Yeah Write Entry #298- Desiderium For RG

 

Desiderium*

by

Shannon Barber

 

I want.

I need.

Black wings, a flutter against my skull. I see you and can’t stop the thoughts. Is this mania? When I see the skin beneath your ear, all I can think about is how soft it is, how vulnerable. Teeth or blade? Kiss or bite? Predation. Lust.

Thoughts, bubbling like black water. Thoughts red and bloody.

I want.

I need.

Id rattling the bars. I am a shell.

A caress that precedes a slap, your hand around my throat. A threatening squeeze that echoes in my cunt.

I want.

I need.

My nails in your back, dragging skin until thin blood mixes with hot sweat.

Later, when we are spent, bruised and battered we will weep.

Drop salt tears on my breast, your cock hard again in my hand.

I am want.

I am need.

*I am longing for what is lost. 

###

PS

I will craft nerd about this tomorrow and explain a thing. Also it is dedicated to and inspired by one of my Muses Remittance Girl.

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Flash Friday- Smutty edition.

I have had a hell of a week. So how about some smutty flash fiction to start the weekend?

I have a terrible and wonderful love/obsession with Vagina Dentata.

Here, have this little dreamy piece about it.Next week, I’ll do a sample from my writing classes I’m working on featuring this piece and an exercise.

Enjoy.

Gia’s Secret

I blame my loudmouth roommate for this entire situation.

When JJ got home from her date with Gia.

I heard her say-

“Goddamn Gia is a toothy cunt.”

I think that is what she said. I don’t know I was too busy being drunk and low key in love with Gia.

What I heard was-

“Goddamn Gia has a toothy cunt.”

Had I not been so drunk I would have understood.

I was drunk because I had just broken up with my girlfriend and upon hearing that my roommate was going on a date with my crush I did the sensible thing. I bought an enormous bottle of cheap wine and took the couch.

JJ stopped to lean over the couch to look down at me.

“You should call Gia and ask her out on a date. She is way more your type than mine. And you should probably go to bed. You’re really drunk.”

I don’t remember JJ putting me in bed or stripping me. I do remember her taking my bag of chips away and putting a bottle of water on my nightstand.

After she left me, I lay there turning over the idea of Gia in my head.

My cunt started to burn, I felt the blood moving, my lips swelling and wanting to be touched. I waited, thinking about JJ’s comment.

“Gia has a toothy cunt.”

Toothy cunt, toothy cunt. I closed my eyes and pictured her fine, lean brown body. I’d seen her naked before. Shit, I’ve seen almost all of my friends naked. We have stripped together, tricked together, been photographed together. Yet, I could not remember if I had seen teeth or not.

Gia is sleek where I am not. She is muscled and tight, catlike and androgynous in a classic kind of way. I wonder if she still has that precision trimmed bush, verdant in a tightly controlled way that is beyond sexy. My fingers move between my own thighs as I imagine the topography of her cunt.

Are her lips dark like the ones on her face? Do they have that petulant mean curve, do they fold soft and wrinkly as wilting fern fronds? Could I get them to swell and spread with just one finger? Just one finger dragged slowly just where they protrude, just a tickle. Just enough to promise more but not enough to deliver.

I saw myself with my face between her strong thighs, dipping my tongue into the crenulated secrets of her cunt before peeling her lips open to tickle her sharp secret teeth.

Eyes closed I imagined dipping my tongue just inside her, just enough to feel the slick of teeth on the tip of my tongue.

Unwise as the desire might be I wouldn’t recoil from the slick smoothness, I would smile against her. I could almost taste her, feel her lithe, muscular body twisting, warning me of the danger to come.

Against the backdrop of my closed eyes, I tried to paint her, lips full and dark, slick and revealing the barest sliver of deepest wet red. Wet as a screaming mouth full of danger.

I’d want her fuck hungry, ready to devour me whole.

I neared orgasm the world grayed out around me, I must have passed out because I woke up with a fuzzy mouth and my hand wedged between my thighs.

I couldn’t remember coming or not, but I did remember vivid dreams of a flash of teeth, old ivory buried inside hot wet red.

