Choking smut free, just because

My next Secrets of a Sex Writer column will probably be called "Rough Sex and Pain Sluts," unless I change my mind. So on that note, and because I'm not having sex these days but am thinking about it, and also really hoping you buy Please, Sir: Erotic Stories of Female Submission, here's about half of my story "Your Hand on My Neck." Free, no less.



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Your Hand on My Neck
Rachel Kramer Bussel

Your hand on my neck is all it takes to make tears race to my eyes, to put my body on red alert, to let me know that I’m about to go insane. It’s that simple…yet of course, your fingers going for the jugular will always be more complex than I can ever truly describe. It’s the fastest way to get my attention, to snap me out of whatever place my mind has wandered, back to where it should be: on you. Forget about when you raise your hand to spank me or reach for my nipples to pinch them or even when you grab my arm to shackle my wrist to your bedposts, all of which you know I adore; your hand on my neck is what makes me unbearably, almost impossibly, wet.

Is it because you were my first? Is it because I trust you more? Or is it because those tears that rush forth, the gasps that claw their way to the surface, the panic that bubbles just below the surface, speak to me in a language deeper than words ever could?

Sometimes, because you know me so well, because you know what it does to me, you do it while we’re sitting across from each other at a restaurant. To an outsider, it probably looks like a light caress, like your hand could just as easily be stroking my arm, your thumb caressing my inner wrist, or smoothing my hair, or tracing my lips.

And you could be doing any of those things, but you’re not: You’re wrapping yourself from thumb to forefinger around the expanse of my neck, pressing just enough to make my lips go slack, my breath get short. You’re telling me so much without saying a word, and my first instinct is to do what I do in bed: bend my head back, elongate my neck, shut my eyes, give more of myself to you.

But we’re in public, so I wait, and soon the moment passes. A couple can hold hands, under or even above the table, or play footsie, with no problem, but the intimacy of choking is probably pushing the envelope, even in Manhattan. Still, I think about it, even while waiting for my burger and fries, about how it feels when you press harder, when my throat constricts and the gasps become sobs and I want to thrash and struggle so I can feel you clamp down harder.

That’s what happens when we’re at home, alone. We’ll be making out, giggling, me lying next to you, rubbing the wiry, warm fur on your chest. One minute I’m kissing whatever part of your skin is closest, and the next you’ve flipped me over. Any clothes I might’ve been wearing disappear real fast. Your fingers are hard, strong, insistent, all ten finding my most vulnerable places and staking their claim. Actually, that may not be totally true. Five slam down against my neck, and I arch it and my back up to meet you, while other fingers slam hard inside me. Usually, I like to talk, but I have nothing to say now, even if I could make more than strangled noises.

I want many things at once, but I know you have only so many hands, so many ways to torture me, so I have to wait and see which of your methods you’ll choose today. I’ve never told you this, but no one else has ever made me want them to squeeze me right there so powerfully. I won’t lie: I’ve been choked before. I’ve had a hand over my mouth, had my head shoved into a pillow, been muffled and gagged by other men. But no one has ever made me want it like this. I wonder sometimes if there’s some secret button inside me, invisible to everyone but you, that you know to press, to lean on, that makes me so wild, because I swear that when you put your hand there, when your eyes go from easy to a little angry, when your voice goes gruff and deep and a little mean, when your hand becomes, for these sweet moments, the sexiest of weapons, I would do anything for you.

Maybe I don’t have to tell you, maybe you can see it in my eyes, because without my having to ask, you climb on top of me, keeping your hand firm so all I can really move is the rest of me, from my neck down, yet those parts don’t matter as much. It’s all in my head, literally, all the blood and passion and lust and masochism and need. That, plus my oral fixation, means that when you wrap your legs on either side of my face and present your cock to me, I open as wide as I possibly can. Your balls hit my chin and your half-hard cock slides against my tongue, and I shift what little I can to make my mouth as wet and tight as possible for you. Your hand tightens on my neck while your other one grabs the back of my head and lifts it up to meet you, positions me where you need me to be.

