Today I'm sharing the beginning of a darker than normal tale. How the erotic can heal and show the beauty from within.
***Here's a warning though - it's about a woman who expresses herself through body modification. It contains scenes of scars and there's self harm so please read with caution if you need to***
As she runs
the tip of her tongue over the ridges – the un-natural ridges that I created, I
try and hold myself steady. Try not to retreat inside myself and tell her to
leave. She is at the first. She is going to go through every single one of them
in chronological order, I know it.
I fight the
urge to pull my black polo neck back over my nakedness and hide away.
soothes, her soft firm voice at once cradles and commands. “Let me do this.”
I wonder at
her perception. She can sense the tiniest shift in my body, my mood, my thought
pattern. It’s disconcerting and comforting at the same time and I sigh away my
tension, forcing my body down into the carpet. She’s told me she’ll melt me. I
don’t believe her but she seems determined enough.
the next. Her hot little tongue flirting with the ragged bumps. The crass ones,
before I learned to control myself. Before I’d perfected my art. Half of me
wishes she’d skip those and get to the beautiful ones, but I don’t say anything,
I just concentrate on unfurling the tight, cringing nerve endings that keep me
bound into my own skin.
where it started,” she’s onto the third. And she’s right. How can she know
that? How can she tell the first two were afterthoughts, a result of a furious
hear myself whisper, the tremor in my voice far too apparent. She’ll be angry.
is the one when you began to know who you are.”
you tell?” I ask, curiosity suddenly dispelling my nerves.
I lift my
upper body to study the arm she’s holding in her hands. It’s my arm. But today,
it feels disconnected. “Only slightly,” I say, a little fearful of
it’s deliberate. It took time to do this one.”
of course. The first two were just angry slashes. A slice of passionate fury
directed at myself. I had no idea what I was doing. The third had been a
considered endeavour. I’d set out my tools (one knife, one cloth) and very
slowly and carefully dragged open a long cut.
I had been
disappointed by the blood. I hadn’t wanted that to happen. I wanted to keep all
that in. I wanted the sweet release but not to let anything pour out of me. I’m
selfish like that. What’s mine is mine. I keep it all in. I don’t even talk
much in case I escape from myself. Let myself go. Say something needy, or
to the next. Raised and smooth with silvery edges. It’s the same but entirely
different. That’s the point where I began to learn my craft.
her tongue hard across the red inner cleft and I twitch, sensations breaking
free from the source and running across my skin – penetrating more than flesh.
I almost tell her to stop but it is horrifically exquisite. She groans and
saliva coats her lips as she mouths my scar, taking its length into her hot
getting aroused. The swelling heat between my legs brings with it a pulse that
tweaks up to my nipples. She notices. Of course she does and flicks her eyes up
to meet mine, just quickly before moving to the next.
glides the flat moist muscle over my pulled and puckered skin. A moment in time
captured forever by my art.
so clearly when I realised that heat would seal my wound. I could have my
release without needing an actual release. It was a perfect moment. Time around
me stilled as if I were the eye of a storm when I ignited the flame to warm my
was searing and lasting but there was no blood. It was perfect.
bypasses the long slither on my bicep and goes straight to my shoulder.
How did she
know? How did she know I did that one after he had done what he did? It was
nothing to you or any normal person. Only a man I’d once looked at. He hadn’t
looked back and I lost my nerve to speak. I learned my lesson and never looked
again. But she had known the torture it had brought and skipped that one. My
wonder for her has doubled again. I feel something stir in my chest – a
swelling that is mirrored in my throat. I feel I could choke as it expands and
I have to gulp. I don’t express emotion well, and I am recognising what this
might be. I do not want to cry. No. I have the urge to stand up and shove her
off me, tell her to Fuck Off, but I lie still. Enveloped in static fear and
right,” she says and her silken fingers wrap around my shoulders and knead at
my clenching coils. I can practically hear the ping as they unwind and the ball
of emotion slowly disperses. She smoothes her palms down my naked right arm.
