(Not so) Kinky Shoes of the Week – Toulouse by Channi B

Its’ Friday. I’m feeling a bit snakeskin…a bit pink…a bit blue…a bit like this, in fact:


How about you?

Fiction – Special Order

Every Friday lunchtime he took his sorry self to the café round the corner to see her. Without fail, he ordered a cheese and tomato sandwich, and a diet coke. A pathetic lunch for the end of another pathetic week. Self-pity wasn’t becoming, he knew that. His father had told him often enough; “Pull yourself together! Be a man!”. He didn’t really know what that meant any more.

His luck was in – she was serving today. She wore the same uniform as the other waitresses, except she had obviously tried to make the dowdy green skirt and blouse more appealing recently, by tucking and tightening to expose a bit of cleavage and giving more of a pencil-skirt effect, instead of the usual A-line. Her shoes were different too, he noticed. Being on their feet all day, the rest of the staff favoured comfort over style, but her black patent stilettos looked anything but comfortable. He wondered idly what it would be like to feel one of them pressing into his flesh, the sharp heel scraping the surface of his skin, and shivered involuntarily.

Completely lost in thought, he had not realised that she was walking towards him. Picking up his plate, she deliberately seemed to bend over so that he could not help but catch a glimpse of the tops of her breasts contained in her lacy bra.

“Gents. Now.” The command was a bark – quiet, so that the couple at the next table could not hear, but there was no doubting its forcefulness. Her face was passive, unsmiling, registering no hint of emotion. It was the first time he had really had cause to study her face up close. Her green eyes had a depth to them that didn’t betray what was going on behind them, and the rosebud mouth looked innocent enough. “Yes.” he said, waiting for her to distance herself to the back of the café.

He stood and made his way quickly in the same direction, heading for the gents toilets, hoping his excitement was not too obvious. His heart pounded as he opened the door. Once inside, he hesitated, hung his coat on the back of the door, and waited.

The door opened a minute or so later, and she came in, locking the door behind her. “Take your pants down”. It was the same quiet, confident tone, and again her face was expressionless. He obeyed quickly, unbuckling his belt, and unzipping his trousers. He hesitated slightly with his underwear, but a slightly raised eyebrow let him know she meant business.

As he stood there hoping for her approval, he knew deep down he would be disappointed. It was the first time her face expressed anything other than impassivity, and the half smile felt crueler than any outright open sneer might have done. She gestured behind him. “Sit down, open your legs”. He bit back a quip that he felt rising in his throat, an involuntary habit of his to defuse tension.

Standing in front of him, hands on hips, legs slightly apart, she surveyed him for a moment, and nodded. Reaching down to the hem of her skirt, she slowly started to roll it up her thighs. A loose thread hanging off the seam caught his eye, a reminder of the home-made alteration, a strange imperfection in her otherwise consummate appearance. Her legs were passable – her highly toned calves hinted at an ease with high heels, and her thighs were probably slightly chunkier than modern beauty dictated – but the confidence with which she now stood before him made up for any perceived imperfections.

She wore hold-ups under her skirt, nothing else. He was pleased to see that a neatly trimmed triangle adorned her pubic mound, while the rest of her cunt was fully shaved and exposed to him. While he tried to catch a peek of her labia, she came closer and put her hands on each of his shoulders. “Legs apart”, she ordered, and straddled him face on. They stayed like that for several seconds. He didn’t know where to look or put his hands, but desperately wanted to rip her blouse open and bury his face in her tits, yet her whole demeanour told him that would not be welcome. Instead he leaned back and gripped the edge of the toilet seat and waited.

He felt the warm liquid splashing his cock before he quite realised what was happening, little droplets of urine splashing his inner thighs as she pissed between his legs. The long, steady stream ran off into the bowl below him, and he closed his eyes momentarily to concentrate on the sound of piss against porcelain.

When she had finished, she shook herself slightly and smiled at him for the first time in the whole encounter.

“Lick me dry”

She stood up and offered him her cunt. He greedily licked the final warm droplets, interspersed with the musky juices that gave away her arousal. Before he got a chance to get too carried away, however, she took a step back, smoothed down her skirt, and headed for the door.

He waited in the tiny windowless toilet for her footsteps to recede and the heat of his face to cool down, before pulling up his clothes, grabbing his coat and heading out of the door.

Realism in Erotica

The more I overthink things, the more I have doubts.

I’ve been pootling about on the internet a lot reading about sex. This is of course nothing new. What is new, however, is that this time it is for “research”, rather than purely for pleasure. I’ve had a story idea in my mind for the last couple of weeks that doesn’t lend itself to being immediately written. It needs thought, and factual checking, and to be honest I am not sure it’s ever going to get written.

I did a bit of research for Morning Glory, specifically related to the mechanics and sensations of the male orgasm, and at the time I could not help but “cum” across similar pieces about the female orgasm. I was reminded of the fact that, if the internet is to be believed, only around three quarters of women achieve orgasm through vaginal penetration alone. Guess what? I’m one of them. It is also estimated that 10 to 15% of women struggle to reach orgasm at all (thankfully, I’m not one of them!).

Yet it seems standard practice in a lot of erotica that the female protagonist achieves multiple orgasms merely by looking at her partner (yes, E.L. James and her highly orgasmic virgin springs to mind here). I’m probably as guilty as the next person here (although I deliberately avoided this when I wrote Construction – the eagle eyed among you may have noticed that Jo did not orgasm at all).

Then there’s the thorny subject of safe sex. Sometimes the fumble for a condom can make a good literary device, whereas a more fantasy setting might do away with the messy real-life business of contraception.

By doing this, am I just as guilty of perpetuating myths about sex as, for example some might accuse mainstream porn of? Is it obvious enough that fiction is fantasy and should be taken with a pinch of salt?

Finally, how well can I get away with practices I have not experienced myself? At the risk of mentioning “that book” again, E.L. James has come in for a lot of criticism for the nature of the BDSM relationship between Christian Grey and Ana Steele, especially from those who do live in a “true” Dom/Sub relationship. While she has admitted that it is a fantasy of hers, I don’t recall her admitting she had direct experience of a lot of the practices. I don’t have experience of a male/male relationship, for example, but I have an idea floating around in my head that might involve something like that. Does the fact I am unqualified mean I should not bother?

There are two ways of looking at things I suppose; rule number one of writing anything is supposedly “Stick to what you know”. All well and good, but if that were true there would be a lot less historical fiction, crime fiction and certainly no fantasy! A good writer should overcome these obstacles and be able to transport you into a fictional world that either a) seems realistic or b) makes you suspend disbelief enough to just go with the story.

I should probably stop thinking and just get on with writing though, shouldn’t I…?