A quiet Sunday afternoon at Eroticon

A quiet Sunday afternoon at Eroticon

…consisted of a Rachel Kincaid  taking me (and a room full of other attendees) into a world where the darker secrets live. Of the gory and stomach turning. And of any story for which a happy ever after does not look like Disney. And what fun it was. PD James has never actually murdered anyone, Stephen King never buried anyone alive (well, as far as we know!) and yet they write about these events as their bread and butter. “Go out and write,” said Rachel. 
Pondering this, I had a nice cup of chamomile tea and headed off to watch a brand being burnt into skin with a creme brulee torch and some surgical steel wire. 
In this later workshop we were talking about limits. And up popped a mention of erotic amputation. Rachel asked what it was, but I have a thing for body mods (not on me…not suburban mummy enough yet) mainly I think because they are so forbidden and different, so I had heard of it, and talked to someone who was totally happy with their hand with finger ends missing from an accident that could never quite be explained….
The gauntlet was thrown down… “You’ll have to write it then.”
First I have to mention Malin James and her great tips on flash writing. This is a bit long, but I tried to use the techniques she suggested. Then Victoria Blisse, engaging all your senses. I was thinking of you, but taste…not in this story. This was a great writing exercise, out of my comfort zone in more ways than one, especially as I knew I would put it out for others to read from here. My first bit of fiction on the blog. 
I have had a go. I have given you a massive hint as to what I have written. It is not my usual topic, so don’t go and never come back if it is not your thing…but equally stop here if you faint at the thought of blood. Feedback on anything other than choice of subject matter please… which really is not my thing… well sort of not my thing…not how I’ve written it anyway. 


Pin-pricks of sweat catch the light.
“Still ok?” I ask, my voice calmer than my heart.
His wry grin is pleasing, the corners of his eyes crinkling as though that idea was funny, and I guess it is. “Great. Better, probably.”
The violence of duct tape ripping from the roll answers for me.
“You’re not forcing me.” He seeks to reassure.
I know I’m not. Our dynamic, however temporary this meeting is, doesn’t work like that. Equal and opposite, we are drawn together.
He volunteers. Earlier, he pulled the worn leather belt from his belt loops and I fastened it around his chest and left arm, pinning his arm to his torso just above the elbow. Minor helpmeets aside, he wants to restrain himself and I trust him because he is trusting me. If he wants to swing for me or pull his arm away completely he can. But the involuntary, I control. The flinch will happen whether he wants it to or not.
He has prepared the board and knife as it is his infection risk. Brand new, the packaging still rustling as it unfurls in the paper bin. He hoped for passivity, to turn up then walk away when we were done. But that is not me and eventually we compromised. Joint enterprise.
Fingers flexed and knuckles cracked before their deliberate placement, their surrender, setting loose curls and spirals of excitement and a purr akin to arousal shivers through my pubis. Reality bites, a sweaty, heavy minute that drags like unconsciousness.
Tape across the back of his hand, I apologise without thought as I trap coarse dark hair. He huffs, excitement trapping his voice, but his amusement spreads and I nearly giggle. A quick glance at the knife soon squashes the need. I tiptoe closer to my boundaries and need a second to focus on the picture in my mind before concentrating again on his beautiful gift.
Three fingers pulled right. The rasp and slash as the tape rips punctuates our deliberately blown exhalations. Pinned together and fastened to the block: broad bands of black punctuating the tanned skin and meat. I can smell blood, but nothing is spilt. Not yet. The air I breathe is iron rich with want and sour with nausea.
Little finger, so naked and alone against the rough white board. Pressing the nail makes the nail bed whiten and the finger-tip flush. I pinch hard where finger meets hand and feel the movement of blood, not distinct enough for a heartbeat, but like a dam in a sluggish stream, the pressure slowly built until the flesh squirmed and hardened beneath my squeeze. And my body mimicked his, the rising awareness of blood and flesh and pumping energy. Of life.
I find the interphalangeal joint of the proximal phalanx, the text book words whispering from memory. Roll it between my fingers, feeling the end of the bone, the partition of the cartilage, that narrow seam waiting for steel. Press, allowing my nails to bruise the skin and force the joint until he hisses in discomfort.
“Still ready?” I have to ask. I am the one at risk here. Open. Exposed. I am doing what you want only if you still want it. I want it. I want it so the blood pulsates hazing my vision.
You growl, “Just do it,” your voice rough and resonant. I rush through the remaining preparations, tying a DIY tourniquet and stuffing cloth in your mouth.  
The grip is rough in my fingers but the blade cuts as though I draw on your skin with wet red ink. The colours are vivid: white tendon and yellow fat bright against dull purple skin. I scrape and pull to move the skin into a wrinkled stocking around the base of your finger. Harsh breath rushes from your nose and I poke and prod some more, excited by your stillness and your pain. The flesh, trapped between life and death. Between part of you and belonging of mine.
I am more aware of you than of any donor previously. You are more real. Your flesh radiates heat. Your clothes rustle, grunts pushed through damp cloth. There is no resistance though, the cutting board still against the sheets, your body still, so still, so tense. Perfect.
I change tools, catch your eye and drown in pupils blown wide. I want to be there to. To be with you in rapture.
Sweat runs like tears, soaks from your skin. The fat blade nestles and tendon frays.
Hearts pumping, the blade solid between my hands and your bones. Pressure. Parting. A deep groan as your body is penetrated by merciless steel, nearly smothering the crunch of bone. A drag of blade to sever the final tendon and I let go.
Seconds, minutes, I don’t know and I don’t care. Your arm clamps me back to your heaving chest, the salt slick fabric leaching to mix with mine in an intimacy we didn’t expect. I didn’t expect. I came for bone. For flesh.

