Pure
Fiel a Verdad
- Joined
- Dec 20, 2001
- Posts
- 15,135
NOTE ADDED 3-16
This thread has been moved here at the decision of Laurel. She did not tell me the reasons. The topic will be broadened to include a look at any fictional writings, by anyone, on SM and related, unusual practices and tastes. But, as before, there will be an emphasis on authors' attempts to imagine and portray practices in which they are not, or minimally, involved.
With the aim of falling quite clearly under 'fair use' provisions of the copyright act, I am deleting the posted excepts of first chapter of Perdita's story.
J.
How others see us. How well is the essence of SM captured? Example 1, Perdita.
This is a thread to study and critique a number of efforts by persons who've written bdsm (or related) stories, often as parts of survivor or other challenges to write in all or almost all literotica categories. The focus is on writers imagining and portraying practices they do not themselves engage in. By 'capture' of SM or other unusual practices, I don't mean realism, necessarily, for erotica is fantasy; I mean some kind of plausibility and fascination for the reader.
It almost goes without saying, but Lou reminds me to say that people don't fall into neat black-and-white categories, e.g., gay and straight. Humans, as Poe observed--and more particularly the really good writers--have in them the seeds of all kinds of good and evil impulses, straight ('vanilla') and deviant leanings. So the thread is NOT premised on black/white division: the idea of 'others' who experience nothing of unusual leanings, and 'us' or 'the xyz community' who all have a particular slant and experience.
It's an old problem of writers, Can research and imagination make up for relative inexperience, cultural or racial difference, and so on? Sometimes, there are notable successes. The author of "Story of O" was not a habitué of chateaux and violated object of a secret masters' society. Indeed, her imaginings became models for many experiments in 'real life' enactments of consensual sex slavery. Life imitating art, in the old saw.
Further I don't mean to suggest that 'success' is to be measured in terms of accurate depiction, but in conveying something plausible and meaningful to the reader. Rather, the successful story will show understanding of why the people act, think and feel in certain ways. I propose to look at some examples, including those by Debbie, Killer Muffin, Crimson Maiden, and Perdita, whose bdsm 'lite' (her term, I believe) is excerpted below.
Where it's obtainable, permission to reproduce will be sought as a routine courtesy.
{{ Added 3-16-2004: There are below, about 1852 words, excerpted from a chapter of 2433 words, about 76% of the chapter. There are about 13,505 words total in the six chapters; so the total reproduced here represents about 14%. One standard guideline I have heard, is one sixth; though the allowable amt also depends on other factors, such as commercial impact. Another standard guideline is one chapter of a larger work, and the present posting is in conformity with that concept.}}
[[Added 3-08-04: The following reproduction is intended, to the best of my understanding, to be in conformity with section 107 'fair use' section of 1976 US copyright law as explained at both US government
http://www.copyright.gov/title17/92chap1.html#107
and the University of Texas websites
http://www.utsystem.edu/ogc/intellectualproperty/copypol2.htm ]]
Elevator Girl Ch. 01 Sex work for clients in a Tokyo department store.
by perdita ©
Minor revisions and embellishments. 6.7.03
http://www.literotica.com:81/stories/showstory.php?id=94629
[Beginning chapter: Introduction to the western young woman who's turned high class pro in present-day Japan. She came to Japan to teach ESL and ended up working for some well to do families. Through a kind of mentor, she has become an 'elevator girl' at a private use elevator in an expensive department store, said to be like Bloomingdales. As such she is to provided sexual services on the spot or elsewhere to any males who apparently are members of an exclusive club offering sexual acts of all kinds to the 'elite.']
===
{{ch 4 intro to DS; spanking}}
http://www.literotica.com/stories/showstory.php?id=95738
====
{{ch 5, sadist client }}
Elevator Girl Ch. 05
by perdita ©
http://www.literotica.com/stories/showstory.php?id=96818
[2 paras describe a videotaping system in the elevator, with films normally available to clients under certain conditions; the narrator's declined to be filmed.]
