I majored in sociology. I was going
to make psychology my major but there was this hot guy taking all those
sociology classes and doing the same was the best way I could think of to stalk
him.
That guy is long gone. Sad to say I
don't remember his name but will never forget the night we—oh, never mind.
So where was I? Oh yes, thinking
about psychology and erotica. (Follow along please. This is bound to make sense
eventually) I've been writing erotica and erotic romance for years, enjoying
every word of the adventure. Before that I wrote a lot of tame romances and a
number of heavily-researched historicals, never suspecting that one day I'd
truly set my imagination free. That happened when I read my first erotic story
and decided this was what I wanted to write from now on. Nothing was going to
stop me, not even Freud.
Freud? What does he have to do with
it?
Plenty. The darned father of
psychoanalysis had been messing with my mind for way too long.
In purely psychological terms, (okay, in mine)
Freud was a nut. He declared that,
"a happy person never fantasizes, only a dissatisfied one."
Fortunately, a great deal has
changed since those uninformed days with such experts as psychologists Harold
Leitenberg and Kris Henning doing extensive studies on peoples' sexual
fantasies. Their conclusion: only about
5% of people don't dream up sexy romps.
In fact, it's now considered pathological not to have such fantasies.
Whew! Good news for me because my erotica banks on
readers' need and desire for the aforementioned sexual fantasies. I design most of my plots around capture/bondage
themes because that's what turns me on.
I'm in good company. Psychiatrist
Ethel Person of Columbia University reports that 51 percent of women imagine
being forced to have sex and another third get off on pretending to be a slave
who must obey a man's every wish.
Why do scenes full of ropes or
chains touch so many people's hot buttons?
According to psychologists Leitenberg and Henning, "Women who find
submission fantasies sexually arousing are very clear that they have no wise to
be raped in reality. In their fantasies,
women control every aspect of what happens." According to the article, "Power,
Desire, and Pleasure in Sexual Fantasies" by Eileen Zurbriggen, women who
fanaticize about submission have a more positive attitude about sex and are
less sexually guilty and more open to a variety of sexual experiences. Female submissive fantasies may be one aspect
of an open, positive, guilt-free sexuality.
The brain is as potent a sexual
organ as the genitalia. Our imagination
allows us to safely explore our sexuality.
No one is going to judge and criticize our thoughts (or what we read). We can let them run wild—or handcuff and
hog-tie them if we so choose.
I'll choose the handcuffs, thank
you very much. And throw in a spanking
paddle to be used on my helpless, writhing, and over-the-top excited female
captive while I'm at it. And, most
important, add one (or more) male hunk who can't keep his hands off her
helpless body.
Into His World by Blushing Books is the
latest example of where my imagination has taken me. Too bad Freud isn't around
to read it.
Her arms felt leaden. Even if she’d been
able to lift them, she wouldn’t have tried. Her entire body became heavy, inert
almost. Well, not all of her, she acknowledged. Everything from belly button to
knees had heated. She felt feverish there, the greatest heat centered around
her pussy. Hot and melting, she turned small and weak within his embrace. He
guided her swaying movements in tune with the song’s echoing rhythm. She heard
laughter and loud talking, and yet she didn’t.
Most of all there was him. Him
everywhere. Commanding.
Working with horses had conditioned
her to sizes greater than her own, and she’d stopped feeling small around any
living thing until now. Somehow this near stranger had sucked muscle and
self-determination out of her, melted her down until she’d become more him than
herself.
His for the taking.
Beyond comprehension, she loved
feeling like this, loved his arms encasing hers, his legs bracketing hers with
his sex insistent between them and her back arched. He turned one way and then
the other, taking her with him as surely and confidently as she guided
well-trained mounts.
Had she’d become his animal, his
compliant possession?
Before she could face the question,
he ran his hands from her shoulders down over her arms, her elbows, biceps.
Then he guided her arms behind her. More curious than alarmed, she didn’t
resist as he crossed one wrist over the other and held them in place against
her buttocks with one large, work-conditioned hand.
“What are you doing?” she asked as
he widened his stance and brought her legs, her hips even, under his control.
“An experiment.”
“What kind?”
“One designed to determine how far
I can go tonight.” As if reinforcing the barely comprehended statement, he
pressed his free hand against her right ass cheek and started rubbing it
possessively.
Quit it! If you think I’m going to let you manhandle me, you’re
sadly mistaken! She thought the words. She just
didn’t say them.
“Tell me about yourself.”
“What?”
“What do you want out of life,
Shana?” He lightly slapped her buttock, making her jump. His breath chased hot
over her face. “You’re good at what you do. Jed told me he’s never seen better
and from what I observed of your ride, you understand a horse’s instinct.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Free yourself! Let him know what you think
of being treated like a just-roped horse and swatted like some misbehaving
child!
He delivered another slap. “It’s
acknowledging one kind of mastery by someone who understands the necessary
skills and talents.”
He hadn’t just thrown out the words
or absently swatted her, she’d bet a month’s pay on it. She just wished she
understood what he was getting at and why she wasn't protesting.
But with her body under his control
and her hot to learn what else he had in mind, how did he expect her to hold up
her end of this double-edged conversation?
Maybe he didn’t.
“Perhaps you’re bored by my
observations,” he whispered in that silken whiskey tone of his. He massaged
where just moments ago he'd semi-punished her. “Maybe you’d rather just dance.”
Maybe.
He stopped playing with her ass—if
that's what he'd been doing—and transferred his attention to her throat, his
fingertips an unsettling mix of fine sandpaper and satin. She lost herself in
thoughts of those fingers roping a rogue horse or forcing a massive bull into a
corral. Hands with that kind of strength would have no trouble getting a woman
to comply with anything he wanted, and yet he exuded rough male sex. He’d never
have to force a woman unless he wanted to.
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