|
|
The Sex Blog Of Record
Wednesday, December 13th, 2017 -- by Bacchus
From an imaginary West that can only ever have existed in the fevered mind of the unknown cover artist for French pulp magazine Hypersexy, meet a heroine whose idea of practical Western wear runs to bare breasts, a lot of fringe, and a gun belt:
Art is from the covers of Hypersexy #19, #26, and #27.
Tuesday, April 11th, 2017 -- by Bacchus
Meet Dirk. He wears leather with aplomb:
According to Spanking Blog, this is Dirk Bogarde, playing a ruthless Mexican bandit in the 1961 movie The Singer Not The Song. Any volunteers to ruth him up a little bit?
Similar Sex Blogging:
Monday, November 17th, 2014 -- by Bacchus
This is a photo by Annie Liebowitz for Vanity Fair, back in 1995.
Similar Sex Blogging:
Sunday, December 14th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
It’s true! True at my house, anyway. I try hard not to junk up this blog with commercial messages, but when holiday deadlines loom, making a sex toys order is too much fun to pass up.
Coal and Switches: For lumps of coal, you’re on your own. But if she (or he) has been naughty, and it’s too much trouble to go out and cut some switches, how about letting them find the festive red handle of a short red riding crop sticking out of their Christmas morning stocking?
Get a Grip: In extreme cases, where naughtiness is not yet accompanied by contrition, you may find that you also need the matching red leather leash and collar:
Christmas Crackdown: Unfortunately, the leather riding crop may prove too gentle (and fun!) to deal with the sort of serious Christmas trouble you’ve got. If it’s just not stern enough to meet your needs, there’s a more severe, but still festive, alternative: the candy-red silicone Lolly Crop ought to fix you right up.
Exeunt: My work here is done. Ho ho ho!
Similar Sex Blogging:
Saturday, December 13th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
Blogs and mainstream media alike are exploding with encomia for the late great Bettie Page. Seeing as how she was, and always will be, a visual icon, it seems to me her memory is best celebrated in pictures:
Saturday, October 11th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
I don’t do very many pure “go buy some shit” blog posts, because it’s very easy for sex blogs to go overboard that way. But sometimes I see something that’s just too deliciously bizarre not to point out.
Anyway, last night I went surfing to see what was new in sex toys, and what I discovered instead was new sexy stuff in the masks and BDSM hoods areas.
What caught my eyes in particular were these expensive, spectacular, and surreal leather bunny hoods, in black or white:
(Sadly the carrot dildo is not included.)
Continuing in the animal vein, check out this scary-but-very-handsome zippered dog-face hood:
You may or may not find these sexy, but you’ve got to admit they catch the eye!
Sunday, August 31st, 2008 -- by Bacchus
An alert reader sent me this link to a Craigslist post featuring what looks like a semi-nude (one boob) shot of vice-presidential candidate Sarah Palin in her beauty queen days, complete with huge 1980s hair.
The nude picture was found in company with this pageant bikini-contest shot:
Is this Palin? I dunno. It could be a random brunette with “Alaska” photoshopped onto the banner. It could be her. I just dunno.
Moving along to the nude picture you’ve all been waiting for:
Now, understand, I’m terrible with faces. My face recognizer is so bad that I don’t recognize my friends at the grocery store, half the time. And to me, this grainy black-and-white face doesn’t jump out as “obviously” Sarah Palin — either the current mother of five or the pageant beauty we saw yesterday. It’s just some random brunette showing a breast.
But if we believe the bikini shot…
It’s a clever sort of misdirection. Similar backgrounds, same white drape, similar hair. But to my eye, the face is much more bland. I can’t say it’s the same girl; I don’t think it’s the same girl. But, you know, it maybe could be, if a guy wanted to believe badly enough.
While still trying to decide whether I had a picture worth showing you, I moved my attention to the awesome hot leather miniskirt photo in the same Craigslist post. I was suspicious of that one; Palin is not that tall and her legs aren’t quite that thunderous. Final nail in the coffin: The Museum of Hoaxes has the source photo that Palin’s headshot was chopped from.
From there, I followed links through a ValleyWag story to this photoshop contest page, where, hey guess what? They have the nude picture already! It turns out to be an old internet photo widely circulated as being a nude photo of some celebrity I’ve never heard of, one Julia Louis Dreyfus. And even then, the majority of the sites showing it advertise it as a fake — so it may not even be Ms. Dreyfus.
I deem it unlikely that a nude photograph of Sarah Palin has been circulating for years on the internet, being deliberately mis-labeled as a Julia Louis Dreyfus nude. I guess it’s a theoretical possibility, but if I were you I’d be more worried about flying monkeys shooting out of John McCain’s ass.
Bottom line, folks: You can’t believe just anything you see on the internet. This will not be the last “nude Sarah Palin” picture we see. It may not even be the last nude Sarah Palin photo you see on ErosBlog. But the next time you see one, it would be good to remain skeptical.
To be honest, the most interesting photo to me is the bikini one of the girl with the “Alaska” sash. Is that Palin? Finding it in company with Photoshops makes me skeptical, but it’s an attractive photo (actually, video screen capture I believe) and I’d enjoy having it confirmed.
As always when Photoshop enters a discussion on ErosBlog, commenters need to remember that I am ruthless about deleting expressions of insupportable certitude. Opinions and arguments are welcome, but absolute claims and excessive certainty (“that’s obviously fake”, “Of course that’s real”) are rude and foolish and will be moderated away.
Thursday, June 26th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
I just discovered that Kink.com has a “free hardcore kink” thumbnails page [update: used to have] where you get get a sort of running view of all the recent updates they’ve done across all their sites, with direct links into a bunch of the free sample galleries like the ones I sometimes link to here. Clicking around on that page got me this “fun with leather belts” image that I thought was visually very striking. But then again, I’ve always been fond of fine old leather:
From Whipped Ass. The full LeiLani shoot has a larger version of the photo.
Similar Sex Blogging:
Thursday, March 27th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
Some long while ago, when I was a young and bookish and entirely virgin lad, I stumbled across the old truism “all brides are beautiful.” Being a literal sort, my first reaction was “that’s nonsense!” I’m not sure I’d ever even been to a wedding at that point in my life, but I was confident I’d seen unattractive women who would surely marry. However, as I grew older and wiser and more experienced, I came to appreciate the logic of the thing, especially its similarity to that hoary old chestnut and maxim of firearms safety: “There’s no such thing as an unloaded firearm.”
With a particular bride or a particular firearm, it might be possible to raise a literal objection; there are, in a literal sense, firearms with empty chambers, and there might be, in a literal sense, brides whose beauty cannot be limned by describing their physical attributes. But the social utility of the claim, in either case, must entirely overwhelm and sweep away any crabbed literal objections; and the man who cannot understand this, ought not to be allowed near a firearm or a woman, either one.
