Off to Chicago, Pleasure Chest, BlogHer, "vacation," He's on Top sellout

Had/have much I wanted to post but will have to wait until BlogHer or afterwards. I'm pulling an all nighter to catch my 6:10 am flight to Chicago, and somehow no matter how late I'm up, there's still way more to do. Trying not to feel like a complete loser for being so behind, but this will just be yet another "working vacation." Someday, someday, I will go to a writer's retreat. Really. Me, silent, cut off from my beloved internet and NYC. But that time is not now.

So don't expect replies to emails until Monday. And I'm at The Pleasure Chest on Thursday, July 26th at 7 teaching Erotica 101, then at BlogHer the rest of the weekend. Will also be hanging with my baby cousin Jack (6 months old!) and hopefully getting to visit with my favorite singer/songwriter Elizabeth Elmore, plus hang with a huge gang of lady sex bloggers and the like.

In happy news...I can now finally, finally announce that Seal Press will publish my awesome anthology Dirty Girls in the spring. I've got stories by Marilyn Jaye Lewis, Carol Queen, Sofia Quintero, and much, much more.

Also THANK YOU to everyone who made He's on Top such a success. Cleis, my publisher, just informed me that it's going into a 2nd printing! Woo-hoo! That special's still on through July 31st, so if you want a free book with your He's on Top or She's on Top, click on the link at the left for details. And in the meantime, if you read and enjoyed either one, why not leave a review on Amazon?

I will get to the rest of the stories in He's on Top later but for now, some teasers for those who haven't read it yet:

"Not Until Dawn"
by N.T. Morley

Tonight is the night you're going to make me wait all night. All night for your cock. All night for my come. All night for what I need, most of all, you inside me.

You take me out to a late movie, a foreign film everyone's been raving about. It's filled with sex, the steamy tale of multiple seductions. I don't see much of the movie, though, just the beautiful press of flesh as the European actors writhe together in bed. We sit in the back row of the near-empty theater and make out, my hand resting casually in your lap, stroking your hard cock through your pants. Your tongue explores my mouth, your teeth nipping at my lips. You slip your hand under my dress and finger-fuck me, first one finger, then two. But you don't let me come, even though I'm very close. You can tell when I'm close, and you make me wait, letting me cool down before you start to finger me again. I beg you to let me come, but you won't. "You're going to wait," you tell me. "You're going to wait all night."

"Incurable Romantic"
by Lisabet Sarai

She is, without a doubt, the perfect slave.

I should know. I've trained half a dozen slaves over the last twenty years, and played with perhaps half a hundred more.

In Minneapolis? you ask, incredulous. The law-abiding, church-going, vanilla-flavored heartland?

Why would I lie? I'm past the point where I have to prove myself. We have our own kinky little community here, invisible to those who don't want to see, obvious to the initiates who know the signs.

Like Ilsa's collar. If you weren't one of us, and you happened to notice it, you might think it's one of those choker necklaces so popular with the Britney Spears set. It's braided black leather, strung with tiny diamonds. You might expect a matching diamond stud piercing her navel.

"Seizing Monica"
by Debra Hyde

It’s simple, really. Her struggle makes me hard. Doesn’t matter what she’s doing, if Monica struggles, my dick reacts and I want to fuck her. Is something primal at work within me? Perhaps. I know my mind is civilized, always telling me that because she has consented to this, it’s alright. And, yes, my heart softens at the thought of her sanctioning what I do to her. But my dick doesn’t react like my heart or my mind. When Monica thrashes about, it rages stiff and mean.
I suppose there’s something primitive about my dominant urges. It’s like the mighty hunter, the human predator, suddenly catching the scent of a woman in heat. The smell of cunt, telling him in a language more ancient than words, that sex is at hand, that it’s worth throwing away the spear of the hunt to spear something else entirely. That a woman can squirm like quarry is all that the primitive part of my brain needs to see.

"Confession"
by Gwen Masters

Clarice didn't love him anymore.

The knowledge came to her like a calculus problem finally solved. Something that made no sense whatsoever until the answer was right there in black and white, and then of course that was the way it was, why didn't she see it before?

At the moment of revelation she was looking down at Max, watching him watch her, his hands playing across her breasts in the same way they had for the last twenty years. Suddenly he was only the man she was married to, the guy who paid the bills, the man who liked his steaks rare and his vodka neat. He wasn't the love of her life anymore.

Was it a sin to fuck someone she didn't love? She supposed it was. But she closed her eyes and made him come anyway.

She knew her performance was convincing. In all the time they had been married, he never noticed when she faked it.

“Yes”
by Donna George Storey

The first time you see her, she’s dancing with another guy. She’s a good dancer, which means what she’s basically doing is fucking out there on the dance floor. But she’s not fucking him. Her body is moving all on its own, her hips thrusting into the air, her back rippling like silk, sucking the music up through the floor. She is the music. You can’t take your eyes away from her ass and that bare band of skin above her jeans, shimmering with a fine film of sweat.

She turns and sees you staring.

You don’t believe in love at first sight or auras or telepathy or any of that hippie-dippy shit, but at that instant a voice⎯not yours, but a woman’s voice and how the hell that got inside your head you’ll never know⎯it whispers to you.

Yes.


“In Control”
by M. Christian

We met in the dark corner of an Internet chatroom. SLUTSLAVE, a nubile profile full of in-the-know vernacular with damned good typing skills and MASTER017, my digital persona. We didn’t really meet there, of course, but that's where we first started to talk. The dance was slow, at first. I've heard other doms say that they don't like it slow, sedate, careful⎯they'd rather snap their fingers and have them drop to their knees. Me? I like the dance, the approach, the “chat” in chatroom. B

Besides, I've had a few of my own snaps, the eager young slaves with sparkles in their eyes, and not a clue between the ears. Give me someone who knows what they're getting into. It's better, after all, to be wanted by someone who wants the best, as
opposed to someone who just wants.

So we danced, we chatted, SLUTSLAVE and I⎯or at least that cyberspace mask I wore. Finally, after many a midnight typing, she complained with a sideways smile [;-)] that she was looking for something where more than just her wrists got a workout.