“Wet Satin Plaything” in Licked – an Anthology of Oral Pleasures

Tags

Adrea Kore, Anthology Release, cunnilingus, erotic fiction, erotica, femme fatales, Kinky Revenge, Licked Anthology, Oral Sex, Publications, reviews, Taboo, Wet Satin Plaything

 My story Wet Satin Plaything was accepted by House of Erotica for their themed anthology Licked  and was released December 2015.

It’s Spring here now in Australia -and I’m in the mood for some spring-cleaning – so  am updating all of my published fiction information this month.

 This was quite a cathartic little beast of a story to write – allowing me to explore some themes I find particularly (and personally) compelling  – those of acute sexual hunger that verges on addiction, complex relationships as places of struggle and transformation, and feminine revenge .

Licked contains “seven lip-smackingly sensual stories of all kinds of oral pleasure. Stories of nostalgia for the taste of a lover, long distance relationships, and revenge. Stories taking in both the distant future and pleasures in the past. ”

Edited by Jillian Boyd (Spy Games – Flappers, Jazz and Valentino) Licked is a tribute to the act of oral sex – to the intimacy, trust and the taste of your lover, the scent, the feelings the act invokes in both the giver and receiver. … Licked is a sizzling fictional exploration of some of the many ways oral sex can inspire so much more than just a hot flash of arousal. ”

For a sneak preview of my story, read on …

WET SATIN PLAYTHING

Last week, she tried to leave him on a Wednesday just before dinner.

But then, he’d pinned her to the wall in the hallway. Slowly increasing his weight on her body as one hand stole under her skirt, he’d caressed her satin-covered sex, kissing her deeply, quieting her distress.  He’d sunk to his knees, sucking at her through her underwear. Her fingers running through his rough blonde curls, coaxing his tongue deeper into her, were a tender plea for reconciliation. The cooking casserole had dried in the oven, as they devoured each other instead.

The week before it had been an early Tuesday morning.  He had taken her from behind, half-asleep on her side. No words passed between them, just the surprised gasps of her prolonged orgasms, and the quiet grunt of his eventual release. Then he rose silently, almost stealthily from the bed to leave for work. Lying awake in the chill of dawn, she wasn’t sure at what moment she felt more alone – when he was deep inside of her, or in the silence eddying through the house in the wake of the slammed door.

Sex was now the best kind of conversation they had. And although sometimes she hated herself for it, she always became wet at his first touch with any hint of sexual intent. In two years, he’d never failed to fling her onto a wild carousel of sensation, orgasms whirling through her with a carnivalian ecstasy and ferocity, seduced onto this maddening ride by his cock, his tongue, his seeking-finding fingers.

The month before, she had wanted to leave him on a claustrophobic Friday night. Claustrophobic because they never went out anymore, and she found herself curled in a foetal position in the hallway after trying to start a conversation about his behaviour (she daren’t use the word anger), and the yelling and threats had started and didn’t stop for an hour. His fury fell on her like piercing needles of relentless rain. No matter how small she tried to make herself the tirade hit her all over her body, the needles seeming to edge their way with icy precision through her hunched upper back into her heart.

…

She would leave him. She would. They were never going to go back to how they were in the beginning… She would watch as the kind gleam in his blue eyes steeled over into the grey slate of barely-repressed fury if she demanded too much of him. The electrifying sex remained, but with an undercurrent of desperation for her now.

Her earthen man with hands of bark liked to get her wet before taking off her panties. He liked to suck at her through the sheer fabric, his hot breath melting her into streams of pleasure. The thrill of his mouth being so close, feeling his tongue trying to enter her would send currents of yearning through her body, saturating the fabric with her liquid orgasms. Kneading into her cunt with his lips, he would force her thighs apart with his hands, giving her the occasional wet flick with his tongue, until she was pliant and yielding. Only then, when her wetness had seeped out onto the sheets as irrefutable evidence of her desire for him, only then would he remove her panties.