One day, I hope she may be the one to help with that side. The one practicality
I never got my head around. How to make a perfect job with my left hand.
stop and think about what I’ve just thought. I allowed her in to my future. I
let it happen in my mind.
back on her touch which is now just above my right knee.
massages the lines and the muscles beneath. It is rhythmic and delicious. My
mouth waters and my sex feels moist. I clamp down instinctively. She keeps
rubbing, her fingers deftly working up each of my scars, making them more
meaningful and beautiful with every touch. I want to open my legs. I don’t.
dangerously close to the very top of my inner thigh – the fleshy pillow that
guards my cunt. I tense. She slides both hands in between like an inverted
prayer and prises me open.
whisper with my breath held so high in my chest I doubt she’s heard it.
has. She retreats down and begins to kiss the scars on my left leg now, where
they begin just above the knee. She’s about to reach my favourite one. My best
prize. I remember the joy of running back to my apartment and getting my
equipment out for that very one. I remember catching a glimpse of my own
smiling face in the kitchen mirror as I opened the drawer and pulled out my
knife. I remember drawing the heated blade so perfectly across the skin that I
came. I came in my mind and I came in my body.
She’s at it
now. She’s at it. I tremble, my flesh peaking and swelling at its own memory.
“This is my
favourite one,” she says, and I gasp. I lift up onto both elbows and grin like a
lunatic, excitement spreading through every cell in my body. “It’s so perfect.”
I can smell the fragrance of saliva and arousal as I slowly slide my legs apart
for her to reach the very start of her scar. “What’s this one’s story?” she
asks, though I believe she must know somehow already.
the first time I ever saw you,” I say...
So there it is - just the beginning. A version of this was in Written on The Skin published by Burning Books Press - which sadly is no more.
Hmmm just not sure about this - I showed the stages on Twitter - @tabithaeroticaand it felt like being very naked - posting my paintings raw and as they come. I chose this one because it feels a bit more painterly - most people preferred the stage before without the white highlights. I kind of like how it has almost come undone. It took all my strength not to just go crazy and scrub it all out with the white.
Three ladies' Sinful Sundays inspired this painting:
The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #79? Start with the rules, come back February 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!
**Blog Update! - This was chosen as the one of Marie Rebelle's Wicked Wednesday's top three of the week!**
This week's Wicked Wednesday is 'introduce' - well I would like to introduce this new story to you all. It's included in Best Women's Erotica Volume 1 which launched on Jan 12th...
Here's a little snippet from my story, Enter Me...
Even before the crash I'd never been
a fan of not hearing clearly. I tried wearing headphones to listen to music but
it made me feel claustrophobic, isolated. I get the same thing with sunglasses.
I can't bear them, they make me feel like I'm in world of my own where no one
can reach me, like I'm suspended somewhere other than reality.
So that's why, since the crash, you
will never see me wearing sunglasses or even a hat. Anything that cuts me off
from feeling in the thick of the here and now has me panicking.
The crash left me suddenly and
utterly deaf. It was the strangest sensation coming round. I felt like I was
deep underwater unable to make contact. The sound of my own voice was muffled
and thick, so alien and far away I screamed. I knew I was screaming because my
throat was raw and nurses in blue cotton pajamas were smoothing their hands
over me and petting me, their brows furrowed with concern.
That was over two months ago.
I still wake up with that feeling of
panic. Sometimes though, I let myself lie in the morning stillness, trying to
be as quiet as possible with shallow breaths so I know, for a little while at
least, that I am choosing the silence. It is mine.
I don't know how long George and I
will last. He must be sick of the bruises I inflict when he's trying to catch
my attention by tapping my back. The shock! I have not been able to master the
art of not being panic stricken by an unexpected touch. It's exhausting,
straining to hear all day long when all there is is stifling black nothing. So
disorientating. I saw a program once about a room that was so well sound
proofed that there was no echo at all. When the lights were out, people could
only last a few minutes before demanding to be released from the black hole.
George said he thought he'd love that – he'd do anything for a bit of peace and
quiet, he reckoned he'd last a good eight hours. I knew what they were feeling
though – I imagined it so keenly at the time, and now, it is confirmed to me. If
I close my eyes, I'm there, in that room of absolute nothing. Alone.
We've taken to notes, or texting.
Being unable to hear my own voice means I can't risk the words coming out.
George says I sound fine. I don't believe him.
George left a note this morning.
Let's make love. Tonight.
I hold it between my thumb and
forefinger. You wouldn't think not hearing would rob you of other senses, but
it does. I can feel the paper, yes, but I can't hear the feel of the paper. Try
it now, go on, rub your fingertips over the pages of a book, or a newspaper.
