The people at Sportsheets are some of the nicest to work with, and they always provide me with more samples than a girl can handle. When I wrote about their Impressions Paddles, they sent me the whole line. The one with BITCH carved into it resides in a vase in my apartment and makes for some interesting conversations when I have guests. There’s nothing like having a constant stream of “product testers” pass through the apartment—-after all, everyone wants to see if the paddle will really leave a mark. (FYI, it does. Every time.) The paddle that reads OUCH hangs on my desk. I like to think of it as a warning sign akin to “Do not feed the bears,” though mine clearly warns others to not annoy the editrix.
A lot of the erotica/smut I write has a theme. I like it that way. The focus of a particular topic (oral sex, S&M, kink, MILFs, etc.) always makes it easier to reign in my inner rambler and bang out a sexy story. Sometimes, though, the theme is open to interpretation. Such was the case with Rachel Kramer Bussel’s Smooth. The call asked for stories from a woman’s perspective, and the only theme we were given was “naked.” Since I tend to make my characters strip at least a little before they get it on, that left it pretty vague. I chose to define “naked” as “vulnerable,” and I wrote about a young woman who feels most vulnerable when she’s showing off her tattoos.
A friend of mine has an intense tattoo fetish, and when I told him what I was working on, he was excited. I’d asked him for advice when writing tattoo fetish pieces in the past, but I decided to tackle this one solo. When it was done, I asked him to give it a once-over for me, tell me if it worked for him. His response? “HOT!!!” (I have the saved text message to prove it.) An excerpt from my story, “Ink,” is below. Tell me if you agree with his assessment:
The drive to my house was a blur, and I honestly don’t remember the ride. Maybe he sped all the way there, or maybe it just felt that way, but one minute I was sliding into the cramped seat of the small black coupe and in what felt like seconds his hand was reaching into the open door to pull me back out. For the first time, I got the key into the lock and swung the door wide without fumbling, and the stairs to my second-floor apartment went by in a flash. We weren’t running; Jason was politely taking his time, looking around and saying ridiculously mundane things about my decorating. Then he turned back to me, standing in the doorway to the living room, pushed me back against the door frame and started to ravage me. He took control of this kiss the way I had our earlier lip-lock against his car, and I moaned into his mouth, loving his sudden show of sexual aggression.
Hands and lips wandered as we kissed, and I waited for the inevitable clothing removal. It took longer than expected—-such a gentleman, he was—-but eventually his fingers were under my cardigan, my skin tingling with the first gentle touches.
Jason pushed my sweater off my shoulders, leaving me in only a tank top—-and baring my arms for the first time. He didn’t notice my tattoos at first, my three-quarter sleeves hard to make out in the dim light. It wasn’t until he moved to kiss the now-bare skin at the base of my neck that he caught sight of the ink inching up my shoulder. He stilled, his lips pausing only millimeters above my skin, his warm breath tickling me. He lifted the hand that was gripping my forearm and lightly trailed his fingertips along the designs decorating my flesh.
“Beautiful,” he mumbled, his lips brushing my shoulder. “Absolutely beautiful.”