(K)inktober #8

My head is getting away from me with ideas…

This drawing is a total mess, but alas. The purpose of inktober is to make a drawing a day and get the creative juices flowing, I suppose – just like with NaNoWriMo, the goal isn’t perfection, but getting things done. Which is why I don’t even start scanning my sketches and drawings in to clean them up digitally and hide the mistakes and fuck-ups (although I do plan to realize some of them as digital paintings later on and get rid of pen-slips).

Is it very obvious, by the way, that I really have a thing for gags? It’s not only in my drawings but in my writing too. This one is an illustration of a scene in Sharing Claire. I reread it to remember the details, and I have to admit that I was a little hot and bothered afterwards. Read on for a snippet!

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(K)inktober #7

I asked myself why I’m drawing porn when the Internet is full of it. I’ll never manage to get anywhere near the incredible works of Apollonia Saintclair or Yannick Corboz, to name only two of my art crushes. In fact, I’ll never even reach my own aspirations, the dream image in my head, so why bother? The answer? Because it’s fun, and why the hell not. I’m fascinated by the connection between two (or more) people, by its manifestation in gestures and looks, and one day, I’ll maybe manage to capture it. (Also, practice. I still dream of my illustrated twisted fairytales, and as long as I can’t afford to hire someone who actually CAN draw, I’m still planning to do it myself… someday).

And boy do I have fun drawing porn. So much that today’s (K)inktober drawing has to go under a Read More. It’s a scene from my latest story, Mistress Marlene. You can read a snippet of the scene going with the illustration below the cut – in case you want (need?) some context.

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Inktober #6

#NationalComingOutDay

Apparently today is National Coming Out Day – which made me think that I never officially came out to my family. On the other hand, I never felt the need to.

The majority of my mother’s friends when I grew up were gay, so I never got the impression that there’s an identity I could choose for myself that would not have my mother’s full support. I never hid my attraction to boys and girls. However, I never outright stated I’m bisexual either. For that reason, I’m not sure my mother is aware of it?Not that it would make a difference.

When I ended up with a guy, it meant a bit of a surprise to my friends at the time. Somehow they always expected me to end up with a girl (Heaven knows I kissed enough), and the whole affair with my ogre was a rushed head-over-heels-thing happening so fast that it felt unreal.

I’m not sure I ever came out to him. I continued to be confident and open about my attraction to my own gender as well as the opposite, but I don’t think I ever put it explicitely into words for him.

I’m a mother myself now, but other than I when I grew up, my kids have only little representation of queer identities (other than myself) in their life. I’m not a very outgoing person, and my social circle is tiny. Because of that, it’s all the more important to me to be inclusive when talking about sexuality and romance to show my girls that whatever they want to be and who they want to date (if at all), it’s okay. I think my kids are the only people I explicitely told about my bisexuality, but they’re the only ones who count.

Of course, they’re in that age where everything mom does is just embarrassing.

Source: Inktober #6 – Jo Henny Wolf

(K)inktober #5

Apparently I ran out of motivation when it came to the background… plus, I ran almost out of daylight so I had to rush to snap my picture.

Maybe I should start writing little stories to go with my drawings. This one sprang from one of Ronald Drake’s fantasies – I’m mingling plotting and drawing today.

I needed this to cleanse my mind after reading the endless Twitter thread of #myfirstHarveyWeinstein. Each time I think I figured it out, I’m secure in my identity as erotica writer and manage to seperate the things I write from real life abuse, something drags my doubts back up.

And not only doubts this time. It’s incredible how many kids had to suffer creepy teachers, and reading those bleak statements brought my own memories back to the surface as well. The mind is a curious thing, and it buries so many things so well. Sometimes though, the coffins we locked our memories in rot away and let the demons out again. I was lucky to have a friend there yesterday telling me this valuable thing:

Do not let the creeps have control of your sexuality.

Which means, I’ll keep drawing and writing.

As for all my inktober posts, I’m determined to ignore SEO. I plan to bury these posts later on, and for once, I want to enjoy the fun of drawing and not put a damper on it with spending half an hour on figuring out all the things I should do to make this a SEO scoring blog post. Sometimes, there are things more important than that.

Source: (K)inktober #5 – Jo Henny Wolf

Inktober #4

Who would’ve thought that snake-anatomy is such a challenge? And all those scales! And flowers! You’d think those are easy, but nah.

Today, inktober really is inktober for a change. It’s not that I’m running out of kinky inspiration, but it’s harder to draw the kinky things on the weekends when the whole ogre family hovers around stealing glimpses at my sketchbook. Did I mention that I’m keeping two sketchbooks, one for the naughty stuff and one for the *everyone’s allowed to see it* variety of drawings. To be honest, I haven’t used that one in a while.

