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The Sex Blog Of Record
December 19th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
In which Fifi fails to use her words, but Monmouth figures it out anyway:
Fifi pulled away and lunged for the toy box, pulling out a small, flexible vibrator and a lube dispenser. She put her hands around my neck and kissed me, still holding these things. Then, cocking her head in a faux coy manner she held up the vibe and smiled prettily.
“What? What do you want me to do with this?”
“Um, my arse?”
“You want me to put this in your ass?”
“Mmhmm,” she nodded, eyes wide, and got back on all fours, wiggling her bum at me in a most applealing manner.
I lubed the vibrator thoroughly, enjoying the view of her open and waiting like that, the glistening pink of her pussy waiting for my cock to return.
“Oh fuck… mmmm.” Fifi was impatient. My cock slid easily into the wet tightness of her cunt. I began to fuck her slowly. Then, when she seemed to start getting a little frustrated, I twisted the knob on the vibe to the lowest setting and placed it against the pouting circle of her ass.
Pushing the toy in slowly, carefully, I enjoyed the vibrating sensation traveling down to the base of my cock. Fifi was quiet, concentrating on the spreading, tightening, pressing sensation filling her pussy and arse at the same time with throbbing, vibrating pleasure.
The soft vibe was bendy enough to fit up her bum without getting in my way while I fucked her. Once it was in as far as it went, the fat base resting against the stretched rim of her anus, I dialed up the intensity of the vibration. Fifi moaned deeply, burying her face in the cushions and pressing back against me, taking my cock in as far as possible. Her orgasm was building, and I couldn’t hold back much longer with the twitching tightness of her cunt clutching my cock and the vibrations tickling me all along the top. It was too intense to last.
Suddenly Fifi reached back with her hand and grasped the base of the vibrator. Firmly, rhythmically she began to fuck herself with it, in time with the thrusting of my hips.
“Harder… fuckfuck…” she growled, letting go of the buzzing sex toy to allow me to pound into her with the full force of my weight. Her orgasm seemed to last and last, rolling on with moans and whimpers, gripping my cock with an irresistible invitation to let go and come inside her.
I withdrew very slowly, removing both my cock and the buzzing toy carefully.
On our backs, recovering, Fifi sighed. “When fucking, it’s incredible how difficult it is to just say the simplest things, don’t you think?”
December 16th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
This has got to be the most hilarious bit of sleazy 70s cover art I’ve ever seen:
“Meet Spanky Pants… a bed hoppin’, teeny boppin’ surfer girl!”
December 14th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
From Heretic Spire, via Whatever:
It began as just a Downstairs Neighbor with the Visiting Screamer, aka his girlfriend. But then a few weeks ago, the Visiting Screamer became the Live-In Screamer.
…
I swear, this woman is not to be believed. She howls, yells, moans, throws things around, and so help me God — she narrates.
“… OH MY GOD I’M HITTING MY HEAD ON THE HEADBOARD AHH AHH AHH YOU’RE KNEELING ON MY HAIR OOH OOH OOH I’M COMING OH GOD OH GOD HARDER HARDER MORE MORE MORE YOU’RE GIVING IT TO ME GOOD AHM AHM AHM OHH OHH OHH MY NIPPLES ARE SO HARD AHH AHH AHH I’M SCRATCHING YOUR HAIRY LITTLE THIGH OOH OOH OOH I’M LYING ON A WET SPOT AAH AAH AAH MMM MMM MMM …”
It’s like living upstairs from a Phillip Roth audiobook. I mean, I’m glad you’re having a good time, sister, but it’s summer. People have their windows open, you know? Maybe muffle it just a tad.
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December 13th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Although Vintage Lust is mostly about the hardcore man-and-woman sort of vintage sex, there’s a little something there for everyone:
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December 12th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
I mentioned last week that The Nymph always fails her saving throws against pink — a weakness I sometimes use to my ruthless advantage and to our mutual enjoyment. With your lady, though, the doomed saving throw might be different. Is her weakness, perhaps, pearl-like objects, or shiny things from Swarovsky?
If so, you might just need the Pearl Collar And Leash from Wild In Secret (matching pearl handcuffs and, for the especially daring, pearl thong, optional):
No need to be sexist about all this, though — I’m sure there’s a man out there wearing these and looking cute as hell. In fact, if he’s your man, and you have pictures, I’d consider publishing them.
