Hello r/eroticliterature,
**LONG POST ALERT**
I’m working on my first erotica novel (really my first long-form writing project since term papers) and I’m looking for feedback—constructive or otherwise!
I’m nearing the 100 page mark and for some reason I thought that would be a good milestone to go back and edit the totality of the rough work for I have so far. As you might imagine, there’s A LOT of cringe in there, A LOT of purple prose, A LOT of thesaurus writing, but there’s also A LOT I’m extremely proud of and I think my concept is still strong even if some of my execution can’t stand on its own.
That’s where you guys come in! I need a competent editor(ial staff) to give me their unvarnished thoughts and most merciless criticisms to break me of my terrible habits. I am 100% in favor of compensating you (I can’t do it monetarily at the moment, but even though I’m not a Lannister I always pay my debts).
The major questions I have with the work are as follows:
Does it turn you on? Is it too much? Do the descriptions bore? Are you not (otherwise) entertained?
Does the narrator’s voice work/ do you feel like it swings too dramatically (without giving too much away, my idea is she warms up and gets more comfortable with the reader as the story progresses)?
Does the person/ tense work (1st person present)?
Is the grammar too overwrought?
Is the writing too overwrought (This work has a lot of voices informing it and very few of them are minimalist)?
I’m going to try to post a chapter every few days to give ya’ll some time to digest, but today I’m posting the intro/ first chapter as I’ll be without internet until the weekend’s over.
I greatly appreciate all who take the time to undertake this massive ask, I will make it worth your while somehow (hopefully getting you wet and or hard is a start). ALL FEEDBACK IS MUCH APPRECIATED and will be responded to either via DM or in the comments. Thank you, Thank you, Thank you so much!
**TL:DR – PLEASE CRIT MY SHIT PLEASE**
Without (many) further theatrics, **Panties and Other Stories About Panties** (W/T), Introduction:
I love Panties. I love everything about panties. There is practically nothing one could do in, on, with, through, under, over, between, around, or amongst those slinky, little fancies—those veils for our most confidential districts—that would fail to heat me up inside and get my cunt all filmy and slick.
What delights me about panties? How do you put lust’s shapelessness into words? As with any fetish the actual motivators behind obsession are swallowed by the tides of memory. I can conjure nebulous instances of watching my mother dress in opulent, constricting webs for affairs I wasn’t allowed to attend, my father hungrily pulling her close as he zipped her gown shut; or intercepting lingerie catalogues from the mail-slot, smuggling it up to my bedroom, then desperately rubbing my flushed cunt to the come-hither stills within. I wouldn’t have been able to define masturbation at the time, I may not have even been aware of the concept of sex. I can see myself being shepherded through shopping malls and city centers, then suddenly being invaded through the pupils by the sumptuous window-dressing of some intimates boutique. Tearing my focus away from all that soft danger, all those intricate accessories of desire was an abuse my psyche will never forgive. Bring me back! Let me stare! Let me feast on all those byzantine fuck-traps.
All these examples are grasping at some arcana that I’ll never be able to fully see the contours of. While I can thrill to stockings and garter-belts, balconette bras and corsets, lacy domino-masks and opera gloves nothing in the pantheon of nightwear can electrify my clit like the parallel triangles of an elegant pair of panties.
I’ve expressed this to other panty-enthusiasts as well. Friends, fuck-partners, longer-term lovers—they all have their opinions and experiences grappling with this paraphilia. A fairly recent partner who I’ll refer to as Gustave has a theory that his lovers’ panties are like a removable pussy—a lovely, secret part of someone’s personality that one can carry with oneself and fuck when it’s impossible or not convenient to fuck the person themself. Some nights I call Gustave up and put his theory into practice, “fuck my little, black panties!” I breathily command him and he balls up my lingerie and thrusts his leaded cock through them; “fuck my lace pussy!” And he moans like a sacrificial bull until he shoots ropes of thick cum into my hot panties. The next time we see each other I’ll wear those panties on our date, coquettishly cross my legs for him—just wide enough that he can see both the artificial, lacy cunt and my own glistening hole peeking through its sheer mask.
A slave I visit named Graciela has a different theory which is a bit more high-minded. She sees panties as a bondage tool—as a rope renders a body immobile so must panties bind a woman’s essence to outmoded gender-roles. A woman’s choice of personas being Jezebel, temptress whores or virginal, cotton innocents. “Well I’m certainly more attracted to whores” I once told her wryly, to which she replied, “That’s because you’re a gourmet.” Graciela’s argument was not a screed against panties, she very much enjoyed submitting herself to be bound by her panties and I, of course, enjoyed doing the binding.
