Vintage Lesbian Bondage Crucifixion

This sure as hell caught my eye when I saw it on Fuck Yeah Karl Elvis. Bloomsbury daintily describes it as “Crucified Nude, gelatin sliver print, circa 1920.”

But there’s rather a lot more going on than that, I would say, between the bondage and the fingers and the other girl.

Similar Sex Blogging:

• Teabagged By The Devil, 1882
• Raquel Welch, Crucified
• The Ecstasy Of Saint Beauty
• "...and I will make you fishers of men."
• Getting Her Oar In

Very Discreet Blowjob

I think the careful fingers wrapped around his penis in this Japanese blowjob artwork are actually a form of self-censorship. The taboo, and I’m told it’s mostly a legal one, is entirely against showing male genitalia; so, creative handwork!

Similar Sex Blogging:

• Woodcut Blowjob
• Explicit Erotic Wallpapers For Your iPhone
• Egyptian Erotic Art: Blowjob
• A Little Manga Blowjob

Danae’s First Girl

How could I resist pointing you all at Danae’s account of her first sexual encounter with a woman? She opens with the first meeting:

My first relationship and experiences with a woman were when I was a freshman in college. I met a beautiful girl the first day of orientation by running into her. I was juggling books – looking for the piece of paper that told me where to go next and I literally ran into her…a beautiful girl with long wavy red hair, pale skin with freckles and green eyes. She was one of those people that walks in a room and the whole room stops talking and looks — she was that beautiful.

I of course wanted to sink into the crack of the sidewalk and melt way as I was totally embarrassed. But she was so nice. And made me feel at ease telling me not to worry about it as she remembered what it was like trying navigate the campus for the first time. She introduced herself….Morgan. We stood there and talked for a bit. And before we parted she insisted on trading info so that she could check in on me make sure I was finding everything.

Heh. Purely altruistic, I’m sure.

Jumping way forward in the story, and skipping the preliminary seduction, though you should not:

But on to the first time we had sex….It was hot too with her pushing me up against a stall of a bathroom in a club. We were dancing, kissing and touching and she lead me to the bathroom – into a stall and pushed me against the wall of the stall and pushed my shirt up and pull my tits above my bra and sucked and unzipped my jeans and worked her fingers into me. She told me to beg her to “let me orgasm.” The place was a club – grimy but it just made it even that much better. I begged and she brought me close many times but would always stop. Finally she stopped and told me I only got an orgasm at home where I would undress for her. I had been being shy to this point not wanting her to “see” me. So she worked me up so much that of course got what she wanted. Because she brought that slut side out – I wanted to do anything she asked and was willing to spread my legs or whatever she wanted me to do because I was so turned on. We went home and I undressed for her…

Face Slapping

Just one of those tender little moments Monmouth is so good at describing:

When I got up to find the condoms, she lunged for my cock with her mouth. Playing the game, I couldn’t let her get what she wanted so easily. I slapped her face softly but firmly with the flat of my hand.

“Restrain yourself, or you’ll get punished.”

She smirked and took another shot, her mouth open, hungry.

I slapped her again across the face, harder, back and forth, the palm and the back of my hand striking the warm, flushed cheeks. To keep her still I held her head by clutching a handful of her brown curls between my fingers.

Too Gay To Make A Sandwich

I’m not a fan of the Subway sandwich shops; going to one of them strikes me as a lot of standing in line for a result that’s usually little better than a wrapped sandwich from the deli case. I particularly don’t like being subjected to blank looks from slow fast-food workers who act as if simple instructions like “lots of onions, please” is some deeply incomprehensible request in a cryptic ancient tongue. Dude, I don’t need you to carve me a mathematically perfect rocket combustion chamber out of stale cheese; I just need you to move your baggie-wrapped fingers to the onions bin, grasp, return to the vicinity of my sandwich, and release. It’s not rocket science. And, please, stop drooling on my sandwich.

Honestly, I’m being unfair. I live in a tight labor market, where the fast food stores are always hiring, and cannot afford to be fussy. And even then, Subway is a franchise; one store is not like another. But still. My local Subways are terrible, and I hate them.

Bad as they are, though, there’s always a worse one. Case in point: the Subway shop (location unknown) that caters to bigots, by firing a sandwich technician after a customer complained that the dude was also a gay porn star. The dude in question makes movies under the name Kurt Wild, and here’s the email (circulated by his agent, as reported at Fleshbot):

Hey everyone.

I just wanted to tell everyone that I was just fired from my work at subway because I have done gay porn. A customer said they wouldn’t even eat there at subway anymore because of my past work and said that if I wasn’t fired then they would boycott the store. What I say is, if one person can try to ruin me everywhere I work… maybe I should take a stand and boycott their store too if they can’t let people’s privacy be treated right. I should have the right to work anywhere I can and it isn’t right or fair that people can keep me from working simply because of a “gay” issue. If a girl did what we do it would probably be ok.. and if a guy does straight porn.. he is bragged about. When I do gay porn, I feel a bit lynched for the rest of my life. Not right. Thanks for reading.

– Kurt Wild

Now, I’m not one to cry boycott. It would be stupid in this case, when there’s no accountability to the Subway “brand” by individual store owners. But seriously — are there really still people out there who are dumb enough to be worried about gay cooties, and shameless enough to admit it?

Apparently, there are, and they eat at Subway.

Chinese Take Top Spot In Erections, Too?

My sister is a big fan of the Olympics and sent me this picture during the Chinese games:

All she said in the email is that it’s the world’s largest penis and it is somewhere in China. If that’s true, my question is why is it a circumcised one? I thought automatic chopping was just an American thing (fetish, mutilation, whatever).

Since Bacchus is grooving on the medical drawings this week, here’s a fun, older post on penis evolution from Pharyngula. Some of the comments are pretty funny.

(B., I asked my GYN once about that fingers-in-and-pushing-down-with-the-outside-hand action……she said it was to feel how big the uterus is. Soooo. Sexy. NOT!!)

Anchor, Aweigh!

Aphrodite didn’t like the “icky speculum”, so maybe fingers will serve better?

I must confess to some puzzlement, however. WTF is the anchor doing in this diagram?

Update: Source found: Married To The Sea webcomic, direct link.

Brassiere As “Rubixcon”

These days getting inside a lady’s bra isn’t quite crossing the Rubicon, but when I was a sexed-up teen it did seem like a big deal to let a boy’s hand wander inside……and taking it off was a pretty big step, too. The “Rubicon” connection is what came to mind when I first saw a recent XKCD cartoon:

But I’ve had plenty of dates that treat a bra clasp exactly like it’s a Rubik’s cube too! I’ve meant to ask about that……how is it that guys can work on the most delicate pieces of machinery with great skill, but when it comes to a simple clasp, their fingers turn all fumbly? Does a bit of that youthful thrill remain? Or is it because most of his blood is elsewhere?

This is one of the great mysteries of mankind.

The Two Dollar Girlfriend

I’m sure it’s never been easy being the girlfriend of a stage magician — if you’re not double careful, before you know it you’re chained in a glass box wearing a thong and two pasties, being sawed in half in front of an audience of strangers. But unexpected sexual practices? In a word, yes.

In the July issue of Harper’s magazine, professional magician Alex Stone has a long article about his trip to the World Championship of Magic, where he competed in the “Olympics of Magic” against the best stage magicians in the world. Earlier in the article, he mentions his new girlfriend Rachel, whose frequent attentions kept him from practicing his routine as much as he perhaps ought to have. Then, he begins to describe his own competition routine, and gets to talking about the practice of palming coins:

After the vanish, I press the coin with the middle and index fingers into the center of my palm, where it’s held in place by a slight contraction of the muscles. This is the Classic Palm, the most important concealment in all of coin magic. Read the coin worker’s bible, J. B. Bobo’s Modern Coin Magic: “This is one of the most difficult of all concealments to master but one of magic’s finest secrets. The layman cannot imagine it possible to conceal a coin in this way.”

…

Part of mastering a palm involves learning to conceal objects while the hands are otherwise engaged. Following the advice of the masters, I go through much of my daily life with coins classic-palmed in both hands — on the subway, at dinner parties, and even during sex.

Emphasis added.

As I said, it must be a challenge to be a magician’s girlfriend. Some women, you come to bed with a dollar in each hand, they aren’t going to take it kindly. I’m just sayin’.

Amy Lee, Exposed

One of the first strong porn brands on the web was an outfit called ALS Scan, who, in the middle-late 1990s, pioneered a then-new aesthetic: the girl next door, pretty and fresh and freshly shaved all over, in a brightly-lit photoshoot with vibrant colors, doing astonishingly dirty deeds with whatever fruits, vegetables, or household objects are handy, all with a big come-hither smile. It’s not that other pornographers haven’t done the same thing before or since; it’s that ALS has always done it better than anybody else, for certain values of better.

Take Amy Lee:

She’s a pretty girl. She’s just as pretty with her shirt on (in a photo that proves she actually has arms) especially if you appreciate a girl who can cook:

So far, she’s just like a zillion other pretty internet ladies who prance around in and out of some cute undies, maybe flashing some pink at the end of the photoshoot so you don’t feel cheated out of the price of your subscription. You’ve seen it before, you’ve seen it all, ho hum.

What you’re not expecting — what nobody was expecting until ALS Scan pretty much invented the genre — is that this cute young model (who has not yet starred in half a dozen movies with names like Anal Ass-Bangers #22, and is not yet staring at the looming end of her porn career) will lick her lips with an excellent facsimile of honest lust, tuck her ankles cheerfully in behind her ears, look you straight in the eye, and use four fingers to stretch her pussy open until you’ve got a distinctly gynecological view of her assets. And yet, that’s exactly what she does.

It can be an eye-opener. And, for me at least, it makes every visit to ALS Scan a memorable one.

A Fetish For Commitment

I’ve commented before that anything can be a fetish, and that one of the things I like best about sex blogging is reading people try to explain why certain things turn them on, that we’d not usually expect would do so. Needless to say, this ring fingering thing from Chelsea at Pretty Dumb Things made my day:

Marriage is a contract that I may never make, and yet I like being fingered by men with wedding rings. It’s not that I can feel the ring. Wedding rings tend toward the slim and the flat. I’ve never had the experienced the interior wriggling of a finger with a ring rococo as Liberace’s , a skull bauble thick as Keith Richard’s, a chunk of metal clunky as Robert Lee Morris’s Superman. The rings that have been inside me have been modest, prudent, utilitarian bands signaling commitment.

There have been three of them in reality and one in my imagination.

…

Clearly, when the finger is diddling me, I can’t see the ring. I can’t even feel the ring. So the pleasure of the ring comes neither from the visual nor from the sensual. It’s a purely imaginative power. It’s a pleasure that rests in the seat of all pleasure–my pinky-grey and corrugated brain.

It’s difficult for me to put my finger on the exact spot of that imaginary pleasure. I would be remiss if I didn’t admit that part is powered by the shock of the illicit thrill, if indeed the finger belonging to the man fingering me is infidel. Like almost every other human, I do feel pleasure in transgression, and crossing this boundary, like all the strange others that for one reason or another give me the good down-low tingle, nudges whatever purely physical pleasure there is into electrically-charged territory. But the illicitness isn’t it in and of itself.

I know that it’s not because the man, the imagined man, the one without the ring, the one whose ring I imagined and in imagining it found great delight, was Donny, my now-X and then erstwhile fiancé. It was his imagined not-ring that prodded me to gyrate indecorously one sunny August afternoon, his naked fingers twisting and turning inside me. My mind furnished his finger with a ring. It bedighted his third finger on his left hand with a ring, and though neither the ring nor even possibly that exact finger was rubbing the walls of my pussy like a magic lamp, it was real enough to me, and I came from the concept as much as from the reality.

Which all leads me to believe it’s not the cheating that I like. It’s the abstract concept of commitment. It’s the symbolism of the ring, this piece of metal that our culture uses to denote those of us who have made a pact with another human from those of us who haven’t. It doesn’t matter whether the man has committed to me–though clearly my fetishization of the ring in general and my somatic response to Donny’s fictive ring in specific suggests that a commitment to me would be ideal–it’s that this man has committed, for good, bad, or ugly to someone.