I’m planning to write today (I have to get Chapter 4 of Initiation out, dammit), so I’m not sure I’ll manage to draw as well – usually my brain allows for only one of the two in one day, and my stash of spoons is often so limited that I even need to take a day off of creative work in between. That’s especially true after weekends. Days with everyone at home tend to drain me faster, so Mondays are my recreational days.

As my brain also tends to zoom in on one method of creation, I have to take care that I take breaks from drawing, otherwise I get too visual in planning stories and it gets difficult to turn them into words. I am a rather visual planner and most of my stories start out as tableaus I pictured in my head, or as a web of emotions and tangled actions and reactions; I learned that I have to harness the visuals into words rather than more images, otherwise I get completely tongue-tied over them.

That means today, I won’t work on my to-do list of kinky drawings and instead focus on turning the scenes I’ve planned out months ago into actual writing. Wish me luck!

 

Inktober #2

The Octopus Dream. I kow it’s technically day 6 of Inktober, but this is only my second drawing – hence, Inktober #2. I used no reference for this one, and I had to slap my sketchbook shut every time the kids or ogre walked by my spot in the kitchen. Of course that was super suspicious, and it didn’t take long for the ogre princess to catch on to what I was doing (without ever actually seeing it). “Oh Mama!” she said in that special condescending tone all teenagers have mastered to perfection. Well, what? Let me draw my smut, darling. Mama needs it.

Source: Inktober #2 – Jo Henny Wolf

Out now: Mistress Marlene

My new short story, Mistress Marlene is out now. The inspiration for it was something really personal.

Sometimes, I’m wondering if the reason why I can’t let go completely during kinky sexy-times is that I know ogre is doing it to please me. He does his best to impersonate a dominant for me. It doesn’t come easy to him, and there’s always a palpable insecurity underlying his act.

Mistress Marlene

As the feeling of faking it is always present, it’s impossible to truly relax into a scene; I can’t trust him to always do right. And he never dares to even approach my limits out of fear of crossing them. I never get the spanking I desire, never the power play I yearn for. And because I know that he doesn’t mean it when he gives me an order, I can just shrug it off and refuse. Knowing that none of it is serious irks me and provokes my rejection. (Don’t get me wrong – I don’t want to be forced to do things I didn’t consent to. He has my consent to force me into things I did consent to, however.)

I touched upon this incompatibility when I wrote about my anorgasmia. We’re too different in too many aspects; I’m kinky, he’s vanilla as fuck. Part of why we work as a team despite our vast differences is that we respect them. I’m not forcing him to spank me, but he loves me enough to try.

When I thought about our situation, it sparked the idea for a new story. What if, instead of trying to be something we’re not, we would get our fix another way? What if a partner had the strength to admit that this is not for him, but instead of denying his partner to experience the things she desires, he encourages her to seek them out – just not with him?

It’s an arrangement that wouldn’t work for me and my ogre, but it was fun to explore the idea, and it’s a personal story for me. Hanna, my main character, isn’t me, is not even like me. She’s at the same time more vulnerable and innocent and more daring than I am. And her husband, Christoph, isn’t my ogre either. He’s opener, more accepting, of himself as well as of his wife.

The working title for this story was A Matter of Taste, as it hinged on Hanna’s and Christoph’s incompatibility – a difference in taste, if you want. I changed the title to Mistress Marlene, the name of Hanna’s professional domme, because of her importance for the relationship of Hanna and Christoph. She changes them, and changes their relationship.

Read on for a sneak peek of Mistress Marlene. Buy here.

 

Mistress Marlene

Excerpt “Mistress Marlene”

“Good. Now, tell me: how hard do you want to be spanked? Do you want bruises to show to your husband?”

The question set fire to Hanna’s core, and she was almost too distracted by her mistress pulling her panties down, slowly, to remember how to speak. She was hyper-aware of her exposed flesh, and drowning in embarrassment as Marlene cupped her buttocks and spread them apart. Hanna had never been so acutely aware of her nether parts as just then, when Marlene pulled her open and she had no way of covering up.

“Please, Mistress,” she whined in distress, not even sure what she was asking for.

“Answer me first. How hard is it going to be?”

Closing her eyes, Hanna allowed the answer to surge up from within, from her guts, and she let it spill over her lips like a moan. “Bruise me.”

Get it here!

The Black Orchid

I’m mourning the death of my last surviving Aloe polyphylla seedling. It must have been eaten by slugs while I was away. The pot is as empty as if there never was a baby aloe in there at all, and I’m frustrated. What used to be my green thumb is now a charcoal black stump, and I’ve laid more plants to rest than I managed to keep alive. In that regard, I’m very different from Poppy Baines, character in my story “The Black Orchid” which is featured in the Sinful Press anthology “Sinful Pleasures”.

Okay, not just in that regard.

