2011/07/31

Inspiration

One of my favorites from the eminently quotable Sir Terry Pratchett:

Particles of raw inspiration sleet through the universe all the time. Every once in a while one of them hits a receptive mind, which then invents DNA or the flute sonata form or a way of making light bulbs wear out in half the time. But most of them miss. Most people go through their lives without being hit by even one.

— from Wyrd Sisters, 1980.

Mainstream

The current issue (August 2011) of National Geographic uses, without introduction or explanation, the word fembot.

It was only ten years ago that I published Order, and at the time thought I had broken new ground with the idea of robotic sex partners. The fembot term was already a staple of story codes; I had simply not been aware of it as an established genre.

Still... interesting to find it in a mainstream publication, without a hint of a blush.

— Frenulum

Tuesday

I decided. “Heels and panties,” I said. “Face the curtain and wait for me.”

“Stockings too?” she asked as she undressed, since she was wearing sheer thigh-highs and knows I like them.

“Yes.”

Ready, she waited, standing with her back to me, nervous, apprehensive, wondering. Her hands met behind her back: it is required when she kneels for me, but there was no precedent for this situation. Her fingers twisted and twined, betraying her anxiety. After a while she moved her hands, lacing her fingers together atop her head. I had not demanded that pose, although it is something of a tradition for a girl about to be spanked. She was exquisitely beautiful, waiting for my word.

I watched her, from a chair across the room. Supremely happy with her submission.

Then it was time.

— Frenulum

2011/07/30

Good friends

One huge beach towel. Three good friends: Angel, Brittney, Charlotte. Sunning and snoozing and chatting on a hot day at the shore.

They turned as a unit. When one girl felt baked on one side she flipped over; the others always followed suit: synchronized sunbathing.

It was during one such move that one bumped another and the playfulness began. Soon they were rolling over each other like gymnasts, tumbling and tangling and giggling like crazy.

Ass to ass. Breasts to breasts. Front to back. Skin to skin, in string bikinis that hid almost nothing of their trim young bodies. Unconscious of the spectacle, cavorting like puppies in a pile.

Eventually they rested; but for the rest of the afternoon when one or another got the giggle-fits she would roll over the girl next to her, and it would all start again.

That night, Angel and Brittney slept soundly.

Charlotte lay awake in the dark of her bedroom, playing with her virgin pussy, remembering the bodies of her best friends, dreaming of things she barely understood, cumming again and again.

— Frenulum

2011/07/25

Sequel

I have been asked to write sequels to various stories over the years; I have accepted such requests as genuine compliments and filed them away, but without ever really intending to follow through.

In general, I don’t feel like revisiting characters. Most of them spend years in my mind, and I am happy to let them go have their own lives in your imaginations, if you are so inclined.

But a very persuasive reader has made a stellar case for revisiting one story — interestingly, not one that gets a lot of sequel requests.

Stay tuned for updates!

— Frenulum

2011/07/13

Too late wise

I was looking at a photograph today of a girl wearing her panties at half-mast, in preparation for a spanking, and out of the blue I found myself wondering if those who design panties spend any time thinking about how they will look when submissively lowered.

Immediately, another thought hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks: panties are designed! Somewhere in the world there are people who design panties for a living. They select or even commission the fabrics, choose the decorative trim, decide on the shape and form and coverage (or lack thereof), and cut and sew samples. And they put them on models, check the look and fit, and make adjustments as needed. As a job.

Which leads to an inescapable conclusion:

I have terribly misspent my entire working life.

— Frenulum

2011/07/11

The Moment of Truth

Many years ago, a wise friend, about ten years my senior, said to me:

The moment of truth comes in an elevator. You find yourself in an elevator with a really beautiful woman. She’s young, she’s gorgeous, she’s unescorted… and she strikes up a conversation with you. Instead of just riding silently, staring at the doors, she starts talking.

Do you know what that means? He asked, shaking his head.

