Bestselling Author Delilah Devlin
HomeMeet Delilah
BookshelfBlogExtrasEditorial ServicesContactDelilah's Collections

Archive for December 20th, 2012

Guest Blogger: Lynn Townsend
Thursday, December 20th, 2012

Your Kink is not My Kink

authorpicHi everyone. My name is Lynn Townsend, and Delilah’s been so kind as to let me guest with her today. I really appreciate the opportunity. I have a story entitled “Big Trucks” in her upcoming anthology, Smokin’ Hot Firemen. It’s been exciting to work with Delilah, as I’ve really enjoyed her work. I wrote “Big Trucks” in a fever of excitement in about three days – I found out about the CFS maybe a week before it was due – because my uncle, several cousins, and my grandfather were all volunteer fire and rescue.

I’m loud and proud about being an erotica writer. If someone asks me what I do, I tell them. My family – some of whom are excessively conservative – all know. I’ve been really upfront; they’re welcome to read my work or not, approve of what I do or not. I honestly do not care. As a note, if you’re a friend of mine, I never, ever expect you to buy my books just because you know me. I won’t ask you about it. If you tell me you bought it, tell me you liked the story, great, I’m happy to run my mouth, but I am never going to put you on the spot about it. You don’t have to like my work just because you like me.

Which leads me nicely into my topic of discussion for today;

Your Kink is not my Kink.

I’ve had a couple people come up to me, eyes all shifty, and whisper, “Do you really like that stuff… bondage and spankings and stuff?” Usually they’re referring to my story in Lustfully Ever After, “Garden Variety,” which is sort of bondage-weird.

The entire stalk shuddered, forcing her to wrap her arms around it, holding her balance.  “Liked that, did you?”

The vines around her shifted, moving, enclosing her.  Thick coils wrapped around her thighs, forming a swing, spreading her legs.  Her feet left the tentative safety of the stalk and Jackie was cradled in the air, supported only by the vines and leaves.  More vines looped over her arms, encircling her wrists like manacles.

Gentle tendrils, like fingers, explored her body.  She groaned, arching against the containment of the vines.  A vine twined in her thick blonde hair, tugging, prickling against her scalp.  More vines formed, touching her, caressing.  Jackie writhed, helpless against the overwhelming sensations.  Vines wrapped themselves around her breasts, tugging at the sundress until it was shredded, baring her skin.  The tendrils, like fingers, rolled her nipples, teasing them firm and taut.

The vine in her hair pulled, arching her spine, drawing her head back to bare her throat.  A tendril snaked up her leg, nuzzling at her soft, sensitive inner thigh.  Jackie shrieked with sudden wanting, her hips bucking against the maddening, seductive caress.  The tendril teased, achingly gentle, rubbing against her suddenly molten clit, drawing moans and whimpers from her mouth.  It tickled around her feminine folds, exploring, teasing, withdrawing each time she felt the tension building across her shoulders and chest.

Jackie cried out, thrashing against the vines that held her mostly immobile.  Her breasts ached, nipples hard, as the vines twined around the round globes, squeezing and teasing the tips to rosy peaks.  She could barely move as the vines tightened, pulling her thighs apart and her arms up, stretching her to every sensation, beyond her capacity for thought, leaving only molten desire, tinged with frustration.

“Please, please,” she begged, cresting up towards relief, then pushed back again as the vine between her legs slowed its relentless torment.  Slow and easy, the vine stroked her clit, plump and wet.  It flicked and squeezed, rubbing, caressing.  Jackie grew hot, her muscles shaking and contracting desperately.  Sweat beaded across her forehead, along the column of her throat.  She panted for breath, air burning in her lungs.  A final spasm and she shattered into a million pieces.  Cries of rapture and relief forced from her throat as she came, shuddering intensely.

Confession time: I adore a genre of Japanese animation (called anime) that’s referred to as hentai. (Hentai is a kanji compound that essentially means “sexually perverted”.) You can look it up, if you care to. It’s pretty strange and often very non-consensual. And I love it. Tentacle perversions, girls who can only orgasm if their sisters are touching them, demon sex ninjas, raising Lucifer from hell in an all girls’ school…. I watch yuri and yaoi (lesbian and gay erotic animation… yaoi actually translates to something like “goes nowhere, does nothing.”)

Despite my deep delving into perversion – some of which comes through in my work, as it very much did in “Garden Variety” – I also have some sexual hang-ups. (Humans are just weird.)

I don’t like anything food-based. The idea of someone drizzling honey or chocolate sauce, or whipped cream onto me and licking it off? Ug. It makes my spine crimp up and I get all cringe-y. And that’s considered a pretty mild kink, as far as kinks go. I hate being sticky. Hate it, hate it, hate it. Over the years, I’ve managed to work myself up to tolerating flavored lubes, but that’s probably as far as I’m ever going to get.

But just because in my real life, I would never, ever, I have a strange fascination with reading or watching other people do things that I wouldn’t. Shokolada is a wonderful guy I met a few years back at a sci-fi convention. He’s an amazing cross-dresser. He keeps his beard, I’ve never seen him in make-up, and doesn’t try to “pass” as a woman. He just likes wearing dresses and has the most awesome legs I’ve ever seen. Tina freaking Turner wishes her legs looked that good. Wow.

Anyway, Shokolada (  runs a website that talks about the sexual fetish, WAMming, Messy Play, Sploshing. Whatever you want to call it, it’s generally a pie upside the head. I would not really be amenable to participating in this particular fetish, either on the giving or receiving end.

But man, I’ll tell you, I can’t stop reading about it. It fascinates me. Reading about it can get me feeling all twitchy and wanting someone to kiss and pet me. Just, don’t put pudding in my ear, ok?

His kink is not my kink. But his kink is okay.

No judgement here. I wouldn’t want to do it, but I’m certainly glad that other people do!

And that’s what writing erotica is about; finding what you like. There’s certainly a lot of stuff out there.

And the most important thing to remember is, just because you don’t like it, that doesn’t mean it’s wrong. Humans are weird.

When I’m not guesting at someone else’s site, I can be found at my own blog, Paid by the Weird, ( or on Facebook  ( generally being obnoxious.