She would leave him this week. Before the verbal threats of ‘smashing her face in’ via a heated phone call a few mornings ago became a reality. Before the violence seething in his words and in the aggressive way he drove his work truck – tools lurching to and fro in the back just as her stomach lurched – bled into his actual actions towards her. How had she gotten here? She had not been with verbally abusive partners before, and she was enough of a feminist to know that she didn’t deserve to be treated this way. This didn’t stop her from feeling the fear in her belly when he was possessed by one of his rages, from shrinking and becoming this placating, cringing thing she didn’t recognise when he would threaten to leave her. Worst of all, it didn’t stop her from wanting him, wanting him even when he reeked of sweat and soil. It was as if she wanted to be sullied by him.

Her earthen man with hands of bark.

The man who loved cunt, she thought wryly. She suspected he loved her only when his face was between her legs, breathing in the scent of her arousal, his tongue a probing promise of release. Or maybe it was more twisted than even that. Maybe he just loved her cunt. Not her. Sometimes this gave her a strange confidence, a surety that he would not, could not, leave her. He needed the scent of her all over him, like an archaic ritual that meant she belonged to him. She was his territory. But her scent on his skin was also a calling spell, marking him as hers, compelling him to return to her. Who had more power, she wondered. Waiting for him to text, delaying making weekend plans with other friends until she knew when she was seeing him, she knew the answer.

At other times, she was seized by an image of her own cunt, opening wide, labia swelling up and backwards, forcing her legs to fold up on either side of her torso like giant reverse secateurs, engorged lips turning back on herself, devouring the rest of her, a dark hungry mouth. Vagina Dentata, she thought, though somewhat inverse to how Freud had originally conceived of it. Instead of it being about a man’s fear that the vagina would envelop and devour him; that he would be sucked back into the womb from whence he came into the world, this was a fear that her own vagina and its insatiable desire for one man would devour her.

Turning back on herself. She heard her own description echoing in her head. Her sexual need for him was making her turn her back on herself.

Was this what addiction felt like?

She would leave him when he least expected it. The prolonged simmering of her own unexpressed anger was starting to develop a voice. Starting to have ideas. Making her feel like she could do something totally unexpected. And this ‘something’ was the only way she would feel some sense of retribution.

…

*  * *

“Lie still. Let me look at you…”

She can’t believe she’s done this. Can’t believe he’s lying there naked, silent, so very compliant. She saunters around the bed, viewing him from all angles, ensuring he too can see the undulation of her hips and buttocks in her high heels, the now-bared and beckoning place between her thighs dipping in and out of his view.

Laid out on the bed, she thinks how vulnerable he looks in them. How he is suddenly transformed; the harsh words, so unexpectedly hushed.

Now, he is her plaything.  All the dirty-earthed hard labour of him is softened in supplication.  Softened by the touch of satin and lace.  Her satin and lace.

Stretched across his cheeks, the sheer fabric strains to contain him. They are tighter on him than on her; black to match the leather bindings around his wrists. These two dark interruptions against his skin are almost all she needs to tame him.

Almost.

Hands on hips, she stands at the base of the bed, brazenly contemplating his erection as she moves her own legs further apart into a defiant stance. With satisfaction, she notices how he lifts his head to get a better view of her.

“You know what you are, today? You’re my little satin plaything.” She prowls onto the bed, knees on either side of his legs, as she moves slowly up his torso, to a standing position. “And I am going to do whatever I like with you.” Gazing up at her, he is perfectly silent.

“Take off my shoe, satin plaything.”

Despite the binding, he manages it.

“Good. Now the other one.”  Clumsily, he repeats the two-handed manoeuvre on her right shoe.

As she stands on the bed over his body, she trails a toe along his torso, smiling down at him as she moves herself so her sex is directly above his face.

“Such a clever little plaything.”

She tantalizes him, oscillating her hips as she lowers herself towards his face. He’s twitching and moaning. But he’s making no attempt to regain control.

She likes him like this. Vulnerable. Waiting. Wordless.

One thing is certain. Today, he’s not the one in control.

She lowers her knees on to the bed, her thighs a vice on his torso. Holding  him firmly in place she moves her hand to his mouth, examining her creative handiwork and reaching out to stroke his lips through the sheer fabric; this potently personal totem of her desire.

She leans in to kiss him – a masked kiss, a cloak-and-dagger-kiss.

The perfect gag.  Perfect to keep her plaything quiet.

© Adrea Kore September 2015

*  * *

 

  SO GET LICKED – YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO!

