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.
“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 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.”
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.