There’s really no other way to say what we’re doing: you’re fucking my face, my mouth, slamming into me over and over. You tilt my head so the tip presses against my cheek and I drool and struggle to keep up. You briefly let up on my neck and I breathe in deep, wish for a smack across the cheek, a hard, stinging one, but I don’t get it. That’s the kind of request I find hard to make, because to ask for it is to admit to a level of perversity from which there’s no return, though perhaps that’s a silly distinction because here you are choking me with such precision, then molding my mouth to your cock. My pussy almost hurts, I’m so turned on, but I don’t want you to fuck me, not with your dick, not now, because that would take away from what you’re going to give me very soon: your come all over my face.

You know I want that, know I love when you beat your dick against me, shove your balls in my mouth, but you make me wait, perhaps because you know how bad I need it. You tease me, the insides of my mouth your personal sex toy as your rub the head there, denying me all of you all the way down. Your hand cups my neck while you rub your cock up and down my face, in my mouth, wherever you want. “Do you want my come, you little whore?” you ask as you jerk yourself off above me, your hand doing the job I should, rightfully, be doing. If my arms weren’t bound above my head, I’d be reaching down and touching my clit, maybe slapping myself lightly there, pushing my fingers inside, anything for relief from the intensity that’s overtaken me down there. Instead, I just press my legs tightly together, squeeze my inner muscles, try to inch closer before I feel that first hot drop hit me. I open wide and you slide inside, practically melting into me, your fingers seeking out my hard nipple and twisting it around as you explode. You manage to pull out before it’s all gone, to moisturize me with a cream so rich Lancôme could never hope to compete.

I only think about it later, after we’re done, when your come is drying on my skin, how much I loved you choking me, not being able to breathe in the usual way, only moving the parts of me you wanted me to.

Last week, you gave me a special gift: two hands there, each taking half, the pressure greater than one alone could handle. Your dick got even harder as you slammed into me, your weight shifting into your arms, making it hard for me to swallow. The shallow sound of my breath was loud in my ears as I willed you to twist a little. I longed for clothespins, imagined them standing upright on my nipples. You pulled one hand away to slap my clit, and I turned my head to the side, beckoning to the sheet, asking it for something I couldn’t ask of you. You knew, though, and tightening your grip on my neck, you slapped my cheek, the sting ringing in my ear. Slapping my face requires much more precision than spanking my ass. A stray slap down there can be corrected easily; a misplaced stroke can stop everything up above. Maybe because you’ve hit my sweet spot countless times, you know where on my face I crave it most, that fleshy apple bulge of my cheekbone, the part that makes me flinch, my teeth clamped. I look up at you through filmy eyes; I can’t look too directly because that would be too much, for both of us. There has to be a veil for me to let you do this. It’s why you’d stroke my neck across the table at a restaurant, or even lightly pinch my cheek, but would never in a million years slap me like this. Even a tap on the ass can be tolerated in public, but not this. This is more depraved somehow, and we both know it. My lips start to tremble and you lift your hand from my neck to cover them. You wind up covering part of my nose, too, and I force the panic to wind its way back down my throat before you slap my cheek again. Your dick is still inside me, but I wouldn’t say you’re fucking me with it, more like holding me in place, making sure I know you could fuck me at any time.

You switch hands and smack my right cheek, and I make sure my eyes are adamantly shut so I don’t see the blows coming, don’t know what’s going to happen, because that would ruin it a little bit for me. I feel you pull out and fear it’s over, fear you’ve tired of me, are bored by what’s increasingly becoming less of a game and more of a need. But instead your hand lingers on my face, seeing how much of it you can cover. I arch up against you, my back curving, straining to be covered by you. You give me what I want, pinching my nose, just for a minute, but long enough to make my insides seize up. You let go but then your face is right next to mine, the stubble I adore so much brushing against my cheek. I think you’re going to whisper something to me, but instead you bite me there, the fleshy part of my lower jaw. Not hard, but I’m sure it’ll leave an imprint. My clit is aching, but I can’t think about that too much because you grab my hands in yours and then tickle me under my arms. You’re not supposed to do that; tickling is off limits, but you do it anyway, followed by a sharp slap across my face, first one, then the other cheek. I want to ask you to do it harder, but I just think it, wondering if you’d be insulted were I to make such a request.