Having reached that stage in my moral and social development, the notion then struck me: Why do we limit this maxim of beauty to brides alone? No obvious reason presenting itself, I resolved that there must, indeed, be no such thing as an ugly woman. And for the most part, I’ve found it to be true.
Which brings me now to the latest barrage launched by Violet Blue against the tirelessly undead troll armies of the Internet. I’d hate to have people think that I’m just YAVBF (that would be Yet Another Violet Blue Fanboy, and yes, I have been accused of this by my own small half-platoon of trolls), but I am often in awe of her unique brand of combative courage. This time she takes on all the morons who enjoy what I’ve called crapping all over beauty, and she pulls no punches:
Every woman on the Internet gets called slutty and ugly and fat (to put it lightly) no matter what; all we have to be is female. In dinner conversation, my friend Lori reminded me of the Oscar Wilde quote, “Give a man a mask, and he’ll tell you the truth.” I restated it for the Internet, replying, “Give a man a mask, and he’ll slit your throat.” The application here is, “Give a man (or a woman) an anonymous account, and he’ll eviscerate your self-esteem.”
The problem is, with so many women I talk to, the trolling is effective. The number of times I’ve talked down a crying girlfriend after she’s been trolled in her comments about being fat, ugly, skanky, slutty or stupid is higher than I can count (no matter what she writes about). Trolls watch too much mainstream porn and TV, and believe stereotypes are real; they slap us with it and then we believe it, too. We compare ourselves to overly thin models, actresses, and porn stars, and it messes with our self-image and our ability to express ourselves sexually, and especially to enjoy sex.
She also quotes Margaret Cho:
In Margaret Cho’s “Beautiful” tour, she talks about recently being on a radio show and having the host ask her point-blank, live, on the air, “What if you woke up one day, and you were beautiful?” When asked, he defined beautiful as blonde, thin, large-breasted, a porno stereotype. Cho says, “Just think of what life is like for this poor guy. There’s beauty all around him in the world, and he can only see the most narrow definition of it.”
Poor guy, indeed. Has he not seen the way Margaret Cho can fill a leather jumpsuit? I’m no LOLcat, but I known a NOM NOM NOM scenario when I see one.
Similar Sex Blogging:
Wednesday, December 5th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
The Christmas Shopping Season is upon us, and I’ve begun to realize it’s time and past time to make my online shopping orders. The Nymph having an automatic “it’s pink? squeeee!” reaction that impairs her saving throws against my evil plans, I surfed over to The Twisted Monk to see if the long-awaited pink bondage rope ever made it into his permanent inventory. (Answer: yes. My evil plan is complete, muah ha ha!)
However much fun we might have with the Monk’s custom ropes (and you’ve got to love a bondage rope merchant who includes a free pair of emergency shears with every order) I have to admit that a shortage of bondage ropes (or any other sex toy goodies, for that matter) is not the biggest problem at Casa Bacchus. No, the biggest problem is that sex toys come rattling out from under the couch when a guest sits down on it, or there’s a leather paddle that came in the review mail sitting on the coffee table when somebody’s aunt shows up unannounced. In a word, I can never have enough discrete toyboxes, toy bags, and the like. Plus, I love wooden boxes, and old-fashioned containers of all kinds. (Sometimes I’m tempted to start a distillery, just so I can have all those lovely oak barrels.) So, naturally enough, the Twisted Monk 2007 Holiday Gift Box caught my eye. It’s a pine box with a lid (semi-discreet, in that it’s branded with the Twisted Monk bondage logo) that comes with a rope kit and a DVD of Monk’s instructional bondage videos. Monk calls them “boxes of potential orgasms”, especially after his customers started writing in and ordering other merchandise (bondage books, naughty undies) to be included in the gift boxes before shipping.
What, you think that sounds like good service? That’s nothing, nothing I tell you! You should read about the customer who wanted the Twisted Monk Boyshorts, but only if Monk would “maybe step on the panties” with his “sexy boots”. Result: one sexy (because the customer is always right) boot print:
And to think, I was just looking for a pretty bit of rope!
Monday, November 12th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
I admit it, it’s a fool’s errand trying to understand fetishes not your own. Too often it’s a hard-wiring issue: a fetish is a fetish and that’s that, no explanation possible or required.
That said, some fetishes are more mysterious to me than others. Take, for instance, the humble straight jacket:
Outside the world inhabited by violent inmates, the point of this garment sort of eludes me. Sure, it’s a bondage thing, a helplessness and (unless you’re Harry Houdini) hard-to-escape kink. But, sexual-fetish-wise, what’s the point of getting somebody all tied up if, once you’ve done it, you can’t hardly get at them?
And that’s where the implacable march of technology comes in. The world’s more intrepid sexual adventurers have invented what they are calling The Bolero Straitjacket:
Sez the catalog copy:
Sexy. Sensuous. Functional. What more could you ask for in a straitjacket? How about stylish, innovative and chic?
The Bolero Straitjacket is all of these and more in a cropped strait jacket made of high quality, light and medium weight garment leather, latigo belting and nickel-plated hardware.
Like a traditional straitjacket, it has a buckling collar and back closures in addition to the extra long glove-like sleeves that extend beyond the fingertips. The sleeves end with a small rectangular ring on one and a strap on the other.
The features that make it unique are its cropped length and the vertically and horizontally adjustable chest strap which leave nearly the entire chest and back exposed. The proper positioning assured by the cropped feature and the adjustable chest strap makes the traditional crotch strap unnecessary without sacrificing functionality as a restraint.
And just like that, boom! Problem solved. Erotic bondage will never be the same. Available in no less than four sizes for your binding pleasure.
(Sultry brunette not included.)
Similar Sex Blogging:
Thursday, August 2nd, 2007 -- by Bacchus
As you all know, I filter the comments aggressively. Anybody with a blog knows about automated comment spammers who drop various text nuggets designed to pass as real comments.
I thought this one was worth pulling out and sharing, because it appears to be human-written rather than purely machine generated (which is to say, it isn’t just random keywords slung together), and because its narrative is classic old-school bitch-slut-whore porn marketing, the sort of thing this sex blog exists in reaction against:
When it comes to porn bitches with big tits getting their cunts and asses stretched and stuffed by huge dicks and getting their faces and jugs covered by hot spunk, Ava Devine has almost no equal. A regular on [url deleted] and [url deleted], Ava is one cock loving, cum loving, fuck loving slut. Whether she’s getting double penetrated or just getting drilled by massive meat, I swear this girl’s pussy has seen more action in the dirt and taken more of a pounding than a U.S. Marine. What a whore. I really think that she, along with wonderfully like-minded souls Carmella Bing and Shyla Stylez, are among the leaders of the pack when it comes to no-frills, low glamour, raw, hardcore porn. Ava Devine loves fucking and really doesn’t give a fuck what people think. This bitch should be a hero. See the action for yourself at [url deleted].
