Hi my lovelies! I’m still on holiday in Croatia, but I’ve not forgotten you. This post is from the archives and a post I did for the Brit Babes blog a while back. Disturbing orgasms, in fiction, are quite often the most exciting to read about. So I thought I’d share with you my ideas as to why that might be. Enjoy!
I’ve been thinking about the written climax. I did a mental inventory of the most memorable fictional “cum shots” I’ve penned and discovered that many of the ones that topped my list were disturbing. They were disturbing in that the sex leading up to them was not exactly hearts and flowers and chocolate truffles. It was never my plan that the orgasms resulting from disturbing sex should be among the most sizzling, but that they were made me stop and wonder why those scenes were so often the ones that made me twitch in my knickers.
That we’re aroused by things that disturb us is … well, it’s rather disturbing, actually. Why aren’t we happy with filthy hearts, and flowers and smutty sweetness and light? Why is it that often the more uncomfortable the fictional sex makes us, the more aroused we get. I got groped by a stranger once on a bus in rural Croatia. As upsetting as the experience was, it didn’t stop me from revisiting it in my fantasies a million times and wondering what would have happened if I’d been bold enough to let the whole scenario play itself out. The incident has inspired my fiction more times than I can count.
Let’s face it, there’s something about sex that’s frightening. There’s something about sex from which we’re never quite sure we’ll recover. Don’t believe me? Just look at how desperate conventional religion is to control sex; just look at how highly regulated erotica is compared to any other genres; just look at how disturbed the general public is by the sex act – even the sex act between two consenting adults. There’s absolutely nothing else that disturbs us quite like sex does – not even graphic violence. And if the sex is of dubious consent or transgressive in nature, then often our dark unconscious finds it even hotter still.
I personally think sex disturbs precisely because it arouses us. It elicits an animal response in us that nothing else does. That response is no more a choice than is our stomach grumbling when we’re hungry. That it exerts that much control over us, that we can so easily and so completely abandon ourselves to it without any certainty of what the end result might be, frightens us. What exactly is it we fear? If I had allowed myself to enjoy the fact that I was aroused on that bus, it wouldn’t have turned me into a “slut.” It wouldn’t have turned me into anything that I’m not already. It certainly wouldn’t have made me a bad person. When I’m being honest, I have to admit that there’s something seriously hot about being disturbed, and just maybe what makes it so hot is that it forces me to face desires I’d prefer to deny.
Sometimes the sex is disturbing because it’s with the wrong person. Who doesn’t want a seriously good villain to f*ck their brains out first, then they can count the cost later? Who doesn’t fantasize about a good shagging by a stranger whose face they never see, whose name they never know? Who doesn’t fantasize about rough sex, inappropriate sex, sex they have no control over? Perhaps this is why we’re so in love with shifters and vampires and other supernatural beings – they are a safe receptacle for forbidden sex, for disturbing orgasms.
Erotica writers dare to take disturbing sex, sex that comes from our deepest fantasies and write it. Anything written is suddenly far more real than it is when it’s safely tucked away in our unconscious. And when someone brings it up into the realm of conscious consideration by fictionalizing it, giving it a name, then we’re suddenly confronted with the fact that, yes, we are aroused by it, even as we’re disturbed by it. We then have to ask ourselves what that fact says about us as people?
To horribly paraphrase Carl Jung, what we admit and bring into conscious thought is far less likely to kick us in the arse when we least expect it while sailing naively down the river of denial. So much of becoming whole and well-rounded people is accepting who we, all of who we are, the light along with the dark. Often what disturbs us most is what we most need to embrace in order for that to happen.
Is that my psychological analysis? Hell no! That’s just my long-winded way of saying that reading about other people’s disturbing sex can be a real panty scorcher.
Here’s a disturbing little snippet from my latest release, Landscapes. I hope you find it as hot to read as I did to write.
Vampire, Alonso Darlington has a disturbing method of keeping landscaper, Reese Chambers, both safe from and oblivious to his dangerous lust for the man. But Reese isn’t easy to keep secrets from, and Alonso wants way more than to admire the man from afar. Can he risk a real relationship without risking Reese’ life?