You take my silence for disinterest and do, indeed, slap me harder. Maybe it’s my imagination but you jab your cock into me when you do it. I’ve only slapped someone’s face in real anger, not like this, so I don’t know what it’s like, but I hope it makes you hard, I hope hurting me gets you off the way lying beneath you does to me. I don’t want to ask because as much as I may imagine what you’re feeling, I’d prefer you to show me with your body rather than your words.

You pull out and then shove your fingers into me, hard, claiming me, before finding something better to do. You turn me over and shove my face into the pillow. I breathe into it as you hold me down. This is more impersonal than when you choke me, and I’m not sure which I like better. You can’t slap my face or spit in it or see it like this, but you can make sure I know my breathing--or not--is up to you. You can let go and know I’ll stay there, still, waiting for you to lift my head. You can attach the brand-new spreader bar, the one you told me about in great detail but have thus far withheld, to my ankles. I never used to think not moving my legs was such a big deal; my wrists, yes--they’re as sensitive as my neck, and even the lightest of scarves gives me goose bumps. But like this, facedown, like I could be any girl, any body, my wetness right there for you to see, or stuff, or slap, I get it. I get what it means to let you have me on your terms.

I get that you know how good it’s going to feel when you once again force your cock inside me, because I’m so tight. I get that it’s not really about my neck at all, not even about my pussy. It’s about not having a say, having to wait for every breath. It’s about going to that place where nothing else matters except where you’ll touch me next, if you’ll touch me next. It’s about going to a place where I have no control--of my movements, my thoughts, my tears. Those start to soak the pillow, and you lift my face to look at me, keeping me twisted there when I try to burrow back in. You don’t rush to untie me, thankfully

"So you want to play rough, Tess?" Erotica excerpt: "I Breathe Your Name" by Tess Danesi

In the Please, Sir book trailer, you both see Tess Danesi and hear lines from her story "I Breathe Your Name," including "So you want to play rough, Tess?" I thought you might appreciate this short excerpt from her story, but do be sure to read the whole thing:

He lifts me and presses my back hard against the marble wall, still cool despite the heated water. My legs, crossed at the ankles, are tight around his waist. His hands are flat against the wall, my fingers interlaced together behind his neck. My chin falls into the hollow of his shoulder, my tongue trailing up to his ear, licking up the plump water droplets that define my path. I feel his cock stiffening against my pelvis and thoughts of him buried inside me make me nearly feral. I bite harder than I’d planned into his soft earlobe. He doesn’t jerk away; he doesn’t even move, but he whispers words that I barely have time to comprehend, “So you want to play rough, Tess?” before he’s pushed me tighter against the wall with his hips. One of his large hands guides his cock into my ready cunt. A deep sigh, of relief, of satisfaction, is the last sound I make before both his hands are on my neck.

Fixing me in his dark gaze, his deep voice speaks softly, nearly drowned out between the dual cascades of water and the pulse beating a steady rhythm in my ears, “You should know by now, Tess, I repay pain with pain.”

Even as his hands tighten on my throat, I can’t take my eyes off his. I’m not sure what I hope to see in his stare. Sometimes he can go so cold that even while his eyes are fixed on mine, I know he’s looking beyond me, looking somewhere into the darkness that resides so close to the edge of his surface civility. And sometimes, like now, I know he’s watching me intently to gauge my reaction, and as my breathing gets more and more impaired as he cuts off my respiration, to determine when to stop.

The one book of mine you should really own: Please, Sir: Erotic Stories of Female Submission

My copies of Please, Sir arrived right before I left; it'll be in stores any day now, and in online stores, so please buy it. I'm calling it "My most important book out right now." I'm spending more money to promote it than any of the others and think it's simply gorgeous. So if you've never bought one of my books, please consider buying this one. Soon the kinky, sexy, red-hot trailer will be posted and in May there's the virtual book tour.

My post title is sortof facetious; buy any Cleis Press title and I get royalties (I do on most of the others, save for the first, I-was-young-and-naive-and-didn't-insist-on-royalties Up All Night), but Cleis is the most direct route to getting me paid, plus has the biggest selection. I will have a few copies for sale this Thursday at In The Flesh if you want an autographed copy.