It’s all very strange, though. Just as a gentlemen is advised to remove his socks before sexual congress with a woman, wouldn’t the usual rules of etiquette demand that he remove his wedding ring before fingering a woman not his wife? I’m not sure Emily Post ever covered that nuance.

The Best Cunts In Christendom

A while after I published the ancient bit of smut called Signior Dildo, an erudite friend made me a gift of a book called The Complete Poems of John Wilmot, Earl Of Rochester. And, indeed, the book has a very complete feel to it, as one would expect of a scholarly tome published by Yale University Press.

I won’t say that Signior Dildo is the dirtiest poem Wilmot ever wrote, but it would be a mistake to assume that his complete works are chock-full of erotica. No indeed, like most poets in his age his output ranged widely across many topics, some of them impossibly obscure to the modern reader. But there remain a number of raunchy gems to be found in The Complete Poems.

My favorite is the dangerous Satyr on Charles II. Wilmot is said to have been forced to flee from court after he delivered it “by mistake into the King’s hands…instead of another the King asked him for.” Oops…

A Satyre on Charles II

In th’ isle of Britain, long since famous grown
For breeding the best cunts in Christendom,
There reigns, and oh! long may he reign and thrive,
The easiest King and best bred man alive.
Him no ambition moves to get renown
Like the French fool, that wanders up and down
Starving his people, hazarding his crown.
Peace is his aim, his gentleness is such,
And love he loves, for he loves fucking much.

Nor are his high desires above his strength:
His scepter and his prick are of a length;
And she may sway the one who plays with th’ other,
And make him little wiser than his brother.
Poor Prince! thy prick, like thy buffoons at court,
Will govern thee because it makes thee sport.
‘Tis sure the sauciest prick that e’er did swive,
The proudest, peremptoriest prick alive.
Though safety, law, religion, life lay on ‘t,
‘Twould break through all to make its way to cunt.
Restless he rolls about from whore to whore,
A merry monarch, scandalous and poor.

To Carwell, the most dear of all his dears,
The best relief of his declining years,
Oft he bewails his fortune, and her fate:
To love so well, and be beloved so late.
For though in her he settles well his tarse,
Yet his dull, graceless bollocks hang an arse.
This you’d believe, had I but time to tell ye
The pains it costs to poor, laborious Nelly,
Whilst she employs hands, fingers, mouth, and thighs,
Ere she can raise the member she enjoys.

All monarchs I hate, and the thrones they sit on,
From the hector of France to the cully of Britain.

Similar Sex Blogging:

• Leda And The Swan
• A Love Poem
• Hand Me Down That Can Of Beans
• It's Good To Be King
• Is This Sex Blog Thing On?

Aggressive Stupidity In The LA Times

From one of their end-of-the-year wrap-up columns:

Last year may have marked the beginning of the end of the Internet’s greatest financial success story: hugely profitable pornography. While the mainstream media spent billions of dollars and nearly a decade trying to make a buck off the Internet, the porn industry raked in cash from the moment Al Gore invented the thing. But with the rise of such free sites as YouPorn (the YouTube of the pornography business), the online subscriber model is imploding. DVD sales are plummeting too, and the adult video business is actually laying off workers (no pun intended). YouPorn is now the most-visited adult site in the world, and its traffic is growing at nearly 40% a month.

Smut’s not going away, to be sure. But its industrialization may finally be in retreat.

This is aggressively stupid because it assumes that porn’s “huge” profits were the product of its industrialization. That’s twentieth century thinking, and this is 2008. Four years ago, we’d say this columnist was not paying attention. Today, he looks to be sticking his fingers in his ears and shouting “Nyah nyah nyah, I can’t hear you!” at reality.

It looks (from where I sit) to be true that the traditional business models of the porn industry are evaporating faster than sweat on Ron Jeremy’s ass. The trends that ate the industrial music industry over the course of a decade are now eating the industrial porn industry at a much faster pace — it started later and will be over more quickly, since porn lacks the sort of Leviathan corporate dinosaurs that take decades to stop twitching after you pith their brain stems.

But, has the de-industrialization of the music industry stripped that industry of huge profits? Not in the least! It’s stripped the industrial dinosaurs of huge profits, but that’s a very different thing. Don’t believe me? Ask Steve Jobs and the Apple shareholders.

In like fashion, the porn industry is going to evolve, and some of its more dinosaur-like producers may fail. (Hint: anybody whose sole product / marketing channel is DVDs in 2008 will likely be bankrupt before the end of the decade.) But people won’t stop wanting porn any more than they’ve stopped wanting music. And, unlike music, which is ubiquitous, porn has room for growth. Broader social acceptance means broader markets, plus better access to existing markets that are currently under served due to negative social pressure. Not to mention access to capital markets, which has hitherto been very difficult.

Taken For A (Bicycle) Ride

He thinks he’s sooo smooth. Hell, he probably thinks he invented the old “I’ll show you how to ride a bicycle as an excuse to run my fingers all over your pretty butt” routine.

Meanwhile, she has him exactly where she wants him.

Similar Sex Blogging:

• Bicycle Seat Envy
• Pretty Nude With Roses

Definitely About The Sex

I suppose it’s possible that after almost five solid years of sex blogging, I tilt too much toward novelty and shock in selecting new material to blog about. Not that sex ever gets boring, but the blogging fingers can get jaded. Whatever the topic, didn’t I already write a post about that? Or three of ’em?

For whatever reason, I’m definitely still finding novelty in the transsexual porn from TS Seduction. Old fashioned “tranny porn” (conceived and presented as a freak show, with transsexuals as the freaks) is hardly novel, but it was always presented with the emphasis on “ZOMG, freaks having sex!” and never a care in the world paid to whether the sex was hot sex.

Of course we expect (and get) better from a Kink.com franchise. We see models like this, and we want to see some sex:

Of course, without some advance warning we wouldn’t necessarily expect to see those two sucking each other’s dicks, but when it happens, at least it looks like they mean it. And if that’s not sex as Bill Clinton would define it, surely this is:

Similar Sex Blogging:

• Chad Meets Jesse
• Transsexual Porn With San Francisco Values

Sexually Suggestive Gesture

I have a question for my readers. Namely, what is the significance and/or common cultural context of this sexually suggestive gesture-and-maneuver where a woman wags her tongue between her spread fingers?

I, myself, have only seen this done “in the wild” on one occasion, when it was directed at me by a street-walking prostitute outside the entrance to the Sputnik Hotel in Moscow in the late 1980s. In that context, it appeared to be a sexual come-on designed to transcend language barriers. But I’ve been told that it is also used, in certain times and places, as a rude gesture, like the almost universal “middle finger” or the old Roman fig.

It seems to suggest pussy licking, which strikes me as equally odd for a prostitute or for the deliverer of an insult. Unless, as in insult, it is supposed to suggest “you lick pussy” and stems from times or cultures where that might be considered an insult to a man’s virility?

I’d google it, but I don’t know what to call it. So, what’s the verdict? What does it mean to you, and why?

Leda And The Swan

If your grasp of mythology is sub-par like mine, you might sometimes wonder “What is it with all these images of naked women and swans?”

For all the answers you might want, there’s an extended discussion (with many many images) at Silent Porn Star.

All you’re going to get for an answer here is a Yeats poem and a strangely menacing rear-entry swan:

Leda And The Swan, by William Butler Yeats, 1928

A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.

How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?

A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.

Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

French Nude Daguerreotype

Before there were French postcards — hell, before there were nude photographs — there were daguerreotypes, and of course those early daguerrotypists, being French, pointed their metal plates coated with stinky chemicals at the nude ladies. (Well, perhaps not ladies in the social sense of the word.) With results of a surprisingly modern character:

The image is from a large French daguerrotype from the mid 1850s, currently to be found in the collection of the J. Paul Getty Museum, and titled (by them) Nude Study of a Black Woman. A bit of erudite commentary can be found here:

I do not recall how I first came to find her image, but I knew instantly that it was rare and important. It was stored in a box all by itself, and I would probably never have found it had I not worked in the museum that owned it. She was extraordinary — a young black woman in France almost 140 years ago, naked and displayed and open and touching herself and reclining and smiling. The lace coverlet on which she is posed reminds me fondly, sweetly of my own grandmother’s linens, while her frankness and sexuality remind me of everything that is not my grandmother. Through all of my research I have never seen another piece of 19th century photo erotica quite like this. The daguerreotype plate is of an impressive size, and I wonder what was so extraordinary about this model to merit such special treatment, since by the mid 1850s, when this was made, the popularity of daguerreotypes in France was waning in favor of simpler positive/negative processes. Moreover, I am intrigued by what could possibly be the connection between this photographer’s model, perhaps a prostitute, a continent and a culture and a century and a half away, and me.

She is completely bare except for her head wrapped in the fashion of West Indian women. Ironically, despite her complete exposure, this small cultural marker is the only real clue as to who she might have been. She is positioned awkwardly, expressly for the act of being viewed, and we seem to see every inch of her except for her lower legs and feet. The focal point of the image, her open crotch, is coyly out of focus, yet with the explicit placement of her fingers she invites us to look, simultaneously avoiding the viewer with her gaze. Either in modesty or carnal complicity, the medium obscures her sex in murkiness.

More On Fisting

There was enough interesting in last week’s fisting post I thought I’d post this bit from Kaya on the sensation of fisting the way she and her master do it:

There’s a point when the widest portion of Master’s hand begins it’s slow but forceful entrance where I think I can feel tissue tearing, a sharp blooming pain. I can see it in my mind’s eye, the skin stretch so tightly, so thin, that it’s almost transparent around His fist. Though I don’t know if I have ever ripped, or if it simply feels as if I should have.

It’s at that point that I want desperately to quit, to snap my legs together with my hands cupped around my poor battered pussy and breathe the pain away. But I don’t. Not only because I can’t, but because I know what pleasures lay over this agonizing hump.

Once my skin reluctantly grants His hand passage, there is a transfer of pain. What was once highly concentrated on the ‘ring of entrance’, now rolls and fills the whole of my vagina. A deep pressure, a pressure that shifts along with the movement of His hand and fingers, sometimes sharp if He pokes a spot, sometimes dull when He rubs. But constant, always.

He likes to poke and prod, to press up as far as He can get, until my eyes pop open in stunned panic, half-believing that He’s attempting to tickle my throat. He likes to pump, a genuine fist-fucking, so hard and so fast that I no longer control my own breathing. I’m forced to exhale when He pushes in and up… and I gasp in air when He pulls back and out.

The pressure and the pain slide and mix together to create the delicious blend that is pleasure. I can’t think beyond my cunt. I’m nothing more than one giant pulsating vagina, with no thoughts outside of His hand and the throbbing need to cum.

I much prefer to be allowed to stimulate my clit when He’s fisting me. Otherwise, the intense sensations are too overwhelming. It’s system overload to the max. But give me a clit to manipulate, to direct the course and timing of the orgasms and I’m one incredibly happy girl.

Orgasms while being fisted are sensational. They’re the strongest, deepest, whole body consuming orgasms that I ever have. I don’t know if it’s because He’s in there touching and rubbing and slamming on spots otherwise left unstimulated, or if it’s because my cunt is so full, so stretched by His hand and wrist that there is no room left in there for my cunt to spasm so it shoots it out, sending it zinging across the whole rest of my body. It brings cerebral orgasm to a new meaning.

Orgasm recovery time is lengthy. My eyes do not want to uncross, my mouth doesn’t want to close. My toes stay curled, fingers clenched. Milk that orgasm for all it’s worth, twitching still against His arm.

Similar Sex Blogging:

• The Details Of Sodomy
• Girl Fisting
• Fun With Hydrogenated Vegetable Oil
• Kinky Links

Being Handy

Remember what Red says: “If the women don’t find you handsome, they should at least find you handy.”

I rather suspect they find Monmouth to be both:

“With a little patience, you could probably get your whole hand in there.”

Audrey had invited me over for an afternoon of fun and games. Now she was lying back on a pile of pillows, legs spread, and her pussy dripping all over my fingers and tongue.

