How boudoir photography helped me define myself

How boudoir photography helped me define myself

Six  years ago I had a boudoir photography shoot with Matt Christie and it helped to change my life. At the time, I booked the shoot to boost my self esteem and to make a present for my husband, it did both but when I started writing erotica and using the name Ruby Kiddell those photos became integral to me and helped shape my identity. For a very long time I used a crop of the photo below as my Twitter avi – the legs became Ruby and folk would complain if I changed the picture for anything else. Even now the headshot I use is a crop of one of Matt’s photos I love the photos that Matt took for so many reasons – they were taken just before I fell pregnant so they mark a moment in time, a closing of one part of my life before I became a mama. They showed me in a way that I had only ever seen myself in my head – I wanted to look glamorous and sexy but never quite saw myself as that and so to have the photographic evidence helped me to realise a part of myself I’d been struggling to express.  When I started to write erotica as Ruby Kiddell I knew exactly who Ruby was, she was the woman in the photographs that Matt had captured and helped to create. I can’t promise that boudoir photography will change your life but it is a wonderful opportunity to explore a different part of your personality – to be playful, dominant, seductive or demure – and Matt...

Wrapped : #sinfulsunday

Jake was waiting for me when I finished work, he grinned as I climbed into the car; “I was just sending off an order and thought I’d pick you up, there’s something at the workshop I’d like to show you.” As much as I hate Jake’s car, a mess of dog hair, food wrappers and drink cartons, I love his workshop and the sawmill that it is next to. The masculinity of the machinery that eats through trees and transforms them into smooth planes of wood makes my cunt twitch in the same way that cathedrals and empty schools do.  It is something to do with reverence and immense machismo that makes me feel small and out of place.  The sawmill turns me on and Jake knows it. We parked up in front of the workshop Jake kissed me as I got out of the car; “I thought we could have some fun, if you wanted to” I mumbled my yesses through my kisses and in a moment he had me pressed me up against the body of the car, a hand hooked inside my dress and under my knickers.   I cried as he pinched my nipples and his fingers fucked into me until the wetness of my orgasm spilled down my legs and soaked the knickers that trapped them. “Slut!” Jake spat the word at me as he pulled my knickers off me, pressed them into my mouth and led me towards the sawmill. Inside the mill smelt of green wood and aged wood, of resin and machine oil and of the sweat of the men who had...

Bruised

“Did I do that?” “Yes” “Christ, I’m sorry” “Don’t be, I like it.  I like being marked, it reminds me I’m yours.  You should like it too.  Don’t you?” “Yes, no, I don’t know.  You know I’d never do anything to hurt you.” “Not even if I asked nicely?” “C’mon Chelle, don’t tease me, you know what I mean.” And I do.  I know he wouldn’t do anything to harm me, but I also know that next time we’re in bed and I twist my fingers through his and pull at him, or nip him on the neck with my sharp  sharp teeth that he’ll understand my signal and grip my arms tightly, pressing me down into the mattress.  I allow him to hurt me, I want him to hurt me.  I like it, it turns me on and gets me wet and slip slidery so it is easier for him to slick suck fuck me. But what really turns me on is the moment he changes, the moment he lets himself go.  I wait until then, until I know he’s dropped from  his everyday self into the man only I see.  The man that squeezes my arms so hard that there’s no need to dust me for fingerprints; the evidence of passion’s crime is browning on my arm. [hr] This erotic short story and picture is my contribution to Sinful Sunday, to find out who else is playing this week click below. And just so you know, the bruise is from my first pole dancing class, it seemed a shame to waste it. Thanks for reading, Ruby x...

This is what 40 looks like #sinfulsunday

I don’t do pictures very often any more, crikey I don’t do words that much at the moment,  but Molly’s post about age got me thinking this week.  I saw a little of the conversation that sparked her post and I know both the participants.  They are both a good 12 years my junior.  I am 40.  This is what it looks like: A little bit tired, with stubbly legs and a painful knee. My body is softer and less flexible than it was at 23 but then I’m not dancing full time any more.  My body is rounder than it was at 35 but since then I’ve had a baby.  My knee hurts because of the years of dancing but my arms are still strong because of the years carrying scuba cylinders. I’m sure that anyone banging on about older mums that are an embarrassment to their kids would, if I challenged them with the truth that I’m an older mum, assure me that they didn’t mean me, but my age isn’t something I can deny.  If you’re talking about “older mums” that’s me.  You didn’t mean me because I don’t look like your stereotype.  Who does? I’m incredibly lucky to have the genetic good fortune to have a body that suits what our culture deems acceptable and to look younger than my years.  I get that. I’m lucky that I chose an active life and that my body accommodated those choices, doing the many strenuous and stressful things I’ve asked of it without too much accident or injury.  I like my body, but what I like more is...

Net

Thanks for reading, Ruby x If you enjoyed my writing you can find more of my erotic fiction stories on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com, don't be shy leave a...