One of the best parts of AWP was meeting contributors to my books: Lana Fox, who has a story in my October anthology Orgasmic, and R. Gay, whose work I've been reading since before I was editing books and is one of the best erotica writers around (and the editor of this summer's Girl Crush anthology featuring my story "Great Lengths"). It was so wonderful to meet her.

I'll be interviewing cover photographer Christine Kessler (who's also shot a few of my other Cleis Press books and has a sexy book of her own, Nylon Girls out) this week. If you have any questions for her about this cover, let met know at rachelkb at gmail.com (put "Kessler" in the subject line) and I'll ask her.



And because I'm sick of my own cowardice in censoring this blog, here's an excerpt from my story "Your Hand on My Neck." If you like it, buy the book. And yes, there is choking (and spanking and kneeling and bondage and a Wartenberg wheel and more, in the book trailer). For more excerpts and ongoing Please, Sir author interviews, see the official blog.

And yes, for all Amazon links, I get a tiny kickback, but I don't care where you buy Please, Sir from: directly from me at In The Flesh, directly from Cleis, an indie bookstore, Amazon, whatever. It's all good. My goal is to have this one sell out fast. Apparently, my female sub erotica sells best and if it does well, I can hopefully do more...and afford more book trailers. We're finalizing the music right now (I get to call someone whose music got me through law school) and I'll be posting it as soon as it's ready.

From my story, "Your Hand on My Neck," which closes Please, Sir:

Last week, you gave me a special gift: two hands there, each taking half, the pressure greater than one alone could handle. Your dick got even harder as you slammed into me, your weight shifting into your arms, making it hard for me to swallow. The shallow sound of my breath was loud in my ears as I willed you to twist a little. I longed for clothespins, imagined them standing upright on my nipples. You pulled one hand away to slap my clit, and I turned my head to the side, beckoning to the sheet, asking it for something I couldn’t ask of you. You knew, though, and tightening your grip on my neck, you slapped my cheek, the sting ringing in my ear. Slapping my face requires much more precision than spanking my ass. A stray slap down there can be corrected easily; a misplaced stroke can stop everything up above. Maybe because you’ve hit my sweet spot countless times, you know where on my face I crave it most, that fleshy apple bulge of my cheekbone, the part that makes me flinch, my teeth clamped. I look up at you through filmy eyes; I can’t look too directly because that would be too much, for both of us. There has to be a veil for me to let you do this. It’s why you’d stroke my neck across the table at a restaurant, or even lightly pinch my cheek, but would never in a million years slap me like this. Even a tap on the ass can be tolerated in public, but not this. This is more depraved somehow, and we both know it. My lips start to tremble and you lift your hand from my neck to cover them. You wind up covering part of my nose, too, and I force the panic to wind its way back down my throat before you slap my cheek again. Your dick is still inside me, but I wouldn’t say you’re fucking me with it, more like holding me in place, making sure I know you could fuck me at any time.

You switch hands and smack my right cheek, and I make sure my eyes are adamantly shut so I don’t see the blows coming, don’t know what’s going to happen, because that would ruin it a little bit for me. I feel you pull out and fear it’s over, fear you’ve tired of me, are bored by what’s increasingly becoming less of a game and more of a need. But instead your hand lingers on my face, seeing how much of it you can cover. I arch up against you, my back curving, straining to be covered by you. You give me what I want, pinching my nose, just for a minute, but long enough to make my insides seize up. You let go but then your face is right next to mine, the stubble I adore so much brushing against my cheek. I think you’re going to whisper something to me, but instead you bite me there, the fleshy part of my lower jaw. Not hard, but I’m sure it’ll leave an imprint. My clit is aching, but I can’t think about that too much because you grab my hands in yours and then tickle me under my arms. You’re not supposed to do that; tickling is off limits, but you do it anyway, followed by a sharp slap across my face, first one, then the other cheek. I want to ask you to do it harder, but I just think it, wondering if you’d be insulted were I to make such a request.