 Also available via Amazon

What the Reviews are Saying:

“I would definitely recommend this anthology to anyone who loves erotica and likes to indulge in very naughty short reads.

Licked, liked, and loved it! (I didn’t actually lick it, but had it been a hardback I was reading I might have).”

Coco Bell – Bell, Book and Erotica

“One of my favourite writers of erotic fiction, Adrea Kore, explores the torture of desire, of compulsion and addiction … She writes not only to arouse but to challenge us intellectually and emotionally. Her cleverly embroidered story of revenge is haunting, its prose woven with poetic refrain.

Let go your inhibitions and inhabit your senses. Embrace these tales of salt-sweet delight and, in so doing, discover oral pleasures anew.”

• Emmanuelle de Maupassant 

 

I hope you enjoyed my excerpt – and would love to hear what you thought … 

I’m interviewed by the anthology’s Editor on the intricasies and challenges of writing about oral sex  ….. here

 

 

Interview: Oral Pleasures on the Page – with Editor Jillian Boyd

Tags

Adrea Kore, Anthology Release, cunnilingus, Female Sexuality, femme fatales, Interview, Licked Anthology, Oral Sex, sex as addiction, Squirting, Taboo, Wet Satin Plaything

 

Soon after the release of erotic anthology Licked, I chatted to the anthology’s editor Jillian Boyd. She asked me to talk about my story Wet Satin Plaything: one of seven stories featured in the anthology and my thoughts on the rather slippery subject of the anthology’s theme: oral sex.

Jillian: What would you say your story is about?

Adrea: My story Wet Satin Plaything started off as several scenes of hot oral sex and intense, somewhat kinky sex, where a generally non-dominant woman is driven to a point where she finds her Inner Dominatrix.  It centred around a man and woman in relationship, the man is very into the act of cunnilingus, and gets off on all things associated with it – a woman’s sexual scent, lingerie, wetness, squirting. Seeing how many times he can get his lover to orgasm and assisting her to go deeply into that altered space of sexual pleasure.

…as I wrote those scenes, I realised something darker and more complex was trying to come out – an actual story where I wanted to explore the dynamics of something like addiction

But as I wrote those scenes, I realised something darker and more complex was trying to come out – an actual story where I wanted to explore the dynamics of something like addiction – addiction to sex with a certain lover. It’s not addiction in the textbook sense of the term, but it gets close. It clouds her judgement about the behaviour of the man and the healthiness of the relationship. It starts to change her behaviour and feelings about herself. Classic sex addiction is something only a small proportion of people experience, but a sexually compelling, yet emotionally dysfunctional relationship that we get caught in, and find really hard to disentangle ourselves from? I think many of us have been there.

She succumbs to it just like a need for a hit, and it feels impossible to leave the source of the hit, even though she questions his love and knows his behaviour is emotionally abusive. As time goes on, the high from the sex becomes more short-lived, and other problems start to crowd in on her. Just like a substance addiction. She realises she has to do something drastic to break the cycle, to free herself. And although the story is told from her perspective, it seems like he may have a kind of addiction too – to cunt, to being in control, to being needed sexually. I’m never quite inside his head – so these things are all possibilities!

J: What made you want to write a story for Licked?

A: It was one of those convenient synchronicities – I was drafting this story, and saw the submission call for stories that centred around the theme of oral sex. It made me realise a lot of my stories do feature oral sex scenes. Having the deadline definitely helped motivate me to get the story written, so I thank you for that.

J: My pleasure. What was the inspiration behind your story?

Apart from the theme of sex addiction, I wanted to explore how a woman might extricate herself from an emotionally abusive relationship; how she reclaims her power. And initially, I just kept seeing a scene in my head where a very assertive, somewhat controlling man, only lightly restrained, is psychologically subdued by a woman who knows him well enough sexually to appeal entirely to his particular ‘kinks’. She manages to subdue him so effectively that he doesn’t see what’s coming until he’s in a situation entirely unfamiliar and quite terrifying, with a woman he’s (supposedly) very familiar with.

I’ve always been fascinated by femme-fatale archetypes like Lady MacBeth.

I’ve always been fascinated by femme-fatale archetypes like Lady MacBeth.