Graeme has a similar treatise when it comes to his relationship with panties. To him they are the ultimate expression of femininity. The best pairs are not built for comfort, but to be beheld in all of their carnal splendor—like Venus. Panties are mute and indifferent, yet delicate and luxuriant. When his stiff cock bulges against the silky façade of his panties he transforms into the woman he has been constructing for himself his entire life. I love to squeeze his hard-on through his panties and whisper to him what a sacred slut a bit of Chantilly can transform him into, while my husband fucks his ass just as he would a prostitute’s cunt.
All of my partners’ panties manifestos are valid; their thoughts on the subject elucidate my own. At its core, my relationship with panties is a sensory one. My ardency for panties is a banquet that stimulates sight, smell, taste, touch and sound as follows:
Panties always look good, whether they be on a body or next to one; pulled half down to expose the bituminous star of an asshole, or stuffed into a hungry mouth as a gag, visually panties never fail to make my clit double, seize and thrust toward orgasm. Even slipping on a pair in the mirror, or afternoon light filtering through a pair hung up to dry can set me off something fierce. I am a bit of a snob when it comes to fabric and color, and cut; as any good fetishist will tell you, it’s all about the particulars. Classic colorations such as white, red, pink, nude, and especially black (the queen) are superior to their more radical permutations—exceptions can be made, to be sure, but my tastes, in this regard are a bit old-fashioned. Sheer and netted laces are the sexiest, silk feels the best pressed up against cocks and cunts, and satin catches the light most dazzlingly. Skin color also plays a role in choosing the panties one is best suited to play in. The darker a person’s skin the lighter or bolder the color of their panties should be. One of my favorite games to play is with my friend Griselda, a scintillating trans-woman with muscles like ocean waves and skin the color of deep, raw jasper. If ever I catch her in black panties (far too dark for the rich tone of her skin) I wrestle her to submission (no easy feat due to her herculean strength) and force the offending bitch to lap my cunt through those same panties which she transgressed in. While she works her tongue against my pussy, I probe hers with an oversized, tempered-glass dildo that she keeps in her freezer. Funny, she’s yet to learn her lesson.
Panties’ scent is equally intoxicating be they freshly cleaned with fine soaps or sweated, pissed, farted and cummed-on for days. That feral, visceral-imprint of a person’s sex-stink is a powerful dope; the hypnotic mixture of pheromones soaks so perfectly into the fabric and heightens my desire like no other experience I’ve encountered. When my husband wants to dominate me completely he always makes sure to spend some time rubbing a handful of well-worn panties in my face like a chastised puppy. I huff zealously, the mingled cunts, cocks, balls, perineums, frenulums, and assholes that have permeated the material and my pussy agonizes for for his corrective dick. Gary, a former neophyte panty-fetishist whom I instructed in the complexities of the proclivity keeps his conquests’ panties in a series of braziers. Once ripened to his liking he sets the panties ablaze and sucks in their fragrant incense in ritual meditation. His own neophyte attendants go to work on his throbbing hard-on as he drones toward ecstatic communion with an erotic deity of his own creation.
Panties’ scent also lends itself to their flavor, as much as you can take a person in through the nose you can also hold them on your tongue—sucking out pussy juice, piss, lube, sperm, spit, the waters and wines of arousal mixing with the subtle zest of lace, silk, satin and nylon. George, a friend, would insist I wear a pair of lace panties up my asshole, held in place by a ceremonial plug, for six hours prior to meeting; during our encounter I’d get up onto his dinner table (set just for one), lift my skirt, squat down over his plate, allow him to remove the ornate butt-plug and then I’d push out the buried treasure for him to consume with fork and knife. Throughout these appointments I’d be so turned-on that I’d spray out my cunt juice all over his table-cloth until he’d position a champagne coupe under me which he’d drink with gusto.
Of course the feel of panties against the skin is sublime. My husband’s curse is he instantly hardens to the touch of panties against his cock; be he wearing them himself or should they happen to brush against him. I’ve seen him moved to tears from the ache of hardening for the thirteenth time in an evening simply by having a pair of crotchless panties tossed onto his flagging dick by a mischievous transsexual bitch named Gloria. To Gustave’s point there is something vaginal about panties, that sapphic kiss I feel when my clit glances against the front seam of the gusset of my panties makes steam rise in my blood. To me, they are a patient, disciplining glove holding my pussy in check, whispering to my nerves what a bad girl I’m being; delicious.