Listen to how it feels. Now try to imagine not hearing that. See? You're
surrounded. Your world is full of senses interacting and well, making sense of
everything. I begin to fold the note up, slowly creasing it into a plane. The
paper is rough and crisp, and I drag my nail along the folds making them sharp
and perfect. Something about the points and lines makes a shiver run up to my
solar plexus. I open the note back out and trace the words.
Let's make love. Tonight.
I try to savor the text without
worrying how it should sound. I lift the note to my mouth and run my tongue
over the letters, hoping to taste words. The shiver has become a flutter and
travels gently down my abdomen and settles at my crotch. I let the sharp edges
tickle my lips and the tiny hairs at the corner of my mouth. It makes me twitch
and salivate. The prickle and swoosh of my breasts alerts me to my stiffening
nipples and I look down to the rise in my shirt.
It's been so long since I've felt
arousal, I'm taken by surprise, guilt almost. I make a decision. We will
make love tonight...
Like I say, this is part of Best Women's Erotica Volume 1 edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel and I'm very excited to have it included. I used to gaze and yearn while reading the 'Best Women's Erotica' books and wonder if one day I might be able to send in a story that would make the grade.
Remember, it's Wednesday - there's a whole load more wickedness to be experienced! Click here or on the sexy rainbow above.
**Blog Update! This was chosen as one of Snake and Charmer's top 5 for Sinful Sunday week 248!**
Ooops, that was a misleading title ;)
Well, it is a selfie of my filthy legs after running the 5k yesterday - which, for me, was one of my toughest runs. I *may* have put on some Christmas kilos and did not have the motivation - and I woke up with migraine aura (basically means you can't see for an hour) so only just made it to the race at all! I'm glad I pushed through and got my medal. Here I am, bandages, dirt and all showing it off.
I am a woman who like to experience many sensations. One of which is to wear very high heels and very tight pencil skirts. In 2013 Eroticon (bloody hell, that long ago?) the sensational Vida Bailey and I struck up a friendship - she seemed a little frustrated by my tottering along beside her on a walk and asked, "Why would you want to hobble yourself like that?"
I have pondered how I'd reply and thought about so many different reasons why and it's taken me this long to find one that sounds true. Basically, I just like the sensation. Simple as that. But I always know I can kick off my heels yank up my skirt and run. Letting my legs fling out and carry me as fast as they can, all stretched out and pounding is another sensation I couldn't live without.
See more Sinful Sunday posts by kissing those sexy lips x x x
So I promised myself a WickedWednesday if I got all my paperwork done. Well, I didn’t, but it was stop or
die. So here I am! Forgive any errors – I am flying by the seat of my frilly
This week’s prompt is ‘Believe in
Yourself’ – boy, do I need a bit of that. I think I suffer as most creatives do
with the passion for making and sharing but the creeping crushing horror that
maybe my stuff is just pants.
So, I was pondering something that
happened long, long ago…
I have always, and I mean for as
long as I have existed on this world as me, been able to come. Of course there
was a time when I couldn’t put a name to it, but I could always do it. It was
usually accompanied by extremely visual fantasies. Anyhoo – whilst I never felt
weird about doing it, I never mentioned it to anyone, even my mum, who was
always very open about sexuality and ‘the birds and the bees’. It wasn’t until
I was older that I heard words like ‘masturbate’ and ‘wank’ associated with my
actions – euuww. These words did NOT sound like the lovely comforting, sensual
thing that I did. They sounded icky and sordid or something. And besides, the
terms seemed only to apply to boys.
When we were told in sex education
that boys masturbated loads and thought about sex every seven minutes I almost
snorted out loud – only every seventh minute? How dull for them, I thought, and
waited until the teacher brought up the girls’ sex thought stats. None. Nada.
So I realised that either I was
the only girl in the world doing this orgasm thing, or people were being very
Months or maybe years later, during
a camp – some sort of high school or guide camp, we were all snuggled
and giggling in the girls’ dorm late at night when one of the girls said, “Hey do any of you
you do what???