I cannot deny that Ava is sexy, but whence the leap from that to bitch, slut, and whore? I always wonder what these guys are thinking. Is this how they really feel about porn stars? Or is it merely how they think their intended audience feels?
Similar Sex Blogging:
Monday, March 5th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
I have a confessed weakness for antique smut, so I was delighted when Chelsea Girl at Pretty Dumb Things linked to (as part of her own fine salute to the humble dildo) a raunchy dildo poem that’s a mere 335 years old. Like any poem a third of a millennium old, it cannot avoid seeming quaint, and the political satires that once gave the poem life are now every bit as dead as the targets thereof. To the modern reader the poem may labor mightily under these burdens, but it’s still a refreshing reminder that smut is not a modern invention:
Signior Dildo
(1673)
by Lord John Wilmot
You ladies of merry England
Who have been to kiss the Duchess’s hand,
Pray, did you not lately observe in the show
A noble Italian called Signior Dildo?
This signior was one of the Duchess’s train
And helped to conduct her over the main;
But now she cries out, ‘To the Duke I will go,
I have no more need for Signior Dildo.’
At the Sign of the Cross in St James’s Street,
When next you go thither to make yourselves sweet
By buying of powder, gloves, essence, or so,
You may chance to get a sight of Signior Dildo.
You would take him at first for no person of note,
Because he appears in a plain leather coat,
But when you his virtuous abilities know,
You’ll fall down and worship Signior Dildo.
My Lady Southesk, heaven prosper her for’t,
First clothed him in satin, then brought him to court;
But his head in the circle he scarcely durst show,
So modest a youth was Signior Dildo.
The good Lady Suffolk, thinking no harm,
Had got this poor stranger hid under her arm.
Lady Betty by chance came the secret to know
And from her own mother stole Signior Dildo.
The Countess of Falmouth, of whom people tell
Her footmen wear shirts of a guinea an ell,
Might save that expense, if she did but know
How lusty a swinger is Signior Dildo.
By the help of this gallant the Countess of Rafe
Against the fierce Harris preserved herself safe;
She stifled him almost beneath her pillow,
So closely she embraced Signior Dildo.
The pattern of virtue, Her Grace of Cleveland,
Has swallowed more pricks than the ocean has sand;
But by rubbing and scrubbing so wide does it grow,
It is fit for just nothing but Signior Dildo.
Our dainty fine duchesses have got a trick
To dote on a fool for the sake of his prick,
The fops were undone did their graces but know
The discretion and vigour of Signior Dildo.
The Duchess of Modena, though she looks so high,
With such a gallant is content to lie,
And for fear that the English her secrets should know,
For her gentleman usher took Signior Dildo.
The Countess o’th’Cockpit (who knows not her name?
She’s famous in story for a killing dame),
When all her old lovers forsake her, I trow,
She’ll then be contented with Signior Dildo.
Red Howard, red Sheldon, and Temple so tall
Complain of his absence so long from Whitehall.
Signior Barnard has promised a journey to go
And bring back his countryman, Signior Dildo.
Doll Howard no longer with His Highness must range,
And therefore is proferred this civil exchange:
Her teeth being rotten, she smells best below,
And needs must be fitted for Signior Dildo.
St Albans with wrinkles and smiles in his face,
Whose kindness to strangers becomes his high place,
In his coach and six horses is gone to Bergo
To take the fresh air with Signior Dildo.
Were this signior but known to the citizen fops,
He’d keep their fine wives from the foremen o’their shops;
But the rascals deserve their horns should still grow
For burning the Pope and his nephew, Dildo.
Tom Killigrew’s wife, that Holland fine flower,
At the sight of this signior did fart and belch sour,
And her Dutch breeding the further to show,
Says, ‘Welcome to England, Mynheer Van Dildo.’
He civilly came to the Cockpit one night,
And proferred his service to fair Madam Knight.
Quoth she, ‘I intrigue with Captain Cazzo;
Your nose in mine arse, good Signior Dildo.’
This signior is sound, safe, ready, and dumb
As ever was candle, carrot, or thumb;
Then away with these nasty devices, and show
How you rate the just merit of Signior Dildo.
Count Cazzo, who carries his nose very high,
In passion he swore his rival should die;
Then shut himself up to let the world know
Flesh and blood could not bear it from Signior Dildo.
A rabble of pricks who were welcome before,
Now finding the porter denied them the door,
Maliciously waited his coming below
And inhumanly fell on Signior Dildo.
Nigh wearied out, the poor stranger did fly,
And along the Pall Mall they followed full cry;
The women concerned from every window
Cried, ‘For heaven’s sake, save Signior Dildo.’
The good Lady Sandys burst into a laughter
To see how the ballocks came wobbling after,
And had not their weight retarded the foe,
Indeed’t had gone hard with Signior Dildo.
Wednesday, January 24th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
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:
Monday, January 15th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
By all accounts, Seattle’s lucky to have the The Wet Spot, a sex-positive community center that hosts all manner of adult events and classes. But you know, somebody has got to have the keys, and use of the facilities after hours. That somebody, it turns out, is Executive Director Allena Gabosh, who writes on her blog about
…a great evening a few weeks ago with my boy, alex. He’s such a “cat”. Sometimes he’s in the mood, sometimes he’s not. This time he was. His masochist came out to play. At my request he wore sexy disposable clothing and after I tied him up over a spanking bench, I slowly cut off his clothes and bit, licked, spanked and caned each body part that I exposed. And that was just his warm up.
Later I had him on the bondage bed (we were at The Wet Spot after hours.) After beating his ass with his least favorite toy, I turned him over and played with his cock, wrapping it in his favorite leather cock ring and attaching it to my tens unit. Every time I turned up the tens unit he jumped and I sucked and kissed his cock. Pretty soon his pain and pleasure responses became all jumbled up. :) This got me super horny, so I climbed on top of him and he gave me a great orgasm while I continued to torture his penis.
Then the Grand Finale! Two needles through his nipples. Then the best part, cuddling and making him feel good again (he doesn’t like needles).
Hmmm. That was a fun night.
Via the Electrosex Blog.
Tuesday, December 19th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
For me, a Christmas stocking just isn’t a proper Christmas stocking if it doesn’t have some kind of sexy toy in it. Not even if it’s vinyl and has a heel:
So anyway, I had high hopes of doing a substantial and official ErosBlog sex toy Christmas Guide this year. But, sadly for my grand plan, I found myself responsible for some unanticipated family care-giving this December, and the big sex toy blogging plans have suffered. Suddenly I discover it’s December 19, I haven’t done any Christmas shopping at all, and the ship-in-time-for-Christmas dates have passed at almost all of my favorite online sex toy emporia. Drat!
