I describe myself on Twitter as
Author/Owner of http://Her-Tongue.Com . Writer. Coffee Drinker. Complex Lesbian. Tomboy Prince. Short-Haired Emo. Ex-Skater Slut. Privileged. Tall Girl Freak.
That’s the tl;dr!
What I write
Note: This is copied and adapted from the blog post “Spreading Myself.”
If you happen to be one of those awesome people who read the “About” page first: Hello, I’m a writer and this is erotica. Well, I mean, not this page, but most of them.
I’m into pretty much everything? But generally my personal kinks fall into the “powerful alpha male does whatever he wants and you fucking love it” category, with forays into the various orbits around that: cheating, cuckoldry, impregnation, size fetish, cum fetish, etc. If you’re not familiar with sexual subgenres, well, you’ll get the hang of it. I’m extremely unpretentious about the META of writing, so I’m not here to confuse you.
I have a long list of other sexual interests, many of which I rarely get to write about, for various reasons, including: lesbianism (duh, I am a lesbian), gay/bisexual everything, transgender men and women, demons, anthropomorphic furry (think Jay Naylor, not David Attenborough), inc℮st and pseudoinc℮st (Note: The weekly story Kingston Court is basically an Inc℮st Serial), Interracial, Mind Control (big fan, actually), sexual slavery (the fun kind), soft ag℮play, and even soft—soft! very abstract—toilet play. Oh, and, uh, some really weird stuff. *cough* Including: soft Vore, Corruption/Absorption, Infestation/Parasitism, Suggestion/Flexible reality, Mouthcock, Morphic, etc. Let’s just say I discovered The ASSTR Archive when I was 14 and fell to the dark side.
Like all girls, I have an intense, slightly shameful love of fanfiction, alternate universe versions of popular franchises and, uh, and several Korean boybands. Oh, shut up. Like you don’t enjoy anything dumb. Anyway, I lived in South and Southeast Asia for several years, I’m allowed.
My only real conceptual and functional limit is CP. If you don’t know what CP is, don’t worry about it. If you do, don’t ask.
If it isn’t listed above, I’m probably neutral to it. Or it’s so bizarre I haven’t even heard of it. Please, please hit the Contact button and tell me of your burning hot erection for nineteenth-century French poetry, or whatever. PLEASE DO, THIS IS NOT A JOKE.
Note: This is copied and adapted from the original version of my Patreon Page.
Five years ago, when I was… hmm. Let’s go with “a student” at “a school” and “totally not a precocious, underage deviant fucking around on her phone during lunch,” I wrote a quick, funny post for Reddit that hit the front page. I pretended to be a 23 year-old BroPerson discovering the magic of prostate stimulation via a pair of cheap, lacquered drum sticks, and losing his girlfriend in the process. E voila! Writing this post was a lot of fun, and I got tons of messages from some very horny people who wanted more than a bit of clever prose, if you catch my drum stick. This led me to the miracle wonderland of Dirty Pen Pals. (Oh, Reddit is a link aggregation feed with “robust” comments and user-created/moderated sections. It’s a fucking sewer, full of vile garbage. But it takes a while to notice this, so go nuts.)
My first post did pretty well over there, too. I took the text down because my girlfriend — oh, I’m a lesbian btw — hated my DPP playtime. Which… made it hotter. But I digress. Anyway, here is a link to the comments. I’ll put the text in a post for my Patrons.
Eventually, I settled into a habit of posting a prompt and then choking my vibrator until it screamed just about once a month or so. On alt account after alt account after alt account. Those are just a few that I could remember off the top of my head. And over time, one of my alts just became my main account. If I wrote something I thought was pretty good, I put it there! If I wasn’t sure about it, I put it on an alt.
Dirty Pen Pals was my stress relief, my video game, and my hobby.
But writing is my life. And over the years, I got pretty good at it. Good enough that I was hired by a publishing company to write an erotic novel. I can’t provide any real details, but it was 70,000 words long and they paid me pretty well. I used their money to move overseas, where I was a complete and utter whore for as long as I could manage it. I just shoved my life into a backpack, found the shittiest tropical bar on the hottest tropical beach, ordered a bottle of thin, sour Chinese beer, and did terrible, wonderful things to my pussy for the next ten months.
While having my pussy eaten by horny athletic teenagers as sweet and dark as wildflower honey was a total fucking blast, back in the states the gravity well of responsibility was deepening. Eventually I had to come home, and I came home with nothing. I took over my brother’s lease, started caring for a family member, and got a job fixing iPhones.
I’m 21, 6’1, and around 125 pounds. B cup breasts and dime-sized nipples. Natural red hair the color of a lit match. I dye it black, I cut it short, muss it up. My pubes are soft and strawberry. I have two tongue piercings, and two ear piercings I never use. I’m fussy about my nails, which are short, strong, and shiny, with a coat of clear polish. My fingers are too long, and my hands are always cold.
My post-punk aesthetic is a thrift store t-shirt and dark men’s Levi’s. No bra. No socks. Fuck socks. Socks are ugly. Tight boyshort panties. I get them tailored, just like Emily Kingston. Old school Vans. Green nylon backpack. Cheap Samsung phone. Pink, plastic watch I found for $3 at a consignment store. It’s loose around my wrist, and has no apparent weight. I hate feeling things on my body: no jewelry, no keys, no purse. When it’s cold, I wear a brown leather jacket that doesn’t look like leather but weighs a million pounds. I once walked ten miles in the snow in that coat. It belonged to my brother and it smells like Cigars. I smoke, but not often. Mostly cigars like my brother, as pricey and rare as a good steak meal. I wear eyeliner and sunscreen—and nothing else. I have to wear sunscreen in December, because my skin burns like egg whites.
I don’t really watch TV. Not PBS, not Game of Thrones, not The L Word. I sneak into about one movie a year. I don’t know how to cook. My oven is unplugged, and I’m using it as a wine rack. My fridge contains several types of beer, two kinds of iced tea, orange juice, soy milk, chocolate soy milk, club soda, two bottles of vermouth, two bottles of champagne that I forgot about until this moment, a bowl of limes, a bowl of lemons, soy sauce, ketchup, malt vinegar, and a white Styrofoam clam shell with the word “กุ้งฝอย” on top. The freezer is full of fancy, clear ice.
I’m not vegan but I swing that way, I guess. I’m never giving Thai food up, though. Black coffee and dark chocolate make up a solid 60% of my diet, with the rest of my calories coming from Thai takeout, shrimp fried rice, and grocery store salad bars. I drink my beer with ice. I eat my toast with avocado. And I wash my produce with vinegar and a vegetable brush. Sorry to disappoint.
I live in a two bedroom apartment with my girlfriend, a short brunette with a small, wet pussy and full DDs. She looks — and acts — like Saffron Monsoon. Here’s another uncannily accurate picture. She’s bitchy, a grad student, a screaming, rage-filled activist, a vandal, a lead-footed highway tailgater, a preachy vegan, a condescending atheist, a former Midwestern cowgirl, a snobby indie music superfan, a hate-fueled socialist thundercunt, and the best sex partner I’ve ever had. By like… 10,000%. It’s like having sex with a bonfire. Our relationship is open because monogamy is overrated, because love is a social construction wrapped around a chemical reaction, and because I have a tongue the same length as my middle finger. Also because my girlfriend takes dick on the regular, strongly encouraged by me, a closet cuckquean with a real if confusing taste for warm, unfamiliar semen. Is that enough personal information for you? (:
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