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Lusty Lady

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Friday, May 04, 2012

Kinky size 16 woman wants to get spanked and take orders in BDSM story "Big Girls Do Cry"

The other night at Bluestockings, before we busted out the vulva cupcakes by Kitchentop Catering, inspired by my friend Diana Cage's reading from her wonderful book Mind-Blowing Sex, I read the first three pages of my story "Big Girls Do Cry" from Curvy Girls and wanted to share it with you because it addressed something that Diana talked about, which I'll paraphrase, which is the idea that sex means what we think it means. We imbue each act with power and meaning and importance, and getting into the particulars of why one person does or doesn't get off on something is part of what, in my opinion, drives erotica. I'm fascinated by the assumptions we all make about people based on their outward appearance and what they're really into regarding sex, as well as the contradictions of what we want vs. what we allow ourselves to do when it comes to sex. Also, an update: I have absolutely no idea when or even if a Kindle and Nook version of Curvy Girls is coming out. Yes, this makes me sad, but it's completely out of my control so I'm sticking to the Serenity Prayer and focusing on things I do have control over (stay tuned for a great BOGO promo and more). As soon as it's available in ebook form, I promise to let you know. It's a juicy book, and I encourage you to check it out; it's got pregnancy sex, butches getting it on with each other in public, "Runner's Calves," corsets, lots of exhibitionism, sex work and so much more. And, obviously, kink. So I do encourage you to buy Curvy Girls and enjoy it. And if I ever get a next time, the one thing I wish this book had were some hot dominant women! I didn't see that in the submissions and it was a curious omission, in my opinion. Speaking of submissions, a reminder that I want your stories for my anal sex and orgasm anthologies by June 1st!

And I wrote what's below well before Christian Grey's contract in Fifty Shades of Grey demanding that Ana go to a trainer 4 times a week and eat only from a given list of foods came out, a part of the book that left me cold. It's not that I don't think obeying orders around food can't be written hotly; see the amazing story "Lunch" by Elizabeth Coldwell in my anthology Yes, Sir for an example of that. But that segment of their BDSM contract is the kind of thing I was referring to in the passage below.



From my story "Big Girls Do Cry" which you can read in full in Curvy Girls.
You would not believe the number of men who think that just because I’m a big girl, a voluptuous size 16 who isn’t afraid to show off all my assets, that what I’m put on this earth for is to beat their bottoms silly. I’m sure there are plenty of women who get off on that—because I’ve seen them in action and heard plenty of stories—but having a naked, eager, collared man at my feet just isn’t for me. I’m not offended by it or anything, it just doesn’t turn me on, just like some people prefer rocky road and some prefer vanilla. I like my road to be rocky—as long as someone else is doing the rocking.

I prefer to be the one on the floor, stripped bare, eagerly waiting for whatever the perfect, sexy, handsome, smart, mindfucking, sadistic dom of my dreams wants me to do. I’ve been like this for as long as I can remember; the rush of having a lover give me even the merest instruction, kinky or not, from “kiss my hand” to “show me your panties,” is enough to turn me into a puddle of mush. When I get like that, all hot and liquid, my body feels, in a way, weightless. Not literally, of course, and a size zero is not something I aspire to; I mean a more ethereal kind of weightless, like I’m floating and then being brought back down to the earth with a loud, painful, delicious smack on my ass.

Yet for all my desires, it’s only happened twice. Only two men have been able to see exactly how I want to be treated and been capable of delivering it. I get that dominance isn’t for everyone—if it were, my attempts to shimmy into a corset and latex skirt and slash a whip in the air would’ve probably either led me to a devoted husband or a career as a dominatrix by now. But for the most part, I’ve spent my time in the kinky world watching and waiting. I’ve always believed that good things come to those who wait, as facile as that might sound. I’m 24, and I’ve been waiting long enough, observing, staring, lusting after those women lucky enough to get taken over a man’s knee, to be tied up to a cross, to have a gag shoved in their mouth while they thrash around, knowing that they can’t escape until everyone gets what they need.

I know what I want—to cry, to scream, to struggle, to surrender, to be “forced” into all manner of degrading scenarios—but I don’t just want it from anyone. That’s why those two brief dalliances were just that; something about what we were doing didn’t feel quite right. The motions were there, sure, but the men seemed to either be taking out some latent anger on me or simply going through the motions. I want a man who means it. I don’t want it from the men in whom lurks an undercurrent of misogyny, who think the scene is a place to let that loose. I don’t want men who’ll try to “order” me to lose weight and think that’s okay because they’re the top and whatever they say goes. I don’t want a man who doesn’t respect every inch of my womanhood, but rather one who wants to top me, torture me, and tie me up because he respects my every curvy pound.

For a long time, I hated this need, and tried to subvert it, going out with vanilla boys who were perfectly sweet, and sweetly perfect, and therein lay the problem. They were too sweet, too soft, and treated me too tenderly, or ones who somehow fetishized my size, turning me into a woman to put on a pedestal and cower under rather than a living, breathing woman. If it weren’t men building me up to an inflated size and importance like in Rene Magritte’s painting The Giantess, they were considering me a cuddly teddy bear of a girl, someone whose cleavage they could nuzzle up to, someone they could stroke and fondle, someone who could mommy them in a sexual way, but never slap and sting. That would offend their principles. I say, fuck principles, fuck propriety. What’s a hot-blooded kinky girl to do with her desire to bend over?
Read the whole story (yes, of course there is spanking!) in Curvy Girls.

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