However, all is not lost. My favorite online purveyor of sex toys ships so fast that there’s still plenty of time, if you don’t dawdle. Better yet, every year they have a “SeXmas” sale. It’s always got good discounts, too.
You can (of course) go kinky if you want to — how about a satin blindfold in Santa Claus Red?
But kinky is not required. They have every imaginable sex toy to tickle your fancy (or hers, or his).
Kinky not required, I said. But if it’s kinky you want, this place is the undisputed king of kinky. Forget crops and whips and leather cuffs. Did you ever imagine what you’d get if you took one of those paper Chinese finger trap toys and re-engineered it, using stainless steel wire, as a device for imprisoning penises?
Of course you did. Or maybe not. They think of these things so you won’t have to.
Anyway, behold! The Wire Cock Trap:
That’s not something everybody with a penis to play with is gonna want, no. But it would fit nicely in a stocking. And think of the the fun when he pulls it out and holds it up, all puzzled, and says “What’s this thing, and what’s it for?”
“Hold still, dear, and I’ll show you.”
Fair warning: you might wind up late for Christmas dinner at dear old Grandma’s house. And aren’t happy delays like that the best Christmas present of all?
Tuesday, September 5th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Wow, is this kinky or what?
On wednesday, I will walk up to one end of a long line of men. Sometimes there are women, but it’s always mostly men. They are there to watch me, and I am there to be watched. I start at one end, smile at the first man I encounter, and begin. Slowly. Carefully, I take off my glasses and fold them neatly, just like my nighttime bedroom ritual. Then I lean over and unzip one long black platform boot, and then the other. I present each piece of footwear as proof — as if the sudden shortness in my height, and its message of vulnerability isn’t evidence enough. I am now smaller, more feminine, and a little more helpless. I take off my earrings, my necklace, deliberately placing the girlish silver with my glasses. I’m usually still smiling now, because it’s time to take off my belt. I know what’s going to happen. I unbuckle the metal and leather, sliding the belt through its loops around my waist, which serves to loosen my pants and move the denim to and fro as I work the belt free. The top straps of my g-string always peek out; I can’t help this. I unzip my hoodie and peel it off, revealing the light cotton tank top I always wear. And even though it makes no sense, I always take off my stripey arm warmers, because if I don’t, they *make me* take them off. So I do it in a subtly slow demonstration, one opera-length glovelet at a time. Next, and last, I unclip my hair, letting my almost waist-length black and blonde locks down over my now-bare shoulders and arms.
They all watch. Then I wait for their commands, and their approval. I do what they say, unconditionally, and this is an unspoken agreement between me and the men. Hardly a word is said, and I make sure to smile as I softly pad past all eyes, which are on me, even if just for a flicker or two. Then at the end of the line, I slowly dress — I like to take my time putting my clothes back on.
That’s Violet Blue — well, anybody, really — going through airport security. As she explains:
[W]hat I related to you above is very much my experience when I go through security…. [W]hen you think about it, the modern process of going through pre-boarding security has far more kinky sexual elements than it should. Here’s why:
* You have to undress.
* While you undress, you are being watched and sized up.
* It’s a power-exchange scenario.
* Lots of uniforms.
* You are totally vulnerable, and it is humiliating.
* You are exposing intimate details of your person and dress in front of dozens of strangers.
* Your submission is unspoken, it is a rule, and it is unconditional. Your submission is for public consumption.
* There is a constant threat that a stranger will touch you. They can touch you anywhere, and in your most intimate places if they want to.
* There is an undercurrent and tension that they will open your posessions and touch your private items, such as your underwear, clean or dirty.
* It is nonconsensual. And in garden-variety BDSM practice, even this is forbidden territory.
As well it should be, in BDSM and at the airport.
Tuesday, April 4th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Oh, my. I was checking out a favorite place to shop for sex toys when I noticed they sell fitted leather sheets. King sized ones, even, if you’ve got the simoleans for it:
Leather freakin’ sheets. Just the feel would be sensuous enough. But as you and yours get all hot and sweaty and those sheets start to moisten and warm up, the room would fill with that lovely leather smell, and it would get all over the both of you, too. You’d be buried in the scent of leather.
Can you imagine? Breathe…. Mmmmmm.
Not cheap, no indeedy not. But I think I might just have to get me some.
Similar Sex Blogging:
Saturday, February 18th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
This is a post about two smiles:
Those are the two smiles of the lovely Sarah Blake, who does bondage modeling for Hogtied.com. I want you to look at those smiles and study the differences between them. No matter if you’re kinky or vanilla (but especially if you’re vanilla) I want you to remember those smiles the next time you hear a preacher or a politician ranting and raving against the evils of sadomasochism, sexual depravity, and sadistic abuse. He’s talking about Sarah and her delicious, joyful smile.
All the pictures in this post come from this shoot, which you can view for yourself if you want to see Sarah tied up and, er, entertained, in some astonishing ways. I’m not going to reproduce those pictures here, although I will be describing the entertainment. All I’m showing you are her smiles (and one gasp of ecstasy.)
Let’s start with the first smile:
This is the “before” picture, taken at the beginning of the photo shoot. It’s a pretty smile — Sarah’s a pretty woman — but it’s a professional model’s smile. A little bit forced, a lot posed, and as artificial as a flower arrangement. This could be the yearbook photo, the portfolio photo, even the drivers license photo. This smile started when Sarah was young, and you can still see in it the obedient girl who learned what to do when the nice man behind the camera told her to smile.
Sarah covers a lot of kinky miles between that smile and the next one.
If you view more of the shoot, you’ll see Sarah with her ankles crossed and tied in front of her chin. Her miniskirt has puddled around her hips, but her panties are still on, so it’s a fairly innocent bondage image. Sarah’s wild ride is just beginning.
Moving rapidly along, we soon see her in the same pose without her undies, with a glass vacuum jar firmly secured to her tenderest bits. The ride accelerates; in another view, she’s on her knees wearing a heavy wooden set of stocks, with her pony tail tied back to — is there a nicer word for this device? — a butt hook that’s securely hooked in (you guessed it) her butt. The rear view of the same scene shows some welts where she’s been caned.
Moving along. In the next view, she’s been stood up, and a metal-pipe-and-ball-gag arrangement has been affixed to her wooden stocks to complicate her life. Some nipple clips with heavy round lead fishing weights are being clamped onto her nipples. When the cameraman steps back, we can see that she’s balanced on tiptoes, with a pole-and-dildo arrangement to encourage her to stay there.