At the time of the elevator ride with this client I had begun wearing my new uniform, very different than the pink suit. I would describe the costume as severe-chic-dyke-librarian. It was something like the gray below knee-length suit Jimmy Stewart insists Kim Novak wear in Vertigo. I had the long legs to make it work but did not have to cut my hair for the role. I wore my curls combed and gelled straight into a perfect and conservative French-twist (think close-up of the ‘O’ and the swirl that turns into a spiral simulating falling in the film).
My makeup was something out of a 1950’s Vogue—stylized eyebrows, defined red lips, rouge, and a painted black mole above the left corner of my mouth. I wore no jewelry but for an antique silver and pearl brooch at the high neck of my white blouse. My shoes were black suede two-inch stocky heels with square toes worn with sheer hose. My underwear was also out of a fifties ad. The bra was heavy cream satin—rocket-cups with the circling detail radiating out from the pointy nipples. My panties matched but were more moderate French-cuts. A matching garter belt and short black felt gloves completed the outfit.
The client was an extraordinarily handsome young Japanese man, perhaps in his late twenties. He was my height, dressed like an elegant mortician—totally in black but for sheer purple socks. His hair was shoulder length, thick shiny black, very well cut; any woman would have envied it. He seemed extremely masculine, not a femme trace visible except in his lips—like Blondie’s or Clara Bow’s. I thought he might be wearing lip tint but his mouth was naturally a dark rose.
I had hardly risen from my seat as he swept into the car—no bow—and as I began he stopped me with a strong hold on one shoulder. He pointed to the door and I closed it. The music was Ravel’s Bolero.
He took me in his arms with great strength and kissed me hard and passionately, as if he knew me, as if I meant something to him. I did not have to act to return his kiss. It was an immediately arousing experience which I reciprocated with a fierce enthusiasm. He didn’t fuck or rape my mouth, merely explored it expertly and with a sensuality new to my role in this job. I became excited enough to make my own advances and ran my fingers through his lovely hair, another new sensual experience for me. My lipstick was smeared on his mouth and I didn’t care what mine looked like.
He gave continuous little moans and utterances of pleasure. I believed he was speaking to me and responded in turn. We seemed to be performing a duet in time with the hypnotic rhythm of the music, but he soon left my near breathless mouth to kiss and make little sucking noises all about my face. He kissed my eyelids as if he were kissing my cunt; they fluttered and I felt as if I were going to faint.
Then he stepped away and looked at me with hunger, a palpable lust in his eyes and pursed mouth. I knew he wanted me to undress so I did, but began as if nervous though I was merely overwrought with my own lust. I fumbled with the jacket buttons and laughed nervously so he helped me. As soon as my jacket was off he quickly pinched my nipples hard through my blouse and bra. I jumped a bit at the instant pleasure and he laughed deeply as if he understood how I felt. I laughed too while he continued to fully cup my breasts and rub my nipples in the center of his palm. I thought I would have an orgasm in a minute, moaning low and loud, utterly unashamed of my state and expressions. I could hardly believe he’d aroused me that way through my clothes.
He stepped away again and I removed my blouse and skirt. This time he lifted me onto my stool, briefly pinched and pulled my nipples through the satin then inserted a finger inside each cup and rubbed the tips of my hard tingling nubs. All the while I was actually panting and making sounds to fit the constant crescendos of Ravel. I was near to climaxing again but I knew now he was reading me well as he left my breasts just as my gasps were coming closer in time.
He moved away, again, and lifted a leg out straight, rubbed his free hand up and down its length, all round the limb as if he were polishing it. He used his fingertips too and made me shiver; then he placed my leg to let it rest around his waist. He was now standing with one hip at my crotch while he polished my other leg. I was free to play with his hair again and gave him lip prints on the nearest cheek. When he let my leg go he lifted me off the stool and pulled my panties down to my ankles. I stepped out of them while he undid my bra. I became more excited thinking an orgasm was that much nearer.
He led me to the center and tied me spread-eagled on the floor then stood between my legs and undressed himself slowly. I took in every new bared part of him. His body was beautifully formed, not muscular but toned and subtly sculptured. He kept looking at me with that hunger, more ravenous now. I had a quick fantasy of how he would take me.