I pulled back and looked at her beautifully proportioned slit. Her pussy felt so small and tight around my two fingers. I had been licking and fingering her for a good while already, and I was in no rush. Carefully, I massaged around her pussy, stroking, licking and insinuating my way in with three, then four fingers, a bit of lube, and a lot of attention to her clit along the way.

Gradually, she opened up more and more.

After she had gotten accustomed to four fingers and most of my hand, it was time to get my thumb in. I pulled out part of the way and added more lube to everything. Her eyes, wide and glistening, followed the way I spread the lubricant all over my hand. She wanted, and yet…

My fingers formed a wedge, thumb pressed against the palm as tightly as possible. It was easier than I thought. The whole hand slid in. Suddenly, shockingly, I could cup her entire cervix in my palm.

Then I formed a fist.

Audrey let out a deep growl or groan or some other noise that came all the way from down below. She reached up to grab me by the neck and pulled me in for a wet, deep kiss, unbalancing me so that the weight of my body shifted on to the hand now fully buried inside her.

Staring into my eyes, hers wide, not quite focused. she let go of my neck. “Take a look…”

I pulled back and saw, incredibly, the naked lips of her pussy wrapped all the way around my wrist.

My hand was fully inside her. I moved it around, carefully, starting to fuck her with my clenched fist….

Married Sex

Say what you will, but married sex doesn’t have to be either rare or (when routine) boring:

We go through condoms like matches. I began buying the large packs – 24 is it? One pack probably lasts us about a month. I would say that we probably make love 4 to 7 times a week. Sometimes daily.

It can happen in the evening during and after a kinky session, or late at night, half-asleep in bed, always following the same routine – he wakes me up, half asleep himself, by rubbing my body, caressing my breasts and rolling my nipples between his fingers, pulling down my panties and even delivering something like a vague, sleepy spank. I expose my breasts, whether it means pulling something up or down, or taking something over my head and throwing it on the floor. I remove the comforter from my chest, to feel the chill of the cold bedroom (always cold) on my bare skin, contrasted with the heat of his palm and fingers. I slip my hand between my legs and masturbate.

Inevitably, I turn over, kneeling on the bed, with my legs wide apart, my face either in the pillows or next to his. He continues to play with my breasts, as I often replay in my head various master/slave scenarios, imagining the power exchange between us. I close my eyes. He would often put his fingers into the dewy, slippery territory between my wide-spread thighs – caressing, running his fingers up and down, plunging them inside, penetrating me roughly, firmly, confidently. Sometimes I would come right there, around his fingers – I wonder if he can feel the muscles contracting. Sometimes I would come from a slightest touch of my intimate areas, sometimes from the breast stimulation. Last night was especially “dramatic,” as he put it this morning. It was loud.

The night sessions are always followed by an intercourse, almost always with me on top – I reach for the dresser drawer in the darkness, feel the condom wrapper with my hand – scratchy edges, smooth surface. Pull it out and present it to him. Put my lips around his penis and suck on it as if my life depended on it. He would lift my head off himself, place the condom on. I’d throw away the remaining clothes, if any left, climb on top of him and ride him into bliss [his bliss]. He might kiss me along the way, or slap my bottom sharply with his palm, or hold me by my neck, which I find especially hot, or my hair, or hold on to my hips and guide my body, or wrap his arms around me. I never come from an intercourse, but I love it – I like it slow and sensual, I like it rough, I like it either way – by then I am well lubricated. Sometimes I try to clench my muscles around him. He comes inside, always inside.

From A Farmwife With A Twist.

On A Date With Trouble

Monmouth went on a date with Trouble. And nearly got in some, however you want to take that:

After this our conversation quickly and unavoidably degenerated into an exchange of flirtatious double-entendres, wayward glances and suggestive strokings of fingers, knees and lips.

Trouble made her intentions even clearer when she pushed an olive, gently but firmly into my mouth, her flawlessly laquered fingernail trailing along my top lip before she pulled away, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle out of the hem of her skirt.

And I was hard. Very, and obviously, the fabric on the front of my trousers miserably failing to conceal anything but the minor details of my erect shape.

Her eyes lingered on the naughty bump. “I’d love to see…” she whispered.

The thought crossed my mind to just flash her – unzip, a couple of strokes, cover up. Twenty seconds of pure delight, but the art deco bar was an impossible space for discreet hanky-panky. Mirrors everywhere, no dark corners.

Fortunately, they found a solution in technology.

Honey, Flies, Bondage

A while back I noticed a Bondage Blog post called Hanging Like Ripe Fruit. The post (illustrated by some bondage porn from Hogtied.com) featured a suspension tie reminiscent of a scene from The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty, a famous BDSM novel by Ann Rice. Unfortunately Bondage Blog only posted one picture, so in a moment of boredom, I went back to Anne Rice to help flesh it out:

“Double her, for punishment,” said Lord Gregory. “I think a real punishment is in order.”

Princess Lizetta gave several high-pitched groans. They seemed both anger and protest. She seemed not to have bargained for this, and as she was carried ahead of Beauty and Lord Gregory into the Hall of Punishments, the Pages quickly affixed leather cuffs to her wrists and ankles, each cuff with a heavy metal hook imbedded in it.

Now she was raised, struggling, to a great low beam that spanned the room, her wrists hung from a hook above her head and then her legs brought straight up in front of her so that her ankles were fixed to the same hook. The was, in fact, bent double. Her head was then forced between her calves, so that Beauty could see her face clearly. And a leather strap was bound around here, securely pressing her upturned legs against her torso.

But the most cruel and frightening aspect of it for Beauty was the exposure of the Princess’s secret parts, for she was hung so that anyone could see her full sex with its pink lips and its dark hair even to the tiny brown orifice between her buttocks. And all this just below her scarlet face. Beauty could imagine no worse exposure and she looked down timidly, glancing up again and again to the girl whose suspended body moved slightly as with a current in the air, the leather links at her wrists and ankles creaking.

…

The man in velvet had begun to stroke Princess LIzetta’s sex with a small instrument that was, as so much here, covered in smooth black leather. This was a three-pronged rod that somewhat resembled a hand, and as soon as he teased the helpless Princess, she began to struggle in her bonds.

Beauty understood at once what was happening. The Princess’s pink sex, terrifying to Beauty as it hung so unprotected, appeared to swell, to ripen. Beauty could see tiny droplets of moisture appear on it.

…

“Lord Gregory,” the Lady said, “you must think of something special.” Then to Beauty’s horror, the lady reached out delicately and fastidiously and pinched Princess LIzetta’s pubic lips hard so that they exuded moisture. Then she pinched the right lip and the left, and the girl winced with pain and misery.

Lord Gregory had meantime snapped his fingers for the Lord with the iron clawlike hand, and whispered something Beauty could not hear. “It will strengthen her punishment.”

And now the Lord appeared with a little pot and a brush and as the Lady stepped back, he took the brush and bathed Princess LIzetta’s naked organ in a heavy syrup. A few droplets fell to the floor, and the princess again made known her misery. She sobbed softly behind her gag, but the Lady only smiled rather innocently and shook her head. “It will attract any flies we have about,” Lord Gregory said, “and if we have none it shall produce its inevitable itching as it dries. It is quite uncomfortable.”

The Lady did not seem satisfied. Her pretty and innocent face was smooth however and she sighed. “I suppose it will do for now, but I wish she were bound with her legs apart to a stake in the garden. Then let the flies and the little insects of the air find her honeyed mouth. She deserves it.”

Although there are no dramatically better views in the short trailer and sample views visible for free without whipping out your credit card, a membership will get you rather a lot more!

Similar Sex Blogging:

• Butt Hook Bondage Theater
• Your ErosBlog Valentine
• Bondage Yoga In Mexico
• Bill Grogan's Girl

Buttery Butt Sex

This anecdote from The Butterfly Temptress gives a whole new meaning to the phrase “buttering her up”:

His kisses became more insistent and soon we were naked in the moonlight. He’s not big on foreplay but just being close to him was doing enough to warm me up. I laid against him and stroked his hard cock, wishing for all I was worth that I could have him inside of me but I knew it couldn’t happen. He’d never go for making love in my parents house.

He whispered into my ear “I want to be in you. I need to be in your ass.”

I thought I misheard him. I giggled and moved to put my mouth on him. Oral sex wasn’t intercourse, so it didn’t count as sex, right? Yeah right. I was willing to tell myself anything to keep from feeling guilty for being such a hot little whore.

“Get the lube out of the suitcase and hurry up.”

I let his cock slip from my lips and I mumbled something about not packing it because he told me not to worry about it. He pulled me up where I could repeat it again. Then I mentioned that there might be Vaseline in the bathroom in an attempt to keep him in the mood while I thought of something else.

“Go look then come back. I want to fuck your ass so bad.”

I wrapped a blanket around me sarong style and tiptoed into the bathroom. On my hands and knees I rummaged under the sink without success. The medicine cabinet was also without Vaseline or anything that would have worked as lubricant. Knowing full well that I was out of luck, I dashed back to the bedroom to report in.

“There wasn’t anything? Not even baby oil?” he asked in a tone that told me he was quickly losing patience.

I giggled for a minute then replied, “We could always use butter. Or vegetable oil. Maybe even Crisco shortening.” I collapsed against him in a fit of full out laughter. The thought of fucking with baking supplies cracked me up.

“Go get some. Butter or vegetable oil, I don’t care. I’m going to fuck your ass.”

I didn’t believe him until he swatted me on the ass. Then I dressed in my pajama shirt and went to the kitchen. It was quiet as a tomb and I was sure that Mama would appear any minute and ask what I was doing with my hand in her butter bowl. I scooped a rather large amount onto a paper towel then scampered back to our room. For the love of God, I knew right then and there that I was going to hell.

Not only was I about to fornicate in my parents house, I was unmarried. To top it all off, I was about to have unmarried butt sex in my parents house. Now you tell me how the world I was going to answer for that on Judgment Day?

He kissed me full on the mouth and took the paper towel from my hand. My cunt was dripping wet and I wanted him more than ever. I needed him.

He urged me onto all fours and situated himself between my legs. I felt the slippery coolness of the Blue Bonnet at my opening as he fingered my ass. Doing something so shameless made me hotter than I’d been in a long time and he knew it. His breathing was as erratic as mine and I knew that once he had his beautifully buttered cock in my ass he would fill me to overflowing in no time.

With minimal thrusting his cock was in me. Though it was odd, the knowledge that I was having buttered butt sex, it was more comfortable than anal sex had ever been. I felt every twitch, every pulse of him as he worked his manhood in and out of me.

In a matter of seconds we were both on the edge. I felt his slippery fingers slide against my clit and my cunt began to milk his cock in earnest. Moments later he came harder than I can ever remember him coming before.

He laid beside me as I cleaned his now relaxed cock. My body was on fire and my heart was full of love for the man who had just once again helped me check off yet another item on my “To Do Before I Die” list. As he pulled me onto his chest and we drifted off to sleep I couldn’t help but wonder how many other people had intimate and literal knowledge of being buttered up.

Thanks to Sexoteric for the link.

Similar Sex Blogging:

• Anal Ice
• The Price Of Anal Sex
• Options For Teen Lust
• Submissive Sex

The Feel Of The Bumpy Cock

We got some shock value some time back out of a photograph of one of those heavily-modified penises with the plastic lumps inserted under the skin. But, in case you were wondering about the subjective experience of the thing, there’s some info to be found on Bad Sex:

So he just went down on me which was fun, and he starts fingering me again really intensely (like 3 fingers?!) and I finally get my hands down to his cock. OOookay. It’s definitely a respectable appendage all on its own, and I’m pretty surprised because I’ve never really encountered one quite that size. But? BUT he has an inch-and-a-half long barbell THROUGH the head of his cock, AND he has 32 (he said) beaded implants actually GRAFTED under the skin of his penis. I mean this thing is like a custom order dildo, and I have no idea what to make of it. Forget going down on him, because I can already tell that solid inch-and-a-half barbell would do a number on my gag reflex. And the implants?? Hmmm. All I can say is that it all vaguely resembled the head of this particular dinosaur.

…

But he’s doing some seriously amazing work with his hands, and at this point I really couldn’t care less about dino-cock, because hey I was already there, right? Might as well see what all the hubub is about. I’m thinking this is bound to be some amazing, rough and tumble rowdy sex, because up until that point it was all I could do not to scream.