The beauty of my fixation is that I have a date with Gia tonight and I hope to come home tongueless.

 

On Writing the Filth.

A while back someone asked me some stuff about writing Erotica and I figured I’d answer finally.

These aren’t verbatim.

First thing. This person wanted to know how I know what is/can be arousing to readers.

So this is really not how I work. My erotic stories start out like every other bit of fiction I write. There is a voice or a phrase, sometimes there is a theme type thing to explore or I will (as y’all have seen) I sometimes just grab a prompt and go.

The writing process for me doesn’t change with the genre or subject matter. If I’m writing fiction, there is a story to be told. Most of the time when I start I am not even sure it will be erotic or horror or whatever. I just go.

As for the question of how I know something will be sexy. Thing is I don’t actually. I know what want to explore and what turns me on but I can’t say the same for other folks.

Sometimes, I am working through things that don’t fit right into erotica in a neat and tidy way. I want to explore the things that are outside of just getting wet or having a boner. The tears. The internal machinations a person might go through because their own arousal makes them uncomfortable.

I like tension. I like finding the outer edges of what is generally considered pleasure and playing around there.

Next thing.

They asked about the markets and frankly, I don’t care about the erotica markets. I just don’t. I have not written anything appropriate for the market in general in probably 6-8 years. To read a good piece on E.L James and the current state of the markets go here.

I don’t think E.L James broke erotica. I think erotica was going into a weird place for over a decade.

If I look back at the first erotica that wasn’t mainstream straight stuff (Anne Rice) that I was reading it wasn’t just fap porn for the most part. There was plot and sctructure. Yes, the plot revolved around sex, but it wasn’t a Penthouse Forum letter style so there was some substance. I read a lot of non fiction sex writing as well that revolved around pleasure, body politics, queerness etc.

So my foundation is pretty good.

Now even way back when I saw a lot of things that indicated to me that erotica as a market for my own work was probably not going to be great for a long time. My characters were/are not all White with slim voluptuous (YES I see tht a lot) hips and perfect for the Manly Man’s boner. Or they weren’t the Dick Swingingest White Butches or the Dick Swingingest White gay men with muscles and perfect bubble butts..you get the picture.

The other thing that started happening was the slow melding of romance (HEA etc) and prescriptive “heat” levels in a lot of presses. That is a huge reason why I stopped being interested in the markets.

Frankly, writing with those type of deal breaking parameters just is not the business for me.

So the industry as I see it has grown smaller. We’re expected to produce a certain experience and if we’re not giving that experience or giving those covers (I’ll get to that) then there’s not a whole lot of space in the market.

 

There is also the issue of the appearance of diversity without any substance.

I was browsing an erotica press that was courting me a bit of a collection. As I scrolled through hundreds of ebooks I saw a lot of the same things.

In my, uh, bracket of heat ratings (scorching naturally) I saw a lot of thin White women in various colors of thongs. A lot of bare chested White men. A few scattered interracial couples etc.

Now that’s all well and good but, that is not something that would fit my work. Generally speaking, I’m not writing models having sex.

Industry wise, I personally have felt that there’s not a place in the market for my work for a long time. Long before E.L James wrote fanfiction and turned it into an empire.

I’m not mad that just is what it is.

For me, once I let go of the emotional dependence on having a chance in the marketplace, I have felt like the erotica I have written is better. It’s hotter. It suits my literary tastes.

I think I’ve mentioned this before, but for me there has been a freedom in letting go of the idea of writing for a marketplace. It is a big part of why I don’t freelance more.

Really at the bottom of it I just want to write things. There are a lot of things in my head and writing them makes my life easier.

Same person asked me about writing the other but we’ll get to that another day.

Now y’all ready for an announcement?

It is official. August 31st my book Self Care Like a Boss is being launched into the world. In celebration of that my publisher and I have started a teeshirt thing. Come here to check it out.

Come read some of the book here.

More details as they come.

 

Some Erotica and a raw look at what inspires me.

If you’ve been here for a while, you know that one of my dear friends, muses and a writer I admire deeply is Remittance Girl. Her story Heat Sink is hands down my pants one of the hottest things I’ve ever read.