His penis finally appeared—a large western size—erect and vibrant in its visible throbbing. He placed himself over me as if we were going to fuck me; his cock dangling and bobbing so it tickled my cunt lips and clit while he began an aggressive sucking of my nipples. He alternately covered each one with a wide open mouth and used his tongue to stroke and flick them, fast then slow—faster, slower, faster. As I would become increasingly aroused he’d take his mouth away long enough for me to calm down then start again on the other. I was dying to ask him to let me come but I dared not. I did, however, use all the expression in my eyes knowing I was begging silently.
He grinned wickedly and turned his mouth into a smirk. That’s when I knew. He was a teaser. I became angry at Mrs. Miyake. She should have warned me, but I realized she was probably under orders not to let me know so as to more fully satisfy his pleasure.
I obviously changed expressions too quickly. Though I was intent now on faking my pleasure I saw that he knew. He began again on my nipples and I was powerless to not respond. I thought perhaps I could keep the arousal going despite his maneuvers. I wished—almost prayed—I could flex my cunt enough to relieve myself, but he wouldn’t allow it. He was always one step ahead of me.
As I came close he slapped my face violently so that I screamed, then he grabbed a scarf off the barre and stuffed it painfully into my mouth. He began to look like a monster to me with the smeared lipstick on his now ugly face contorted with his singular sadistic lust. I closed my eyes to not see him but he slapped me again and I knew I had to watch him.
My cheeks burned with the stinging while he rubbed the palms of his hands on my aching nipples. I began to moan without control; then began crying at my profound frustration. Suddenly he slapped my breasts hard, spanked them really so that it only hurt. There was no intercourse of the pain and pleasure I enjoyed with Rodney. I cried and thought of my lover, wished he could see me and rescue me. He would never do this to me, never humiliate or torture me. He never teased me. No one in my life ever teased me, of if they tried soon gave up and apologized or laughed at their attempt.
I felt abandoned, truly abandoned. I was tied up and suffering in this little garish prison with a psychological sadist who forced me to witness his pleasure in hurting and humiliating me. Too soon, I was taken out of anger and sorrow with the realization that he was kissing my cunt. I tried to scream through the silk stuffed in my mouth but soon transferred my emotional upheaval to the unstoppable heat in my clitoris.
He ate me like a pussy connoisseur. His tongue worked like a fine instrument and suddenly I realized Bolero was nearing its finish. I made an odd muffled noise as I tried to exclaim, “Diabolical, fucking diabolical shit!”
I tried to keep my aching clit in check but his tongue and lips kept ahead of me. I cried and screamed beneath the wet taste of the silk and knew he was going to take me to the very edge of a monumental precipice. I felt the orgasm—I cannot call it mine—near its peak, wanted painfully to slip off the edge, felt the very angle of it, screamed in my throat as if it had the power to release me. I began laughing hysterically, panting, laughing, trying to let go. Then I felt it, knew I was going to come.
He stopped at that very instant and pinched an inner thigh as if his fingers were lobster claws. I felt like an abused mermaid on a deserted beach. I screamed and screamed in my head, rolling it from side to side. It felt a timeless hell.
When I opened my eyes he was dressing himself with no awareness of me, none whatsoever. I felt insanely alone, utterly alienated from life. There seemed to be no life in the car—my prison box—not even mine. I felt dazed, sick to my stomach, my eyes couldn’t focus. In the fog of my vision I saw his black figure near. My anger returned as he came into focus. I glared at him without fear as I knew his time was up and he had to leave.
He tore the scarf out of my mouth; finally I had nothing to say, no sound to let loose. I jumped as much as possible as he reached down and lapped up my cunt juice with a full heavy hand and smeared my mouth one last time. He spoke with a viciousness that frightened me more than anything I’d ever heard. I knew it was something vile about women and felt it in my cunt as if I’d been raped.