…

I am completely wet and just dying for him to put it in already (again I’m thinking this is going to be all hot and rowdy etc), but suddenly he kind of stops and gets really bizarrely clinical about it. I was thinking okay.. maybe out of consideration for me he’s being super gentle because he’s probably had girls tell him it hurts like a bitch or something before. On my end it really wasn’t uncomfortable at all, and I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t have hurt even if he wasn’t being so careful. So I kind of let him know I’m good, and I’m trying to encourage him to just go at it (and I’m doing most of the work..) but he’s still just being really careful. So FINALLY he says, “sorry, it’s still a little sensitive, I just got it repierced like two weeks ago.”

…

I want to clarify that I am in no way knocking dino-cock, because I do have to say that would have made one hell of a ride. I just take exception to the fact that it’s totally wasted if you can’t even get a good rowdy fuck out of it because it’s got a freaking stainless steel BAR through it.

The Mistress Guide

Here’s a fun article that may be of use to a number of you ladies: Miss Vanilla’s Guide to Being A Mistress. It’s a sort of Intro To Femdom 101:

I call it “Miss Vanilla’s” guide because I really want to give people who don’t consider themselves kinky a chance to enjoy this. When I first started getting into it, I was awfully confused and intimidated by the idea of being “dominant.” Would I lose my femininity? Would it make my man less masculine? Would it sour our non-sexual relationship? I will approach all of this from the perspective of someone beginning anew, as best as I can.

…

Techniques! What are some fun ways to let your man know that you’re in control?

“Bondage”. One of the easiest ways to get started is by tying him up. Pros: He’s physically helpless, so you get to focus on breaking his will with your sexiness. Cons: His hands aren’t free, so you have to take a very active role – you can’t easily kill time telling him to pleasure you with his hands!

…

“Pleasure overload.” Let’s face it: Your man thinks you’re hot. Now you’re going to use that to your utter advantage! Make him DESPERATE. Caress his entire body – with your fingers, your tongue, or your feet! Trace your fingertips up his inner thighs. Trace spirals around his penis but don’t touch it yet. Tease his butt, if you’re into that kind of thing (more on that later). Lick, suck and bite his nipples. Tease his dick with your mouth. Exhale deeply into his ear, and suck his earlobes. Be sexy, and he WILL be yours!

Anal Ice

It has been, by all reports, hot in New York City this summer. Or as Chelsea Girl puts it:

Step outside and it feels as if you’ve entered a hot, wet oven. You’re the pat of butter on the baked potato that is Gotham. It’s hot, hot, hot heat, wet and hot, and it cleaves to you, sweat-pressing your skin and enervating you with its doughy-moist succubus embrace.

You need to go somewhere the sun don’t shine. You need to find your place in the shade. You need to embrace your inner arctic. You need to stick an ice cube up your ass.

Yes, of course. My very first thought. Only, somehow, not.

Anyway, being a woman, she has to do it in the bathtub.

Which means she has to clean the tub first. Foreplay, I guess.

Nine paragraphs later (!) she gets to the good part:

You take a cube, you rest it against your asshole and you feel the immediate pucker of the asskiss, that quick inward convulsion, that wrinkle-crinkle in and up. And then with a deep breath, surely, remorselessly, unmercifully you use your index and middle fingers to push the ice cube into your ass.

The shock of the ice. Silver sliver ice-nine-esque core radiating. Like the plunge into a mountain stream from the inside. A swift round shot of pleasure/pain/pleasure.

Your breath inhales ragged-like. You imagine it’s not unlike the sensation of crack, only pure body.

Girl, Finger, Bath

Here’s a lovely piece…of erotic art by Milo Manara:

Sex Talk

Talking during sex — given the potential for enormous distraction — doesn’t always result in the smartest-sounding dialog. Even so, this exchange from Submissive Reflections made me smile:

“What are you doing?” I asked rather stupidly, as I was bent over grabbing the back of the couch while Mac’s fingers stole lubrication from my pussy to use on my ass.

“I am going to fuck your ass.” Mac answered in a very matter of fact manner.

“Why?” I asked, apparently unable to say anything smart at all when my panties were around my knees.

“Because I want to.” Mac said and managed not to laugh at me.

“Oh. Ok.” I said and then decided I should just shut up.

Apologies For The Recent Outages

Very sorry if you’ve come to Erosblog recently and been unable to load pages. One of the bells-and-whistles plugins that came with the new WordPress software (the referral tracker that listed recent searches and such) was apparently generating huge out-of-control runaway database queries that were bringing my server to a screeching, metal-rending halt.

For now, we’ve had the offending plugin taken out and shot. It provided a nifty new feature, but nifty gets old quick when the blog won’t load.

Hopefully, we’re now back to the regular uninterrupted service you’re used to. My fingers and toes are crossed (makes typing interesting.)

What It Feels Like To Deep Throat

Lots of yummy female perspective on the sensation of deep throating, from Pretty Dumb Things:

The art of deep-throating lies in two things: creating enough high-quality viscous porn-starry spit, and relaxing your throat to accommodating proportions. Both take time. The gag reflex is my friend, I know, and so I court it with a wily coquettishness. I take the dick in as far as it just uncomfortably will go, and I wait, holding my breath, until I find my throat begin to relax and until I need to breathe. Then I’ll slide my mouth to the tip, do a little do-si-do with my tongue at the end, and slide back up until I just barely begin to gag and hold again, swallowing the tip.

At these moments what I feel is a mixture of challenge and trust and pride. I trust the man not to thrust and fuck up my prep time. I challenge myself to see how much I can put in my throat, how long I can hold it, how easily I can get ready. And I feel pride in a blowjob well begun. When a guy does thrust and fuck my face before I have properly lubed my throat, it hurts. It feels a lot like when you swallow very hot soup or too big a piece of lamb shank. It sometimes makes me gag a bit, and other times it makes me gag a lot.

After a few minutes of warm up, I can feel my throat begin to relax. Usually then I find an angle that will work for sustained deep-throat with this particular cock — and all are different. Sometimes I like to control the blowjob, and sometimes I like to be face-fucked. And other times, like when I’m tied up, I don’t really have a choice but enjoy being face-fucked. In all cases, finding a comfy spatial relationship is key. Bad angles make for bad fellatio– it’s simple human geometry,

When I’m in control, I feel like I’m choreographing an elaborate underwater ballet with my mouth, my hands, and the dick at hand and mouth. The slurpy noises, the imagined visual, the occasional eye contact, the hushed bated breath, the timely exhale, the fingers sliding the mix of saliva and pre-cum, the cock that pauses, filling my mouth and my throat, my throat fluttering little swallows around its tip. I love the feel of having my mouth full. If I’m really into it, it makes me wish that the guy had two or three other dicks to fill me with simultaneously. This strange feral compulsion washes over me and I wish I could take him into me everywhere all at once, even as I’m trying to keep my head while I’m giving head.

When I’m being face-fucked, however, the sense of control is lost and in its place comes a wild ride. When face-fucked, I feel like I have to keep a delicate balance between my breathing, my relaxed throat, and this relentless pneumatic cock that is drilling my mouth. Much of my experience then is completely wrapped up in my submitting to the moment, of finding my slender balance in this overwhelming crash of sensation. It, too, is pleasurable, though rhythm is important, for if the man isn’t aware of what he’s doing, he can make me gag, and then I have to fight to control that urge, to will it to stop and to find my calm center in his pheromone storm. My throat is almost always sore the day after a rigorous face-fucking.

Biggus Dickus (He Has A Wife, You Know)

Though ErosBlog has a firm policy against picking on anybody’s kink, we reserve the right to marvel at some of them. And one of the kinks I marvel at sometimes is the insertion of really big stuff where you wouldn’t think it should oughta fit. Case in point: The Sumo Rustler five-and-a-half-pound vinyl dildo:

Note the two-liter soda bottle included for scale.

Me, I think the thing would make a most excellent paperweight. If I worked in a cubie farm, I’d keep it on top of the papers in my inbox. You want to leave me more work in my in basket? First, grasp the cock firmly between thumb and four fingers….

Girl Fisting

Mistress Matisse’s latest column offers instruction on The Gentle Art of Girl Fisting:

I vividly recall the first time I ever had my whole hand inside a woman’s pussy. I was 19, and my girlfriend was a sexy butch woman with an appetite for deep penetration. One night — we were on the living room floor, I believe — I had all four fingers inside her and was fucking her as hard as I could, trying to match the tempo of her fast-pumping hips. In our thrashing tangle of limbs, my hand pivoted from the usual thumb-to-the-clit position to a diagonal approach. I instinctively pressed my thumb against my palm so my fingernail wouldn’t jab her. As I did, she thrust herself against me like a roller-derby queen butting aside a competitor, and to my surprise and momentary alarm, I felt my whole hand slide into her.

“Baby, are you okay?”

“Don’t fucking stop!”

So I didn’t.

Similar Sex Blogging:

• A Catalog Of Perversions
• The Fisting Rodeo
• Anally Fisted Woman
• More On Fisting
• The Details Of Sodomy

Double Blowjob

Sounds like Lex had a really good day, even for him:

It’s been said there’s no such thing as a bad blowjob. This is surely a lie. Anyone who makes this claim has never squirmed under a row of sharp teeth, nor suffered friction burns at the hands of a partner who just wants to get it over with, nor endured the lazy manipulations of a mouth that would rather be wrapped around something — anything — else.

There really isn’t such a thing as a bad double blow job, however. For one, any girl who teams up with a playmate to work you over is arguably well acquainted with the act of fellatio. And neither girl wants to look bad in front of the other, so they both bring their A games to the, er, court. If having two women at once is like winning the lottery, then having two women worship the knobbed idol of your masculinity is like winning the lottery and the Nobel Prize on the same afternoon.

Leslie and Peggy. Each one, in her own right, an accomplished flautist in the skin section of the orchestra; Leslie with her soft, silky lips and Peggy with her tongue ring and talented fingers. Both of them with their little tricks — a slight flick of the wrist or curl of the tongue. Both of them only too happy to fish Mr. Penis out of my trousers. Unprompted, naturally.

I kneeled and they had me together….

Similar Sex Blogging:

• A Discussion Of Phlebotomy
• Girls Who Share
• Two Girls, One Common Purpose

Relationship Papers?

You do not own title on your lover. You simply have lease on a part of their lives, whether you’re married or not. It is always, always, always in your best interest that your lover maintain some of their privacy and “me” time.

That’s what Steff says in a long post that makes some really good points. But I wonder…..is it ever a good idea to think that you own part of your lover? Steff’s right, nobody “owns title” on a lover, but even the idea of having a “lease on part of their lives” squicks me. To me that sounds too much like “I own this part of you,” and I usually have a hard enough time controlling my life to want the extra work of controlling part of somebody else’s.

D/s play is separate from my point. There, all parties agree on how the games go, and they’re there because they want to be there. They’re choosing. If there’s relationship papers involved, titles or leases or whatever, then some amount of choice gets lost. Maybe that works for some people, but not for me. What Steff said made me understand that J is good for me because right now he can’t own me, he’s still married although I guess that’s just technically since the divorce is going through the courts now. We just get together when we can and have the fun that we both want to have. I hope that doesn’t change once he’s divorced.

Speaking of J, he’s been out of town for awhile. Last night he sent me an email “Thinking of You,” and all it contained was the words to the song Black and Blue. “The harder the better, let’s do it ’til we’re black and blue”……I think we might be on the same page after all! I might get to find out this weekend, keep your fingers crossed for me!

A Pain In The Nipples

It’s news to no one that the female orgasm can sometimes be a slippery and elusive critter. Kaya finds it’s easiest to catch one when she uses her nipple clamps:

Every once in awhile, orgasm eludes me, even with my pocket rockets, the hitchi and my imagination. I’ll be deep into a fantasy, humming along industriously and all of sudden, 10 or 20 minutes have passed and I’ll realize I’m contemplating the next American Idol cut. Or planning next week’s menu. So I mentally shake myself, refocus my head back to cages and whips and cocks….. and “wake up” some 10 or 20 minutes later designing my dream house.