The next couple of photos show a new scene, with Sarah on her stomach in a tight hogtie on two butcher-block tables. Her hands and feet are pressed and tied together, there’s a suspension rope around her elbows pulling her up in what have to be uncomfortable ways, and she’s wearing a red ball gag in a harness that’s making her drool.
*CLICK* Now she’s on her side, in rope bondage, with clothespins on her nipples and a big vibrator working her tender bits.
*CLICK* Now she’s in suspension — an astonishing upside-down posture that looks like gymnastics, only much sexier. Still with clothespins on her nipples.
Moving on. The website describes and explains the next scene thusly:
Sarah also has a tragic secret, she cannot stop cumming if she is stuck on a vibrator. So viewers, be warned! The last scene is a long intense forced orgasm scene until Sarah is vibrated senseless.
What we see is a hard wooden chair with a big vibrator duct-taped to it. Sarah’s strapped onto the chair (and the vibrator) with some well-worn and very-impressive-looking leather belts. She’s clearly enjoying herself, if a bit lost in the sensation:
So what’s been the point of all this lurid description? Quite simply this. Unless you’re a serious bondage fiend, someone who plays hard and invests serious time and money into your dungeon equipment, I’ve probably described more than you’re comfortable with. If you’ve got no interest in bondage, if you’ve never even seen a pair of fuzzy handcuffs, you might be pretty horrified by most of what I’ve described. If you’ve played at bedroom bondage, own one pair of cuffs and a riding crop, you might be fascinated by some of the pictures but scared or repelled by others of them. If you’re seriously kinky and have a home dungeon of your own, you might appreciate most or all the photos, but even then there’s probably something that’s not quite your cup of tea, or that’s too risky or troublesome to be worth trying in your book. But, whereever you fall on that spectrum, and however sincerely you might say of one of the depicted activities “that’s not for me”, I want you to focus on the last picture in the photoset, Sarah wearing nothing but her rope marks. Here’s Sarah’s exhausted-but-exhilarated second smile:
That’s not just a smile, it’s a grin. There’s more joy and enthusiasm and life in that photo than there is in a dozen of the professional smiles we saw at the top. Sarah, despite having suffered through some intensely uncomfortable bondage positions, has had a wonderful time.
And that visible joy, my friends, is what the Grundies want to kill when they rail against “sadism, masochism, and abuse.” I suppose they don’t even know about the joy — they may honestly think it’s all about objectification and degradation and money and feelthy perverts — but I don’t want you, dear readers, to have the same excuse. You’ve seen the two smiles. Now you know.
The next time you hear somebody railing against the feelthy perverts, you’re to remember the smiles. Even if the specific activity under discussion grosses you out, because it’s not your kink and you can’t understand why it could be anyone’s, remember the smiles. Remember Sarah’s visible joy. We don’t need to understand or appreciate a kink to understand that smile.
Similar Sex Blogging:
Wednesday, February 1st, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Audacia Ray says so:
I’m going to make a bold statement here: a bunch of dudes on a whaling boat is even sexier than a bunch of pirates on a pirate ship. Is it total heresy for me to speak against the undeniable hotness of pirates? Perhaps, but I swear it’s the goddamned truth. I mean, pirates are awesome and wear rad outfits and are swashbucklingly violent and all, but whaling dudes are all butch, they get filthy, their skin gets all tough and leathery, and they thrust their harpoons into the whale again and again, in and out, until its hot quivering flesh is still.
Hmm, I never thought about it quite that way….
Thursday, October 20th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
There’s something fascinating about watching an articulate fetishist of ordinary objects describe his (or her .. but it’s usually “his”) fetish. When the fetish is common enough to be deliberately recognized, acknowledged, and sexualized in mainstream media or porn (as with leather, rubber, shoes, pantyhose, and the like) the effect is lessened by our own recognition of the fetish; we can see a pretty lady rubbing a foot against her nylons and go “Mmm, a two-fer” even if we aren’t foot or nylons fetishists our own selves. But when the fetish is more uncommon (balloons, casts), there’s less sexual “noise” when the non-fetishist witnesses the fetishist in action. For me, at least, it offers insight into what fetish is and how it works.
But wait, I hear you saying. Did I say “casts”?
Indeed I did. Confessions of a Cast Fetishist [link broken and removed] is just what it sounds like; or, as the author of the blog puts it, “a description and continuing exploration of my erotic and aesthetic obsessions with leg casts, female feet — especially toes — and footwear.” No, really:
[The film] does happen to feature one rather important detail: a significant female character with a leg in a plaster cast. This might not necessarily be of great import to the vast majority of the movie-consuming public but, to the connoisseur fetishist, leg casts are not altogether common in cinema history, and so any one that may occur is something to be savoured. And, should the person sporting the leg cast happen to be quite as attractive as Famke Janssen, as is this particular instance, well, now we’re talking. Anyway, as a result, I’ve recently invested in a copy of the DVD of the film, to enjoy, again and again, the relevant scenes at my leisure, as it were.
…
I love to see a plaster cast being customized like that, in such a typical way — it’s what people do when they see a cast, and why not, who could blame them? I know that were I actually to be in that scene, I’d be snatching her crayons and pens from the kid and elbowing her out of the way in order to have my turn, and how I’d hog that plaster cast to my heart’s content, decorating it in my own special way, adding my very own personal dedications and hymns to its wonder and beauty. I should add that Famke spends a sizable part of the film wearing a skimpy, tight little vest top that is also hardly unbecoming to her charms. Here’s another little peek. How lovely it would be to keep her “entertained” under the circumstances.
Saturday, May 28th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
Have you ever noticed that each new assault on adult society and culture is justifed by saying that adult behavior must be curbed “for the children”? Here’s a story of the prudish Swiss, invoking the precious kinder to keep kinky teddy bears off the public streets:
Of course, it’s “because of the children”:
A giant dominatrix teddy bear wearing a leather mask and brandishing hand-cuffs has been banned from sober Zurich’s street display of man-sized model bears, the project’s artistic director said Tuesday.
…
“This bear is perverse, dominatrix and hardcore. We had to ban it because of the children,” Beat Seeberger-Quin, the project’s art director, told Reuters.
Thanks to Sarah for mailing the link.
Thursday, May 19th, 2005 -- by Dionysus
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.
Friday, March 18th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
Porn Publisher Rask can be funny as hell, and today he has a question for his readers:
When I go out, I often wear a leather Harley Davidson cap with a long brim. It keeps the sun out of my eyes and it keeps my hair from blowing into my mouth. And it advertises the fact that I’m a biker and ride a big Harley. When I was at Lowes last week, I found some cute little flashlights with clips on them. Perfect to attach to the brim of my cap. Now I can see in the dark, hands-free. When I wear the cap now, the slave gives me a Look. The vibe I’m getting from her is like, “I can’t sleep with a man who wears flashlights on his head.” Now my question is this: Doesn’t the machismo of wearing a Harley Davidson cap offset the geekiness of wearing flashlights on your head? I need to know, just in case I want to have sex again someday. For now, though, being able to see in the dark is gratifying enough.