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December 9th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
People collect the strangest things:
A few fetishists have not only delved deeply into this topic, but have actually assembled collections. One such gent, according to Shozo Saito, the head of the Odawara municipal library and researcher into things sexual, was a chap who went by the nom de plume of Takishima Kinkaran,
Kinkaran was born in Tokyo in 1893 and could often be found frequenting brothels in the Hakusan area, which was established in June 1912 as Tokyo’s newest licensed bordello district, not far from the University of Tokyo campus.
Kinkaran was said to be a man of great personal charm, and one of his pet projects was to persuade geisha to contribute their pubic hair, which, he would tell them, he was collecting in order to stuff a zabuton cushion. Alas, he died prematurely of a respiratory illness at the age of 37, and it is not known how far along his zabuton project ever progressed.
…
Historian Shimokawa introduces a gentleman named Takao Hanada, who is fondly remembered in the postwar period for being the first person to organize wife swapping in Japan, and later authored a book entitled “Exchange: a record of certain swapping encounters.”
After a swap session, Hanada would sort the pubic hairs collected from his female partners and tape them to the reverse sides of their husband’s business cards. Sex-reseacher Saito says he was able to view a collection of some 150 cards accumulated by Hanada over a period of 10 years.
Perusing the backs of these cards, he was able to appreciate the wonderful variety of lengths, shapes and textures of the hairs in Hanada’s collection.
Hanada had collaborated in his project with a chap named Zenkichi Nagano, who at that time the fiftyish director of a regional bank. After going around and soliciting women at local drinking establishments with little success, Nagano decided he would have to change his technique.
“He went to bars and cabarets and asked hostesses for samples,” Saito tells Shimokawa. “After plying them with a few drinks, he’d make his pitch, saying, ‘I want your pubic hair.'”
Too embarrassed to do this in places where he might be recognized, Nagano would take the train one or two hours to another town or into Tokyo. Offering a 10,000-yen tip as an incentive, the gals would excuse themselves, slip into the powder room, and return to the table and pass him the goodies.
“More than just receiving money, some women saw this as forming a personal relationship, so to speak,” says Saito. “Perhaps Nagano finally got used to being treated as eccentric, or perhaps once the women realized he was harmless, they became more cooperative, they warmed to his advances and the whole mood changed.
“Anyway, it got to the point that a few gals would even drop their panties right in front of him and allow him to harvest hairs from them on the spot.”
Nagano eventually obtained 200 specimens, which he wrapped in traditional Japanese “washi” paper and saved in photo albums, organized according to the locations from which he’d collected them.
Nagano was said to have remarked that he never managed to have sex even once with any of the “contributors.”
“Somehow, I initially felt a sense of regret over this point, but now it gives me a feeling of pride,” Nagano supposedly boasted.
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December 9th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Isn’t it comforting to know that our nation’s security (actually, “security theater”, to use the more accurate Schneier-ish phrase) relies on hand-weighing the breasts of potential Canandian terrorists? (Reflect briefly on the phrase “Canadian terrorists” for a moment and then join me in a rousing mock-ironic chorus: “Oh noes!“)
The guard doesn’t crack a smile. Instead, he beckons a lean, hard-faced woman with greying blond hair held back in a high pony tail. Next thing I know, I’ve been pulled out of the line, away from my family and escorted into a little low-walled room for a more intimate encounter. I stand there, a bit flustered, but still smiling.
“I think it’s just my bra,” I say, trying to strike up a friendly girl-to-girl rapport. She’s having none of that. She escorts me to a special chair and runs the wand carefully over every bit of me. Then, she has me stand on a pair of footprints, outlined in white. She wands me again, and again, my torso sets the thing buzzing like an angry mosquito.
She eyes my bosom suspiciously. It’s not the kind of ogling I’m used to.
I’m a robust 34 FF. That’s the kind of full-figure that needs support akin to a good bridge truss. Over the years, my breasts have attracted their share of attention. Back when they were still perky enough to stand up all by themselves, they were generally considered quite distracting by the men of my acquaintance. But that was 20 years and 50 pounds ago. These days, I look more like a centrefold for National Geographic than Playboy, and my underwire is a wardrobe essential. Still, I never imagined my plunging cleavage could be viewed as a threat to homeland security. The guard puts down the wand and starts a thorough manual search. She doesn’t ask me to take off my shirt — though I’d almost rather she did.
Instead, she slowly, methodically palpates every millimetre of my underwire, starting with the poky bits under my armpits, making her way around to my sternum, feeling carefully, one presumes, for suspicious lumps or gaps. Next, she takes my two breasts, one in each hand, and weighs them carefully, like a shopper trying to choose the right mangoes.
“Balanced,” she mutters. “Nice balance.”
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