Now, I don’t give up on an orgasm. That’s a road of despair that I am not willing to travel just yet. Seriously, it starts with just one. One time, you lay the vibe down and decide you just can’t cum tonight. Then it’s twice. Pretty soon, cobwebs and moths have taken up roost in your cootchie. No. Nuh uh. Not me. If I start it, I will finish it. And trust me when I say I’ve battled it a time or two. Stinky, sweating, cramped legs and arms and fingers and a sore, battered clit. But I won. My clit waved the white flag and spit out a pathetic little orgasm because I.will.not.be.defeated.

That’s bothered me a time or two. That seems an unhealthy obsession in the light of day. But let’s not go there, ok? :P

My most favored way of grasping a wayward orgasm is nipple torture. It amazes me how quickly I can cum once I start seriously hurting my nips. Because it’s so easy, I don’t do it every night. I don’t want to ruin that. I love it too much. (The marathon battles mentioned above would not take as long if I’d get my lazy ass out of bed and get the clamps out the toy box.)

I like when I get into a place where I just can’t hurt them enough. A clamp doesn’t cut it. Several clamps might. And then only if they are pulled off numerous times and reapplied. Twisted and yanked and pulled. When it’s really good, I don’t even need the vibe. Once the pain gets high enough, sharp enough, all I’ve got to do is touch my finger to my clit and I pop.

One of those mind-blowing orgasms that stretch out forever… and leave your mouth gaping open and your eyes crossed for awhile.

Stripper Rant

I found this posted without an author credit on an adult webmaster board. It was presented as if it were supposed to be funny, and acclaimed as such by a chunk of the online-pornographer audience. Me, I didn’t find it so — it encapsulates a lot of the reasons I never could find much value in the strip club experience. Of course I know of folks in the blog community who’ve stripped (or who are still stripping) and who present a much more nuanced view of the profession. But still. Strong and unpleasant stuff, it seems to me:

1) Hey you over there, holding that one dollar bill in your hand with a death grip and waving it around at me like it’s the fucking deed to Trump Towers… what the fuck do you want me to do, grow another pussy?!? It’s a fuckin’ dollar, put it down on the tiprail and blow my world away already.

2) You losers that come into the club for a lapdance with NO underwear or boxers and thin-ass, nylon shorts, so we slip and slide on your hard-on (which always feel like a sharpie pen ~ fine point)…fuck you.

3) You with the thick-ass jeans, this was an impromptu visit, eh?

4) Don’t pull my thong up during a dance and ask me if it felt good. IT DOES NOT FEEL GOOD.

5) Hey you, Loser, the one counting out the 20 bucks in one dollar increments, rubbing your fingers between each one to make sure you are giving me just that one dollar. Yes, you.

6) No I will not just let you “slip it in real quick” for $50 more bucks.

7) Yeah, my tits are real. As real as my affection for you.

8)If you cum in your pants, you have to tip me an extra $100 for being a lame-ass who can cum in their pants from a lapdance.

9) Stop asking me out. You’re a smelly, fat loser and the only reason I’m smiling and cooing at you is because I want your money. Outside of the club I wouldn’t even fart your way.

11) Stop bitching at me about the goddamn two drink minimum. First of all, your breath ranks (what’d you have for dinner, garlic and shit?), you’re about 172 lbs. overweight, and you look like Jay Leno. More importantly: I don’t give a shit.

12) Don’t bitch at me about the $10 non-alchoholic beer either. Hide a bottle of Jack in your coat pocket next time like everyone else does.

13) My horniness is in direct proportion to your income.

14) No, you CAN’T SMOKE. Dumb. Ass.

15 )Boys, don’t sit in the front row with your “homies” and act all engrossed in some deep conversation during a girls performance because you want to look like you’re too “cool” to notice the hot, naked girl in front of you. It’s a clear sign that you ain’t getting any.

16) DON’T SIT IN THE FRONT ROW IF YOU ARE NOT GOING TO TIP. Fer chrissakes!!!!!!!!!!!

17) “So what do you guys do when you’re on your period?” Answer: I lap dance with guys in dark pants.

18) STOP trying to grab my tits!!!!!!! That’s extra.

19) SHOWER FIRST, you nasty fuck!

20) I had a feeling you weren’t going to tip me, so I took extra care to rub my lip gloss on your collar and wear extra glitter lotion and obnoxious perfume before our dance.

21) Hey cheapasses: please don’t come to my work. Just stay home and jack off to “Desperate Housewives” instead. It will save us a both a lot of unpleasantry.

22) Stop asking me why I do this job and try to get all psychologically analytical on me. For the money, you moron, that’s why.

23) No seriously, my real name is Sparkle.

24) NO, I will not take a dime sac for payment. I can tell it’s oregano anyway you stupid mutherfucker!

25) Sorry, I don’t do that. Ask the ugly girl at the bar with the black roots and overbite.

26) I can see it’s your first time at a strip club. Let me explain the dynamics to you. If you want a fuck or a blow-job, go to the ugly chicks. Hot girls don’t have to do “extra services.” I can give you some recommendations for a small fee.

27) It is not okay for you to bounce me on your cock like a baby on a knee. Not okay.

28) Stop complaining about how short the song was. It felt like the fucking maxi-single to me.

29)Yes I will fuck you, but only for 10 grand. More if you’re ugly. So basically, more.

30) DO NOT come into the club looking for a girlfriend/date. It’s like me going to PETA looking for a steak.

31) Girls–what’s with the pole smell? Can we do a little hygiene check? Nothing than worse than twirling around the pole and getting a whiff of stale pussy.

32) Girls–stop lip-syncing to the song you’re dancing to on stage. Especially if you don’t know all the words.

33) Girls–if your toes curl and hang over your platform shoes a la’ Fred Flinstone, you need to go up a size.

34) Girls–drowning yourself in Angel perfume is just as bad if not worse than the BO you’re trying to cover. Take a goddamn shower, you smell like lapdance funk.

35) Hey DJ! You suck!

36)Girls–may I suggest complete sobriety before getting tatted up? Tattoos should be meaningful, or at least semi-meaningful, or at least semi semi-meaningful. That fucking dancing llama on your ass is so lame.

37)Girls–some songs just should not be stripped to. Please. No Disney soundtracks (you know who you are, you fucking weirdo), Sade, Boys II Men, or Bjork. For the love of God, Please.

By the way, if this was ripped from a blog or website and you know the original source, please drop me an email so I can credit it properly. No links in the comments, please.

Vanilla Or Slut?

J and I both have the whole weekend off, yippeeee! The weather’s supposed to be good, so I told him I’d come over and help with a big project of his (he’s the friend I mentioned here). You know I’ll be doing my best to work on my “big project” too, which is his lovely cock. So far J’s been a darling, pretty much what I said I wanted, so it’s more than just good great sex.

And that’s the thing. I’m ready to move beyond the regular sex, I want to experiment some, I want his eyes to roll back in his head and to hear him say “That was amazing!” What I don’t want to hear, or for him to think, is “What a slut.” Like Steff said in a post on titty fucking:

There’s an interesting dichotomy in the sexual world. One aspect is the woman who enjoys almost any sexual act. She’s often portrayed as lewd, slutty, easy, or loose, just because she’s an enthusiast. And that’s bullshit, my friends. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, the activities you enjoy surrounding sex should not judge who you are as a person.

But then there’s the flipside. If you’re hesitant to do some of the so-called edgier/pornified things, you get painted a bit as a vanilla lover, or someone who’s “conservative” in the bedroom, which is also bullshit, my friends.

How do you find that happy in between? Can somebody who’s a sexblogger avoid the slut tag?

J’s still going through the divorce dance, so it’s too early to say what will happen between us. I don’t want to rush him but I do want to explore some sex stuff. God, what a minefield this is!

More…… J just sent me some beautiful flowers! They’re those curvey tulips with the pointy petals, and the card says “Looking forward to bucking rivets – and more – with you!” Keep your fingers crossed for me!

Foot Fetish Fishhooking?

From time to time in porn towards the gonzo end of the spectrum you’ll see someone reach forward from behind the performer and hook his fingers into the corners of her mouth, pulling it into a grimace. This is called “fish-hooking” and its intended erotic significance is opaque to me.

Fingers are one thing. Feet are another. Here now from Wired Pussy comes a photograph that takes fish-hooking to a whole new toe-fetish level:

As my father used to say, I don’t know too much and I don’t understand all I know.

I Hope I’m ‘Still Doing It’

Bacchus and the Nymph have slipped off to enjoy Valentines Day and their anniversary. That’s right, it was two years ago yesterday that she moved in with him. Just in case his fingers are too sore to type when he gets back, I’ll say thanks for your nice comments on his interview.

Here’s my anniversary present for them, and I hope I’ll be able to use it too. “Still Doing It”, a documentary of the sex lives of older women. Straight, gay, single, married…..they’re all here, and they talk about their sexual experiences and our agist society. It isn’t the sexiest present they could get, but if it helps both of them stay happy then its a success.

Fingered On Holloway Road

The Girl With The One Track Mind has been oh so busy lately. Not only has she been flirting with cops (when she’s usually a “what’s a penny made of?” sort of girl), but she’s also been getting fingered in public, and liking it:

So, we’re standing on Holloway road, kissing like two drunken teenagers on a night out; snogging away, oblivious to the people milling around us trying to get the last tube home. The warm summery air is making us both frisky: our hands explored each other eagerly as our mouths moved in synch. We stood there and kissed, and the world revolved around us. Magical.

I was it is fair to say, very turned on. And from the feel of him pressed up hard against my thigh, he was too. The heat between us was intense, the passion fired up. So when he asked me, if he could “feel” me, I didn’t question what he meant: it felt only natural to go with the flow (so to speak).

Even when he slid his hand underneath my jeans and pushed two fingers inside me.

As we stood on Holloway road.

With people walking all around us.

My, oh, my.

Time for some words

I’d intended to write in this space, but time and tide, as they say. I’ve done nothing but post pictures.

Thus, words.

This could be a true story.

We meet at a party.

We’re not supposed to know each other, but we do. Know each other’s words, minds, souls. Yet we’ve never met.

Drink in my hand, I pretend to ignore her as I chat up some lovely ladies who are intent upon being mine for the evening. She’s nervous never at ease in crowds. I know her eyes are on me, but I do not turn to look. Music plays. I fetch drinks for my erstwhile dates. Lush women, to my taste, normally, but there’s only one woman in the room tonight.

I circulate away from her, but I know where she is. I wait.

I catch her when she goes down the hall to use the bathroom; timing it, I am there behind her just as the door opens, and then in a rush I have her in my arms, and am shutting the door behind us. I turn out the light, and we’re lit only softly, moonlight through a high window.

First kiss. She knows it’s me. Knows my touch before ever a hand is laid on her. I take her mouth, roughly. We speak no words. It’s not time for talk, that’s yesterday. That’s tomorrow.

I guide her down; she’s told me this story, written a script, and for now, that’s how I play it. She’s on her knees, and her hands free my cock, and her mouth takes me. I hold her head, fuck into her mouth. I gag her, make her choke. Later, I’ll touch her gently, but now, we need it to hurt.

She wants my come. She won’t get it yet. I stop her, and she squeals in frustration. I put my cock away, and make her stand.

“Fix your makeup,” I say, and tell her to do whatever else she’s in here for. She does, and I watch her, the lights back on. Her face is flushed, red. Her lipstick is smeared, her lips invitingly puffy. I almost take her again, from behind this time. But not yet; I open the door, distract two people in line while she slips out behind me.

I catch her by the elbow and steer her toward the stairs. There’s a guest room. The door has a lock. I sweep coats and purses off the bed, lock the door behind us. She protests – someone might come looking. I don’t care. I push her down on the bed, rip a filmy thong from her and put it in my pocket as she gasps.

I put a finger in her; she’s incredibly wet, and incredibly tight. It’s going to hurt her when I take her, And I’m looking forward to that. I hold her down, and kiss her, and rub my cock against her slick wetness. Then I’m forcing myself inside, holding her face with one hand, making her look at me so I can see her pain.

