Thursday, 25 October 2012

Holding Still

Photo ©
And then I feel the steady gaze of someone’s eyes on me.
  The spicy aroma of a man’s cologne teases my nose as he circles me, quietly studying me. Voices waft across the room like currents of air but my observer is alone. Intrigued by what he sees, he reaches out a hand to caress my hip, my thigh. I remain perfectly still as I have been taught, willing away the gooseflesh that threatens to mar my smooth skin and spoil the illusion.
‘Alina,’ he says, reading my name off the little bronze plaque beneath me.
Seeing the man’s interest in me, the curator approaches. He introduces himself and explains that I am new, that this is only my first exhibition, but that I have shown immense promise and he is sure I would be a worthy addition to any collector’s home.
The man nods and reaches up to stroke my cheek. He traces a finger down my throat and along the curve of one bare breast. He cups me gently and I feel my nipple stiffen in response to his touch. It’s exactly the kind of reaction collectors want, the kind that surprises one into remembering that we are human after all. He laughs softly.
‘She’s very responsive.’ He slides his thumb over the hard little bud, sending a jolt of pleasure through my body. I focus all my concentration on maintaining my position. I must not sigh or gasp or moan. I mustn’t close my eyes or even flutter an eyelash. I am a statue. One of warm flesh and blood rather than alabaster but a statue nonetheless.
The man draws his hand down along my pale arm to my wrist. Then he presses against the delicate skin to feel my pulse. Doubtless my heart is beating faster now than when he first approached me and his touch makes it beat even faster. He gives another appreciative laugh.
‘Yes, very responsive.’
He has a nice voice, cultured and kind. I like the warmth in his touch, the amusement in his tone as he examines the rest of me, stroking the soles of my upturned feet and running a finger down the line of my spine. My legs are closed but he comments favourably on my smoothly shaved mound. I fight the blush that threatens to stain my cheeks as he asks whether he might part my thighs to see the rest.

from "Holding Still" by Rose de Fer

Available in Instructed to Play

from Mischief Books

Wednesday, 24 October 2012

My favourite erotic films

Naughty question time! This time the Mischief blog wants to know our favourite erotic films (or scenes).

I said:

Oh, it's very difficult to choose just one favourite! But there's a scene in Waxwork (a not-terribly-good horror film) where a girl gets sucked into the Marquis de Sade exhibit in the evil wax museum. She finds herself a victim of the real Marquis. Two pretty maidens string her up between a pair of columns and unfasten the back of her dress. Then de Sade whips her as entertainment for a visiting English prince. When her dorky boyfriend arrives to rescue her, she throws herself at de Sade's feet and begs him not to let her boyfriend take her away.

Another of my favourites is from David Cronenberg's Dead Ringers, where Genevieve Bujold's character is tied to the end of her gynaecologist's bed with rubber tubes and clamps. It's a short but potent visual image, and one of the most erotic I've ever seen. I saw it at a very impressionable age and it featured in all my fantasies for years afterwards.
I have to say I do still fantasise about those rubber tubes...