It means you’re safe. You are no threat. You are old enough that there is nothing sexual left about you — no potential, no interest, no basic humanity — there is nothing left of you in her view except that you have expired… and therefore it is safe to have a conversation.

I think I laughed at the time, which now I regret.

I think it was about four or five years later…

I used to work on the 7th floor of an office building that had a modeling agency on the 4th floor. Pretty girls were very much a constant of the trip up. One day, I was about to head up when someone caught the door in the lobby and squeaked in. Six feet tall in heels. Brown hair to mid-back. Flawless makeup. Little black dress at 7:00 in the morning. Figure from a photo-shoot.

She smiled at me and asked if I didn't think it was the nicest day so far of the summer.

And I thought: I have expired.

I was reminded of this story today, when a tartlet at the lunchtime beach chose to plant her bikini-bared bottom about two feet in front of my face while I sat on my usual bench. No notion that the grey-haired rock on the shoreline would take any notice at all.

Fortunately, there is one in my life who knows I am still sentient :o) That makes all the difference.

Continual Improvement

If I go to him and say “I’m ready now,” he’ll spank me. Pain so fierce and deep it’s like a burn. To surrender myself, to bare my own bottom, to beg for it, is almost unthinkable.

Until I do, though, it hangs over my head — it will never just go away. Knowing that I’ve been disobedient, that I disappointed him, that I haven’t yet atoned and been forgiven — it makes my stomach churn and my whole body shake and I can’t even think…

He watches me crawl across the living room. When I get to his chair, I kneel before him, eyes overflowing, and with trembling fingers pull down my panties. “I’m ready now, Sir. Please… please may I have my spanking?”

He glances at his watch. “Six hours,” he says. “You’re doing better every time.”

— Frenulum

2011/07/08

I won’t take that lying down

At work today I had the chance... wrong word... duty... no... burden!... not harsh enough... hellish experience of editing some text penned by colleagues.

I will hazard that the most common error (in English) is the unnecessary apostrophe, most commonly seen when it’s is mistakenly substituted for its. Funny, I never see hi’s or her’s, but it’s seems to have a cobra-like fascination.

But for second place in frequency, and first in how irritating I find it, is the persistent confusion of lie and lay.

After fixing a few of those, I recalled an episode from a few years ago. I was talking to a neighbor couple, and the husband kept saying to their golden retriever: “Lay down! Lay down!” Frustrated by the doggie’s noncompliance, he asked his wife why he (the dog) wouldn’t listen. She replied, “Because he speaks better English than you do?”

The only way one can lay down is to glue a coating of little feathers to the floor. I have yet to see it.

Sorry, folks. Venting. Engineers cannot write. Argh.

— Frenulum

It gets harder near the end

Writing, that is. Why, what were you thinking?

I have mentioned elsewhere that I am a pretty tough editor, and that I can’t remember ever re-reading one of my stories without finding something I wanted to change.

This gets to be a problem as a WIP approaches its conclusion — for before I trust myself to add more to it, I feel that I have to read it to synchronize my mental mood and voice, so that the end result will not have obvious seams in it. But in reading I edit, and sometimes (often) find that all the time I allocated to writing has gone to editing.

Frustrating, a little, because Four Bars is so close to finished. I just need one simple blowjob scene. One perfectly ordinary gratitude-soaked submissive artful cocksucking episode with a satisfyingly sticky conclusion. Just need to get to it.

Why oh why does the world insist we have day jobs? :o)

— Frenulum

2011/07/05

Mobile

I have enabled, experimentally, a mobile-aware version of the template for this blog. I would be interested in hearing from anyone who browses the site on a mobile device. Do you like that alternate format? Or not?

Thanks!