God, she’s tight. I can feel her body fighting to keep me out. I fight harder, then kiss her to contain the scream. I thrust in, each stroke deeper, making her fit me, making her yield to me. She screams into my mouth, and kisses, and screams.

I want to take time. I want to make her come. But it’s too much. I give in to her, abandon restraint, and stab her with my cock. My scream meets hers and I come, and keep thrusting, my fingers on her clit, my cock only half hard but still inside.

“Come for me, you little whore,” I whisper, and she’s howling, screaming, her pussy clenching on me. Anyone outside would think murder is being done, and I fantasize the whole house knows how I’ve just taken her. Her screams turn to sobs, and her body shakes, and she begins to whisper that she loves me.

We’ve only started. She thinks I’m going to let her go. I’m not.

DionysusBlog@gmail.com

Satyrs, Sex And Cookies

I must say, I’m impressed. I managed to offend ErosBlog’s audience on my very second post. Don’t give in so easy. Make me wait for it. Make me earn it. Don’t give it away for free, I’ll get complacent.

But let me change the subject here.

While we’re on the topic of mythology and sex (and when, frankly, are we not in this space), I wanted to point out a newly-released e-book by the lovely and talented Doxy Wringer entitled Satyrs, Sex & Cookies. This is a collection of erotica which, in Doxy’s own words, ‘houses both a few old favorites and a smattering of never-before-read lewd treats.’ It’s got a couple of supernatural stiffeners, a near-incest tale and a tasty lesbian encounter.

Doxy never disappoints. She’s got my five simoleons.

Sample:

I was on some kind of padded surface. It felt like a doctor’s table, only in the shape of a letter “X” with an added support for my head. The cold vinyl under my back sent gooseflesh up and down my spine. It was an altar. Incense bowls burned at the four corners of my spead-eagle form, issuing a foul, herbaceous, sickly-sweet mist. Leather tethers braced my wrists, and my ankles. I was open so wide that my thigh muscles felt overextended. A dull pang radiated up the creases where my legs attached to my torso and in my sweaty armpits.

Cool air was free to lick up between my legs like some twisted gynecologist set-up. I groggily realized the way I was spread open and the lack of a table between my legs would allow them to walk right up between my thighs and…

To my far left was a statue of some kind – it looked like a prop out of a Buffy the Vampire Slayer re-run. An obscene monstrosity of black marble and what looked like red jasper. Some kind of satyr-demon. A man’s head, but for horns, atop a torso of rippling brawn, but that’s where the human parts ended. His legs were gnarly. Hoofed and hairy. Goat or Clydesdale or grizzly llama.

And an erection the size of a Buick.

* * * *

He walked up between my legs until the dangling sheath of his sex idly thumped my thighs. His thick-fingered hands reached forward, grasping hold of my already tender breasts and mauling them in lusty, kneading handfuls. A shimmer came into his black eyes – a carousing to a silent summons.

The chanting was more like music now, a buzzing drone of strings and wind instruments – badly tuned flutes and lyres. Or maybe it only seemed that way because I myself was being strummed.

“It has been ages upon ages since I have indulged in the flesh of a human woman,” he crooned in a breathy gust of sound. “You are a girl. Young. Supple. Succulent.” Without warning, one hand shoved between my thighs and I felt long, probing fingers stretch into the swollen tenderness of my slit. “And tight,” he leaned his head back in a lecherous moan of satisfaction.

Watch Out For Kancho Assassins

It takes only the most minimal exposure to Japanese porn to understand that the Japanese sexual culture is very unusual to non-Japanese eyes. You may not understand much else, but you’ll understand that much very quickly.

Other little hints present themselves from time to time. Example: Japanese Kids Are Perverted. Excerpt:

Let me introduce you to a game Japanese kids like to play called “Kancho.”

Actually, it’s not so much a “game” as it is kids clasping their hands together, sticking out their first fingers, and shoving them up your butt. I’m really not joking.

You know, before we come to Japan, they tell us a lot of ultimately useless stuff. What kind of computer to bring, if our DVD’s will work, clothing sizes, that kind of nonsense. Nowhere, and I mean nowhere, in the 3-4 months of orientations did anyone ever mention that at some point, a Japanese kid may try to stick their fingers up our butt. That’s something I would have liked to know, personally.

It’s called Kancho, and just about any kid can be a Kancho Assassin. Even the sweetest little girl may be prone to jam her fingers up your ass the second you turn around. This happened to one of my friends, which just goes to show – don’t trust anyone. I’d say the little girls are the most dangerous cause they have natural ways of lowering your defenses.

Putting Catherine McKinnon In Her Place

Via Pursed Lips, this hilarious anecdote from a New York City screening of Inside Deep Throat:

The New York screening of Inside Deep Throat at the Paris Theatre was a hoot. … The hapless lot of directing a post-screening panel fell to Elvis Mitchell, former movie critic at the NY Times. … Mitchell looked on helplessly as McKinnon did her thing, claiming that the film we had just watched was promoting the acceptance of rape. At one point, however, her righteous zeal became unhinged when she claimed that it was not possible to do deep throat safely, that it was a dangerous act that could only be done under hypnosis. “What’s so funny?” she snapped as the audience rippled with mirth. Todd Graff’s hand shot up – “I can do it,” he said, and the room echoed with a chorus of gay men going “me too!” (Gigi Grazer – wife of Brian – later told Graff to stop bragging and that she could do it better than him and had the rocks on her fingers to prove it. Touché).

Sounds like McKinnon picked the wrong audience to spout her anti-sex drivel….

Similar Sex Blogging:

• Suck It, Girl
• Sword Swallower
• Deep Throat
• What It Feels Like To Deep Throat
• Dworkin on Blowjobs

Promoting Anal Sex Blogging

I’ve always fancied that ErosBlog should be a force for social good. Now here’s proof. Among its many and manifest positive social benefits, ErosBlog encourages evil science chicks to blog about anal sex. What’s not to like about that?

{drums fingers}

Evilsciencechick, we are waiting….

The Hot Action Guide To Make-up And Aesthetics For Young Women

From an exceptionally hot entry by Philip at Hot Action:

Your lipstick colour should function as an advertisement for the colour of your nipples. Whether it’s the sweetest pale pink or the deepest golden brown, let me know what I’m getting. Take your time to find the correct shade. It’s important. ….

Putting on lip gloss is a surrogate for holding your breast in one hand and my hard cock in the other as you squeeze hot slippery fluid out of my cock-head and rub it around on your nipple.

If you’re just sitting around at the bar, an even better plan would be to take your bottle of Astroglide out of your purse and squirt a little bit on your fingers.

Rub your fingers together. Then rub your fingers on your lips. Close the bottle and put it back in your purse. Wipe fingers on skirt. Look me in the eye. Smile.

This has never actually happened to me, which is probably a good thing because I think my cock would rip right through the front of my pants.

If we chix don’t take his advice, this is what could happen to us. sigh… Well, we can wish for it!

Fun With Hydrogenated Vegetable Oil

I don’t recall ever linking to a description of fisting before, which is enough reason to do it now. (There’s also the faint hope of getting risible letters from the trained attack lawyers of the J.M. Smucker Company.) From Diary of a Slut (November 7 entry):

Ealain got out her big strap-on and harness and some high heeled boots. Her dick is so much bigger than mine or any guy I know, and it never gets limp. That boy can take some buttloving, with me just kinda playing with his nips while Ealain fucked the daylights out of him. Now he had told us that he enjoyed fisting, and told me I could sit in after she was done, so I gloved up, stuck a few more Crisco balls in his bomb bay doors, and covered my gloves with silicon lube. His butt was really inviting, and it was fun to put a few fingers in the back door to play with the prostate from the inside while I was putting a couple of fingers of the other hand in through the scrotum to play with the prostate from the outside, and apparently that was a new experience for him. Yippie kay yay!

Crisco balls? Oh my! I guess it’s not just for biscuits any more.

Thanks to Karl Elvis for the link.

It’s True for Some Girls, Too

Last night I had one of those feels-real dreams that I wish had been real…I was at a real hot bar, people hooking up all around me, and me just aching for some action of my own…then a muscular guy came over and went all dom on me, telling me he wanted me and wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Then he grabbed my hand and pulled (not too hard, because I wasn’t all that unwilling) me over to a table that was on the edge of the dance floor, where we could be seen and the lights played over us too. After some spanking that got me good and wet, he tied my hands together above my head, flipped me over, and slit my dress right up the middle, displaying me for anyone to see. Even though I was embarassed, it was arousing to see people watching…and enjoying the show…and I was so excited that when he began to pinch my nipples, I came. That led to lots of punishment, including him selling “pussy pokes”–fingers or tongues, $1, because I was “such an easy slut”. As soon as I’d start to get seriously worked up, he’d tell the person to stop, and laugh at me as I begged for more. Finally he unzipped and out came the hugest cock I’ve ever seen, and he plowed into me, just straight in all the way, which sent me over the edge. He pumped me hard until he came too…at which point I woke up, soaking wet and throbbing from coming in my sleep.

So that must mean that I’m living proof that some girls’ brains are a counterpart to the male brain shown here:

Don’t remember where I spotted this one.

Score! (I Hope …)

Hi folks. Sorry for my absence lately, but I’ve got a good reason. Just when I was despairing of finding interesting single guys here, I may have scored! It’s still early in the game, but so far, so good … and he’s a marvelous kisser. (Yes, that’s important to me — it’s been a good measure of other techniques for me since high school.)

Keep your fingers crossed for me! We’re going to hang out tomorrow, and “do stuff” ……. I sure know what I’d like to do! ;)

Teledildonics?!

Okay, so this an entirely predictable post. I’ve been waiting seven days to see what Gina Lynn would write on in her first Wired Magazine “Sex Drive” column. So after I gulped down enough coffee for my eyes and fingers to work moderately well, I fired up the ol’ browser and mosied over, to read about a new remote-controlled dildo that is seriously remotely controlled:

In other words, a man can be thrusting in Cleveland while a woman is penetrated in Seattle, and the cybersex experience gets one step closer to the holodeck.

Here’s a link to the entire interesting column. As someone who’s never had a need for sex toys (but that day is getting closer), this whole idea is weirdly kinky-cool.

The Best I Ever Had

I forgot it was the Labor Day weekend! I’ve been busy the past few days getting the place squared away before fall’s chill begins kissing the land — it happens early where I live. I also took the opportunity to freshen up my bedroom. I painted it a deep blushing-pink almost-red shade, and it’s gorgeous. It looks like a spectacular sunset all the time (and when the sun does come into my room, in the late afternoon and evening, it’s all the more dazzling).

Seeing the paint going on and drying, and being even prettier than I had hoped when I selected the shade, got me thinking about what an even nicer love-making nest this room will be in its new color scheme. And that got me to thinking back on past good times … and the best time I’ve had, sexually speaking, so far.

The guy wasn’t a great love of my life; I can’t even really say that we were boyfriend and girlfriend. He was in a college class with me. One night I saw him at a bar, and he was the only guy I knew there so I started talking to him. We hooked up that night, and it was pretty good … but that’s all.

We got together occasionally, but our schedules never really lined up well to get together a lot. As it happened, our last time, toward the end of the semester, was far and away the best sex of my life …J and I always had fun together, joking and laughing, even during sex sometimes. I told him after class one day that I always seemed to have thoughts running through my head — not just consciousness of what I was doing, but “word-based stuff” in my head. I’d tried meditation to help clear my mind and focus it, but it hadn’t succeeded. That was hard for him to understand, and he declared he was making a project of helping me clear my mind. For weeks afterward, he’d do silly things to try to jolt my brain out of thinking. Nothing worked, but it was fun anyway.

On an early December Friday night, I was getting stressed out by projects and upcoming exams, and decided to go for a walk. My college town was small, and a short walk from the edge of campus was all it took to get to the farmers’ fields that surrounded the town. A half moon grinned through platinum ribbons of high cloud; a few corn canes clattered in the occasional push of chill air. My pace was slow as I soaked in the quiet and cold, both soothing my mind.

Having gone about a mile down the road, I was surprised to hear footsteps behind me — not hurried ones, but deliberate and measured, like mine. Glancing back, I recognized the gait as J’s, and slowed to allow him to catch up, if he wanted.