You came for me. 

Ten things I took away from Eroticon 17

Thank you Jenny for a meme to get me started with the million thank yous and superlatives that need to be said. From the Chevron tights (you know who you are) and a particular brave Canadian (who introduced himself when I am pretty sure he could see the fear in my eyes at walking through the door) who were the first to look after me at Friday night’s Meet and Greet to all the other warm and friendly people who helped me through bouts of Autism induced anxiety at meal and coffee times by just talking to me so I had a focus. And listening when I waffled. 
So, from Eroticon I take away…
  1. A guilt free mind,- it is easy to call yourself open minded if you never share your opinions and Eroticon was obviously going to put that to the test. Living in a safe little corner of the world surrounded with people who don’t share their opinions about controversial subjects was non- challenging. I was so unbelievably relieved to go to the pub and talk about the mechanics of threesomes as a normal thing, to regret not getting to the ropes talk, to already have a list of things I would love to try or listen to in the future. I don’t do New Year’s resolutions, but right now, I resolve to keep testing myself and my unconscious and socially embedded prejudices towards sex and gender by finding opportunities to be positive and inclusive in all my interactions, linked to my writing, my kinks or my wider family and community.
  2.  A Christmas and Birthday list for the next couple of years at least,- I haven’t had many spare pennies for sex toy shopping in the last couple of years, but the gorgeousness on offer from several of the sponsors was just too much to ignore.  Some of the shopping will happen from home as time and pennies allow… but this often seated lady is craving a little extra pleasure, and some beautiful Ceramics and Silicone. And the practical side of me has already visited Sheets of San Francisco simply to help with the clean up.
  3. A fantastically strong line up of blogs to read,- I have only occasionally dipped around on the net however this D/s life was one I read from time to time. Wow. Wistfully. Without realising it was a blog (since I lived under a social media black-spot). Life was busy without trying to make room for the complete wider reading available on the internet. But now… I want to read everything. Everyone. Speakers and delegates.
  4. An understanding of the power of erotic writing and sex blogs to change the circumstances of others. Emily Rose talked wonderfully about sex and disability and Enhance UK as a place of positivity and advice. I missed Jasmine talking on people of colour, but I have read what many attendees said about her talk and felt embarrassed that coming from a very white area of Britain none of this had occurred to me, other than inter-racial being a specialist option in categories of erotica (which I always thought was a bit weird).
  5. A reminder fantasy writing is imagination and therefore valid whoever writes it. Bit of a note to self, this one, but if everyone took away that message all to the good. That doesn’t mean it can’t be good, bad, or mediocre (Oh, Brad!)… but whether it was Victoria Blisseencouraging us to use our senses, Malin James on preserving the power of every word, Rachel Kincaid to explore the broad potential of non hetero-normative erotica (and taking that further into the dark and hissingly disturbing),or DrMeg-John Barker teaching us to know ourselves through our writing, it was all fantastic for the writer in me, not just the over-excited kinky bit. 
  6. A strong desire to be branded,- and yes by that I mean hot metal- and tied up. That will be the over-excited kinky bit. Thing is, I’m a bit sick of my inner me being completely anonymous on my body just so I still fit in with all the other mummies on the school run. Tattoos have never appealed beyond a desire to create something on my blank canvas. And watching Gryph working a couple of willing models was achingly fascinating.
  7. A blog and thanks to ILB’s informative and funny 102 hopefully some ideas on what to do with it. At the moment the problem is not sitting waiting for the muse, but shutting the bitch up so I can actually leave my computer
  8. A twitter account –thank you @sexwithrose Now all I have to do is work out how to use it…properly…with links and stuff…you know, just on the off chance someone might read it…follow me…
  9. A better appreciation of myself as a strong, confident, sexy, kinky person,– I have a fantastic partner, but sometimes, I feel guilty to admit, I don’t trust that he is not an aberration: when he tells me my writing is good; when he tells and shows me just how much he appreciates my kinky side. I have come back feeling empowered in my writing, in my kinks (not just decorative, blushing admissions to make me “authentic” but real desires whether tried or untried) and in myself.
  10. New Connections,- too young to be friendships yet, but I hope maybe at some point some of the wonderful people I met this weekend might just consider me a friend.