As he walked out of the elevator Umeko entered with her duffle-bag and a robe for me. She had such an expression of pity I began to weep as if truly grieving. It seemed fitting—I felt I had been murdered somehow. [end {excerpt} ch 5 ]
[in the five more paras, she's untied, paid double, returns home, and so on; click on the url above]
This thread has been moved here at the decision of Laurel. She did not tell me the reasons. The topic will be broadened to include a look at any fictional writings, by anyone, on SM and related, unusual practices and tastes. But, as before, there will be an emphasis on authors' attempts to imagine and portray practices in which they are not, or minimally, involved.
With the aim of falling quite clearly under 'fair use' provisions of the copyright act, I am deleting the posted excepts of first chapter of Perdita's story.
J.
How others see us. How well is the essence of SM captured? Example 1, Perdita.
This is a thread to study and critique a number of efforts by persons who've written bdsm (or related) stories, often as parts of survivor or other challenges to write in all or almost all literotica categories. The focus is on writers imagining and portraying practices they do not themselves engage in. By 'capture' of SM or other unusual practices, I don't mean realism, necessarily, for erotica is fantasy; I mean some kind of plausibility and fascination for the reader.
It almost goes without saying, but Lou reminds me to say that people don't fall into neat black-and-white categories, e.g., gay and straight. Humans, as Poe observed--and more particularly the really good writers--have in them the seeds of all kinds of good and evil impulses, straight ('vanilla') and deviant leanings. So the thread is NOT premised on black/white division: the idea of 'others' who experience nothing of unusual leanings, and 'us' or 'the xyz community' who all have a particular slant and experience.
It's an old problem of writers, Can research and imagination make up for relative inexperience, cultural or racial difference, and so on? Sometimes, there are notable successes. The author of "Story of O" was not a habitué of chateaux and violated object of a secret masters' society. Indeed, her imaginings became models for many experiments in 'real life' enactments of consensual sex slavery. Life imitating art, in the old saw.
Further I don't mean to suggest that 'success' is to be measured in terms of accurate depiction, but in conveying something plausible and meaningful to the reader. Rather, the successful story will show understanding of why the people act, think and feel in certain ways. I propose to look at some examples, including those by Debbie, Killer Muffin, Crimson Maiden, and Perdita, whose bdsm 'lite' (her term, I believe) is excerpted below.
Where it's obtainable, permission to reproduce will be sought as a routine courtesy.
{{ Added 3-16-2004: There are below, about 1852 words, excerpted from a chapter of 2433 words, about 76% of the chapter. There are about 13,505 words total in the six chapters; so the total reproduced here represents about 14%. One standard guideline I have heard, is one sixth; though the allowable amt also depends on other factors, such as commercial impact. Another standard guideline is one chapter of a larger work, and the present posting is in conformity with that concept.}}
[[Added 3-08-04: The following reproduction is intended, to the best of my understanding, to be in conformity with section 107 'fair use' section of 1976 US copyright law as explained at both US government
http://www.copyright.gov/title17/92chap1.html#107
and the University of Texas websites
http://www.utsystem.edu/ogc/intellectualproperty/copypol2.htm ]]
Elevator Girl Ch. 01 Sex work for clients in a Tokyo department store.
by perdita ©
Minor revisions and embellishments. 6.7.03
http://www.literotica.com:81/stories/showstory.php?id=94629
[Beginning chapter: Introduction to the western young woman who's turned high class pro in present-day Japan. She came to Japan to teach ESL and ended up working for some well to do families. Through a kind of mentor, she has become an 'elevator girl' at a private use elevator in an expensive department store, said to be like Bloomingdales. As such she is to provided sexual services on the spot or elsewhere to any males who apparently are members of an exclusive club offering sexual acts of all kinds to the 'elite.']
===
{{ch 4 intro to DS; spanking}}
http://www.literotica.com/stories/showstory.php?id=95738
====
{{ch 5, sadist client }}
Elevator Girl Ch. 05
by perdita ©
http://www.literotica.com/stories/showstory.php?id=96818
[2 paras describe a videotaping system in the elevator, with films normally available to clients under certain conditions; the narrator's declined to be filmed.]