We know I’m not really hetero but there is something in the tone of this piece that just gets me.

That being what it is and the fact that I was feeling uninspired to finish writing something else I decided to write a piece inspired by her piece. So first go read or listen to her piece. I highly suggest listening to it because she has a fantastic reading voice and having smut, read to you is super fucking hot.

No, seriously it’s pretty short read it. Or mine won’t make sense.

Okay, here’s what her piece sparked in my brainmeat.

OH wait before I do that. This is directly from my brain and completely unedited. If you’ve been curious as to where stories start with me, this is a good example.

I might polish it up I might not.  I will come back tomorrow and talk about some erotic things that are on my mind. This is about 20 minutes of work or so after listening to the story and reading it to pick up a few key things.

Enjoy.

AND thank you my dear friend for being my muse so often. I adore you.

Untitled-raw.

My girlfriend already told me to stop staring once tonight. I can’t help it, they are so beautiful together. I know she thinks no one else knows, that at least a few of us can’t tell.

“Stop staring.”

My girlfriend’s voice is hot against my ear and I shrug her off.

“Look at them. Look at his jaw.”

A muscle jumps near his jaw, I know that calm. I wonder if his wife felt it when they first met or if she had to learn. I am pretty sure she had to learn. She has that look, the same look I know I have. It’s something in the eyes, that glitter of fear tingling in her spine while she flirts and smiles.

My girlfriend is amused, she pats my ass before leaving me to my fantasizing while I watch them. I watch her lean toward the lawyer, her cleavage jiggling, her fingers worrying a necklace.

I want to watch them.

I watch his long fingers roll the wine glass in his hand slowly, his eyes are hooded until someone else speaks to him and he smiles. He’s not pretty and I like that. I can’t stand a pretty man when I can stand men at all.

Does he spank her?

Tie her up?

I have heard his voice tight with tension. At another of these stupid adult boring parties. I watched some drunk asshole paw at his lusty friendly wife, I sidled near to listen to the susurrus of his anger, low and even. The tightness of his grip on the other man’s arm, the way his eyes went cold.

My cunt throbbed. I was certain if I tried to sit anywhere I’d leave a wet spot a mile wide.

I’m brought out of my reverie by her voice, his wife speaking low in my ear.

“Hi, he’s beautiful, isn’t he?”

Lily, yes, that’s her name it is Lily- has a voice like wine and cigarettes and sex.

I tip my head a little to look at her, the red lipstick has worn off of her lips and she is just a little drunk. I want to fuck her. I want to fuck her while he watches and judges.

I lick my lips, my girlfriend and I do not have an understanding about this sort of thing so I swallow my come on.

“You’re both gorgeous, but you know that, don’t you?”

Her chuckle is warm and redolent of wine. I look back up and her husband is watching us, that little muscle in his jaw tightening into a marble under his skin. I feel her smile, she’s showing off. Her face is next to mine and she murmurs too low for anyone else to hear.

“When we get home, he’s going to spank me and then fuck me. He likes his women whorish. He’d love you. He’d make you cry.”

My cunt feels like it is going to turn inside out.

I swallow and can’t hide the catch in my voice. I can’t hide my desire.

“Lily, you are such a cunt.”

I smile at her husband and he nods, she kisses my cheek and then she’s gone. Back to flirting with the lawyer while I stand there frozen.

My girlfriend appears at my side and puts her arm around my waist.

“Come help me with my face.”

In the bathroom. she leans me against the counter and pulls up my skirt. I am so wet she slides three fingers inside me without preamble or sweetness. Her other hand creeps around my throat and she stares at my face in the mirror.

She knows me so well, she knows my secrets and when she starts fucking me hard enough to make me squeal, she covers my mouth.

“Straight couples now? Really bitch? Really?”

Under her hands, I’m grinning and coming, my thighs give out and I lay across the cold marble counter barely able to breath.

My girlfriend pulls out before I’m done and starts to wash her hands.

“Get your shit together before you come out.”

Her clipped tone is hot around the edges with need. I sit on the toilet when she leaves, laughing and making a note on my phone to send Lily and her husband a gift basket.