Despite my many losses, I try myself at gardening again and again. I even wanted to become a gardener when I was still in school, and did an internship in a nursery (where the employees lived in a draughty old castle and succulents were weeds my fellow gardeners stuffed into their pockets to take them home). Once upon a time, I managed to keep all my little babies alive. I was so good at it, in fact, that my family trusted me with the mother plant of all our Pilea peperomioides plants when my great-grandmother (who’d owned it for decades) died. I’m ashamed to admit that I did not manage to keep that ancient plant alive. Even more ashamed that it took me only a few months to let it die.

Still, gardening remains endlessly fascinating to me, and I wish I had the same green thumb as Poppy. Live thrives around her, sprouting from cracks, so rich and green it’s almost like magic. I envisioned her as a modern Persephone, if Persephone were a gardener and an orchid breeder. It fits, as gardeners have to be ruthless too. Maybe that’s what I’m missing: I like to watch things grow, and I miss the moment when it’s time for a new pot or a trim, or time to get rid of the weeds, or in the case of orchids, time to water them.

Black Orchid

What can I say, I love making mood boards!

Poppy Baines is ruthless, in a way my other character, Donn, doesn’t immediately catch on to, but she won’t let her plants die. The beautiful thing about fiction is that it’s incredibly easy to fill a whole Victorian greenhouse with a jungle of plants and keep all those plants alive. In a way, I did become a gardener after all; as George R.R. Martin put it:

“I think there are two types of writers, the architects and the gardeners. The architects plan everything ahead of time, like an architect building a house. They know how many rooms are going to be in the house, what kind of roof they’re going to have, where the wires are going to run, what kind of plumbing there’s going to be. They have the whole thing designed and blueprinted out before they even nail the first board up. The gardeners dig a hole, drop in a seed and water it. They kind of know what seed it is, they know if planted a fantasy seed or mystery seed or whatever. But as the plant comes up and they water it, they don’t know how many branches it’s going to have, they find out as it grows. And I’m much more a gardener than an architect.”

My gardener-heart throbs with joy that one of my babies has found a home in the Sinful Pleasures Anthology, and I’m so excited it came out this week! Go read Gail B Williams’ guest post about her story on my blog! And rememeber when I talked about a bit of writing that captured the power of humiliation so perfectly? I’m still fangirling over the fact that I’m in the same anthology as Janine Ashbless, the author of said book! This anthology is chock-full of goodness, so definitely take a look.

 

Excerpt of “The Black Orchid”

Sinful Pleasures

Poppy smirked, with a sparkle in her eyes that made him feel transparent and naked. He stuck a finger into his shirt collar to get some air onto his heated skin. It was entirely too hot in this hellhole of a greenhouse.

“Maybe you should take off your coat before you collapse,” she prompted gently. Donn’s cheekbones burned right through his skin as he followed her suggestion and shrugged out of his coat, folding it and depositing it out of the way on an empty rack attached to the table, while she plucked another black orchid from her tree shelf. She placed it side by side with the first plant. “Mostly, I just split them into clones, since I have already reached perfection with this breed. I used to pollinate though, to get this dark black.”

She waved him closer, and Donn followed her order. It was like a reward when she placed her hand on his arm, and another jolt of electricity tingled through him, sizzling hot in his lower belly. The heaviness in his groin increased.

“Give me one of the toothpicks from over there, please,” she murmured, leaning closer, and Donn sucked in air like a drowning man who’d broken through the water. His lungs only filled with more of the orchid’s earthy fragrance. As he reached for the toothpicks she had indicated, his head was swimming, as if the orchids had wrapped their roots around him like mangroves to pull him under again. His hand, so steady usually, shook. Poppy let her fingers slide along his much longer than necessary when she took the toothpick he offered. He wished she would touch him even longer.

“Alright. Do you see this little thing at the centre of the flower?” Poppy pointed the tip of the toothpick at a black blossom, and Donn bent down to look at it closely. “That’s the column. You have to insert the toothpick here, carefully…” She demonstrated it to him, but Donn had a hard time concentrating. “You have to push the tip into the stigma to get it sticky, then pull it out along the anther cap…here. Do you see those little yellow dots? They’re called pollinia. The gonads, basically.” She pulled the toothpick out

of the column and showed him two tiny yellow blobs sticking to it. “Now comes the fun part.” With a grin, she moved to the second plant.

Donn swallowed. Poppy’s voice turned throatier with every word, softer, and he leaned closer so he wouldn’t miss a single syllable. “This time, you want to get the pollinia to stick to the stigma. So you gently—gently—push your pick into the column, all the way to the back…and there you deposit your load.” The toothpick came out clean, and she turned her face to smile at him. Her breath tickled against his cheek, warm and damp. Squeezing his eyes shut, Donn tried to get rid of the images of Poppy on her knees, her mouth hot and wet as she sucked his cock into her throat.

“Do you want to try it?” she asked, and Donn wasn’t sure if she meant pollinating an orchid or fucking her throat. The answer was the same for both.

“Absolutely.”

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Sinful Pleasures