You take my silence for disinterest and do, indeed, slap me harder. Maybe it’s my imagination but you jab your cock into me when you do it. I’ve only slapped someone’s face in real anger, not like this, so I don’t know what it’s like, but I hope it makes you hard, I hope hurting me gets you off the way lying beneath you does to me. I don’t want to ask because as much as I may imagine what you’re feeling, I’d prefer you to show me with your body rather than your words.

Tremulous

The usual warning: If you don't want to read about my sex life, don't keep reading.

I've been doing readings since 2001 when my story "Monica and Me" was published in Best Lesbian Erotica 2001. That's a long time, and have hosted my monthly reading series since October 2005. You'd think I'd be better at reading or speaking in front of a crowd. But I'm not. I don't have the ease, the ownership, of the stage as you see stage performers or comedians or even other writers do. "Tremulous" was the word I believe Mike Daisey used last night to describe my reading (which you can soon watch and judge for yourselves).

I looked it up at Merriam-Webster:

Main Entry: trem·u·lous
Pronunciation: \-ləs\
Function: adjective
Etymology: Latin tremulus — more at TREMBLE
Date: 1611

1 : characterized by or affected with trembling or tremors
2 : affected with timidity : TREMBLE
3 : such as is or might be caused by nervousness or shakiness (a tremulous smile)
4 : exceedingly sensitive : easily shaken or disordered
— trem·u·lous·ly adverb
— trem·u·lous·ness noun

Here's the thing: he's totally right. My voice did and does shake. I'm nervous. I don't dislike it per se, but it's usually not until the moment I get up there that I realize, "Wow, this is really personal and intense." It's why I can read a story like "Lap Dance Lust," which I've read many times to Tsaurah Litzky's erotica class at The New School and at readings, but something like "Your Hand on My Neck," which I read an excerpt of last night, not so much. I guess I feel like I'm the opposite, or try to be, in my writing. Part of why I'm working on these pieces about rough sex is that I want to try to demystify what it's like--or rather, what it's like for me--because I hate the way things like that are perceived or tossed around, like they all evil. It makes a very strong boldface blurb but...what does it really say? But anyway, as much as in my head I can be all, "I'm standing up for us slutty bitches who are into rough sex," when I'm live, in front of people, that's not who I am at all. I'm wishing I'd chosen a safer, easier topic. I'm nervous about what people will think of me after. I'm editing on the fly a piece that's not yet done. I chose to read it at True Sex Confessions Night because it's a true story, my story, anyway. I would love, I would pay for, the top's side of this, the Eliot Spitzer or whoever. I would throw that sucker right into Best Sex Writing 2010 ASAP if I could find the perfect piece about what it's like from the other side. I could, of course, ask the person I do it with but...I haven't yet. That probably says a lot.

Anyway, it's a lot easier to type these words, or blog them, than speak them. The writing, when it comes (which, lately, is rare), it comes unconflicted, raw, pretty much finished when it leaves my head. The writing, in comparison to speaking out loud, is easy, having people look at me and expect entertainment from my twisted words, not so much. Probably always will be that way if the last 8 years are anything to go by. So yes, tremulous, that's me. If you want something else, go to another reading series.

Excerpt, story to be published in the tentatively titled Please, Sir: Erotic Stories of Submission, edited by me, published by Cleis Press, April 2010 (I am still editing the book, please be patient.)

Your Hand on My Neck
by Rachel Kramer Bussel

Your hand on my neck is all it takes to make tears race to my eyes, to put my body on red alert, to let me know that I’m about to go insane. It’s that simple…yet of course your fingers going for the jugular will always be more complex than I can ever truly describe. It’s the fastest way to get my attention, to snap me out of whatever meandering place my mind has wandered, back to where it should be: on you. Forget about when you raise your hand to spank me or reach for my nipples to pinch them or even when you grab my arm to slam it against the sheets or shackle my wrist to your bedposts, all of which you know I adore, your hand on my neck is what makes me unbearably, almost impossibly wet.

Is it because you were my first? Is it because I trust you more? Or is it because those tears that rush forth, the gasps that claw their way to the surface, the panic that bubbles just below the surface, speak to me in a language deeper than words ever could?

