear it’s fantasy. They agree to a safeword but the stakes are high: not only does the safeword stop a particular sex act, it also ends the relationship, no questions asked. In one scene, Beth and Ilya are angry. Ilya wants to fuck. Beth doesn’t. ‘Well then,' says Ilya. 'This is shaping up to be a pretty decent rape fantasy, isn’t it?’ He squashes her against a wall, his hand clamped to her mouth. Beth, whether she wants to or not, is unable to utter the safeword.

This is a key moment. Ilya has denied Beth the right to speak. He has taken her out of the game and his power has become purely physical. Language is political. Language makes us. Language separates us from animals. When Ilya silences Beth, they are no longer equals in the game - or in the world - and fantasy has become too realistic.

In the book, I really wanted to make this point. I wanted to highlight the importance of distinguishing fantasy from reality. Sure, there are overlaps for us all but in this instance, the line has to be clear. Ilya, in using his muscle against Beth, is effectively stealing her fantasy by twisting it in something else.

In our culture, female sexuality has been silenced for too long. Feminism has finally given women a voice, allowing us to articulate our desire (even if sometimes that amounts to little more than ‘uh, uh, yeah’). It’s crucial we speak and allow ourselves to explore and enjoy our fantasies, even – perhaps especially – the dark, troubling stuff. Our desire has been denied and distorted for centuries. The last thing we need to do is silence ourselves.

I’m an enlightened, independent woman with a filthy, overactive imagination. I consider myself a feminist. Why wouldn’t I? And I’m happy to say (and I’ll say if for you if you’re shy): I love a forced submission. I love those arrogant bastards.

Anyone else agree? Anyone else say ‘uh, uh, yeah’?

Kristina Lloyd

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• Asking for Trouble has just been reissued in the US alongside Black Lace releases, Dark Designs by Madelynne Ellis and Sex and Shopping. Scroll down a couple of posts to enter our amazing giveaway competition, featuring these 3 books and many, many more!


• To read more about Asking for Trouble, click here. To read an extract, click here.


• The image at the top of this post is copyright Kristian Purcell and is used here with kind permission of the artist. Take a look at Kristian's website. His work is lovely.

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