“Unsex me here” Part of Study of Lady MacBeth by Gustave Moreau

Back when I was acting and directing in independent theatre, I created an entire theatre piece around the theme. Does every woman have this archetype inside them? I’m not sure, but I am sure if you are wounded by the masculine in some way early in your sexual development, a woman is more likely to have this aspect somewhere inside her. So, what kind of situation might bring it out? Well, here’s one in Wet Satin Plaything.

J: Well, as I told you when I accepted the story for the anthology, the opening sentence packs a fucking great punch that draws you in.

A: Thanks. Yes, that line came quite quickly – as soon as I knew I wanted to turn my scene in to a story.

J: When did you first become aware of oral sex being a thing people did?

A: Early – maybe too early! I think I would have been five or six when I first encountered a description of a guy getting a blow job. I was one of those precociously bright children with a very high reading age. I was voraciously reading everything I could, and I had a habit of randomly taking books from the top shelf of the family bookshelf and reading from them – whenever my Mum wasn’t around.

In this case it was one of those steamy paperbacks popular in the seventies – set in Hollywood, and about a male porn star called Toby – I even recall his name. Put it this way – a child is sexual from an early age. I felt guilty as hell, but I scoured those pages looking for the “rude” scenes – and let me tell you, I was well rewarded in that book! I remember being both fascinated and kind of horrified. I knew what a penis was, but it was for peeing, so the fact that women were described putting one (well, several) in their mouths was pretty shocking for me.

I don’t think I realised that such an act existed in regards to women until much later – maybe when I was 13 or 14. Depictions of it, even in illicit media I might have stumbled upon, wasn’t as common as that of fellatio back then – and my Mum, surprisingly enough, didn’t include it in her “how babies are made” talk when I was around eight.

Pheromones and sexual instinct, the archaic programming in our limbic brain to want to get close, and closer, to push ourselves up against and into someone we are attracted to when we smell the scent of their arousal, their sexual juices. It can over-ride our more refined taste-buds. We salivate over what isn’t clearly sweet or salty or bitter, but a little of everything.

J: What’s the best oral sex scene you’ve ever read / seen (in any form of prose or film, not just erotica or pornography)?

A: From memory, I think the French cinema classic Betty Blue (the Director’s cut) has at least one hot, intense scene where Beatrice Dalle’s character Betty is being treated to some incredible cunnilingus by her lover Zorg. What I love about this film is how apparent it is that Betty adores sex, without any shame, and gives herself to it with utter abandon. Diary of a Nymphomaniac, a Spanish film is up there too. And so many of the stories from Nin’s Delta of Venus depict oral sex, in all its variations and hues so evocatively.

“Licked” – Seven Explorations of Oral Pleasure

Tags

Adrea Kore, femme fatales, Licked Anthology, Oral Sex, Published Fiction, Wet Satin Plaything

Only a few days to go till the release of “Licked”, an anthology exploring the theme of oral sex in many different ways. Here’s the casting call, and I’m thrilled to be included (as most of my stories seems to put oral sex centre stage, I think I deserve to be here).

 

Sit back and enjoy seven lip-smackingly sensual stories of all kinds of oral pleasure. Stories of nostalgia for the taste of a lover, long distance relationships, and revenge. Stories taking in both the distant future and pleasures in the past. Oracles, ranchers and café cooks, all united by their love of using their mouth. And tongue. And fingers, for assistance.

Edited by Jillian Boyd (Spy Games – Flappers, Jazz and Valentino) Licked is a tribute to the act of oral sex – to the intimacy, trust and the taste of your lover, the scent, the feelings the act invokes in both the giver and receiver. With stories from the likes of Rob Rosen, Jessica Taylor and Dale Cameron Lowry and more, Licked is a sizzling fictional exploration of some of the many ways oral sex can inspire so much more than just a hot flash of arousal.

Come in. Have a taste.

  *   *   *

My story, Wet Satin Plaything is the darker, revenge-themed story in the collection. The premise? A woman breaking free of a sexually compelling, but emotionally abusive relationship, who does something out of character to create the catalyst necessary to leave him. She stages a sexual scene that seems to give her boyfriend more than what he desires, only to turn the tables on him, leaving him freaked out and humiliated.