A tough call, I’d say….
Monday, February 28th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
I give up.
I never understood why everyone crapped all over the movie “Catwoman”. Maybe it’s because I was never a comic book fan and don’t understand the aesthetic. It was a light, silly action flick designed to show a lot of Halley Berry in leather, and it delivered. Fluff, sure, but who expects anything else from a comic book movie?
I guess I’ll have to stop saying “I thought it was pretty decent, for what it was.” Because Halle Berry herself has called it a “piece of shit.” If she can’t be bothered to be proud of the spectacle she presents in a leather catsuit (who, I ask you, bought a ticket for any other reason?) then I guess it’s not worth wasting any more fan loyalty on her.
Gratuitous pic of Halle Berry wearing a bondage collar:
Mmmmm.
Similar Sex Blogging:
Thursday, February 10th, 2005 -- by Aphrodite
I posted a leather corset picture last month from Corset Dreams that could’ve been from RetroRaunch. It was pretty enough, but probably a little tame for some tastes. Here’s something that’s more likely to suit those who walk on the wild side:
Loooooove those nipple rings! This corset model is “Astrid,” and like most of the others at AMF Korsets it’s available in lots of colors. They also sell metal gear, masks, restraints, belts, and-no kidding-wings. Beautiful, twisted stuff, from “a division of the aesthetic meat factory.”
Thursday, January 27th, 2005 -- by Aphrodite
Ewwwww, that spider picture totally squicks me! Thus, as a public service to everyone similarly afflicted, I push it farther downscreen with something much more appealing:
Whew! I don’t know what I’d do first, spank or lick that luscious bottom.
What? That’s not to your taste? Okay, then, how about this?
Sofia was found at the always-worth-a-visit Domai.com. The yummy man was found at naked-men.co.uk.
Wednesday, January 26th, 2005 -- by Aphrodite
I am so not a porn writer, just to warn anybody who hasn’t read the first two parts yet…..but some readers are still interested in this tale, so I’ll continue to tell.
Part 1
Part 2
R called my folks’ house Thanksgiving evening to tell me that some problem had sprung up and he’d need to go back to Washington sooner than he’d planned…like, tomorrow. I agreed to meet him early Friday morning, even though I was unsure of what I wanted out of our re-established relationship, and less sure of what he wanted.
Over breakfast, R tells me that it’s been alot of fun, reconnecting with me, and especially venting some of those teenage fantasies…..But…..the pause draws out uncomfortably. Finally he looks up from his coffee and finishes, “But that’s not how I am now. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to show you how I am now.”
Intrigued, I reply, “Well, how’s about you tell me how you are now?” His glum face furrows into a frown. “Telling is even harder. [another long pause] If we lived closer, and if I didn’t have to travel so goddamn much, it might be worth trying…..”
Trying what? I wonder. Instead, I say, “You know me R, I’ll try anything once, and if it doesn’t kill me, I might just try it again.” Expecting him to smile at that, I’m instead baffled by an expression of thoughtful pondering, followed after another long pause by, “Mmmm…..yes, you’re still adventurous…..”
Finally R emerges from his thinking and says, “If you’re game, I’ll put on my thinking cap and see what I come up with.”
My curiosity is just about killing me at this point, so even though some small corner of my brain is going, WTF is this all about?, I reply, “Hell yes I’m game. Just give me enough notice to juggle my work.”
The conversation then turns to other topics. As we’re leaving the restaurant, R asks me to say goodbye to my family for him. Then, he pulls me to him, opening his leather jacket as if to enfold me in it. Our goodbye kiss starts innocently enough, but quickly becomes passionate, and almost involuntarily I hungrily press my hips forward. R shifts slightly, still kissing me….brings a hand up to my breast….and tweaks my nipple, hard. My gasp of surprise and pain breaks the kiss, and I see a glint of something far beyond impish in R’s eyes. He pulls away, saying, “I’ll let you know what I come up with.”
As I watch his SUV move away I realize I’m soaking wet, and desperate for a fuck….almost as if R hadn’t slaked my hunger at all.
Sunday, January 23rd, 2005 -- by Bacchus
I spent seven years feeling this way, once, so I can vouch for this:
Men approach even highly familiar women with the same dread really old people have of computers: Touch one wrong button and life will never be the same.
From The Neurotic Gentleman’s Guide to Bringing Up Spanking with Your Wife or Significant Other; or C’mon, Honey, You Know I Was Only Kidding! at Functional Ambivalent.
One of the many reasons I love The Nymph is that she doesn’t make me feel this way. If I were, metaphorically speaking, to show up at her bedroom door with four leather belts and a gallon of blueberry syrup, the worst reaction I can imagine would be some laughing version of “In your dreams, Buster!” Far more likely: “What? No whipped cream?”
Monday, January 17th, 2005 -- by Aphrodite
I love visiting Corset Dreams. There’s always alot of beautiful items there…..some are too frilly to appeal to me, but others stop me in my tracks. Here’s one I saw recently that hit all my buttons:
Simple, sexy corset…..vintage styling…..and made of leather. Hot stuff! The lady looks good enough to be a RetroRaunch pinup, too.
Tuesday, January 11th, 2005 -- by Aphrodite
[Continuing my story….. Here’s the first part, Unexpected Reunion, in case you haven’t read it.]
I awaken the next morning in a lingering, warm glow from R’s and my passion. I feel more rested and energized than I have in a long time….then I slip in to wondering what will happen next between us. Was that it–one night of hot sex–or is there more in store for us? If there is, what will it be like? Reliving the crazed teenage lust was fun, but that won’t–can’t–last.
As I’m sitting at the kitchen table, having a cup of coffee and talking with Mom, someone raps on the front door. It’s R.Mom knows some stuff about the unrequited feelings between R and me in school, and she’s been kind of charmed by him too. Now he stands at her door, well-dressed and smiling that smile, loosely holding two white roses in one hand. After they hug, he presents her with one rose, then sees me and his smile widens. R asks Mom for permission to see me, which she enthusiastically gives. He steps in to the kitchen and offers me the other rose. It’s exquisite in both appearance and heady scent.
