This is how you hurt me.

You take my hand. You straighten the fingers. I can’t see you: I’m on my knees with my forehead on the floor, my hands bound behind me. It takes a moment to understand what you want; to surrender these tiny muscles so that you can move them. I breathe, relax my palms, let you shape my body as you want it.

To write about someone, to be written about, is a special kind of intimacy. You asked for, demanded, a story.

The next day we didn’t touch, but this intimacy was happening—mediated by pen on paper, by imagination (mine), by language itself. Bunnies fuck, but only people talk about fucking, transmute it into meaning.

That magic is what makes us gods, isn’t it?

We are generating heat. From the small taut tendons of your arm, through the cane, to my palm: heat. From my hand back into yours: heat.

You hit my open palm with a heavy stick, one you found on the beach on our morning walk. I have never been hit there before, and it hurts. It’s not a sexy pain, not an erotic zone of my body. It sears.

You must sense the crests of sensation: how? Am I moaning, am I crying out? In between you hold my hand—sympathizing with the pain you’ve caused, and glorying in it, too.

In these pauses, your hand is smooth and cool, like mercy.

Now, remembering, that same heat rises through my body. My face flushes. If you’re reading this, halfway around the world, do you feel it, too?  This transaction is not just molecules. It’s an intimacy like no other. It means.

As a writer I am also a theoretician, but not your kind, cool and abstract, nearly scientific. I don’t have to do experiments, test my hypotheses on rats, engage in longitudinal studies of semiotics.  I just know, and then I have to trust what I know: what my body knows. What your body might know too, if you let it.  Every day I try to make this transmutation: matter into energy, dross to gold.

What the world sees as base, as sordid—the desire of one to hurt and the other to be hurt—we convert into a kind of transcendence, a space where spirits touch. It’s a space where we know… not each other, exactly, but know ourselves to be part of one energy, one field.

Krishna says, I am the field and the knower of the field.

Beyond religion: Hegel too believed that, in the relationship of master to slave, spiritual unity was possible.

It scares you, doesn’t it, this moment of synthesis?

When I write I walk toward this fear every day. With each blank page I face the terror of not being enough, of being too much, of being consumed, of remaining unknown. The world tells us we are wrong a thousand different ways every day. So of course we are afraid.

You tell me I am brave, and I realize it’s true. Fear has been my teacher, the one who wears the mask of god.

You make me talk. I tell you how brilliant you are and how scared I am, but you say I must be lying on both counts. You accuse me of flattery.

It occurs to me how young you are, how little you know your own beauty and genius, your power. I, irrepressibly rebellious—I who more than once have screamed no-no-no at a woman with a whip, to make her tame me—want nothing more than to be on my knees for you.

You hit me again, again.

From you I took more pain than I’ve ever taken before. I didn’t tell you that afterward; it was a little prize I withheld, the way you withheld something from me. Is pettiness is the opposite of intimacy?

Story is what we make to survive the pain. Again I don’t mean you and me, I mean our species. I don’t know how bunnies survive their suffering, but you and I and all our kind make narrative.

You didn’t want the intimacy to seep, like a wound, out of the scene. But your instruction, to write you a story, kept me in that space of intimacy while you distanced yourself from it; from me. I didn’t see the trap. I didn’t know I was meant to emote for both of us.

So maybe I was clenching my hands and you had to keep opening them, had to move my fingers out of the way, so as not to break my joints when you hit me. The story I made was that you held my hand through the pain, that you soothed the fire of my hurting.

Later I could have spun this into a big tale of love or the possibility of love. Later you could pretend this gesture was all logistics. Which is a lie, which a fantasy?

We are human; is it possible to avoid drifting, in every direction, from the truth?

After the pain, the reward.

I am choking on your cock and my throat resists, I gag but I don’t want to stop, and you let me keep going and you wipe the tears from my eyes and I feel beautiful.

I thought you’d understood my offering. What does a gift want more than to be given? What can a god want more than a willing sacrifice?

Next time I negotiate, this is what I will say: Touch me, fuck me, hurt me—but don’t you dare back away.

The poet Hafiz said, Art is the conversation between lovers. That impulse toward intimacy, six centuries ago, let him live into our time and beyond.

So whatever our separate stories, I know what I felt. It wasn’t nothing, and it wasn’t just a little something. For that moment—that present moment which, in its intensity, is eternal—it was everything.

This is how you hurt me.

Virgin publication! “Mouth”

She had a name, but tonight she would just be Mouth…

That’s the first sentence of my first-ever commercially published smut, available NOW!

…She painted on her bright red lipstain, shuddering as the moist aphrodisiac gel touched the six sensitive neuro-crystals in her lips. They sparked and sparkled…

It’s a raunchy (of course) story set in a post-gender world where sex and gender are defined by pleasure, not biology or reproduction. Everyone’s gender in this future world will be defined by their primary sexual organ, which they can enhance through special pleasure-focused surgeries.