It was nearing dawn when Talia returned to our accommodations smelling of sex, as I knew she would if she were to obtain for me what I wanted. By then my blood burned in my veins, and my body felt too close to me, as though the flesh that I dwelt in suddenly conspired to crush me with its demands. And though I knew that Reese Chambers could not have refused her even if she had come to him as a toothless, foul-smelling hag, I hated her that he had poured himself into her body while I had been left with only my fantasies kindling my lust to an inferno.
Though my need was such that my flesh was fevered and my cock an insistent throb, until she returned, I held myself contained within skin that felt too thin. When she saw the state that I was in, she pulled the heavy drapes with an efficient tug, then with a nod of her head, motioned me to follow her down into the basement room that had been prepared for me. When she turned to me at the foot of the bed, before she could opened her kiss-bruised lips to speak, I took her mouth, starving for the first taste of him, the taste of his saliva, the taste of his blood, mixed with hers. She’d bitten him; he’d bitten her back. He was rough, and he liked to be treated rough, but he kept that to himself. He was embarrassed by it. His lips were slightly chapped from so much time in the sun and wind, and they’d slid against hers, suckling and stroking and pressing until her mouth opened to his. With ravenous laps of my tongue, I tasted him in her mouth, and she held back the moan of response, so I could hear the echoes of his groans, heavy with need he’d not satisfied in awhile, and I felt kinship in my own unsatisfied needs. Images of him flashed through my head. Christ, his eyes were green, dark green like the evergreen forests of the north, and he kept them open when he kissed her, taking her in with his eyes.
I shoved aside the silk of her low bodice exposing her breasts, breasts that his hands had cupped. My nipples peeked to sharp aching points at the feel of his calloused thumbs raking, pressing and releasing. I breathed in his scent on her breasts, burying my face in her cleavage, licking the taste of salty, slightly picante maleness, sniffing and tasting until I could stand it no more. In one violent jerk, I tore the dress all the way down and shoved it off her shoulders, away from the flesh he had licked and kissed and mounted. I cried out at the feel of him, weight on one elbow, knee spreading her thighs, fingers opening her heaviness, anxious to penetrate, anxious to relieve his need. And then, with Talia free of clothing, Reese Chambers’ essence filled the room. Talia’s panties were still wet with his semen mixed with her humid desire, and I tore them from her and forced her onto her stomach, onto her hands and knees, so that it was not her face I saw, but his that I imagined. With hands on her hips, I raised her bottom in the air and spread her still swollen, still slippery folds with fingers made awkward by my arousal, letting the scent of his hot bread and honey release intoxicate me. Then I buried my face in her snatch and, as I ate his lust from her, I knew him.
He was Cumbrian born and bred, and his accent was the soft lilting sound of the fells. He was a landscaper and a gardener by trade. His hands held the magic of the earth and his mind conceived ideas for beautiful outdoor spaces; those he liked best were patterned after Renaissance and medieval gardens. He was homesick and heartsick. He’d gone to Surrey to work with his father because the money was good. But his father had died recently and he had returned home to Cumbria. He didn’t care if he had to work in a pub or muck stables. He wanted to be home. He missed the people and he missed the fells. He missed the simpler, more honest rhythms of life. He was shy, even a bit reclusive. He read voraciously and widely, he liked astronomy and he was afraid of snakes, though it embarrassed him to admit it. He hadn’t had sex in a long time, and found it better to have a wank session than a meaningless encounter. The facts of him, the details of his life raced at me in a flood I consumed ravenously with each lap of my tongue.
As I ate Talia I felt the shape of his face, the curve of his chin, the rise and fall of his chest as he had done the same. I felt the soft tuft of bronze curls nestled between the hard rise of his pecs and the courser, deeper curls that caressed his testicles and his cock when it was at rest, but it hadn’t been at rest. How many times had he taken her? He was thick enough to fill her and the friction of him inside was delicious and maddening. The shape of him – I wanted to caress the shape of him, with my hands, with my mouth, and the taking of his essence from Talia was an act of ripping away something that should have been mine. As I bruised her arse with kneading fingers and, as I licked the last of his release from her, she managed a breathless moan. ‘Take the rest. God, Alonso, take the rest, and release me.’