— Frenulum

Welcome home

My belovèd and I were enjoying this photo together this morning, and though I really don’t want to get picture-centered here (I am a writer after all, in some fashion), it is too marvelous not to share.
Her devotion is so clearly seen. Her face is inside him, or as close as can physically be managed. His care and appreciation are equally evident: the hand on her head is not so much forceful — though we could assume that it would be if necessary — as confident and relaxed. Stroking, admiring, loving her service, appreciative, and grateful.
I love his mirrored hands. I said this morning: I really hope he doesn’t drop the wine glass... but I kinda think he does.
Two more small points to appreciate.
One, her dress is pulled up to reveal her bottom. Is there, perhaps, a cabinet with a glass door behind her? Or a mirror? Either way, it seems evident that she knows what he loves and has arranged to present that beauty to him as best she can.
And two... I have to have those yummy heels. Um... not for me. As a gift :o)
— Frenulum

2011/07/04

Fraud

Four of the starting nine on the AL All-Star roster are from the Evil Empire?

Jeter? Really? I mean, come on. Seriously? An indifferent shortstop — who hasn’t even played enough to qualify for a fielding average, but would be in 44th place if he had — ranked 257th in on-base average? REALLY?

<gag>

Six of nine from two AL teams.

Fan voting has to end right now.

— Frenulum

Contrasts

The kitchen floor and the elegant bedroom attire.
The submissive posture and the relaxed, casually crossed ankles.
The cold, square surroundings and the warm, curvy girl.
I’m having a hard time imagining a story to go with this... but I think it’s a beautiful image.
Does it tell a story for you? Help me out. Please comment.
— Frenulum

The Birds

Why is it called “bird song”?

There is nothing song-like about it. It is repetitive to the point of madness, tuneless in most cases, harsh and screeching. Rah rah rah rah rah rah rah rah rah rah rah rah... — fingernails on a blackboard can only aspire to such levels of irritating cacophony.

It is like an alarm clock with no snooze button, that goes off at 04:00 no matter how much you need sleep. And it carries, as I understand it, but two messages: “Hey, baby, how ya doin’?” and “You kids get off my lawn!”

Argh. Stupid birds. Go away.

— Frenulum

2011/07/03

Mind Control

Yesterday I posted a [MC] story-fragment that reader Sirsgirl1630 rightly characterized as “creepy.”

Mind Control is a genre that practically invites bad writing, including some of mine. It tends to take character, motivation, emotion, thought, principle, and frankly interest out of the story. Guy has unlimited power, picks attractive girls, has sex with them... ok, if you’re not a fan of hydraulics, nothing to see here.

I think my story The Girl on the Train is bad [MC]. It is find-girl-fuck-girl idiocy — no narrative interest at all. Its justification is that it embodies the standard male fantasy of being able to choose anyone attractive without courtship, without merit, without earning her.

Absolutely True is a little bit better, in that there is at least some emotional investment, but it is still pretty shallow.

Checkout is, if I may be so bold, decent [MC] — because there is restraint, conflict, thoughtfulness, and consideration for the eventual victim. Yes, victim, for [MC] is rape, let us not shy away from that.

I think that the key to good [MC] writing is to provide limits, or costs. “Oh she’s cute I think I’ll take her home because I can” is a shallow, facile story... Like the flash On the Menu I just posted. There should be limits on the [MC] power, or consequences for using it, or some emotional trade-off to make it interesting.

I have one [MC] WIP that I think has potential... and it has been brewing for about seven years... Well, maybe some day.

— Frenulum

2011/07/02

On the menu

She told me her name was Courtney. She said she would be my “server,” which always makes me smile to myself. She was short, blond, busty, and insanely perky. Whatever I ordered or asked for, she piped back “Perfect!” as if judging my menu choices as compared to all the other ordinary diners.

She had the most amazingly white teeth. “Perfect!” I couldn’t help thinking how pretty they would look coated with cum.

When she came back for the last time to return credit card, bill, and pen, I opened up her mind and stripped away her free will. Then I took her home with me.

Yes, Courtney, I will have a little dessert, come to think of it.

— Frenulum