###

Yeah Write #217- Dragon Lady

Dragon Lady

by

Shannon Barber

 

“I love you, I love you, I love you.”

His words come in time with the rhythm of my fist hitting his gut. I’m panting and sweating, he’s sweating and the way he’s tied with his arms above his head he looks like a sacrifice.

I am the dragon.

I stop swinging my fists and he’s angelic.

“I love you too babe. Had enough?”

He is quiet for a long moment and then he nods.

“Yeah, thank you.”

I drag my little step stool over and untie his hands, he buries his face between my tits. Not quite a motorboat but close.

I laugh and step down.

“You don’t get off that easy being cute.”

He nods and puts his hands behind his back the way I like.

“Good, now go. I’ll be in there in a minute.”

He is mine. He is my posession. He cooks my meals, he shines my shoes, he polishes my nails and shaves my legs. I tie him up, beat him with fists and objects d’kink.

Our friends don’t really know the depths of our mostly private depravity. In mixed company, we are delightful, he is an attendant date. They rarely know that as we dine or dance he is wearing one of his specially ordered chastity devices, or my panties, or a short length of rope tied lightly around his cock.

As I walk back into the bedroom I stop in the doorway to look at him, he’s beautiful. Stretched out on his back, his cock lubed and ready for me just the way I like. I smile at him.

“I love you baby.”

He smiles so sweetly I want to slap him across the face for it and listen to him cry. Maybe later.

“I love you too.”

###

 

 

Shit I Worry about.

While I am getting back to the rhythm of writing whatever I want to and not worrying so much about making money with it, I have unearthed some new writer uh.. let’s be cool and call them neurosis that I seem to still possess.

  1. Sometimes I fully believe that after having so much nonfiction published nobody will ever want my fiction again. This is bullshit because I just got a fiction acceptance a couple of weeks ago after not submitting any for months.
  2. I will/have forgotten how to write fiction. That is just dumb.
  3. But what if I want to write more nonfiction? What if I forget how to do that too?
  4. Am I too lispy to do a reading ever again? What if nobody asks me to read again?
  5. What if when I tell other authors that I am their fangirl I am just being annoying?
  6. WHAT IF I CAN’T?

Rinse, repeat.

This is related to something I read that Warren Ellis said. I saw this on his blog and it had the ring of truthy truthiness.

I’m re-reading Samuel Beckett plays because there is no sun and no spring and permanent winter is permanent. And also I have to re-read Beckett every few years to remind myself that I am a talentless worm humping across a barren landscape and leaving nothing but a thin stream of yellow faeces on the dirt behind me while people on the other side of the horizon are building palaces. I mean, it’s like reading Cormac McCarthy’s prose, or WG Sebald. You just want to eat every painkiller in the house and wash it down with toilet cleaner.

I’ve been doing some poking my toes in SF/F/H and I’m feeling like the aforementioned yellow poop. I’m having the feelings that I should leave the genre stuff because I’m not supposed to write whatever I want. I’m supposed to pick a thing and do the thing.

Now I know rationally that is fucking bullshit and I can and should write as promiscuously as I read. I have never ascribed to the idea that once you write X things that is the only thing you can do well or should do.

Emotionally letting myself just do the shit I know how to do is proving a little difficult. It’s not insurmountable and I have been writing like the proverbial motherfucker for weeks now. My output is not only back to a volume I’m comfortable with but not so much of it is outright trash.

I am also having some trouble not pressuring myself about freelancing and money. Patreon is going wonderfully. Truly. See here (also I’m doing patron/donor exclusive content now you) and it’s all good, but I still have 300$ of a huge bill to pay off and I find myself just not quite desperate but feeling the echo of the pressure to grind it out and make that money.

Fuck my ethics and artistic desires. Make that fuckin money.

If I’m going to keep it 100, I feel like I did my last month stripping in Seattle. Like, fuck everything else I feel like I need to grabby hands all the money in case I never make money again.

This is poverty brain as it interacts with my artistic wants.

I’m writing about that, you’ll see it soonish.