 I’ll be discussing the stories’ inspiration, my thoughts on oral sex, and more with editor Jillian Boyd in an upcoming post very soon.

And for those who want a sneak peek of an excerpt of Wet Satin Plaything … come with me.

You can have  the whole anthology, by clicking on the above image.

So get Licked … you know you want to …

 

 

 

 

 

On Not Writing

Tags

authenticity in writing, Creative Process, femme fatales, Inner Critic, On Writing, Perfectionism, sexual relating, women and anger, Writer's Block, Writing Process

This is a piece of writing about not writing. Every writer experiences this in their own uniquely terrifying way. If we peered into the psyche of every writer, we’d see this amorphous chimera of a creature;  the tangled roots of the writer’s particular creative wounds, childhood patternings, beliefs around creativity, purpose, and work attached to the underside of its ravenous belly, feeding it toxic information that is then passed onto the suffering writer. The litany of  intricate causes and contributing factors in what is commonly known as “writer’s block” is extensive and exhaustive.

Sometimes, all a writer can do is write about not writing.

The curse of perfectionism  is a close cousin to addiction. Combine that with an aberrant condition that I call ” fear of lack of an idea”, and what you get is a challenging psychological bind for someone who loves writing as much as I do.

As a younger creative, I  too experienced it as a BLOCK; a monolith of total and utter nothingness. I would desparately want to write fiction, but my inner critic had strong opinions about the right  kind of ideas that constituted true creativity. Very often I would feel a kind of constriction, like someone had their hands around the very part of my mind where the ideas were attempting to flow out. Pen poised on the page, the sense of an imminent outpouring would be reduced to a laboured trickle of half-birthed sentences, scratched-out phrases and jeering blank space.

So I resorted to copious journal-writing. There, my inner critic couldn’t thwart me, and if I read back over them now, there are so many sections where my recurring themes and emerging style are apparent. For example, I have always written about the sexual experiences I was having at the time in my journals. And its connection to body image, relating, gender dynamics, and love.

As a younger writer/ theatre-maker, I chiselled patiently away at the block I seemed to have around taking my creative impulses seriously, and then cultivating sustained, loving attention to bring them into being. I had enough ‘successes” to challenge my Inner Critic. I doggedly did Julia Cameron’s “The Artist’s Way”, the blocked artist’s rite of passage.

Yes. Every damn list and arduous Morning Pages session, every painfully self-absorbed excavating-your-childhood  AGAIN exercise.

I had to cure myself of my memories of being a precociously bright child, who could create clever, pretty things three times as fast as anyone else my age, winning adult approval with seemingly no real effort on my part. My creativity process up until middle adolescence was like lighting a fire. It started with the spark of an idea, and with easily-found twigs and branches, very quickly flourished into a crackling, marshmallow-toasting fire.

Gather round. Look what I made.

Sometimes it even felt accidental. I did what I did, but I couldn’t really get the hang of how I was doing it before I was winning first prizes in short story and poetry competitions, and representing my primary school for an essay-wriitng competititon on some dull civic theme.

The problem was, I didn’t trust my own creative writing voice as a young adult, and I didn’t value or even see the subjects I wrote well about. I wanted a different kind of creative voice. I didn’t know what that sounded like exactly, but it alienated me from my own developing voice for many, many years. I also hid my creative writing in my theatre-work as an actor, director and publicist. I hid it in the writing of  short scripts, radio plays, monologues, programme notes, theatre press releases, theatre company manifestos, character exploration.

Now, most often, as a published fiction writer taking my writing seriously, there’s actually effort involved. (What?!) I can still fluke a 20-minute publishable flash fiction piece or a decent poem written over a coffee every now and then. But mostly, patience and effort are now involved. Experience has taught me over the last few years that when I tend to any of my ideas for a piece of creative writing, I generally get a creative outcome I’m satisfied with.

So, why, lately, have I regressed to an earlier phase of my creative development, and stopped trusting my ideas? Rather than taking them out for coffee, and listening to what they have to say, I’m circling them suspiciously, trying to glean information from them without getting too close, like an email one suspects might contain a destructive virus.

Why do I feel again the near-lethal grip of my perfectionistic persona around my ideas, throttling them as they attempt to express themselves on the page or the screen?