Sometimes, because you know me so well, because you know what it does to me, you do it while we’re sitting across from each other at a restaurant. To an outsider, it probably looks like a light caress, like your hand could just as easily be stroking my arm, your thumb caressing my inner wrist, or smoothing my hair, or tracing my lips. And you could be doing any of those things, but you’re not: You’re wrapping yourself from thumb to forefinger around the expanse of my neck, pressing just enough to make my lips go slack, my breath get short. You’re telling me so much without saying a word, and my first instinct is to do what I do in bed: bend my head back, elongate my neck, shut my eyes, give more of myself to you.

But we’re in public, so I wait, and soon the moment passes. A couple can hold hands, under or even above the table, or play footsie, with no problem, but the intimate of choking is probably pushing the envelope, even in Manhattan. Still, I think about it, even while waiting for my burger and fries, about how it feels when you press harder, when my through constricts and the gasps become sobs and I want to thrash and struggle so I can feel you clamp down harder...

The porn movie I can't wait to watch

Seriously, could this be hotter? I will review it here very soon!

Here's the description from Tristan Taormino's site: (it's part of Vivid Ed)

TRISTAN TAORMINO PRESENTS
PENNY FLAME'S EXPERT GUIDE TO ROUGH SEX

Starring:
Penny Flame, Lexi Belle, Aiden Starr, Mark Davis, Derrick Pierce, Devin and Mia Lelani

Penny leads a workshop where she teaches and demonstrates with the help of Mia Lelani. She covers:

• how to communicate, establish consent, and set limits
• which parts of the body can be roughed up and which can’t
• how to choose an effective safeword
• tips for spanking, face slapping, and hair pulling in a safe way
• three different kinds of slapping techniques
• dominant/submissive and psychological roleplay

Then, watch as Penny and Derrick Pierce deliver a compelling performance. No one has ever seen Penny this rough, dirty, and nasty on film. Her fans will be surprised to see her scorching, one of a kind scene. Says Penny: "Although I like it in my personal life with the right person, I've never had rough sex on camera before. I hand-picked Derrick, who I really trust, for my scene. We felt really comfortable, and I went to a place I've never gone before. It's one of the best scenes I've ever shot."

Next, dirty talking Aiden Starr takes charge in a dominant/submissive roleplay with Devin, a popular male performer from Kink.com. Watch as he submits to her will, becoming her sex slave; at one point, she literally has him barking like a dog!

Mark Davis and Lexi Belle do the most provocative scene in the film. An experienced player, Mark really pushes her buttons, physically and emotionally, with roleplay, spanking, and face slapping. Lexi's reaction is raw, real, and very intense.

**Innovative format: watch the scenes with or without instruction by Penny Flame
**Dynamic on-screen graphics that highlight creative tips and tricks to help guide the viewer in the learning experience
**Written and Directed by Penny Flame
**Executive Produced by Tristan Taormino

DVD Features: Motion Menus, Scene Selection: With or Without Instruction, Chapter Selection, Mini-Feature on Safer Sex, Bonus Footage, and Vivid-Ed.com Info. Shot in high definition, DVD ROM compatible, no regional coding.

Available on DVD only.

Running Time: 2 hours (including all bonus material)
Produced by: Smart Ass Productions and Vivid-Ed
Release date April 1, 2009

There was even an open casting call for it:

“Penny Flame's Expert Guide to Rough Sex” will be the first instructional video of its kind to examine how to play rough and do it safely. It will cover a range of controversial topics including dominant/submissive role play, spanking, slapping, hair pulling, and even choking.

During the casting, performers will be interviewed on camera about their sexual likes and dislikes, their experiences with rough sex, and what they like about it. "We are looking for smart, articulate performers who truly enjoy rough sex. Not only do we want people who are passionate about it, but we want them to be able to speak honestly and thoughtfully about why they do it and what they get out of it," says Flame.

True Sex Confession: My first strip club lap dance

"Lap Dance Lust," which I read in the video below from In The Flesh, is also one of the very first erotica stories I ever wrote, set way back in 2001, written, I think, in 2002. If you like it, do make sure you come out to True Sex Confessions Night on July 16th at In The Flesh Reading Series. It's FREE and I'll be reading a snippet of a hot story I wrote for my 2010 book Please, Sir about choking. All true! Plus you can even anonymous confess your own sex stories. Do join us!