The thing I’m banging my head against is that morally on a personal level, it is more important to me to get into creating the representation I want to see. As that great writing advice I saw somewhere went, write the stories only you know how. That is something I carry with me every time I write something. It is what I use for fuel. Nobody can write the exact thing I am writing.

The problem is that my Asshole Poverty Brain is like, bitch please no. You write whatever pap someone will shove money at you for and be grateful. You don’t deserve to be arty.

I’m working through it, but y’all some days it is so damn hard.

Talking about it and writing about it helps.

Also I feel like it’s important to me to be open about it because this is what I wanted to know when I was a kidlet writer. This is real shit y’all.

Next week I’m going to add a new page for my writing bucket list. I’ll get to talking about Jerry Stahl, more nerdery about myth and retelling myths through various lenses, erotica and some other stuff.

Speaking of erotica you can get yourself some brand spankin (pun intended) erotica over in my shop. Get some hot lesbian lovin’ here is a tidbit:

She took a breath and erupted into noisy joyful sobs. Amidst her tears she was laughing. Bellowing gut wrenching laughter, her eyes screwed shut, her hair a bird’s nest, her face glowing with sweat and satisfaction.

I laughed with her. Her tears did something to me whether they were tears of fear or tears of joy. Seeing this beautiful, calm, prim woman unhinged with her own orgasmic power undid me.

Yeah Write #190- Obeisance

Obeisance

It only matters that her eyes are on me as I walk out of the tiny hotel bathroom. I am afraid only because I know those eyes, those are the eyes of a predator sizing up her prey.

I am a doe mouse trembling without even the cover of a leaf.

She is a cat, fat, amused and hungry.

She beckons, I get down and crawl.

I kiss the toe of her boot. She moves like my nightmares. One hand pulls my head up and sideways, her other hand makes magic and there is the familiar slick sound of a blade clicking into place.

My face burns with shame, fear and deep need. I feel the cold blade through my slip against my breast.

Her voice is barely audible over the quiet susurrus of the air conditioner.

“I could slit your throat and leave you here. No one would know.”

The blade moves up to my fragile throat. The tip makes her point slowly, to one ear then the other.

“Then you’d smile forever.”

Her chuckle hits my cunt and the gush of wetness- I’m embarrassed.

“You wouldn’t even scream, would you?”

The blade describes the shape of my mouth. I feel the bite of the blade and the warm slow trickle.

She pulls the blade out and tilts my head, her eyes heavy lidded as the blood oozes down my chin. I watch the shift in her gaze.

“Don’t be cute, I know what you’re doing. It won’t work.”

My voice is so dry it hurts.

“Sorry ma’am.”

She lets go of my hair and pushes me back.

“Show me your panties.”

I am wearing the heather gray plain cotton. They show the truth, I always try to hide. I sit back and pull my slip up to my hips.

She flips on the lamp beside her. I put my weight on my elbows and roll my hips, force my thighs as wide as I can. My face is on fire, I want to hide the truth.

She laughs, a short mean laugh.

“You want to get off don’t you?”

I can’t lie; the truth is there in the wet spot on the crotch of my panties.

“Take those off.”

I scramble to peel them off. My fingers are shaking.

She nods again and spreads her own legs. She has no panties on. The glint of wet pink makes my mouth water. I watch her fingers part the hair and lips, one finger on her clit. She looks at my cunt, grunting at me.

“Hold it open, put your finger inside, just one.”

I do as I’m told, I know if I’m good tonight could be my night.

Instead, I move my finger slowly, pulling moisture out, showing her my glistening digit before I put it back inside.

When she comes she makes hardly a sound, I can only tell because I know her. I know by the way her hips wiggle side to side. When she’s satisfied she stands up and shoves her fingers in my bloody mouth.

“Good girl.”

I am needy as a bitch in heat. She palms my face away, sneering as she tucks her blade into her purse and walks out.

“Clean yourself up. Jesus.”

Tonight is not my night, I scramble to wash my face and put my clothes back on before I head out to the car and get in without a word.

She pats my knee fondly as we drive away.

“Maybe another night, dear.”

###

Yeah Write