In response to my mother’s questions regarding how he knew I was home, R coolly covers our chance meeting at the store. He makes the entire encounter sound totally innocent, as if his interest is solely in re-establishing friendship with a longlost bud…but there’s a mischievous twinkle in his eye that I wonder if my mom sees. Talk then turns to catching up between them…..like any well-meaning mom, she’s probably thinking matchmaker thoughts and a lot of the talk focuses on what he’s doing, and how well he’s doing at it. Turns out he’s doing quite well as an executive for a fairly big tech company. Not Mr. Millionaire himself, but he’s well-paid and he has a lot of corporate perks available to him. As they talk, I observe…..and see that, while R’s being genuine, it’s also obvious he’s mastered a lot of people-handling skills.
R’s visit concludes with asking my mom to take some of the family’s already-limited time with me over the Thanksgiving weekend so that he and I can catch up. Utterly charmed, she says of course he can spend time with me. R turns to me, green eyes ablaze with impish sparks, and asks if I’d like to go for a walk with him tonight. I agree, and the date is set.
——-
What a “next move”! I think to myself afterward. I decide to try to ride the youthful-lust energy for one more night. When R appears precisely at the appointed time, he sees me in my best attempt to recapture my typical high-school appearance…..soft flannel shirt, tight jeans, my hair caught in a ponytail (much shorter than back then), even my old high-tops (thanks, Mom, for not throwing them out!)….a sharp intake of breath signals a momentary lapse in his poise. My composure is similarly thrown off. He hadn’t used the “wayback machine” like I did, but is just gorgeous in a simple white turtleneck sweater, light blue jeans, and black leather jacket.
As we stroll to the park, I notice that few people are out….it’s a cool night for the locals. R and I aren’t saying much–more general talk, filling in all those missing years–but he’s taken my hand, and caresses it as we walk. I sense real caring from R, and an undercurrent of passion, in both his touch and talk. Forgetting my decision to let him lead, I impetuously steer us to “The Wet Spot”….a small clearing in an overgrown corner of the park, long rumored to be a hot spot used by teens and grownups alike for furtive encounters.
I stop in front of it and turn to face him with my question: “You ever make it with anybody here?” The unexpected challenge brings a lovely flush to his lightly-tanned face, and as he tries to stammer a reply I press on with, “Ya want to tonight?” and crawl in without waiting for his reply.
He follows immediately, surprising me with a bite on the ass as he does. I yip, then wheel around so that he can see my face as I peel off my clothes. The moonlight lends its soft glow to my skin, and R greedily drinks in the sight. At last I’m naked, cool but comfortable in the night air….and R finally breaks his spell with a murmur of something like, “You’re better than I dreamed …” Then his warm hands are upon me, stroking and exploring in a way that seems almost worshipful to me. Awed, I slip out of the teenage tart role and enjoy his attentions.
With a muffled growl, R abruptly changes the pace, pulling me to him hard, then kneading my ass as his tongue fills my mouth. His taste and scent fill my head…the heat of his erection warms my belly even through his jeans…..and we’re back in passion’s thrall, squeezing, sucking, tasting, teasing….exploring and riding the heat more fully than we did the previous night.
After getting my first taste of R’s cock and fluids, bringing him almost to orgasm with my teasing tongue, he pushes me down onto my hands and knees, then moves behind me for entry. We both groan at the immediate pleasure of filling and being filled….with just a few flicks to my clit and a couple of pumps, I’m shuddering with the intensity of my orgasm. R’s only a few moments behind me, gasping as my vagina squeezes around him. I collapse to the ground, R blanketing me, both lost in the twilight of pleasure.
Finally, R chuckles and pulls out. “You’re quite the sexpot, sweetie, but this carelessness really isn’t a good idea.” I laugh and agree, and we have the sex-history and protection talks. Even though tests taken during his marriage some years back indicated he has a low sperm count, we agree that tempting fate isn’t smart, and work out a contraceptive arrangement. Through the conversation our hands continue to explore each other’s bodies, ultimately causing our talk to falter.
R’s incessant pinching and teasing of my nipples is enough to bring me to another, small orgasm. I decide to reward him in kind, with a blow job….and end up in the most amazing 69 session I’ve had. R comes first, shooting a decent amount of fluid for having already come once. The lull in action while he orgasms serves only as a tortuous tease for me….so when R resumes his oral attentions I’m easily brought off again by his hot, deft tongue. He barely allows me to climax before rolling atop me and filling me again with his still-hard member, pounding me as wave after wave of pleasure pours through me…..finally ending in his orgasm.
Much later, as we’re walking back to my parents’ house, we agree to not get together the next day…..but it’s clearly understood that we’re both enjoying this….whatever it is, and want it to continue.
Wednesday, October 13th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
You know those protests where PETA activists take off half their clothing, and then (usually) hide their resultant semi-nudity behind placards promoting the virtues of pleather made out of asparagus-flavored tofu? Or whatever; I suspect I’m not alone in getting distracted from the message by my attempts to find shots from a side or rear viewing angle. Assisting me in my voyeuristic efforts is this huge gallery of naked protest pictures. Trust Naked Protesters to have found the link.
Friday, October 8th, 2004 -- by Aphrodite
Motorcycles are so much fun … I love the lusty engine sounds (except for Harleys, which all sound like they badly need tuneups to me), the maneuverability, the kick of the wind in my hair as we scream down twisty country roads …
And now they’ve been improved! Vibe-Rider is a cool-sounding little gizmo that goes on the passenger seat, and hitches to the engine. When the engine revs, the Vibe-Rider speeds up … and, well, you can figure out the rest, I’m sure. :laugh:
Here’s one picture of a satisfied customer from the site:
I guess someone will need to invent an absorbent leather seat next, as terrycloth would destroy the bad-boy look of bikes. :hehe:
Discovered via Daze Reader.
Wednesday, September 8th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
…and Violet Blue has proof! Seems she was out on the prowl in San Franscisco:
And while I was one of three women in an all-leatherdaddy gay bar, I got my ass grabbed! Hornboy was getting us drinks and I felt a hand slide across one cheek, and pause for a little fondle on the other. I thought, now I’m wearing a dress, and obviously a girl, so someone can’t be making a mistake. And I don’t know anyone here… and normally, this action would cause a reaction from me, such as an elbow-check to the stranger’s stomach, or a quick spin around with a deflection. But it was a leather bar full of the gayest men imaginable… so I turned, and met eyes with a handsome leatherdaddy — who smiled and sort of shrugged, as if to say, “well… it was there…”
Friday, August 6th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
About ten months ago I asked:
Does anybody have, or have a link to, a really good high-quality scan of that Spy Magazine cover from 1992 or thereabouts that featured Hillary [Clinton] Photoshopped into an impressive dominatrix outfit?
There was a resounding silence.
Fortunately, The Boss at The Collar Purple had better luck:
I’d still like a really hi-res scan, if anybody’s got one.
Update: It gets better.
Monday, April 26th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Philip at Hot Action has the most entertaining difficulties at times:
Another set of handcuffs broke on me. Don’t make ’em like they used to.