He did. We walked for a bit in amiable silence. Finally he murmured, “Getting away from it all too, huh?”, and I nodded. We approached one of my favorite spots on this walk — a small stand of trees that huddled together, cornered by a small stream and ancient fencing. J inclined his head, and I easily leapt a low spot in the barbed wire, the spot he’d indicated being one I frequented as well.

We lay on the ground, which was not yet as cold as the air. Even so, I was thankful for the long coat I’d chosen. J’s kiss was an intoxicating mix of cold lips and nose pressing to my face, and warm, sweet breath. My body responded immediately, its sensual desires having gone unfulfilled for weeks.

Rather than indulge those desires, J acted as if he hadn’t noticed. He returned to star-gazing.

I cuddled closer, pressing my breasts against his arm, thinking that would send an unmistakable signal.

Nothing from J.

What the fuck?! I thought. J had never been slow or shy before, so his lack of response was a total surprise. I decided to display my interest in a more obvious way.

Leaning over to return his kiss with a more ardent one, I swung a leg over his body and pressed close, feeling J’s erection. As he opened his lips slightly, I gyrated against him, tongue and pelvis matching rhythm. As the kiss ended, J reached up, gently stroked my hair, then firmly grasped my shoulder and pushed me down, reversing our positions.

Ignoring my hunger or oblivious to it, J langorously slid his fingers down my skin, unbuttoning my shirt and allowing the cold to sweep over my skin. My nipples, already taut, crinkled further, then even more as one received the warm attentions of his tongue, the other teasing flicks from his cold fingers. A long sigh of release and desire escaped my lips.

My attempt to return the favor was rebuffed; J gently but firmly pushed my hands down, then unbuttoned his shirt himself. The warmth of his chest against mine was brief, as J slid down to kiss and caress my breasts again. His other hand glided over my belly to unbutton my jeans.

Still impatient with his pace, I moved to help him pull my jeans down. Wordlessly, J again spurned my action and slowly pushed them down, leaving them as an awkward but effective restraint around my ankles. Finally understanding that J would only proceed as he liked and at the pace he wanted, I lay back and contented myself with teasing his nipples and seeing his growing excitement.

After what seemed an eternity of slow, tender kissing and stroking heightened by the contrast of chill air and warm skin, J removed his jeans and prepared to enter me. I was so wet I could have taken him all in one thrust, but his unhurried pace continued. I began to rock my hips in anticipation of the orgasm building within me, but J pulled out.

Understanding immediately, I ceased my motion, and after an agonizing delay he entered me again.

J’s uncharacteristic slowness focused my full attention on every movement, every touch. Slowly in, not quite fully, then slowly out … all the way out? No, thank god … and again … again … The caress of his hair on my cheek as he bent to kiss me, never altering his rhythm …

I felt suspended in near-rapture, perpetually on the edge of orgasm. Then a slight increase in J’s pace and erection signaled his impending orgasm, tumbling me over the edge in a slow-motion release. His full thrust into me as he came sent me off again … every nerve seemed to transmit my shuddering release. J blanketed me, holding me close as our orgasms finally subsided.

It wasn’t until long afterward, when we were walking back to campus, that I realized J had at last reached his goal of completely clearing my mind of words. Unfortunately, I never told him … and even more unfortunately for me, no other lover has come close to matching that amazing night with J.

Half-Cocked Canadian

Sasha at The Eye devotes part of this week’s advice column to the difficulties of a young man who is missing the glans portion of his penis, and who accordingly has a very difficult time finding sex partners or having an orgasm, even while masturbating. I was a bit disappointed in Sasha’s suggestions, which consisted of one useful suggestion aimed at helping the man find people unlikely to be horrified by his condition, plus three paragraphs aimed at helping him deal with the emotional trauma of having important bits missing. I’m no sex advice columnist, but somehow it seems like what the man could use most is some reliable advice on coming when he wants to.

Not to be too blunt about this, but the poor boy should have asked Dan Savage. A straight guy who knows very much about this is either uncommonly well-read or unusually adventurous, but “the truth is out there“.

Retreating rapidly behind the veil of literary example, there’s a character in Neal Stephenson’s Baroque Cycle called “Half-Cocked Jack” (along with worse things) due to an unfortunate encounter with a fumble-fingered barber, a white-hot iron, and the French Pox. His good fortune it was to fall in with a young but very well-read harem slave-girl from Constantinople. When she observes his deficiency, she’s quick to point out that “certain arts have been taught to me from Books of India.” Later in the book, there’s a scene where she and Jack are lounging in a hot springs:

Eliza laughed gaily. “Fist? Jack, this is but two fingers. A fist would be more like — this!”

Jack felt his body being turned outside in — there was some thrashing and screaming that was cut short when his head accidentally submerged in the sulfurous water. Eliza got a grip on his hair and hauled his head back up into the cold air with her other hand.

“You’re sure this is how they do it in India?”

“Would you like to register … a complaint?”

“Aaugh! Never.”

“Remember, Jack: whenever serious and competant people need to get things done in the real world, all considerations of tradition and protocol fly out the window.”

There followed a long and mysterious procedure — tedious and yet somehow not.

“What’re you groping about for?” Jack muttered faintly. “My gall-bladder is just to the left.”

“I’m trying to locate a certain chakra — should be somewhere around here –”

“What’s a chakra?”

“You’ll know when I find it.”

Some time later, she did, and then the procedure took on greater intensity, to say the least. Suspended between Eliza’s two hands, like a scale in a market-place, Jack could feel his balance-point shifting as quantities of fluids were pumped between internal reservoirs, all in preparation for some Event. Finally, the crisis — Jack’s legs thrashed in the hot water as if his body were trying to flee, but he was staked, impaled. A bubble of numenous light, as if the sun were mistakenly attempting to rise inside his head. Some kind of Hindoo apocalypse played out. He died, went to Hell, ascended into Heaven, was reincarnated as various braying, screeching, and howling beasts, and repeated this cycle many times over. In the end he was reincarnated, just barely, as a Man. Not a very alert one.

“Did you get what you wanted?” she inquired. Very close to him.

Admittedly harem girls from Constantinople aren’t as easy to whistle up as they used to be, but why couldn’t Sasha (herself a serious and competant person) at least have pointed our half-cocked young man toward the purchase a prostate-massaging anal toy?

Similar Sex Blogging:

• The Studfinder Prostate Milking Stick
• Prostate Milking: What It Feels Like

The Nymph In My Net: Making Time To Play

Several of you have emailed with the comment that the blogging here is of a lower quality lately, and I’d cheerfully have to agree. One possible explanation is that frolicking with The Nymph has blunted the keenest part of whatever horny edge I once brought to the sex blogging project. However, for the most part, I blame lack of time. The aforesaid frolicking is certainly a factor, but I’m also engaged in a significant reorganization of what I do to pay my bills. That’s eating a lot of my remaining free time in the short run, but in the long run it should (fingers crossed) free up more time for frolicking, blogging, and general whatnot, while simultaneously (crossing toes now) improving the cash flow picture.

So do please hang in there. I may spend another month or three stuck in this “one desultory link per day” blog mode, but I hope to resume normal service by high summertime.

Baloop, Bump

Last Man Dancing writes regarding the perils of too much vibration. Real fun with a vibrator:

You see, if I love doing one thing in sex, that’s playing my lover’s body like a keyboard. I had picked out my five worst ties and had her firmly tied to the four corners of the bed. On my hand, I had one of those Swedish massagers that straps to the back of the hand. I looked down at her tied to the bed and decided that she looked good enough to eat. I bent down and grabbed a mouthful of her breast and twirled her stiffening nipple with my hot wet tounge. She wiggled and leaned toward me moaning softly as I sucked her breast further into her mouth. As I slid over to suck on her other nipple I gently trace her aerola with the very tip of my saliva slick finger tip. I switched the massager on and grabbed her nipple between my vibrating fingers and squeezed. The little fucker swelled up like a fucking cherry and the Bitch went nuts. She’s lying there moaning and writhing against her ties, fucking the air with her cunt. So I stopped.

You stopped!

What are you fucking nuts?

Yeah, I fucking stopped. Nobody told her she could cum yet.

So I take my buzzy little fingers and go on a little adventure. I slid my vibrating digits and traced a windy road to her mound. Briefly, barely, I gave her clit a brief taste of what was yet to come and made a sharp right down her legs to the bottoms of her feet.

I kept this up for about a half an hour and when I finally got to her pussy, she was so dripping wet that two of my fingers just slid right in and I just squeezed and massaged her g-spot. I reached down and turned the dial up as far as it would go and palpatated The Perfect Bitch goes into what could best be described as a seizure. Her eyes rolled back in her head. She stopped breathing and her body lept about two feet into the air and stayed there as she did a wrestler’s bridge off the bed for a good 20 seconds. She then released, let out 5 or 6 loud “Oh-Oh-OH’s”, and an “uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh” when I asked her if she was okay. She then went stiff and locked up again for another 15 seconds. She comes down and she’s screaming like a banshee fucking my hand. I’m getting a little worried at this point so as ask her “More?” and she keeps nodding and pantiing and jerking her hips whispering “more, more, fuck me more, more, more.” I’ve got 4 meaty fingers up inside of her and she tightens up one last time and she’s writhing and screaming on the bed and her cunt is just squeezing the shit out of my hand in spasm after spasm.

Finally, she just passes out on the bed. She just laid there and didn’t move a muscle. She scared the shit out of me, I had to check if she was still breathing. I untied her. She had pulled so tightly against the restraints she had bruised her wrists. She’d live.

I threw a blanket over her and let her sleep.

A few hours later she woke up and tried to get out of bed to go take a piss. As she tried to stand, her legs gave out from underneath her. I fucking cracked up as she went “baloop, bump” on her naked ass. Her legs were numb and her knees were so weak she couldn’t stand. She complained that she had no feelings below her waist whatsoever. I helped her to the bathroom and she was okay after she started walking around a bit.

Christ, it took me almost an entire week to relearn how to just hold a pencil.

Sniff Your Fingers…And Grin

On a message board I’m not going to link to because of the sheer weight of dumbassed adolescent misogyny over there, some troll posted the following query:

After you finger a girl what do you do to get the smell off your fingers?

Soap and water doesnt usually work….

I dont like shaking ppls hands knowing my hand smells like tuna lol.

Any suggestions?

Most responses were even stupider than the question. However, one grownup posted an answer that really made me grin:

Find a woman whose pussy you love, and you’ll never want to be without her scent on you… ever. Nothing like sniffing your fingers 3 hours after sex and reliving it all over again.

“If you don’t love pussy THIS MUCH you are not big enough to get on this ride.”

Kink From The East

A new (to me) blog called Japaneze (dead link removed) — full of kinky links and small observations, like this one:

Latex examination gloves – every bedroom should have a box. Sadly, some people have a latex allergy and so miss out on the pleasure of rolling on a glove, letting the latex grip your skin before rubbing vaseline on the fingers and probing into a deep dark and tight hole. You know, using latex sometimes just makes it easier for both partners.

The Valley Of Gustatory And Olfactory Delights

There has been talk here before about the excellent tastes and smells of a woman. Although some women worry (needlessly) about how they taste and smell, thankfully others know better:

And for that matter, I’m not pleased with men who do not enjoy my taste. I know what I taste like, and I taste good, clean and crisp and sexy. I am unimpressed by a man who does not enjoy my taste. And really there is no faking it. If you are only willing to touch my pussy with the tip of your tongue I notice and am immediately turned off. There is more to my pussy than my clit for your tongue and my vagina for your cock. And actually while we’re at it the whole nether region is an erogenous zone feel free to explore. I suspect it’s no different for men, but I know that it is not enough for one to have technique; I want to think you are enjoying licking my pussy too. Nothing turns me on more than when a man sticks two or three fingers in my drenched pussy and then sucks the juices off.

Thus spake the Vanilla Sex Goddess.

99 And 44/100ths Percent Soap Free

You think showering is just an efficient way to get clean? You’re missing out on a lot. Here’s how civilized people take a shower:

He crouches and I spread my legs allowing him access to wash me from my hips to my feet, giggling as he tickles my soles and my toes.