At the time of the elevator ride with this client I had begun wearing my new uniform, very different than the pink suit. I would describe the costume as severe-chic-dyke-librarian. It was something like the gray below knee-length suit Jimmy Stewart insists Kim Novak wear in Vertigo. I had the long legs to make it work but did not have to cut my hair for the role. I wore my curls combed and gelled straight into a perfect and conservative French-twist (think close-up of the ‘O’ and the swirl that turns into a spiral simulating falling in the film).
My makeup was something out of a 1950’s Vogue—stylized eyebrows, defined red lips, rouge, and a painted black mole above the left corner of my mouth. I wore no jewelry but for an antique silver and pearl brooch at the high neck of my white blouse. My shoes were black suede two-inch stocky heels with square toes worn with sheer hose. My underwear was also out of a fifties ad. The bra was heavy cream satin—rocket-cups with the circling detail radiating out from the pointy nipples. My panties matched but were more moderate French-cuts. A matching garter belt and short black felt gloves completed the outfit.
The client was an extraordinarily handsome young Japanese man, perhaps in his late twenties. He was my height, dressed like an elegant mortician—totally in black but for sheer purple socks. His hair was shoulder length, thick shiny black, very well cut; any woman would have envied it. He seemed extremely masculine, not a femme trace visible except in his lips—like Blondie’s or Clara Bow’s. I thought he might be wearing lip tint but his mouth was naturally a dark rose.
I had hardly risen from my seat as he swept into the car—no bow—and as I began he stopped me with a strong hold on one shoulder. He pointed to the door and I closed it. The music was Ravel’s Bolero.
He took me in his arms with great strength and kissed me hard and passionately, as if he knew me, as if I meant something to him. I did not have to act to return his kiss. It was an immediately arousing experience which I reciprocated with a fierce enthusiasm. He didn’t fuck or rape my mouth, merely explored it expertly and with a sensuality new to my role in this job. I became excited enough to make my own advances and ran my fingers through his lovely hair, another new sensual experience for me. My lipstick was smeared on his mouth and I didn’t care what mine looked like.
He gave continuous little moans and utterances of pleasure. I believed he was speaking to me and responded in turn. We seemed to be performing a duet in time with the hypnotic rhythm of the music, but he soon left my near breathless mouth to kiss and make little sucking noises all about my face. He kissed my eyelids as if he were kissing my cunt; they fluttered and I felt as if I were going to faint.
Then he stepped away and looked at me with hunger, a palpable lust in his eyes and pursed mouth. I knew he wanted me to undress so I did, but began as if nervous though I was merely overwrought with my own lust. I fumbled with the jacket buttons and laughed nervously so he helped me. As soon as my jacket was off he quickly pinched my nipples hard through my blouse and bra. I jumped a bit at the instant pleasure and he laughed deeply as if he understood how I felt. I laughed too while he continued to fully cup my breasts and rub my nipples in the center of his palm. I thought I would have an orgasm in a minute, moaning low and loud, utterly unashamed of my state and expressions. I could hardly believe he’d aroused me that way through my clothes.
He stepped away again and I removed my blouse and skirt. This time he lifted me onto my stool, briefly pinched and pulled my nipples through the satin then inserted a finger inside each cup and rubbed the tips of my hard tingling nubs. All the while I was actually panting and making sounds to fit the constant crescendos of Ravel. I was near to climaxing again but I knew now he was reading me well as he left my breasts just as my gasps were coming closer in time.
He moved away, again, and lifted a leg out straight, rubbed his free hand up and down its length, all round the limb as if he were polishing it. He used his fingertips too and made me shiver; then he placed my leg to let it rest around his waist. He was now standing with one hip at my crotch while he polished my other leg. I was free to play with his hair again and gave him lip prints on the nearest cheek. When he let my leg go he lifted me off the stool and pulled my panties down to my ankles. I stepped out of them while he undid my bra. I became more excited thinking an orgasm was that much nearer.
He led me to the center and tied me spread-eagled on the floor then stood between my legs and undressed himself slowly. I took in every new bared part of him. His body was beautifully formed, not muscular but toned and subtly sculptured. He kept looking at me with that hunger, more ravenous now. I had a quick fantasy of how he would take me.