…The silk brushed against her lips so lightly that she felt naked. She imagined a breeze lifting the veil, exposing her genitalia to everyone…

Our heroine is a Mouth who gets invited to a very special party with a Cock, a Cunt, an Ass, and a mysterious mistress whose gender is only revealed at the climax (really!) of the story.

She kneeled, blind, genitals wide open, breathing. If she was to be a hole…

It was super exciting to be selected. The editor, Lauren P. Burka, has chosen an amazing array of stories for the Circlet Press anthology Up For Grabs 2: Exploring More Worlds of Gender.

In my story, “Mouth,” I did away with patriarchy and gender binaries by getting rid of “men” as a linguistic category — nifty, eh? — while keeping the, ahem, genital variation they bring to the party.

I was blown away by the various ways that the other writers imagined a post-gender or non-binary-gendered world.

I think this anthology is revolutionary because people often think that binary difference is what’s sexy — that heterosexuality, or something that mimics it, is the only way to create a certain kind of sexual tension.

In this anthology, we prove them wrong!

Please help me celebrate the end of my smut-writing virginity by:

tweeting, Facebooking, etc. about it this week (yes, do it now!  first-week sales really help!)

reviewing it on your blog (email m.svairini at gmail if you would like a review copy)

buying an ebook for yourself here

gifting ebooks to friends (birthday? Valentine’s Day?) here

suggesting it to any book reviewers or bloggers you know who would be interested

sharing it on any listserves you can think of that would be interested

Thank you! I promise that you will reap lots of warm wet hot karma for any of these acts.

The Girl Who Loved Cock

I WONDER if you know how much I like sucking cock. There’s nothing like those cocksucking orgasms, when the rough thrusts at the back of my throat and the pure thrill of choking are enough to make me come. How does something so hard make me feel so wet and soft inside?

One top said nothing to me, just leaned up against hir bedroom wall and threw a pillow on the floor. The gesture was hot and sweet—not because my knees needed cushioning, but because it meant hy expected me to stay there a long time. Hir dick was cyberskin, soft enough that I could mould its whole flesh to the inside of my mouth and push hard. As hy grabbed my neck and rammed into the back of my throat, neurons fired all the way down the live circuits to my cunt, and I came.

Some dicks are too big for me to swallow, but just right for sputtering and gasping. I try to slurp deep and press up so you can feel the base of the cock jam underneath the harness, against the exact spot in you that craves this, too.

I remember the first woman I gave a blowjob to; she liked it so much, it terrified her. We were young. The harness we’d bought together, bravely, was hardly broken in. She put it on and then said shyly, almost embarrassed, “I want you to suck it.”

I DROPPED TO MY KNEES quick as I could to oblige, wrapped my mouth around the dark grey ripples of our new cock, and let my tongue make it as slick and wet as my pussy had suddenly become.  I could tell she was liking it—loving it—and then she made me stop. “The boys must have liked you,” she said bitterly, referring to my bisexual past, and never let me do it again.

I wonder what your dick is to you; I wonder how you like it. If you’ll stand and push me up against a wall … or sit back cockily with your legs sprawled and your zipper open like a dare.  If you’ll want me to taste your hot pulsing erection and jack you off with my tongue … or thrust nine inches of silicone down my throat. If you’ll let me wrap my arms around your knees to pull in deeper … or tie my hands behind my back so I can’t control the depth, so you can have your way with me. If I’ll be able to tilt my head up and see the look in your eyes as I do it … or if my whole face will be in your crotch so that I don’t see anything but the bulge that’s right in front of me. If you’d like to have your dick sucked and caressed with my tongue … or if you prefer to just fuck my face.

It’s a fine line, but then, cocksucking is all about the nuances, isn’t it?

I wonder how to make a pretty picture for you. Spread my knees as I kneel on the floor; wear lipstick just so it can get messed up, a hot bright red; deep cleavage for you to look down into.

WILL YOU PUT A NEEDLE or two in my tits first, just to watch them dance?  Or maybe you’ll hurt me afterward, please pretty please, if I do it good.

I wonder why you and I haven’t done this yet, with all we’ve done. It’s the simplest act, not even very kinky; maybe that’s why. Maybe I’ve been too hungry to explore new kinks that I forgot to tell you how much I want this. Maybe I haven’t begged sweetly enough.

I am always sincere when I beg. You know that by now, don’t you? So:

Please sir, please—may I suck your cock? I’ll kiss it so pretty, I’ll make it feel good, I’ll take it deep and hard, I’ll choke and gasp and plead for more. Oh… please?

I wonder if you know I jerked off this morning thinking about your cock deep in my throat. And  I came.