When he’s done with my feet, I again turn around so I am facing him. He removes the gloves &amp puts more soap on his hands. I put one foot up on the safety rail. He takes a step forward and slips one hand to my pussy while the other hand slides around my hips to my backside. He twiddles his soapy fingers in, on and around my bijou, being sure to clean every nook and cranny, until I am shuddering with orgasm after orgasm. His other hand has not been idle. He slides one slippery finger into my asshole and in conjunction with his first hand sends me climbing to ever-higher heights of orgasmic bliss until I slump into his arms &amp he must steady me to keep me from falling.
…
I rub the suds into his hair, cupping his balls in one hand and gripping his swelling shaft with the other. I slide my hand to the head of his cock and then back again, holding the foreskin back so that his glans is exposed and I can rub my soapy fingers and palm around its crown. As his cock grows, it becomes easier and easier to wash – less wrinkles! – and he moans with pleasure and leans against the shower wall, sometimes twitching as I touch a more sensitive spot. Back and forth I rub my hands over and around and under his cock and balls, being sure that every bit of it is clean. Finally he rinses – but has he gotten all the soap off? Only one way to tell! I take his cock into my mouth for a “soap check”; I must be 100% certain that everything is soap-free before we can get out of the shower.

Way Hot!

Here’s the beginning of an absolutely sexy prose poem to be found at Black As My Soul:

I wouldn’t want to tie up your legs, necessarily…

Because I love having your thighs on my shoulders while I’m licking and sucking and using my fingers.

Maybe it would be more of a challenge while you tried to keep me away

Tried to keep me from putting my hands on your hips and taking you with my cock…

You calling me a fucker?

Maybe I’ll hold your legs together over one shoulder

Pushing your knees back toward you

Exposing your wet little pussy!

Your body betrays you?

Still holding your legs together.

You’re not getting away.

See this hard cock?

It could be yours.

Maybe I’ll just tease the outside of your wet pussy lips.

Rub your clit slowly with the head of my dick.

That’s not what you want?

Should push my hardness into you?

Just a little?

Spreading you now with my cock.

Stopping to savor the heat inside you…

Yummy!

How To Fuck Up Polyamory

I’ll come right out and say it, I’ve never understood polyamory. To be blunt, I’m not incredibly facile at building and maintaining loving relationships with one person at a time. (Yes, folks, Bacchus is available, and has been for… well… crap, I’m out of fingers and toes, uh… er, for a long time.) Start upping the numbers, and in my limited experience, things get ugly fast.

That “experience”, I will confess, consists of only one single train of events, which unfolded over two years and involved five friends of mine, three of them quite close friends. By the end of the matter two previously happy couplings were history, and I had witnessed a wedding, two divorces, one suicide attempt, several more contemplated suicides, and many many many hours of anguished conversation and tearful soul searching. Nobody, and I do mean nobody, appeared to enjoy much of this process, although the central figure is, or was when last heard from, happily living in a poly family and community on a different coast.

Now, that said, I’m sympathetic to the idea of polyamory. It’s just that I’m pessimistic about its prospects and stability. So I tend to be drawn to accounts of poly lifestyles, and I try to be polite about the fact that my fascination is akin to the fascination of a train-loving bystander at a really juicy train wreck.

Ever since I first linked to Lilith’s Note of the Day, I have noticed that Lilith has interesting stuff to say about the poly lifestyle. Her blog, and the network of linked blogs of some of the people dear to her, make for fascinating reading, at least if you are interested in human relationships and the rich complex ways in which they overlap.

All of which is by way of incredibly long-winded introduction to this item, entitled simply “How to Fuck Up” by Elise Matthesen. Lilith notes that this helpful guide has been circulating since 1997, but she doesn’t personally think it’s gotten quite enough exposure. Of the nine enumerated methods for fucking up, I saw at least seven put to effective use during the one poly train wreck I witnessed. So I’d have to agree, a little more exposure couldn’t hurt. Go read it already, it’s full of gems like Method One:

1. Lie. This is basic and effective. To maximize bad results, lie about something important to the other person(s) and arrange to be caught in the lie in such a way as to produce maximum shock. Additional stress points awarded for keeping the lie going for a while before discovery, which increases the disorientation and sense of betrayal in the deceived person(s). Lying about sex gets double points. Lying about being married gets triple fuck-up points. Creative lies of omission (i.e. “not telling”) with fancy rationalizations and condescension get gold stars.

And now it’s truly the deep dark middle of the night, and time for sleep.

[links removed due to ancient rot]

Olfactory Delights

Michelle at Sweetness Follows bought a new dildo, and Mike, well, this is what Mike did:

“Slipped it in nice and slow, and teased her with it, giving her it in small portions, till the whole thing was inside her.

Tried out the new bottle of lube she bought, slipped my finger in her ass, and she moaned that it was on “that spot”. Kept rubbing, and fucked her with her toy, and well, she squirted.

Love that taste – still smell it on my fingers a bit…”

It’s funny, word is some women don’t like guys to lick them because they worry about the taste and smell. I can’t understand this, there’s nothing better in all the world. When I’ve got that lovely girl scent all over my face and chin and so forth, I can’t bring myself to wash my face. I’ll walk around all day, catching hints of that smell at unexpected moments and grinning like a fool every time.

Trust me, ladies — it’s not a problem.

Similar Sex Blogging:

• Momo Analyzes Her Shio
• Female Ejaculation, The Susie Bright Take
• Sniff Your Fingers...And Grin

More Nestle Bon Bons Will Do The Trick

I am home sick today. Head cold, yucky but not too miserable. Yesterday, on my way home early to take a nap, I stopped to grab some liquids and a pint of ice cream for comfort food. Wound up with a little tub of Nestle Bon Bons, which are rich little nuggets of vanilla ice cream dipped in a chocolate shell. The ice cream is heavily whipped with air so it’s soft as silk even at freezer temperature, and the chocolate shell is thin, fragile, and apt to break or melt in your fingers during the brief journey from tub to mouth. Both ice cream and chocolate are very yummy.

Gentlemen, I’m telling you, these things are sex pills!

So far that’s an untested theory. But I’m convinced. Get a tub of these things and sit down on a couch next to any woman. If she has even the slightest touch of warm inclination toward you, or feels she should, and you play your cards right, you should have her eating out of your hand (literally) inside of three minutes.

Better yet, since these things are fragile and melty and too good to let go to waste, there’s going to be some licking of (at least) fingers within another two minutes.

Lick her sticky fingers. Get her to lick yours. Tease her with a bon bon, put it between your lips instead of into her mouth. Crack the chocolate shell visibly with a light-but-firm press of your lips so that the ice cream starts to melt along with the chocolate shell. If she kisses you at this time, give the bon bon back. If not, feed her another one, but slowly….

Dammit, if you have to be a peacock, be a good one!

As soon as this head cold clears up I’m going to have to find me a lady friend with whom to experiment. The Nestle Bon Bon theory of seduction must be tested.

Quaint Country Sayings

Said to be from the north of England, your agrarian aphorism for the day is “Old enough to bleed, old enough to butcher.” Referring, of course, to the idea that a woman who is old enough to menstruate is old enough to have sex.

There aren’t enough fingers and toes to enumerate all the ways in which that aphorism strikes modern sensibilities as politically incorrect. But this sex blog is on record as being, at least, concerned by the fact that our society attempts to condemn sexually adult young people to years of sexless frustration. It’s worth remembering that this attempt is not universal, nor even particularly common, across a greater spectrum of human societies.

Wesson Oil Sex

From the self-described Dirty Whore, this entertaining story of the fun you can have with cooking oil:

We stumbled back to his apartment but stopped at the 7-11 to pick up a bottle of Wesson oil. I ripped down his shower curtain and spread it on the living room floor. I pulled off my clothes and he poured the oil all over my body then joined me on the plastic sheet. Hands slid over each other — the oil felt marvelous — and before I even put my fingers on him, he was hard as a rock. I got onto my hands and knees as he fingerfucked my pussy and slipped an oily finger into my ass. Then two. I moaned, not feeling much pain thanks to the alcohol and Wesson. He entered me quickly, his rigid cock slipping up my virgin hole as our oily bodies slid against each other. The feeling as he moved, my ass tight as a fist around him, was incredible. He exploded inside me, shooting his cum deep into my bowels. I loved it!

It’s a remarkable blog with some interesting stories.

A Little EverQuest Porn

EverQuest Porn? You betcha!

Setting the scene:

The morning in Kelethin was crisp as always. High in the treetops the temperature was much cooler than down on the forest floor. Sunshine speared it’s way into the lofty wooden structures in narrow rays and sharp angles. Bird chirps and wolf cries filled the air in a gentle cacophony.

And occasionally, a mysterious song could be heard.

It took skill to hear it; you could only listen for it among the other sounds of nature if you knew precisely what you were listening for. Visitors to the vast Faydark never gave a second thought to the melodic wailing which seemed to whisper through the trees on occasion, the quiet cry never lasting much more than a minute or two, and always blending as though it were nothing more than the call of an owl, or the howl of a wolf.

But the Elves knew the sound and when one of them listened carefully, paid very close attention, they would hear the infrequent melody. A quiet, high-pitched tune, different every time, like a long feminine sigh that varied it’s pitch just enough to distinguish itself as musical. Then they would smile knowingly and go about their business.

And then getting down to business:

“Take me ” she whispered. “I will warm you both ”

With only a few languid strokes, she felt them grow hard at her touch. She briefly wondered why Barbarians never seemed to freeze in the arctic when they nothing beneath their kilts, but the thoughts were wiped from her mind as she suddenly felt their hands upon her. Big, strong hands, grasping her bare shoulders, their huge palms and fingers nearly covering her entire upper arms. She felt herself laid on her side.
…
“AH!” she cried out. He was so huge, his cock filling her delicate elven body completely. He was as hard as wood, and glided easily within her moistness. Tremors of pleasure rippled through her body.

At the same time, she finally felt the warm, nude body of the second Barbarian pressed up behind her. Joe’s body nestled against her own, his warm chest finally covering her back, chasing away the chilling air. His thighs rested just beneath hers, warming her even more. His arm draped over her hip, holding her steady while Gregor rhythmically slid in and out of her, his thick cock stretching her nether lips tight around it. “Yes Yes ” she grunted with each of his thrusts. Behind her, she felt Joe’s finger slide further back along her bottom, gently spreading her wetness along her tender flesh, pressing gently between her buttocks, into her tender hole.

“OH . OH TUNARE!!!” she cried out as she felt Joe slide his finger gently inside her forbidden region. She felt so very filled by the both of them, and they moved in time now, in and out, in and out. Gregor’s cock from in front, Joe’s finger from behind. It felt so perfect, her body was awash with sensations, the nipping cold still stinging her skin wherever and whenever it was uncovered, the fiery warmth of the two strong Barbarians around her, the wonderful sensations coming from her filled wetness and her behind. Her body shifted with each stroke, moving in time with each of their thrusts, over and over, the pleasure inside her building, and building…

Cooperative Multiplayer Gaming

This story about a console game that ships with a “trance vibrator” attachment is old news, apparently, but the link from Mt. Molelog is fresh.

What’s topical for ErosBlog is the, er, cooperative potential:

We sat side my side on our makeshift couch, I with the trance vibrator and Justin with the controller. As the levels got more advanced, so did the vibrations… revving up to an intense pulsing throbbing…

[later]

“But don’t you think this trance vibrator extension is so your girlfriend can get off while you’re playing the game? Or so a girl gamer can get off while she’s playing the game?”

“It was a bit odd,” said Justin, “my fingers were working the controls, but they were also kind of working you.”

Hungry? No? You Will Be…

Rebecca is having a dessert fantasy:

“I am imagining the sheer desire and eroticism of laying in between the layers of a Boston Cream Pie slice. Slipping my naked body into the cool custard, feeling it coat my hardened nipples like a lover’s I-just-drank-some-cold-water tongue. Pinned down by cake and chocolate ganache, pressing my ass deeper into the custard until it parts my ruby lips, sending shivers up my spine. I wiggle. I moan. I lick my fingers and drift off into a hazy sugary sleep on a cold winter’s night.”