Finally the sound of panties—for me this is the most acute arena of my fixation. Surely, panties hardly make a sound being slid on or pulled down, manipulated by mouth or fingers they’re equally silent, but I can get off simply to the sound of the word being spoken or reading it written down. However, this aspect, like most fetishes is quite conditional. The vulgar colloquial trend of letting ones tongue rush through the word for fear of discomfort is chief among my pet-peeves. The word is PANTIES not pannies. And not only should the “t” be pronounced, it should be savored, sucked on like a prisoner condemned to death prying meat off a bone during their last meal. Syllabically desire can be heightened by elongating any part of the word—put the tease in panties as it were. I prefer to hear the word spoken by women, or at least with a feminine tone; men saying panties as men can border on disgusting for me, invoking all kinds of creepy, paunchy, parochial scenarios in my mind’s eyes and ears. I instruct my male partners to allow me to offer to pull my own panties down in a smokey smolder than to have them command me to take them down like a headmaster. There are, of course, exceptions to this rule. A man in panties can refer to his own kit as masculinely as makes him comfortable. Likewise a man being anally penetrated by a pair of panties can encourage me to fuck him with them. And simply devoid of other context, save for color, size and/or material a man can utter the word panties, either isolated or as a sort of chant at me while fucking. In fact I’d be most liable to answer the word panties back to him creating a hot feedback loop that presumably would get us both off even faster. “Eat my/ his cum off your panties” is also an acceptable directive, naturally.
It’s for these reasons that panties are a wholly-encompassing enthrallment for me and not merely a predilection. I require at least one of these perceptible experiences to orgasm, but prefer to be completely soaked by all of them at once. This is why my husband and I only play with other enthusiasts now. We’ve been exclusively available to other panty-lovers for quite some time and it’s this self-imposed exclusion that prompted our careers. My husband had sold lingerie for a stint and I had spent some time as a shopgirl myself, but after building a network of friends and lovers in the community we deiced to start an invite-only showroom with an intimates designer (who we fuck) which has branched into a small, successful chain of boutiques. In addition to the atelier and the shops we’ve recently opened a members-only club that we’ve named, *La Maison de la Culotte Noire*. And it’s from these habitats that stories in this volume have primarily taken place.
Our adventures, as you’ve probably deduced by now are particularly pansexual. A true fetishist will disregard their orientation for their talisman. That’s not to say that my husband and I were both born a bit higher up the Kinsey Scale than the majority of the population, but to me a person I may not be physically attracted to, in panties, is as enticing as any I lust after without them. My Husband and I place very few boundaries on our desires and none on the genders of people we fuck. We are both comfortable topping or bottoming as the moment takes us — I get wet seeing him suck a fat cock, or bending over for a strap-on, but I get equally turned on watching him fuck a snug hole or getting sucked on by an eager-to-please slut. He feels the same about sharing me; watching me get triple-teamed by t-girl clitties or eating a pair of twin sisters’ pussies puts bedrock in his dick and our passion is amplified to new heights. We’re addicted to searching for a ceiling that could enclose those heights.
I know that for some—maybe even most—panties is a word to be whispered; a word to be sped through like a bad neighborhood. It’s not so much a cuss, but a graceless malefic. A word whose cadence is noxious to the uninitiated. An incantation beseeching the dirty old men that dwell within the pits of us. But their disgust in-turn feeds my self-indulgence. Panties are a rare pleasure, an acquired taste, a true delicacy for the sexual gourmand. Only invited guests have the privilege of feasting in panties’ grand dining room.
The most succinct way of couching panties’ glowing, magnetic hold on me is that the best pairs represent the triumph of sluttiness. Little, black, lace panties are the flags of the slut army — and that is the army for which I fight and die. Sluts are, by and large, my favorite people; they’re my tribe; my home; my quiet harbor. On a primal, monkey-brain stratum kinky sex adds color to my life in ways that fine food, art, poetry, music, and laughter can’t come close to achieving. I live to fuck — I’m a fuck superhero and my uniform is my lingerie. My logo is a pair of panties.
We hope you enjoy our tales. Stroke your cocks, rub your pussies and do it all with the sexiest pair of panties you own. If we existed we’d tell you to look us up, I’m sure we’d love to meet and play with you, but for now you’ll just have to fuck us in your fantasies.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/co2gdz/feedback_wanted_panties_and_other_stories_about