I was thrilled! But because she
used one of the euuwww words, I momentarily hesitated before jumping up
excitedly. And I must say, at the time, I was glad I did because there was one
of those hideous awkward silences that just fill the room. You could breathe in
“Euww, what are you on about, you
perv?” was the first reply, whereby everyone thereafter wrinkled their noses
and ridiculed the poor girl. To my shame, I simply kept quiet, hiding in my
sleeping bag and blushing to the roots of my soul. So it was true. Most girls
did not do it. And if they did they were pervs.
When I think back to this moment
in my life, I feel so sad for all of us in that room. We had an opportunity to
be open about something amazing and not make each other feel shit about having
normal sexual feelings. We could have normalised, been honest and created a
bond. We were certainly not too young to be discussing our own bodies and how
wonderful they are. What I feel most bad about is not seeking out that girl
later and confiding in her. I just left her thinking she was alone in her
Now, in adulthood, I put the blame
for this firmly with the sexual education of the time. Though, I’m saddened to
say that from what I hear from mothers of girls, not much has changed.
So what has this to do with ‘Believe
in Yourself’? Well, I let other people make me feel like I was wrong. That masturbation
was wrong, that sexual feelings for yourself is wrong. I’m sure it put me on a
path of not believing in many other aspects of my life too, not just sexual. So
here I am, telling that other girl, “I do it too! And probably so do they – and
hooray for us all!”
Phew! I’m glad I got that off my
I have grown up trying to be as sex positive as I can be through all my
erotic endeavours. I just wish I’d believed in myself a little sooner… and I could always do with believing a little more...
It's 2016 - wow - how did that happen so fast?
Here's my very first Masturbation Monday of the year which also happens to join the Kink of the Week theme of kissing. Click the links for more! I love a good kissing scene so I hope this satisfies your lip action urges x x x
It's a small excerpt from The Guitar (read previous excerpts: The Shaft Part 1 - The Shaft Part 2)
about to let go when there is an almighty banging on the door.
What the hell?
jump up flinging my guitar down all twisted in the sheets and covers. I stumble
and trip over the pile as I run to the door in shock, my cock heavily slapping
from side to side as I go. The banging continues.
right! All right! What the fuck is going on?”
more banging. Someone using their fist. I put the chain in place before opening
the door a chink.
me in, Kel,” he says, a thunderous look on his face. His eyes are way darker
than I remembered with a tinge of purple beneath them.
ok, just stop banging!”
close the door and step back to take off the chain and open the locks. As soon
as he hears the click he barges his way in and pushes me up against the wall.
My little key table tips and jangles to the floor as his hot breath hits my
face and I inhale his lusty scent.
want you. I can’t stop thinking about you. You make me hard and I can’t get rid
of you from my mind. It’s doing my head in. I need to fuck you. I need you
either out of my system or in my system but whatever it is, it needs to happen
begin to reply but he has my face in his hands and is kissing me hard, gnawing
at my lips and spearing my mouth with his hot tongue. It is raw, feral and
horny as fuck. I match him kiss for kiss, bite for bite and wrap my hands
around his back and up to the nape of his neck where I grab his hair and scoop
him backwards to the other wall. He hits is with a bang and makes a growl sound
from deep in his throat. Our mouths are wide and greedy for each other. My
nipples and cock graze at his clothing and I release his head to pull his shirt
out of his waistband. He helps and we are ferocious in our need to be naked
together. I fall to my knees before him and our fingers grab and mingle at his
flies, pulling and grabbing, frustrated by the effort of clothing. At last he
is free and I yank the denim down and pause at the sight before me.
cock is perfection. Straight, beautiful, gloriously hard. I breathe in his hot
musky smell and can detect my own scent rising from my crotch. It is heady and
my mouth is watering, too empty. I sink my lips over his head and graze the
shining straining dome with my teeth on the way down. Oh he tastes so good.
Salty, sweet, tangy with the metallic hint of precome sending my taste-buds
into over drive. God. I want to swallow him whole. I want to take his full
length into me. I gobble and suck, my cheeks and jaw working hard to keep up
the rhythm as he knots his fingers into my hair and pushes me on to him even
I’m tipping over the
edge, over that sweet barrier. I don’t want to think it – if I think it, I’ll
snap back into my fears. Too late. I start to gag on my guilt – not his cock.
It’s not his cock rammed down my throat that’s making me feel the creeping
shame, it’s me...
If you enjoyed that and want to read the rest of Kel and Damien's story, you can! It's in this fab anthology, Brit Boys With Toys out now for only 99p!