Resourcefulness comes in handy at times like these. I reached over and pulled the leather belt out of my pants.
Tied around your wrist, looped through a railing of the headboard and secured to the one working cuff….
Monday, December 15th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Normally I do not stop for hitchhikers. However, exceptions can be made for those wearing suitable attire:
OK, OK, if you pressed me I suppose I might concede that it’s, uh, “barely” possible she’s out on the street in that outfit for some purpose other than hitchhiking. But I’d much prefer to think she just needs to get to Omaha in a hurry.
Thursday, October 9th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Vikki at Her Desires offers up some sound advice and considerations on the etiquette of previously-used bondage gear. As for my specific dilemma, she suggests an elegant solution:
What are we talking about here, maybe 30 bucks worth of cheap cuffs? I say we start a fund for the horny young man and get him a nice permanent set of leather ones. Any takers? :)
She may be a little low — we’re talking about two pairs of cuffs — but it’s an elegant solution nonetheless. Although I’m sure Vikki’s readers will have better things to do with their money than buy me anything this nice.
Saturday, July 5th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Michelle from Sweetness Follows discovered the “Secret S & M Section” at the tack shop and it totally disrupted her lunch break:
Looked at the whips and bats up on the wall… okay so they were actually intended for horses, not for S & M. There was a basket full of riding crops. All different lengths and sizes, with different tips — some with big flat parts on the ends, some with a long leather whip-like cord, some with smaller flat parts (I realize I don’t have the terminology correct).
And I stood there, and thought of all the uses they could be put to.
“This one,” I thought, looking at one with the whip-like end “could be used on my tits and my nipples. This one,” (the one with the bigger flat part on the end) “is for my ass and my pussy. And this one,” (the one with the small flat end) “would be for when Mike has me hold open my ass so that he can spank my asshole”.
I stood there, looking through them, picking them up, feeling their weight and texture in my hands. I imagined myself, spread open in front of Mike while he spanked me with that riding crop, making my outer lips all red, until he had me open my cunt so that he could slap my inner lips, my pussy hole, even fucking me with the handle, and calling me a bad, dirty, slutty little girl the whole time. I imagined him having me stand in front of him, hands behind my back, back arched, presenting my tits to him, and the sting of that leather cord on my nipples, the undersides of my breasts…. I imagined how it would feel, after 20 minutes of being spanked mercilessly on the ass with that first riding crop, only to have him tell me to spread my ass open and slap my asshole with that last, smaller crop. The one that would sting the most, I think.
To make sure, I tested them all, slapping them against my palm.
At that point I was glad I was wearing a skirt because the wetness from my pussy had already soaked through my underpants, and would surely be showing through pants, had I been wearing them. As it was I could feel my thighs, slick with pussy juice.
“Do you need some help choosing one?” I nearly jumped out of my skin, then turned to face the girl who worked there. I know she didn’t know what I’d been thinking, but still… I blushed a little. “Oh… no, just looking…”
Dollars to doughnuts, more than half the riding crops that store sells never touch a horse. And they know it.
Similar Sex Blogging:
Saturday, January 4th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
…and the world will beat a path away from your door.
Being perhaps readers of other blogs than this one, it’s likely that you my loyal readers have heard of the “Jackhammer Jesus” dildo, the “Baby Jesus” butt plug, and other similar religious-themed sex toys from Divine Interventions.
But this article from the San Francisco Bay Guardian profiles the inventor and promoter of this line, and follows him as he roams sex-positive San Francisco getting the cold shoulder from sex toy buyers.
Picking his way through the brightly lit displays of adult videos, cock rings, and calendars emblazoned with oiled and rippling pectorals, he greeted the bespectacled sales assistant, hoisted a large sports bag onto the counter, rummaged through the contents, and selected an item. When the guy behind the counter saw what the man, whom I shall call Nigel R., was pulling out of the bag, he gave a nervous little laugh and said one word: “Sacrilegious.”
As the home of storefront live-sex Halloween performances, magnificent transvestites, and guys with no qualms about showing off their ass cheeks in leather chaps, the Castro District has traditionally enjoyed a healthy disregard for the status quo. Yet when Nigel R. whipped out a seven-and-a-half-inch marble-white silicone Jackhammer Jesus dildo in the shape of Christ on the cross, the Castro Gulch sales assistant blanched.
Ironic to see that as cutting-edge a paper as the SFBG is still so stuck in the past that even when it prints a URL, it can’t (or won’t) make it an active link in the online edition. Old media, bah.
Similar Sex Blogging:
Friday, November 22nd, 2002 -- by Bacchus
There is a new Gor book out. By John Norman. Published in August, 2002. Available on Amazon. In hardcover, no less. All 717 pages of it.
It’s called Witness of Gor:
The Amazon review begins:
Deep within the cells of Treve, a glorious and mysterious city at the center of Gor’s struggle for supremacy, awakens a nameless slave girl who will witness events about which others will only dare to whisper.
This Gor phenomenon…mere words are inadequate. Slave girls. Yum, yes. Bad writing. Also yes. Ouch ouch ouch please make the pain stop it hurts to read this broken limestone gravel prose ouch. Yes. Ouch.
“Please, no, Master!” I wept. Then I felt the lash. I stumbled back in agony, turned about, and fell to the carpet. There the leather once more informed me of the displeasure of my master. I screamed, miserable. Then another blow like lightning was on my back and I sobbed at his feet, on my belly on the rug.
More slave girls. Has the slave girl concept been adequately reinforced? Gorean slave girls get whipped a lot, and either like it and “juice” for master, or don’t like it but “juice” anyway. Did bad writing get mentioned?
It goes without saying — nope, wait, it’s too late for that — that Gor is politically incorrect, and the National Organization of Women will take away your membership card if you admit to liking this sort of thing.
Oh yes, don’t forget the slave girls. They are generally pretty yummy. Also pretty much naked and in chains, or leather cuffs, or binding fiber, or whatever else Tarl Cabot and his fellow hulking brutes have handy for the restraint and entertainment of naked slave girls.
If you are a fan of the Gor books, you needed to know about the new book. If you don’t like them, you probably rolled your eyes and groaned when you saw this blog entry. If you never heard of Gor…well, you are either incredibly lucky or astoundingly unlucky, depending on the extent to which badly written (but much whipped and very juicy) slave girls float your boat.
Wednesday, October 23rd, 2002 -- by Bacchus
Classic bondage porn from the days of the line printer! Hogtied slave girl rendered entirely in parentheses, asterisks, and the odd backslash! Real geek nostalgia!
UPDATE: You thought that was fun? OK, here’s a fetish girl wearing a gas mask and leather bondage harness. ASCII porn? Who knew?
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
|
|