His penis finally appeared—a large western size—erect and vibrant in its visible throbbing. He placed himself over me as if we were going to fuck me; his cock dangling and bobbing so it tickled my cunt lips and clit while he began an aggressive sucking of my nipples. He alternately covered each one with a wide open mouth and used his tongue to stroke and flick them, fast then slow—faster, slower, faster. As I would become increasingly aroused he’d take his mouth away long enough for me to calm down then start again on the other. I was dying to ask him to let me come but I dared not. I did, however, use all the expression in my eyes knowing I was begging silently.
He grinned wickedly and turned his mouth into a smirk. That’s when I knew. He was a teaser. I became angry at Mrs. Miyake. She should have warned me, but I realized she was probably under orders not to let me know so as to more fully satisfy his pleasure.
I obviously changed expressions too quickly. Though I was intent now on faking my pleasure I saw that he knew. He began again on my nipples and I was powerless to not respond. I thought perhaps I could keep the arousal going despite his maneuvers. I wished—almost prayed—I could flex my cunt enough to relieve myself, but he wouldn’t allow it. He was always one step ahead of me.
As I came close he slapped my face violently so that I screamed, then he grabbed a scarf off the barre and stuffed it painfully into my mouth. He began to look like a monster to me with the smeared lipstick on his now ugly face contorted with his singular sadistic lust. I closed my eyes to not see him but he slapped me again and I knew I had to watch him.
My cheeks burned with the stinging while he rubbed the palms of his hands on my aching nipples. I began to moan without control; then began crying at my profound frustration. Suddenly he slapped my breasts hard, spanked them really so that it only hurt. There was no intercourse of the pain and pleasure I enjoyed with Rodney. I cried and thought of my lover, wished he could see me and rescue me. He would never do this to me, never humiliate or torture me. He never teased me. No one in my life ever teased me, of if they tried soon gave up and apologized or laughed at their attempt.
I felt abandoned, truly abandoned. I was tied up and suffering in this little garish prison with a psychological sadist who forced me to witness his pleasure in hurting and humiliating me. Too soon, I was taken out of anger and sorrow with the realization that he was kissing my cunt. I tried to scream through the silk stuffed in my mouth but soon transferred my emotional upheaval to the unstoppable heat in my clitoris.
He ate me like a pussy connoisseur. His tongue worked like a fine instrument and suddenly I realized Bolero was nearing its finish. I made an odd muffled noise as I tried to exclaim, “Diabolical, fucking diabolical shit!”
I tried to keep my aching clit in check but his tongue and lips kept ahead of me. I cried and screamed beneath the wet taste of the silk and knew he was going to take me to the very edge of a monumental precipice. I felt the orgasm—I cannot call it mine—near its peak, wanted painfully to slip off the edge, felt the very angle of it, screamed in my throat as if it had the power to release me. I began laughing hysterically, panting, laughing, trying to let go. Then I felt it, knew I was going to come.
He stopped at that very instant and pinched an inner thigh as if his fingers were lobster claws. I felt like an abused mermaid on a deserted beach. I screamed and screamed in my head, rolling it from side to side. It felt a timeless hell.
When I opened my eyes he was dressing himself with no awareness of me, none whatsoever. I felt insanely alone, utterly alienated from life. There seemed to be no life in the car—my prison box—not even mine. I felt dazed, sick to my stomach, my eyes couldn’t focus. In the fog of my vision I saw his black figure near. My anger returned as he came into focus. I glared at him without fear as I knew his time was up and he had to leave.
He tore the scarf out of my mouth; finally I had nothing to say, no sound to let loose. I jumped as much as possible as he reached down and lapped up my cunt juice with a full heavy hand and smeared my mouth one last time. He spoke with a viciousness that frightened me more than anything I’d ever heard. I knew it was something vile about women and felt it in my cunt as if I’d been raped.
As he walked out of the elevator Umeko entered with her duffle-bag and a robe for me. She had such an expression of pity I began to weep as if truly grieving. It seemed fitting—I felt I had been murdered somehow. [end {excerpt} ch 5 ]
[in the five more paras, she's untied, paid double, returns home, and so on; click on the url above]
Last edited:
